Ever heard of Seventh Sanctum?

It's full of writing generators and stuff. I'm always there, but I can't force myself to use the ideas from there. However, I'm always creative in groups.

Who else wants to have a go?

Click the link above, go to the generators and try to make a story. Tell us the generators you used and, if you want to, the ideas that inspired you.

I'll start:

Gen. : Writing Challenges
Idea : During the story, a character drinks something they haven't had in a while.

Here we go then... < appropriate smily

Monty slumped over the bar. If there was ever a worse day, he hadn't heard of it. He had just lost his job, his girlfriend and his car window. When he finds the kid who threw that brick, he'll...he'll...
He won't do anything. Oh, Monty's too fat to chase kids round the town!
Is he? Is he really?
He looked down at his flabby layers of stomach. There was no denying it. He was a blob. A big, fat, jobless, girlfriendless, car-windowless blob of nothing. He exhaled and let the rest of his fat roll out.
"Gimmeano'erbeer," he mumbled. He'd already had quite a bit to drink. Who could blame him?
"Um, sir?" said the bartender nervously. He twiddled his glass-cleaning cloth between his fingers, cowering slightly.
"Whajisit?"
"Well, uh, it would seem you've, uh...drained our beer supply."
"WHAJT?"
The bartender was actually shielding himself with the cloth. He ummed and ahhed like his life depended on it. He knew just how easy it was to anger drunk customers.
"We, uh...there's no...would you like something else?"
Monty sat up in his stool. There was...more than just beer at bars?
His eyes passed across the glistening upturned bottles at the back of the bar. The light twinkled through the liquids within each one. They were...beautiful...
...and that's when he saw it. Locked away in the glassy cabinet, standing all alone like a king of alcohol, was the Special Champagne.
"Gimmesomeshampaine!"
"Uh...come again?"
"Shampaine! Speshelshampaine! Thewhoalbottle!"
"Of course, sir..."
If Monty was going down, he was going down with class. With one smooth move (well, as smooth a move as a drunk person can make), his credit card was on the table. The bartender unlocked the cabinet slowly and gently handled the bottle. He passed it to Monty like a person gives a mad, starving lion a lamb chop, pulling his fingers back so hastily that there was an audible wooshing.
Without a moment's thought, Monty burst the seal and sent the cork rocketing into the lightbulb above. As he swung the bottle to his mouth, the room fell dark. Monty shut his eyes and pushed back in his stool.

A few minutes later, he awoke. His head was throbbing. Lifting his hand to it, he saw a sparkle on his fingers. Rings! Rings with jewels the size of fists! He looked down. His suit was brand new, his trousers crisp and clean. In fact, he wasn't in the bar at all. He was by a luxurious indoor swimming pool. It was empty - was it private? Was it his?
As Monty's mind spilled over with questions and pure shock, he heard footsteps. A woman was behind him - a beautiful woman...
Was this happening? Was it real?
The woman wrapped her arms around his waist. He felt it...it was real...it must have been!
He felt something else, too - something heavy in his hand. He lifted it up to see a familiar green bottle with a very elaborate gold label. He laughed.

"I'm a big shot!"


Well, I liked that! Pretty good for a randomly generated idea!
Have a go!

Aww - nobody else having a go?

:'(

I've got one, I've got one! I actually wrote this a while ago based on what one of those generators spewed out, so it's really only a snippet, but hopefully it will do.

Generator: Quick Story Idea Generator
Idea: The theme of this story: romantic tragedy. The main characters: poised astronomer and miserly librarian. The major event of the story: delusion.

He loved her. Oh, how he loved her.

He loved the way her long slender fingers crept over the books like thin white spiders, the way her keen, sharp eyes swept around the room, peering owlishly over her chunky black spectacles, seeing everything and seeing nothing. He loved the way she smiled, the way she pursed her thin stripe of a mouth into a careful, small smile, a smile not given out often and not given out gladly. He loved the way her bony elbows rested on her desk. He loved the way she looked at him.

The books were in alphabetical order, and the A was closest to her desk. He was wildly glad to have chosen his particular profession, and as he browsed through the books on planets and on moons, as he perused long-winded works that explained the existence of the stars in too many words, he felt her hawk eyes watching him. And he knew that no author need waste ink on explaining the existence of the stars -- she was there, and that was enough, because of course, a world with her in it would have the brightest stars, the highest mountains, the greenest trees. A world with her in it would have to be the most beautiful world of all.

He walked into the library at noon every Friday, carrying his briefcase, his token of intellectuality, this small square thing that he never carried except when he saw her, because he needed something to tell her, to give her the sign, that he was a man of many thoughts and many occupations, and that he would never be worthy of her but that he would try.
He was painfully aware of the suede elbow patches on his coat jacket, of the dullness of his black shoes, of the fact that he had not combed his hair since yesterday. He was painfully aware that he would never be worthy of her, with her neatly starched blouses and her elegant black skirts, and that he would be stretching himself by trying.
Their eyes danced the tango as he moved swiftly between the racks. They held each other's gaze, were broken up by a rack of books or by another visitor, then found each other's eyes again, they never let go, they never let go. And maybe she was thinking he was going to put a book in his jacket without going by the front desk, or that he was a peculiar gentleman who enjoyed staring at ladies, but it was so much better to dream.

***

The books were the worst.

It was horrible those long afternoons, in that place of dust and silence, when the letters danced before her very eyes. When she collapsed behind her desk and yanked her glasses off her nose and rubbed her eyes, rubbed her temples, and everything was fuzzy and peculiar and so, so wrong. And the headaches, ooh -- the headaches! Colors boomed into her mind's eye, the world seemed to spin like a tea cup, every sudden sneeze was like an earthquake in her head. Migraine was a curse.

But the books. The books, the books were worse. When the rows and rows of books -- those books, Austen, Dickens, Faulkner and Poe, those trusted companions, those words that had offered her such comfort and joy, her protectors -- were little people pointing their ink-and-paper fingers and laughing at her with wild grins. When her books, her companions betrayed her -- took the many vulnerable, lonely hours she had spent with them and turned them against her -- that was the very worst.

See, it ends quite abruptly and it's all rather theatrical, but then it's supposed to be a romantic tragedy. The plot I had in my mind was - astronomer and delusional librarian love each other in silence, librarian gives astronomer a love potion which accidentally poisons him (at first I read "poised" as "poisoned") and on his death bed he confesses his love to her. Oh, woe.

I really liked yours by the way, I loved the lines about draining the beer supply and there being anything else than beer at bars (that didn't sound grammatically correct :\). And the champagne turning him into a "big shot" is a very original interpretation of the idea. :P

I loved that, Maeve! It sounds like something you could really turn into a proper story.

It's amazing what the generators can inspire! More people have to have a go!