EXTRA BELATED POST

I suppose as the official keeper of the pass-around stories, I should take better care with them.
Anyway, I post them in order according to the alphabetical place of the first letter of the first word of each, just to dispel any notion that either Matthew or I is better because our story came first or kept best for last. As it happens, the one I started comes alphabetically first, so here goes:

Jeremy is a time-traveler, zipping through the conduits of space-time to the '05 time traveler convention.
He decides at once that he can't time travel without his Terry Pratchett Super Duper action figures of Disky Awesomeness (tm).
So, to avoid the almost fatalistic (methinks I spy an incorrectly used adjective) catastrophe of the loss of the possession of his dolls (excuse me, rare collectibles), he, not noticing the passing hours, leaves to go home
and watch the Simpsons instead. "Ahhhh...", he thinks as he lies back on his couch and plants a big luscious kiss on the faces of every last one of his 'rare collectibles'. "If I didn't have my dolls, I bet
my life would be so empty." After all, what is a decent time traveler without their oh-so-perfect do-- ahem, rare collectibles, socks, television, cocoa puffs,
and pie. "My wonderful pie making skills are what led me to you," he said to one of his dolls as he went over to the oven to
get his pie, but as he reached down a piece of hot sizzling peach preserves into his eye. (Lauren, I know that one was you. What did I ever do to deserve this betrayal?)
His super eyes retained no damage and absorbed the nutrients. (Woo! Go whoever that was! Think it was Clare. If so, I see we're channeling some Dr. McNinja.)
"Crap," thought all of his rare collectibles.
With the nutrients, he might be moving on from his rare collectibles...
and get into Raggedy- Ann instead.

#2:

The french toast flopped onto the grill with a "phhpt-skssss." (Guys, check out Matthew's profile and marvel at his lack of creativity. )
The grease spattered up and hit the cook in his eye. He screamed "My eye!!" (Ed is a very straightforward kind of person.)
He ran, half-blind, searching for the first-aid kit.
While the pots thought of (how) snobby the living room furniture are (is.)
His grasping hands found the kit, only for his non-greased eye to register that it was empty.
Empty, that is, except for a ferret
who told him he hated french toast.
But ferrets don't talk, he thought to himself in dramatic soap opera fashion then said aloud "gotta stop drinking the terpintine (turpentine?) after work." (I still wanna know who wrote that part.)
The ferret then stared at him thoughtfully. "I do know how to fix your eye," it said. But the man only shrugged and said to himself "ferrets can't talk."
But the ferret could talk in a slow, weird voice.
A voice echoing the painful tone of Carol Channing,
who at the moment, was disgruntled that her name was Carol Channing, and not something more awesome, like ED or MICHAEL JACKSON or BRITNEY SPEARZ. (?)
That's when the cook finally keeled over dead when the grease reached his brain.
The ferret showed a toothy grin-- since ferrets can OBVIOUSLY smile in this way-- and rifled through the man's pockets and stole his wallet.

Well. And that's that. Maybe one day we'll be metaphorically as well as physically on the same page and be able to churn out a coherent narrative. I say next meeting we do them in first-person POV!