Opening Paragraphs: Overdone Openings 2

The TV in my apartment flickered as I sat on my couch with a slice of cold mushroom pizza, idling away the hours on another lonely Friday night.

I missed Lisa. It felt like it had been months since I'd seen her. Not as many months as, say, Graham's number, which is the largest number ever used in a mathematical proof and can be constructed by taking the value of G(64) where G(1)=3^^^^3 (using Knuth's up-arrow notation, in which a double up-arrow operator denotes iterated exponentiation and in general an N-arrow operator expands into a right-associative series of N-minus-1-arrow operators) and G(n) for n>1 equals 3^^^^...^^^^3 where the number of up-arrows in each term is equal to G(n-1), because even calculating 3^^^3 (with only three arrows instead of four) produces a tower of 7,625,597,484,987 stacked exponents, and the value of G(64) itself couldn't be written even if you had really tiny handwriting and a piece of paper the size of all the universes that could ever possibly be imagined to exist even in a "Star Trek" movie, but still a long time. And yes, I know those are carets and not actual up-arrows. If it bothers you that much, print out a copy of this paragraph and draw a little vertical line under each one. Anyway, I did miss her, and as I sat on my couch pondering exactly what purpose a number as large as G(64) could possibly have, and whether my phone number would occur in any ten consecutive digits if you could somehow write out the entire value, the TV continued to flicker and the pizza got even colder.

... certainly as dark and stormy as anyone in the village could remember, even the really old people who did nothing but sit in the park playing backgammon and reminiscing about the old days, which had never seemed as dark and stormy. The fluffy, menacing clouds seemed to roll in across the sky like bouncers gliding across a sawdust-covered bar after one drink-fuelled red-neck bumps into another spilling beer over his cowboy boots, and would have scared the sun out of the sky if it had not already been night time. Suddenly there was a flash of lightning that made the children watching from out of the window behind a raised corner of their bedroom curtains recoil in fright and consider sidling off to their parents' room for comfort, before deciding that it would be a sissy thing to do. The children silently counted aloud the tense seconds before the thunder thundered around the valley and made them hide under their eiderdowns wishing that society wasn't quite so macho and that they could be sissies after all. Lightning struck again, not in the same place of course as that would be beyond all believable coincidence, but quite nearby, lighting up the road into town and revealing the dark figure of a rain-drenched man fighting against the wind, and losing badly as he, for the figure was unmistakably male, though quite out of shape and obviously unused to battling the elements of nature in this way, which made his presence there all the more intriguing, staggered past the disused post office and headed towards the brightest building in this small town, the bingo hall. The man was plunged back into relative darkness, the sound of his trudging through the muddy puddles drained out by the return of the thunder.

Suzy watched him from across the room and thought that her heart might burst like an overripe tomato put in a microwave on high. He was the most perfect man she'd ever seen. His hair was the color of a pale egg yolk and gleamed brightly in the sun, reminding her of the shiny yellow 1-ball in her grandfather's pool set that they used to play every Sunday after eating overcooked roast beef with that strange blue-green tinge accompanied by undercooked potatoes. She couldn't see his eyes because she was too far away and his eyes really weren't that big, at least not big enough to see from thirty feet away in a smoky room that wasn't very brightly lit, but she knew that they were that special shade of green that you only see on the bark of trees, or occasionally on Chinese food that has gotten pushed to the back of the refrigerator for several months. The muddy brown cashmere sweater he wore highlighted his broad shoulders and made her long for the day when he would hold her tight and whisper sweet nothings into her ear, or maybe nuzzle her neck, but definitely not chew on her earlobe because she couldn't stand the feel of that, it was in the same category as fingernails on a chalkboard, not that kids knew what that was like anymore because chalkboards had been replaced with the dry erase kind with the markers that made the teachers happy all day long. But she longed to hear what he'd say because she was pretty sure that it would be better than her wildest imagination, which could be pretty wild after a couple of glasses of wine sipped in front of her flickering Sugar Cookie-scented candle.

