Some opening lines for stories never to be written…

But first…
Dulltown, UK/Europe: Today’s wrinkled old Polaroid snapshot is the one of me being lifted upside down by a grinning Arnold Schwarzenegger on the set of The Terminator in 1983.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Professor Schmell’s laboratory was in the attic room of Black Goose Manor. Chrissie Prissy crept silently up the greasy and slippery cracked stairs and entered. It was Stygian black, save for a slender shaft of moonlight falling on the domed head of the chained homunculus. It opened one bright green eye, blinked it, reached up, and opened a hinged flap in its forehead, to reveal inside, a nest of squirming, writhing, bright juicy beetles and centipedes…

Oh no! Not again!… It was that same recurring dream! Brad Shoes rubbed the sleep from his eyes and cold beads of sweat from his fevered brow. Driving the train was fine, but the sense of danger coming from behind was overpowering – again, the speed increased – the dark shape of a train ahead – he was gaining on it – closer – closer – accelerating – then the man – the man – waving frantically – hanging from the swinging door of the rear carriage – was – himself!…

As there were serious and fraught rehearsals going on – I, as a mere stage-hand, was slightly embarrassed having to walk around the edge of the stage; I tried to be quiet and unobtrusive – but that world famous Hollywood actor Vanessa Snarl was just starting her long speech in act two. She stopped dead… turned, and stared – then suddenly grabbed my arm, pulled me towards her, and whispered very close to my ear, ‘Just play along for a moment, darling…’

Even after just one sip of the hot sweet liquid Bambi Smalls could feel the intimate vibrations of each and every molecule in her body – her very being seemed to rise and separate from the worn and shabby old leather chair beneath her. The fortune teller, Mary O’Lady grinned and stared across the grimy tablecloth, her ancient face wrinkling, her wise eyes surrounded by slowly rotating brown whirlpools. ‘You like my nice tea?…’ she croaked…

Ben Strangways glanced up from his desk and peered out of the grimy window across Parliament Square; the great minute hand nudged vertical and Big Ben tolled noon. It was time… Time, is what it was… He opened a drawer in his desk, reached in and pulled out the ticket for his flight to Paraguay, and then the glass jar of angry wasps. He looked around the room at his busy colleagues, Ben gave the jar a good shake, and slipped his mask on…

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 brain, celebrities, cool, creation, drama, dreaming, Film, humour, reading, story, style, surrealism, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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

  1. Sharon Mann says:

    Lol, these intros are fabulous. The wasps gave me the shivers.

  2. Those recurring dreams…they never let go. Love these.

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