Call it Mad Libs ™. Call it a story generator. Whatever you call it, I got a laff.

Sometimes you just got no stories in you, and that’s okay, even though you’ve committed to posting every day on a blog and don’t want to let yourself down after so many posts in a row. That’s when you call upon the internet to help you cheat. (Thanks, internet!)

For the record, I chose a “financial” plot that ended “violently.” I like fill-in-the-blank stories like these because they reveal the word salad that fiction writing so often is.

Without further ado, friends, I give you….

The Ephemeral Bass Guitar

Frankie Gideon looked at the ephemeral bass guitar in her hands and felt shy.

She walked over to the window and reflected on her old surroundings. She had always loved creaky Miss Trumpet’s Earworm Academy with its colossal, clear creaky old practice room. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel shy.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Violet Beauchamp. Violet was a disciplined grifter with dark eyes and muscular toes.

Frankie gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a stoic, honest, coffee drinker with tall eyes and lanky toes. Her friends saw her as a wild, wooden wrecking ball. Once, she had even helped a huge stock market cross the road.

But not even a stoic person who had once helped a huge stock market cross the road, was prepared for what Violet had in store today.

The sleet rained like rocking out kittens, making Frankie bored.

As Frankie stepped outside and Violet came closer, she could see the depressed glint in her eye.

“Look Frankie,” growled Violet, with a flighty glare that reminded Frankie of disciplined hyenas. “It’s not that I don’t love you, but I want respect. You owe me 6934 dollars.”

Frankie looked back, even more bored and still fingering the ephemeral bass guitar. “Violet, go away, you little punk,” she replied.

They looked at each other with downtrodden feelings, like two prickly, perfect pandas thrashing at a very low-key study hall, which had punk rock music playing in the background and two imaginative uncles swinging to the beat.

Suddenly, Violet lunged forward and tried to punch Frankie in the face. Quickly, Frankie grabbed the ephemeral bass guitar and brought it down on Violet’s skull.

Violet’s dark eyes trembled and her muscular toes wobbled. She looked elated, her wallet raw like a colossal, concerned checkbook.

Then she let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Violet Beauchamp was dead.

Frankie Gideon went back inside and made herself a nice cup of coffee.

THE END