Jesse James was clearly overhung and allowing his impatience to show when he banged on the door of the old shack where Calamity Jane was snoring off a jar of moonshine downed in the company of Scarlet O'Hara and Brett Butler; these Southern belles having celebrated the fact that Jesse had just robbed Fort Knox and he had run Pinkerton's men ragged all over the country and they still hadn't caught him and watching Pinkerton's men running ragged was always good for a laugh because they took themselves so very seriously - Pinkerton's men that is, not Calamity and Co.

"Git yer rear in gear, Calam, Ima here to git married and mah shotgun is loaded ter force yer if necessary. (Check cowboy dialect). He figured that it was a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. (Check source of quotation - try Seven Brides for Seven Brothers). Jesse was rich now and he wanted a wife but he drew the line at dancing and prancing with planks of wood, so nobody better make him.

"Come on, Calam, I'll take you to places you've never been before," he cajoled, smiling inwardly at this double-entendre but not having a clue at the same time what a double-entendre was, since he was not into high-falootin' fussy foreign language having only ever used Anglo-Saxon words for descriptive cussing.

Calamity pushed her tousled head through the crack of a loose board in the shack and blinked as Jesse looked on in deep rapture, taking in her bedraggled hair, her blotched skin and her strawberry lips, all the while his heart throbbing in concert with someplace else; his head was ready to explode.

"Are yer coming or not?" he ejaculated.

Jocelyn had sunk into an ever deeper depression since her second cousin's brother-in-law, Tony, had jilted her for his best friend's third wife. Her depression was at first tinged with hope that he would return to her, but in no time at all it turned from the sort of depression that could be termed a love disappointment into a dark, swirling, depression that could be likened to walking through treacle; and not a light, honey-hued treacle of the sort that is used to make that coffee-with-cream tinted light toffee, but that dark, almost black, treacle that goes to make old fashioned toffee - the color of molasses - dark, black and sticky; only darker and stickier, so that walking through it was like wading through mud--only not ordinary dirt-mixed-with-water mud, but that gloopy, quicksand type of mud where it's difficult to get yourself out without someone throwing a rope and pulling you out; yet, somehow, even worse than that.

It took a hold of Jocelyn's mind like an invisible mist that descends and engulfs the brain so that it cannot think straight; this swirling, suffocating, mist moved into her very soul, like something from a horror film, covering her every miserable thought of Tony in cotton wool so that it smothered her will to function; sapped her energy, and turned her into a veritable Zombie so that she could barely rise from her bed. This mist, not light and airy, like smoke or steam, but dense like a thick fog on a dark night, invaded and enveloped and encircled her very being, leaving her limp and in a very dark, lonely and miserable place.

This, then, is where we find our heroine and where our story begins.

I knew the sexy dame was big trouble as soon as she walked into my office, though it was less of a walk and more of a saunter or maybe a prowl, like a big cat hunting a fat deer in the middle of an icy winter after all of the other game is gone and it's on the verge of starving. She had sweet, gently-rounded curves like the Hindenburg before it caught fire and was still queen of the skies, but she had more curves than the Hindenburg, which only had one really big curve and she wasn't quite so cylindrical so she more resembled a trio of perfectly placed Hindenburgs flying in a very sexy formation. The way her dress clung to those curves made me think that she might catch fire in the same way as the famous dirigible and I hoped she didn't do it in my office since the only thing I had on hand was half a bottle of Jack Daniels that was guaranteed to make the flames burn even hotter, not that she could get any hotter than she already was. Her blonde hair was too bleached to be her natural color, but it looked good on her anyway and I decided not to give her fashion advice, since she had a rock the size of a silver dollar on her finger and the defining piece of my wardrobe was a trench coat that wasn't worth the mud that had splashed up the back of her fishnet stockings. The whole package was tied up with full, pouty lips that looked like they'd done 3 or 4 rounds with Joe Louis, but definitely not more than 5 rounds or they'd have been too big for her sultry face.

