Line by Line

Cost: $0
Preparation Time: None

Here's a last-minute date idea perfect for those with a creative bent.  Grab a computer, ipad, or a sheet of paper and some pens.  You and your date will write a short story, taking turns writing sentences.  Decide on either a time limit or a page length so that you can get a feel for the pacing and when you'll need to be wrapping things up.

From there it's pretty simple. For example, let's say your date starts with the classic opener, "It was a dark and stormy night."  You wanting to take things on a slightly more wild ride, add, "The iguanas found themselves so depressed by the lugubrious evening that they found themselves plotting the murder of their freckle-faced owner, Harry B. Tottentrott." Or something like that.  Probably something much better than that, actually. Then your date will write a line, and so on.

It's best to work cooperatively rather than trying to force the story in the direction you originally saw it going.  Remember, you're creating something together, not having a competition to see who can metaphorically out-muscle your date.  If they want a gunfight, let them have it.  If you want twelve dozen orange carnations, well, work it in somehow, but don't get all selfish about what YOU want to happen.  One of the great things about this date, besides its frugality and last-minuteness, is the way that it really lets you into the inner workings of your date's mind.

This date is really fun for groups as well; work in pairs or in groups of four, then read everyone's stories aloud at the end of the night.

Example:  This is what my husband and I came up with.  We gave ourselves a time limit instead of a page length and the madness flowed forth.  (Note: your story may not be as dark or twisted or inclusive of shameless deus ex machina.  That's just how we roll.)

Dr. Meeker and Danica

When Dr. Meeker began operating on the shark that morning, he had never met a palm reader, nor even considered the possibility that he ever would. Now he sat in a small, cold room as dirty rain pitter-patted on the tall window like rancid gravy. He heard an audible click as Danica’s false eyelashes snapped open and closed over bloodshot eyes. There was something about her that shook him to the core, something unmistakably similar to the great quake of ’76.

“So…any ideas about what the grapefruit spoon with my initials engraved on it might signify?” he asked after a long silence. Seemingly ignoring his question, Danica pointed with a long, wrinkled finger toward a heart-shaped pitcher.

“Milk?” she offered. “Fresh from my goat not two hours ago.”

“Oh, thank you, but I have a sensitivity to the byproducts of hooved animals.” Seeing that he was getting nowhere and running short on time, Meeker pulled a .45 from his lab coat pocket and aimed it squarely at the old woman’s forehead. At first confident in having the upper hand, he was somewhat shaken when she pulled a bazooka from her brassiere and pointed it directly at his rather ample midsection.

            “Yes, I know exactly what the grapefruit spoon means, but I think it would be best to show you. If you know what I mean.” He didn’t.

            “All right lady; let’s lay our cards on the table.” Passing the bazooka to her pet gorilla she did, indeed, lay her cards out on the table. Seven of them, to be exact.

            The fish card fell first. Then the herring, then the red herring, then the pickled herring, then the Fountain of Youth, then the propeller-topped beanie, and last but not least the shrimp n’ grits.

“Though you brought my monkey into this world, she is more than able to take you out of it, so please put your gun away.” Since Danica had coughed up something that resembled a solution to Meeker’s problem, he lowered his weapon (albeit cautiously, since aforementioned primate was glaring in a manner not particularly suggestive of crumpets, tea, and chit-chat in the near future). “The instrument you found this morning inside that toothy beast was not a grapefruit spoon at all, nor were those letter your initials.”

“Um…do you know that because of the cards, or…”

“NO, I know it because I have seen the tool before—on the night it was presented to my first husband.” The gorilla’s eyes glowed an animatronic red as a clap of thunder startled Meeker into his seat. “But the cards did explain why the instrument has chosen you.” As soon as she spoke, Meeker realized that the jig was up; she knew everything, everything about his life as first mate on a whaling vessel, and now was the moment of truth. He knew he couldn’t out-muscle the gorilla, but he could keep away from her long enough for the drugs to kick in.

            “I understand you, Meeker,” she said softly, walking slowly around the table toward him, her dress fluttering gently around her cankles.

            “You know nothing about me,” he said, knowing he was very wrong even before he said it.

            “You’re just like my first husband,” she said (clap of thunder and all), “trying to atone for your youthful sins against the animal kingdom by caring for them in your later years.” She stopped her dramatic explanation as the gorilla hit the floor and began to snore loudly.  

            “Here’s how it works, Danica; you explain the grapefruit spoon, or the gorilla gets it,” said Meeker, raising a syringe menacingly.

            “Only the ghosts of those animals you slaughtered years ago can tell you what that is, but it is not a grapefruit spoon!”

            Suddenly, the howling, haunting sound of a thousand ghost whales filled the room, and the sound sounded like this: “Only yoooooooou, yooooooou foolish slaughterer, would ever confuuuuuuuuse an egg-spoon with a grapefruit spoooooooooooooooooooon!!!” Millions of ghost eggs began to fill the room, each hatching before Meeker’s unbelieving eyes.  Tiny ghost chicks began to shake their egg-teeth in a nightmarish dance around the doctor, who had been brought to his knees with horror and shame. The chicks grew into hens and entirely blocked Meeker’s view of the room, but he was certain that the window was directly behind him—as was his life on Earth.

            “And that’s just one example of the amazing work that documentary filmmaker Prianka Patel has done here at PETA,” the chirpy collegiate reporter exclaimed.