How this works
We’ll post the beginning of a story below. Beneath this opening extract is a form you can complete to submit your idea for the next part, following on from our words. We shall then select a submission at random (every 24 hours) and then the process shall repeat until the tale is told across 10 installments! We can then all follow the story as it unfurls/unravels, witnessing the evolution of the monster we’ve created together, as we bend the tale to our collective will with each turn/refresh of the page.
History of the Exquisite Corpse
Conjured up in the 1920’s by artist André Breton and known in French as ’cadavre exquis’, Exquisite Corpse was a technique employed to unlock the unconscious, encouraging an imagination, uninhibited. The consequence was a result of collective creativity, showing art, in theory, with no bounds, free of the limitations we face as individuals.
Our own version of this Exquisite Corpse method shall be an exercise in communal storytelling, but rather than keeping the previous parts concealed, we have decided to keep all approved contributions visible throughout the process, an exquisite corpse without the shroud.
With this we hope to be left with a piece of prose that’s slightly less nonsensical than the Surrealists originally suggested, whilst keeping the creative, anarchic spirit of said corpse very much alive.
Our vision
In an age of AI where content is generated by machines and humanity and creativity is increasingly threatened by computers churning out digital slop, this is our analogue antidote to the current epoch, inviting you to contribute to the exquisite corpse, our version of human slop, if you will.
With this in mind, we kindly ask for all submissions for these stories to be taken from the dark recesses of your own mind, using your own power and imagination, conscious or otherwise. This is also a safe space for like-minded souls, so it should go without saying that Haus Nostromo is no place for hate speech or discriminatory comments.
Together, we hope to craft dream-like narratives shaped by our community. We hope that united we can explore the art of storytelling and collaboration, and we welcome all members of the Haus Nostromo community to join us in telling these tales.
Our plan for the future should this whole idea resonate, will be to eventually collect and publish the results in our very own community zine featuring illustrations and redux/alternative versions of stories using previously unselected submissions to explore the very different paths our collective unconscious can take.
Teamwork makes the dream work. Dreamwork makes the team work.
I. (- H.N.)
In a steep dark valley brimming with pine needles sits a rotting mill where the swallows gather and sing. The kind of old place where you hear the rain before you see it. The sky darkens overhead and the river responds, the waterfall driving the old mill wheel until a light starts to flicker and the burgeoning glow reveals…
II. (- Shannon Wells)
... a key. Its glow, dying light reflected from its bodice (a menagerie of gold, quartz, emerald and bone), emanated with great magnification, courtesy of the crystalline, sweeping waters above. The keys form, skeletal, ornate, was a tiny, beautiful gasp of earthen materials. Its elements were organic, its intent a darker riddle that bled into the stream, intimidating tadpoles into a wide berth.
III. (- Kev Rooney)
The light, glittering, shimmering, a kaleidoscopic refraction, danced briefly on the water’s skin, then died, snuffed by the roiling clouds above. It was not unseen. A shadow in the trees, ebon in the gloom, twisted on its perch and cawed a harsh caw along the stream’s winding course. Swallows scattered at the sound; its echo stumbled from tree to tree, growing weaker until it found the ears of...
IV. (- Gin Niemtus)
...a boy. Purple painted broadly under his eyes, married to grey nestled beneath his skin. His pallor a far cry from the glittering key, now gently shining as if illuminated from the inside. Eyes darting up as breath stains the air, he spies rustling in the trees. A moment of admiration, the bird warms his soul. Perched atop branches, wings unfurling, the chill of night air rushing through feathers.
SUBMISSIONS NOW OPEN FOR PART V / NEXT UPDATE COMING SOON