Call me an old man, a mad recluse who knows your world only through the time-yellowed pages of long-forgotten books. Call me a dreamer, a lost prophet, I have been all of these during my jaded life, as well as a hairdresser and a typewriter repairman. You can call me Daniel, Roy or Edna or any of the begotten Biblical names, for I too am a descendant of Adam as was my father and his before him and so on as ye shall see in chapter 3 to 785 of this tome where I shall give but a breviloquent recapitulation of my impecunious family, immigrants from south Eden who came to this country with only lavender-colored lint in their pockets-- and bellybuttons. Call me these names, but you dostn't ever never call me Ishmael, for that name makes my soul weep! How shall I begin? Perhaps twas that stormy November's eve when Satan, that most unwelcome guest, first set foot upon my newly painted doorstep, soiling my varnished mahogany. He had forgotten to wipe his boots on the squirrel-shaped boot scraper I'd lovingly set outside for that purpose. But I digress-- my eyes were beholding a most astounding demonstration on the home shopping network when this impolite interloping imp, Satan, interrupted with a gravelly voice whose soniferousness replicated the discordant cacophony of freshwater pearl cufflinks when you've ensnared them in a Westinghouse can opener. "Ishmael", said he, "Your soul for an onion dicer!" I paused for a moment, for I already had a kitchen full of the best food processors that have ever flickered onto channel 62. But then I contemplated, "What if perchance there is something that would dice onions without making me cry." A tear rolled down my grizzled cheek just thinking about that.

The gravid storm clouds, pregnant with rain, gave birth to wind as well (a bawling wind strong enough to tear apart the fragile aluminum skin of an airliner), and were also delivered of hail, which danced across the falling pieces of TransGlobal Flight 27, a brand-new A-340 making its maiden journey, bound from London but now not to New York, the city that never sleeps, where no one yet knew of its plight, but to the storm-tossed depths of the North Atlantic, where cod swam curiously among the shattered remnants thrust there by the angry gale, staring into the eyes of the deceased.

Of course Captain Jack O'Rourke, Senior Captain of TransGlobal Airlines, reaching across the slumbering curves of his wife, National Transportation Safety Board Accident Investigator Kathy O'Rouke, to turn off the alarm clock, and silence its incessant pleas, did not know this would be his fate in less than five hours. Nor did Kathy. Had they known, they might have slept in.

There had been a day before, just like the day before the one yesterday. But I'm just having trouble remembering what I should be able to remember quite easily, given that I am only attempting to remember 'yesterday' which, if I remember correctly, I last encountered less than 12 hours previously.

But on this second day of the weekend, a sleepy Sunday morning, I stirred softly from the deepest slumber I never asked for. So profoundly deep, I couldn't climb out of it. Even now in my awakened state, an unwelcome dreamscape smothers my memory like a clouded veil, awash with ripples of watercolour grey. I couldn't remember anything concrete, the images returned to me in a random patchwork of static pictures; fresh but with no fluidity, only weight and stiffness; like a big boulder stone. This dream lingers heavily inside me, like cold curry.

I persisted with my arduous mental walk back to conciousness. I blinked, until my eyes found focus. They were warmly welcomed by the shimmer of sunlight, instantly brightening my day. Glad for the sun, I plumped up my pillow in child-like excitement, causing a blizzard of activity you only see in the brightest light. The orange and gold rays highlighted the swirling particles of dust I had agitated, they floated and bounced everywhere like microscopic bubbles frozen in chilled apple cider.

It's taking me a lifetime to fully wake up, even though part of me doesn't want to be awoken, which is why I am not too sure if I am actually awake. I could still be asleep, dreaming that I am awake, but dreaming.

Not intending to state the obvious, Sunday is a day of rest. So, without a second thought, I turned around 360 degrees precisely and let my head nod back off.

