As in the previous edition, our exquisite corpse has shown that we have versatile and creative writers who each week give us a wonderful work written in community because talent must be shared. Thanks to each and every one of the Authors, your participation fills us with joy, allowing us to dream together.

Last week we chose Mary Shelley's THE SWISS PEASANT as the starting point for our seven-handed story, which was the number of participants who co-created the following piece:

Why is the mind of man so apt to be swayed by contraries? why does the
imagination forever paint the impossible in glittering tints, and the hearts
of wayward mortals cling, with the greatest tenacity, to what, eel-like, is
bent on escaping from their grasp? Why—to bring the matter home—is
solitude abhorrent to me, now that I enjoy it in perfection? I have
apostrophized the coy nymph in ballrooms, when the bright lamps of
heaven were shamed by brighter earthstars, and lamented her absence at
a picnic party, where the nightingale was silenced by the fiddle. ( Mary Shelley)

Oh why?


Hardly had my fingers drawn the coy nymph. Hardly had I coaxed her into my palm.


Just when she didn't break into a million particles.


When I had at last learned to relish her company.


In that hour when my solitude was absolute. It became a thing of pristine perfection.


Why did the loud, noisy world have to gatecrash it?


Why must reality smash its way into my sanctuary, trampling and sneering at me as if I owe them a tax on my peace? The divine might afford to bestow infinite patience upon his subjects, but I am no deity.


Why can they not simply leave me be?


Wherefore did the serpent cast its temptation with the forbidden fruit anew? What are these ceaseless wiles to coo me from my hiding?


As if I'm a wild animal to be captured and put on a leash.


Is paradise so barren of entertainment that it made the saints and angels fall to idleness? Had the nether pits run dry of demons for them to banish?


Has everything become as holy as it can be?


Is that why they must cast me as a breathing pawn upon checkered squares? Is that the price for their amusement?


It must be so fascinating, holding the power to hunt and to domesticate all the lesser mortals.


Now I have to be as chaotic and obnoxious as they are.


Oh, the cruel irony of it all.


I bolted the door and threw away the key to cut the world out entirely, only to watch them slithering in like smoke into this mere space.


Perhaps I didn't know myself as well as I thought. ( @emmabritt )

I closed my visor, but peered through the slit at my philosophical reading and realised that Being does not reveal itself through its manifestations, but merely leaves it to me to interpret those manifestations in some way. My armour proved useless. I denounced this, again and again, but – to whom?


So I decided to pay no further attention to time. All equations are eternal; they were, are and will remain. The number pi never changes. Neither does the number e. They combine with one and zero – and, not to be forgotten! – the imaginary number (the square root of minus one) to form a marvellous whole.


My friend Parmenides confirmed to me that there is no movement, only the compact block of unchanging being. And when he wrote his poem about Selene, who gazes constantly and unchanging upon Helios whilst people think they see change in the sky, when he did so, the nymph ushered him into the world of the deities.


So it may well be that I am merely thinking all this because I do not truly understand what immutability means. Am I an electronic brain? Am I an artificial intelligence? And if so – what does the word ‘artificial’ even mean in this context? Is every evolution followed by an involution? Does that which unfolds also fold back in again? ( @ty-ty )

To hell with Parmenides and his goddess, to hell with my gloomy thoughts and this sense of existential crisis: I’m on my own because that’s how I want it! People are exhausting. A nuisance. So how can I miss them at the same time?! I’m not schizophrenic, after all. When I’m around other people, I keep realising that I’m difficult to get on with, that I rub people up the wrong way and that everything just seems somehow incompatible… So: why on earth do I look wistfully at those merrily feasting by the campfire, at those running exuberantly along the beach, and at the… loving couples? Is that what it all comes down to in the end? Do I miss my other half, my soulmate, who offers me both security and support as well as frank criticism and reflection? I suppose it’s like this: on my own, I’m comfortable, but not happy, not fully satisfied. What does that make of me? Who and what am I, what is my nature...? ( @weisser-rabe )

I stood there, closed my eyes, took a deep breath and sighed.


Thoughts in mind, too many.


I am tired. Tired of thinking, tired of feeling, of missing. The pain in my heart, in my head. What is wrong with me?! Maybe I am just artificial without the intelligence.


I looked around, wondering what to do, which way to go.


Since I have decided to bolt and to pay no further intention to time, my limbs went on autopilot. Barefooted, I walked front. Everything around me is nothing. Or is it?


It seemed long after, I am not sure, I woke up. I opened my eyes, lids seemed so heavy. Drums.


I got up, squinting. Where is the soft beats coming from?


Up in front, peering through the dark lush leaves, a faded light. I kept walking, my breath quickened. What is it?


Wait... Is that the nymph? ( @marblely )

Hmmm... I am still wondering. Where was I? Oh, yes. It was the point that I was testing my senses. As if one, would need a confirmation to whether he is conscious or not. It is just a worthless thought. Or, is it a possibility that I am partially unreal? Would a person even think of that.. I guess, it just something they are sure of. Alright, let's just back up a little. Yes, the nymph! Oh, is it a dream then? It would explain a lot. The senses do not count as much in here. But, why is this thought is still in my head. It seems like a voice is playing inside. But, if I am listening to it right now. Then, who is speaking? I just said it a while ago. I was tired of thinking. Well, at least I have got that level of consciousness from within. Something that questions what is taken for granted. ( @ronnie10)

I took one slow step toward the door.


