Some opening lines for stories never to be written…

But first…
Dulltown, UK/Europe: Today’s carefully selected adjectives are: grubby, tribrachic, mancando, wowf, chenopodiaceous, posological, and cuddly.
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Sitting, pen in hand, in the café, he tilted his great round head trying to make out the lyrics of the song that was playing over the speakers. He was collecting ‘misheard lines’ to include in his blog for the following day. Unfortunately the raucous café hubbub was rendering them completely incomprehensible. Suddenly, there was something else to write about – Gorgo the giant sea monster from the 1961 film was thrashing about outside playfully turning over some buses and cars…

The Reverend Ed Boyler finished his sermon on the eyes of needles and rich people, took off his spectacles, and looked down into the faces of the congregation peering unblinkingly back up at him. He opened his mouth to say ‘Let us pray’, but something in his throat snagged, he gulped, and managed to utter, ‘Let us play…’ The nave held a moment’s echoing silence, and then the congregation burst into uproarious laughter – that was the moment that Ed’s life changed for ever…

Jennifer Turnstyle was completely mired in wanting to be admired; she thought that meeting famous TV actor Miles Brookmyre would be a good move. She was early and nervous – he wasn’t, but his arrival was pending. The quiet murmuring of the reading room was broken by a minor disturbance in the doorway. Jennifer looked up – Brookmyre burst in on horseback and galloped around and around the tables – hooves were scratching and deeply denting the polished oak floor…

Bobby the vegetarian eagle swooped low over the rough grass by the rusty fence of the abandoned tennis court. Barry the atheist hedgehog glanced up and waved to him, but Bobby missed this friendly gesture. Raglan the woolly gamekeeper leaned his loaded shotgun against George the fat mature oak and lit a cigarette using Maude his shiny brass lighter. Maurice the sun shone down carefully avoiding white globular clouds Mary and Joe – it was going to be a very nice day…

Rain beat like thrown pebbles on the bus window, leaving small bright fleeting hemispheres between glossy slanting descending rivulets. White lightning flashed at cumbersome clouds and then forked around looking for naked conductive metal. It chose the cross on top of a passing village church; in a puff of light and wet smoke it was snapped off at its base; it slithered down the wet grey slated slope to then deliberately dive under the front wheels of the speeding bus…

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 abstract, adjectives, animals, brain, cafe, celebrities, composition, drama, Film, humour, misheard, puzzle, reading, religion, story, surrealism, TV, weather, words, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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