She asked for Detective Acme, while I saw only legs, probably because my Fedora was real low, as I like to look mysterious because I'm a detective, which is now obvious. Plus, I beat up people for cash.

She carried a broom, which probably wouldn't kill, but the bristles would be annoying, particularly because they were made of stiff hay. I tried lighting a match on my 5 o'clock, but I'm a detective, not a cowboy. So I used my pink Bic.

She was new in town, in trouble: Jerry. He was outside, somewhere. She flashed almighty dollars, so I went outside to take care of business. A Chapparal cock sped by. And there: Jerry. A mouse with a short man complex. He saw us, we him. The broad screamed, as did an elephant carrying money sacks marked with dollar signs. It ran, but slipped on a banana peel and took me out. Detective, elephant: done. Peanut vendor: displeased.

Budgies or plump boobies -- I hope they were those ones -- flew equidistantly-spaced around my head. My black eye needed a ribeye.

Money bags spilled. Now, Jerry's eyes had dollar signs, not literally because that would indicate ocular dysfunction, but metaphorically, like how Dumbo was actually tripping when he saw pink elephants, but they can't say that in Disney films. Jerry: dazzled by loot --" he wouldn't be bothering anyone just yet. The broad was up a tree, scared of hurting herself coming down.

"Use the umbrella," I said. She floated down while three flautists and a harpist played a descending glissando thing. It was pleasant.

"Stay put," I said. "Everyone's a character here," I said. "Animated clichés. You, me, everyone. Learn the patterns, you'll be alright." With the broad safe, I turned to Jerry, dynamite and concertina boxing glove ready.

He saw the uniform and immediately updated his will. Actually, update wasn't exactly what he did since he didn't have a will, so technically he wrote his Last Will and Testament leaving everything to his mom and dad and sister, except for the Star Trek collection that he left to his brother, an appropriate last wish considering that the lessons he learned from that life-altering show were the whole reason that he wrote out his final wishes. After all, the uniform was red and anybody who has ever watched a Star Trek episode, including his dear brother, knows the significance of wearing a red uniform which made bequeathing his Star Trek collection to his brother especially poignant -- or especially cruel, depending on your point of view. But there was no getting around it, despite all of his internal arguments to the contrary the uniform was definitely red, even though he had originally thought that it might be a shade of persimmon or maybe burnt sienna, but when he'd finally faced the reality he had been so vehemently denying he had to admit that is was the same fire-engine red his sister painted her nails before a hot date. He tried to trade it in for another color, but the sergeant wasn't a Star Trek fan, probably because of some deeply rooted fear of tribbles, or perhaps because the tightly-controlled emotions of Vulcans were too similar to his own repressed feelings. But whether it was the tribbles or the Vulcans, the sergeant refused to swap out the uniform and he was now destined to don the red uniform and begin the countdown to an untimely and unfortunate death, most likely early in the next mission in front of many of his unit.

Peering into the twin glowing portals of his electric toaster, Rodney was at once startled and reassured by the proximity of warmth and the imminent arrival of burnt toast. It re-ignited memories of a distant night spent with an overweight hooker in a cheap motel, and to this day nothing spoke more to him of disappointment and regret than the sensation of charcoal between his teeth. And yet the warmth remained perpetually alluring, keeping him fixated on his charring toast until it sprang up and smacked him in the face--in much the same way, in fact, that the hooker had sprang up and smacked him in the face upon discovering he had no money, except without the fascinating pendulous nakedness of which burnt toast seems uncannily incapable.

