Some opening lines for stories never to be written…

But first…
Dulltown, UK: Today’s letter of the alphabet is the capital ‘Y’. All the lower case letters really like the capital ‘Y’ – he’s shaped a bit like a tree, they can shelter under him when it rains.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The old maroon and cream bus creaked and bounced along the winding road that traversed the ragged moor; sparse snowflakes danced in the yellow beams of the headlights; a chill wind hissed and sneaked in around the edges of the rattling door. Sergeant Mung was seeking warmth, she thrust her fingers deep into the pockets of her greatcoat, her teeth chattered behind her ruby lips…

Lionel crouched in the dark under the long oak table that ran down the centre of the library. The only sound coming from outside was that of distant traffic moving on the bridge over the town’s sluggish dirty river. He started as some person unknown rattled the door handle, yes, they were checking to see that it was locked. The moon-faced grandfather clock waiting in the corner gently cleared its gears, and then reluctantly struck two o’clock…

The pulsing blood-red words of a neon sign were reflected in the rain-wet flagstones. A smooth silent taxi splashed past and destroyed the order of the inverted letters – before they could reform a gang of sodden midnight revellers burst from a side alley and walked across them, the youths were dancing badly and singing a popular song involving love and happiness. Brad edged back into the shadows of his passageway and watched them proceed up the street…

Felix Brood had never touched a firearm in his life – the flat greasy brown cardboard box felt surprisingly heavy under his arm. The lift door suddenly hissed open revealing three round black and white nuns, a very tall bald man in a dense grey suit, and a colourful pair of teenage girl twins. They all immediately stared at the dirty box nestling under Felix’s arm. The tall man opened his mouth as if about to speak just as the box slipped from under Brood’s arm and landed noisily on the tiled floor…

Ted Brunelleschi grabbed the longest of the stalactites and managed to snap it off leaving a foot-and-a-half of the stump jutting from the roof of the cave. He squatted down and leant his improvised weapon within easy reach against the wall. Lord Eric Buttermore was never early, nor was he ever late. Ancient water dripped rhythmically and puddled between Ted’s feet. The marine chronometer in his backpack, if it had been glanced at, would have said – six minutes to go…

About Dave Whatt

Grumpy old surrealist artist, musician, postcard maker, bluesman, theatre set designer, and debonair man-about-town. My favourite tools are the plectrum and the pencil...
This entry was posted in composition, creation, drama, puzzle, story, surrealism, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

6 Responses to Some opening lines for stories never to be written…

  1. Oh goodness! Now you have to write them – they can’t just sit there, poised on the brink of action, Dave! Especially Mr Brunelleschi and his stalactite! 🙂

  2. Sharon Mann says:

    All good beginnings…I guess we will be imagining the endings. Do you have a front row seat at the Royal wedding this weekend Dave?

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