The scraping started again.


This time it was closer.


I stopped breathing for a moment and listened. Something was moving along the corridor, slowly, as if whoever—or whatever, it was had all the time in the world.


"Pedro?" I called once more.


Nothing.


I reached for the door and hesitated. The strange thing was that I suddenly remembered something I couldn't explain. I had seen this corridor before. Not tonight, not in this castle, but somewhere else. In a dream, perhaps. Or in one of the paintings.


I opened the door just enough to look outside.


The corridor was empty.


At the far end, however, one of the candles was burning.


I was certain there had been no candle there before.


I stepped outside. The cold air felt strangely comforting against my damp skin. For the first time since I had awakened, my head seemed clear.


Then I noticed the floor.


There were wet footprints leading away from my room.


They were bare footprints.


And they were mine. ( @dannyben39 )

I will never again buy that cheap wine they sell at the supermarket. Four glasses were enough to make me lose my mind and ask myself a thousand questions about being and nothingness, and about the meaning of solitude.


I hated living with Pedro; he was always dictating how I should behave. The truth is, I don’t know how I ever set my sights on him—perhaps it was my age, because when a woman turns thirty, society starts calling her "left on the shelf."


I loathed the day Dad said to me, with biting sarcasm: "My daughter is so odd that I’ll have to pay someone to marry her."


That’s why, when Pedro said a few sweet things and asked me out for coffee, I decided he would be the perfect candidate to help me leave single life behind.


Yet, I’m not lying when I say that Pedro was a "lifeline" at first—one that later turned into an "electric chair."


Living with him felt more burdensome than living at my parents' house. Pedro wasn't the "ideal" man for me. Whenever I invited him to watch a movie, he’d fall asleep beside me, snoring in a way that drove me mad—not to mention when I’d pick up a book of poetry and want to share a favorite poem with him. His silly questions about the meaning of the words would push me to the brink of crumpling the pages in fits of helpless frustration.


That’s why I ought to feel happy today: Pedro got fed up with me and packed his clothes to leave. I no longer care what people call me. What I don’t understand is why—now that I’m alone, just as I’d always wanted—I feel such a maddening sense of frustration.


Yes. It must definitely be this cheap wine causing this feeling of frustration. That’s why I’ll never buy it again. In the meantime, I’ll have a coffee, let my imagination run wild, and invite @aplausos or @cruzamilcar63 to continue this story. ( @solperez )

The Game

If you don't know the game: Exquisite Corpse (cadavre exquis) is a surrealist technique from 1925 in which several people build a single work by taking turns, each one seeing only the last fragment before adding their own. No one controls the whole. No one gets to plan the ending. That's the point.


We're bringing that chaos to this community, one paragraph at a time — and yes, we're putting real Steem (and more) behind it.

A note on this edition

To keep the early editions simple — and until we have a better mechanism to play the game as faithfully as possible — we're adjusting the dynamic for now: instead of starting from a blank page, each weekly post will open with an initial paragraph from a public domain work. Participants will write the continuation in the comments.

How it works

🗓️ Starts: every Sunday
🏁 Closes: every Saturday, 23:45 GMT
✍️ How to participate: the post opens with an initial paragraph from a public domain work. Write the next paragraph of the story as a comment on the weekly post. You can participate with more than one fragment, alternating with at least one other participant each time.
🌐 Language: English. If you don't write in English, translate your paragraph with whatever tool you trust before posting — Google Translate, DeepL, an AI, a bilingual friend, whatever gets the job done
📏 Length: no minimum, no maximum — write what the story needs
🧠 The only real rule: your paragraph has to make sense with what's already been written. Read before you write.
👥 Number of participants: unlimited
⏱️ Final cut: whatever has been published as a comment by Saturday 23:45 GMT is what counts. After that, the story is closed — even mid-sentence, even if it's a disaster. That's the deal.

Rewards

Our dear @weisser-rabe will reward every participant who meets the criteria with a 500 SP delegation for a period of 1 month.


80% of the liquid Steem rewards earned by the weekly post will be split equally among the participants who meet the criteria.


The remaining 20% will go to the Dream-Steem Community and special beneficiaries , to build a fund of its own for prizes in future games and contests.


At the community owner's discretion, additional prizes from sponsors or supporters who want to back the dynamic may also be added.

About bots, multi-accounts, and AI-generated entries

This is a human game about human unpredictability. It goes without saying that the game is intended for human users only: multi-accounts are not allowed, and neither are responses generated with Artificial Intelligence.


Entries that look bot-generated or AI-generated will be muted by the community owner — unless the participant can justify or demonstrate the legitimacy of their contribution. Consider yourself warned, not accused.

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Inspired by the surrealist Exquisite Corpse technique (1925). Proposed and organized within this community.

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