Being a man of no particular inventiveness, Rodney reacted in much the same way, cursing and rubbing his face while attempting unsuccessfully to handle the object of his desire. He dropped the smouldering bread into the kitchen sink and began raking its blackened surface, inhaling the acrid odour of dismay and ill timing so characteristic of his existence that he'd come to embrace it as a comfortable safety net of failure. The burnt breadcrumbs littered the sink like the detritus of his life which arrayed itself about his drab accommodation, testifying silently to his abject unlikeliness to do anything halfway well. Burnt toast, much like the listless hooker, was essentially disappointing but all the more enticing when slathered in rancid butter--a task Rodney applied himself to with disturbingly priapic glee.

Rodney was that type of man who will settle for an approximation of adequacy without care for essential details. It was for this reason that when he answered the doorbell, his genitalia protruded from his pyjamas like a diseased worm.

The body was flopped in the middle of the street like it had been tossed there by a giant clown who had been juggling and lost control of one of the balls. The neighbors claimed they hadn't seen anything except a girl riding a pink bike decorated with purple flowers with a white basket in the front holding a Miss Kitty backpack and a mutt intent on showing some love to the fire hydrant, which I was pretty sure was defamation of public property but didn't seem to concern the neighbors as much as the dead man in the middle of the street who was holding up traffic. I didn't like either of them for the crime, though I thought it was more likely to be the girl on the pink bike than the dog but I didn't think she'd have the strength to throw the body, though if she'd hit him at a high speed he might have fallen funny, but since he ran a good 225 pounds and she and the bike couldn't have weighed more than 57 pounds together, I quickly calculated that she would have needed to be riding at approximately 101.5 miles per hour in order to do the kind of damage I saw and I didn't think the bolts on the bike could withstand that kind of force, especially since it was the cheap kind of bike that you get at Wal-mart for under $50, not the high-end stuff you buy at a real bike shop. The clown was looking better and better, even though the neighbors claimed they hadn't seen one, but I saw the looks on their faces when I asked them if they'd seen a 25-foot clown in the area and I'm pretty sure they were lying.

"To write or not to write," he wavered as time slowly ran out like a boa constrictor ready to pounce on a minute Rodentia nibbling blissfully on some purloined seeds. Alas though, his muse had flitted away like a summer butterfly on a spring zephyr. Nevertheless, he focused his keen mind on the problem, leaving no stone unturned in his search for a fragrant cow pie to hurl recklessly into the fray of other worthy efforts.

With the minutes running short, an epiphany-like moment descended upon him as he realized the answer lay before him in the form of a half-eaten 9oz Big Grab sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos chips, their triangular form shimmering in the light of the 75 watt incandescent lamp hanging overhead. Like a man possessed, he lunged at his keyboard, and started typing in a frenzy that startled Mittens, his half-Siamese, half-Burmese cat, that had been lying, licking its fur under his desk.

He finished his task with mere moments to spare, and taking a last sip from his lukewarm can of Mountain Dew, pressed the key that would send his entry into the contest, then burped in contentment and awaited the results.

Maria Martina danced with wild passion as her raven hair that was darker than the black beans her mama used in seven layer dip flowed through the air and her dark eyes sent jolts of electricity through every man she gazed upon. At the dance floor's edge Armando watched breathless, exhilarated as he watched the firecracker of a girl clap her slender hands and stamp her delicate foot with the anger of a temperamental two year old.
Oh to be alive as she! He thought to himself as he ran his hands through his greasy hair (it looked like he was suave and refined, but really he just didn't wash his hair often- he had discovered it saved him a surprising amount of money on hair products). Wiping his oily hand on his white pants he returned to his thoughts, I must have that delicious little angel all to myself! But alas, I cannot dance- she will surely reject me as she has rejected her last 24 marriage proposals! I have no hope.... As the music to Maria Martina's flamenco reached a crescendo and her supple body moved like a slithering snake, Armando locked eyes with her again and his body overflowed with renewed determination and he knew what he must do- no matter what the cost or suffering- to ensure he could have the little fire dove in his arms. He, the man with two left feet and a natural inclination to profuse sweating, must, must, take dance lessons.

