The Power of a Writing Group

My writing group and I wrote this story, three sentences at a time. I edited it and typed it all up. Enjoy.


When Gangsters Attack

Bob loved to lean over the railing of the cruise ship and watch the water far below. One day, instead of just deep water he saw a speedboat in the distance. That was the day he leaned a little too far. Lucky Bob.

As he bent to get a better view, the ship sailed under him. He fell. Down, down, DOWN! Crack! He landed on a big fat mafia leader.

“Hey you! You're the new Don—you killed our old boss! You're the boss now!”

Bob figured he better play along for now, so he picked up the dead dude's gun and set his face into a creepy frown. It looked more like a pathetic scowl to the general populace, but it seemed to work well enough. He asked to be shown to his new quarters, marching after the second-in-command like he owned the world. To him anyway. To anyone else, he walked more like a guy with a leg cramp.

“Boss man...I mean, leader dude...er...I mean..HEY YOU!”

Bob turned and raised his eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

“I forgot to mention to you sir,” the angry mob man paused. “The FBI is due any moment...what shall we do?”

“We attack them,” Bob shouted, really getting into the mood of his new position, the thickness of the anger and greed in the atmosphere.

Just then the FBI jumped onto the ship, guns flashing, and luckily all the gangsters had just pulled out their guns to cheer Bob's brilliantly mafia-like idea so they were ready. At least, they assumed they were ready. A thoughtful bystander would've reminded them to decide on a religion at this point, just in case. But thoughtful bystanders rarely frequent mafia speedboats.

Death is a strange experience. See, when gangsters attack FBI agents, the agents show no mercy.

Bob died just like a real gangster. Although, to an outsider, it looked more like a half-crazed, middle-aged man screaming at the top of his lungs while waving a gun around.