Two weeks ago, I shared Chapter One of an Exquisite Corpse I wrote with my creative partner ChatGPT. Some people liked it. Those who didn’t didn’t tell me. So, I’m sharing Chapter Two. Today.
Like, right now.
If you enjoyed the first chapter, you’ll love Chapter Two. If you haven’t read Chapter One yet, click this link and imbibe.
Then, come here and read Chapter Two. You’ll be enlightened. Entertained. Transmogrified. Maybe even promoted at your job (crossing fingers behind my back).
And now, without further cuckoo, I bring you Chapter Two of Taco Hut.
Something indeed did spew, but it wasn’t what you’d expect. Only, it happened the next day.
The trombonist, who had been dating Sister Doris until the latter learned to levitate, awoke early on Wednesday to practice his chromatic scales. He learned, however, that his trombone had walked out during the night. Never one to allow abandonment to get the better of him, he called up Sister Doris and asked her to accompany him on his search for the missing trombone.
They met in an alley made of cheese on the back patio of Taco Hut. It was there that the most magical, fantragical event in the lives of the people of Vanilla Spectacle occurred early on Wednesday morning at precisely 4:12 a.m., the day after Tortious Tuesday.
The alley had been freshly grated that morning, a pungent Parmesan mist still lingering in the air. Sister Doris, in her sky-blue habit and knee-high moon boots, descended slowly from the heavens like an anxious yo-yo. The trombonist, whose name had never been properly documented due to a clerical error involving pudding, paced the cheese bricks with the intensity of a man who had lost both brass and purpose.
Then it happened.
A tremor rippled through the patio tiles. The soda fountain inside Taco Hut erupted into Gregorian chant. From beneath the trash can labeled “Hope,” a glow emerged—violet, circular, rhythmically pulsing. And there, riding atop a possum-drawn chariot made entirely of expired coupons, was the trombone. No one had expected it to return with a rider.
Least of all Sister Doris, who fainted not from shock, but from embarrassment. She had once dated that rider too.
When Sister Doris revived, all hint or trace of the trombone, its placid owner-blower, and its rider had disappeared. Aside from a bad memory, there was no evidence they had been in that alley at all.
She stood. Straightened her girdle. And left in a huff.
Of course, a sister spurned is a sister turned. Doris went straight to the trombonist’s place of residence, rapped on the door, and waited for an answer. It didn’t come. He wasn’t there.
Immediately, she called him on his papier-mâché smartphone, which rolled into his voice mail powered entirely by superficial intelligence. Now, she was flustered and flabbergasted. Just wait until she got her hands on him!
Suddenly, it hit her. The rider. The town’s only flautist had threatened to do the trombonist in the year before. He had said, rather emphatically, “I’ll do that trombonist in by this time next year!” Sister Doris hadn’t believed him. But she began to feel that perhaps she should have.
If you’re anxiously awaiting to see how this surreal tale ends, follow or subscribe and hang onto the edge of your seat. I’m just as anxious to see where it goes myself. If you're a writer, I invite you to join us in the latest literary game, Literary Game No. 10.
First published at Substack. Image from ChatGPT.
