BEES. KILLER BEES.

Okay, so I don't know if they're killer bees, but they're after him. Also, I wrote two seperate beginnings, nothing like each other. So pick the best one (or combine them if you want) and go nuts. Do whatever you want, then send it back to me. It'll kind of be one of those middle school "send it to me and I'll write some more and then send it to you" kind of deals, only modified in that really I will let you (and myself) add onto, change anything that the other person writes, elaborate on things and all that, etc. Here they are.

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Tom noticed a hole in the door of the abandoned house, kicked in, probably from some drunk with a mission to do the door some real harm, as the door had it coming. "Missions aren‘t just for drunks," Tom thought, and got down on his hands and knees and stuck his head in the hole, then both his hands. For the slightest moment he thought about how he felt like a schnauzer, crawling through a puppy door that you see in every movie with a pet in it. And then, "no time for dogs," he thought. "Bees can fly."

He looked behind him and saw the thick cloud of pissed off bees, all hot and hungry and buzzing, ready for some sweaty flesh, which Tom owned.


(and)


The four children of the Halsey family, all striped in sweat and heavy backpacks, looked at each other in amusement as a man ran down the road, screaming. “You get this kind of thing often when you lived caddy-corner to a nuthouse,” they’d always say to their friends.

The man’s name was Tom, but he wasn’t crazy. He was, indeed, being chased by a swarm of angry bees.

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They're not too long, so do what you want. I look forward to seeing your creative juices vomit all over these.

b