Everybody at the table writes down one object.
Next, we all read out our objects. We write these objects under our own.
We now have a list of objects. On our list, we had:
You have 15 minutes to bring all these objects together in a story.
I had to go off at a tangent to make this “work”, and the result is nothing short of horrendous. But I’m still going to subject you to it. No really! Read on. I insist.
“He’s doing it all wrong,” said the whisky glass to the key. “Every time he plonks ice into me, I feel dirty and violated.”
The key, with all its potential locked inside it, lay on the cabinet baking under the heat of the table lamp. “I’d do anything,” he said, breathless, “to trade… places… with you…”
“It wouldn’t be so bad if I was in the light from the windoooowwww…” The whisky glass’ voice lurched and faded as the man launched him towards his mouth. “Well- it’s a little warmer up here,” he shouted down from the man’s mouth. “The sun’s quite warm, you know.”
“You are an ARSE,” shouted the key. “I am MELTING down here.”
The man lurched drunkenly, gripping the cabinet. The glass, drained now, caught a glimpse of the apartment’s wall thermometer. 21 degrees C. He began to wonder if he could float right where the thermometer was, on the wall. Maybe he could even take the key with him, and they could float inexplicably in the medium heat of the man’s grand apartment.