It was a dark and stormy night. The heavens moaned and wept bitterly as the terrifying sky became increasingly darker and morose. In the far off distance the great sycamore tree could be heard groaning and swaying to the violent and horrible wind as if participating in some strange and foreign dance, invisible to the rest of the world. Suddenly, tremendous lightning crashed and hit the tree and the tortured world was lit up for a brief moment as if time had stopped, and the giant sycamore beast fell gracefully to the ground with a crash and the world seemed darker than before. The dog howled and the horse whinnied but it seemed that the wind was determined to be the loudest voice that night and with the tree down it was as if it was screaming, "Ha-ha! Nothing can stop me now!" The rain was now a ferocious downpour which the wind pushed sideways. In the blackness of the cruel and unruly tempest, all he could do was wait.

It was a beautiful day, but the beautiful Countess Mimette Francesca Aldebaran felt quite a mess. She lounged in weary repose among the fragrant roses in her rose garden. The fluffy white clouds in the blue sky above her drifted by slowly, as if moved by a gentle breeze. "Oh, bullets and buttercups," she sighed wearily. "I feel so very tired of waiting here for my Count to return from the war. Why do men start such wars anyway?"

Mary, her serving girl, approached her from behind without her seeing. "Now, Countess," Mary said scoldingly, "we can't all tend our gardens all day. Someone has to protect us."

The Countess was startled and jumped as Mary spoke. "Shame on you, Mary, for startling me so!" she exclaimed. "I suppose you're right, though," she mused thoughtfully, and she took one of her beautiful roses in her hand. "Why, if I'd planted my garden and simply left it alone, without tending to it daily, surely my beautiful roses would have died long ago."

"That's surely true," Mary agreed. "And if your husband the Count did not see to those foreign savages abroad, why, surely they would die as well."

"Then let them!" the Countess cried angrily, smashing her fists on her knees. "Aren't they just trying to hurt us anyway?"

"Ah, but your roses have thorns, haven't they?" Mary replied inquisitively. "Sometimes when you tend to them they prick you, but surely they mean you no harm."

The Countess sighed defeatedly, for she knew Mary was right. "Very well," she conceded. "I will tend my roses as my husband tends his savages, until he returns to me."

It was a black and cold night with dark clouds lining the evil night sky. Wind howled through the burned trees and withered flowers. The only colors outside were the colors of black and grey. An old, abandoned house sat atop a rocky terrain with rodents and insects scurrying inside the cracks. A grey and withered hand crept out of the blackened house, scraping the window, screeching like screams of dying, injured people. No sound was made except for the ear-pinching sound of the screaming hand scratching on the window. The glass broke into tiny, red stained pieces and fell down into the ground where the rats licked the blood off and cut their tongues. It almost seemed as if it was getting darker, but no darker could the deadly night get.

It was a dark and stormy day. Bob was flossing his teeth when a bullet rang close to his ear shattering the mirror which exploded and gave Bob many cuts. He was a panther after that shot and turned around. He snarled with tooth floss still hanging from his teeth. Another bullet hit the floss loose but he dodged so it didn't hit him. He saw the gun and leaped upon it as piece of cheese to a mouse. The gun fired again and hit him in the heart. How could he still be living? He was living because he was part werewolf and part vampire. He saw the shooter and smiled while running after him. The person tripped and he leaped onto the person. It was his wife? Marline shoved him off and laughed. "Good job Bob!" Bob turned around saying, "You had me going." Then yet another bullet rang out hitting Marline straight in the heart. She died and became a zombie. Bob yelled "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Marline mumbled, "Brains..." Bob leapt away after the shooter and tackled him. The shooter said, "Hi!" Bob snarled "You killed me wife!" The shooter then says, "Zombies are just cooler than Marline." Bob bit the shooter's neck. The shooter is now a vampire. Bob smiles and says, "Underling go bring me ten baskets of blood." The shooter says"NO!" Bob yells, "I'm your master now." The shooter says but I was already a vampire. Bob says, "Darn!" The shooter says, "My name is Pat. Shall we be partners?" Bob said, "Sure." Pat smiles and said come on. Bob smiles and follows him. Bob the trips and falls. Pat also falls. They both laugh and turn into bats. They then fly all to place where unicorns live.

