“It was a dark and stormy night…”

Were I to write a novel, there would be no clever plot ideas waiting in my notebooks, but I do have an opening line:

“I have no love for the buttons my tailor chose…”

It’s ambiguous, pretentious and mysterious in only ten simple words. What would yours be?

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38 Replies to ““It was a dark and stormy night…””

  1. The morning started like every other morning: I woke up sitting on the toilet taking care of business with my mind going 100 miles per hour, obsessing about everything I needed to do in the next 24 hours.

  2. Sorry, I just realised that was todays heading 🙄

    let’s try that again


    The flames had died down now, the horizon was becoming clear again, the sight that greeted Rush was …

  3. That night’s stunt involved Lionel Ritchie, some balloons, my girlfriend, and a Plymouth Volaré.

  4. 1) So, there I was, naked, the bears grinning at me…

    2) Ever since I had the operation, Debra refused to take…

    3) One night whilst reading Davezilla, I came across a young…

    –Simon

  5. …riverrun, past swerve of shore and bend of bay…

    (sorry JJ, couldn’t resist ).

    –Simon

  6. He’d heard the pope was a great fuck, but never did he imagine how hot he’d look in his lacy, white, Papal garter belt and Holy stilettos. :wang:

  7. Gasping for air, I sprawled beneath the sheets. I emerged slowly, only to find that he had gone. “Come back!” I cried desperately, but to no avail…

    😈

  8. When she laid out the last card in my Tarot reading, Madame Arcati let out a moan and slumped to the floor. Noël Coward spun in his grave!

  9. It was the first time her tampon had spoken to her, but she knew it was somehow tied to the murder.

  10. It was a chill, foggy morning. Not weird fog, just the normal, soft, grey fog that wisps about the trees, and wanders around the houses. It was kind of thick in places, and the yellow headlights of passing cars looked like miniature suns, but not as bright. It wasn’t really cold, just that little bit of chill you get when there is fog. Not enough for a coat, but maybe a sweater. Not a heavy, wool sweater. A nice cotton one, like the really pretty ones at Land’s End, that come in nice colors. But they don’t have all the colors in plus sizes, which is really annoying.

  11. Already started with this one – writing a novel right now – who isn’t?

    I suppose I could tell you that I was beaten as a child, or that my uncle molested me, or that my mommy didn’t love me because I was the bastard child of a rape in the backseat of a rust-bucket ’64 Pontiac. I suppose I could tell you that, and some liberal jerk-off somewhere would try to excuse what I do by labeling me a “victim.” But in the big scheme of things, none of that is relevant – firstly because none of it happenend, and secondly because even if it had happenend, it would be no excuse.

    No, in the big scheme of things, what’s important is that I kill folks for a living… or call it a livelihood if living implies some need, such as food, shelter, etc., ’cause clearly, I could be flipping burgers somewhere to accomplish that… and I don’t want to be excused for anything.

  12. Or –

    It’s 7:30 in Detroit; he sun is already behind the skyline, painting the edges of the buildings a smoky red hue that reminded a man of hell, my coffee my coffee was cold, and I just shit my pants. And it was warm.

  13. The deep whoosh and boom of the waves as they crashed into the seawall one hundred feet below the house was more than enough to cover what little noise the man made as he slowly made his way up the sheer cliff…..he had trained for this moment for seven long years.

  14. “What the fuck?!!!”, the woman yelled as she leapt from my bed……..

    Now that’s more like it. and sorry about your pants Keith.

  15. Buck Stone was not a man to be taken lightly. His huge hands were of steel and his forearms thick and sinewy. The shoulders of Hercules had he and his steely eyes sparked dread in the hearts of those who dared to look into them.

    THere was only one way a man could beat Stone. Yodeling. Buck Stone hated yodeling. And clog dancing. He really, really hated clog dancing. And he was sort of afraid of clowns. And mimes, but they are kind of in the clown category. And he thought that really old people were kind of icky and creepy. And spiders, whew, he would squeel like a little girl if a someone told him he had a spider on his neck!

  16. “After fucking Satan up the ass, Mr. Winkles’ :wang: had some funny looking spots on it.”

  17. James was startled to find that the bright red drops of snowball syrup had splattered across his teflon-coated pants. With no napkins on hand, he settled down for the long, agonizing wait to see if the stains would set as he continued eating his snowball.

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