John Trimble picked his way through the slush on the road as he made his way towards the cooling tower. It was amazing because the immense concrete structure had turned white, and he had read about this in books. But even in his worst nightmare, he had never thought that he would see it for real. It stood out almost like a photograph against the pale-blue sky. Huge icicles, Swords of Damocles, hung six, eight, ten feet down from the feed channels. The cooling-water-pond was almost a solid sheet of ice, but not quite. He chuckled to himself. On the far side of the pond a particularly stupid duck was swimming around in a few square feet of water.

John, wearing the new spectacles that he had bought the previous day, reached the cooling-pond's retaining wall and, being careful not to slip, he climbed up the small concrete staircase to look at the bottom part of the tower. He should have been able to see the wooden distribution slats, but instead a dark, purple-blue walled cave of ice greeted him as light was reflected and refracted off the pond's surface. Not one drop of water was flowing through the vital cooling tower. No wonder the nuclear reactor was overheating.

John struggled with his gloved hands to pull the two-way radio that was sheathed in its black-leather case out of the deep pocket of his industrial work-wear coat. He pressed the call button, conscious that his finger was already going numb with cold as his body tried to retain its core temperature by cutting down blood flow to the extremities. The winter of 2026 was already the coldest since records had begun.

Peter in the control room answered his call. "Hello John, I hope it isn't too cold out there..."

It was the darkest and stormiest of dark and stormy nights. Lightning crackled in the firmament, illuminating the crooked face of the lone figure who perched high on a craggy rock. Staring out across the town from his vantage point, his face twisted into an evil grin and an unmelodious laugh was soon echoed by the squawking of crows in the nearby trees. As the laughter stopped, the shadowy figure spread his arms wide and screamed at the night, 'this will be mine!!' His madman's voice was backed by a chorus of raucous thunder as the storm rolled around him.
The humble town of Mercy had no idea what was coming its way....

A bloodcurdling scream echoed from the house on the end of Chelm Street, number 1237. Karen jumped out of her floral covers and scattered downstairs; somewhat resembling a crooked possum. Her orange hair glided through the darkness, reaching a halt at the end of the journey. Quickly yet cautiously Karen leaned over to her brass latticed front door, clasping the handle as she pulled it down. She stepped out her ornate door, blinking vigorously as she searched the streets for any signs of horror. Another scream doubled down the empty dark street, Karen's automatic incentive was to run... so she did. Her petite toes slapped down on the cold concrete like pancakes as she dramatically held her dress coat from revealing her stomach. Lights were turning on as she zoomed past each house, the wind was in her hair and the street lights were blinding her vision; but she didn't care. Finally, she reached her dreaded destination and yanked the door open; the force threw her tired body back onto the piercing footpath. A large figure emerged from the eerie darkness, with its left hand raised it walked closer, and closer... Karen's heart was beating 100miles a minute at the sight of this ghastly figure, she let out a terrified scream and scurried back onto the path. "Time to die" the figure chanted evilly...

Karen's remains were never found, and strangely no one in the street admits to having they're lights on at such a late hour... This is the story that no one had the chance to tell-

As I stared around my room in the dense, gloomy darkness, I thought I saw something move.
"Just my imagination" I told myself. "I must be dreaming."
Slowly, I realized I really wasn't alone. A swish of cape, a gleam of tooth, a sparkle of metal, the smell of blood. He crept nearer to me while I backed up against the wall, pulling the covers to my chin. I began to rub my eyes, still half convinced I was asleep. Soon, I felt his cool breath on my neck, followed by a sharp fang. The tall, dark stranger drained my neck and I felt my life essence dribble down my neck. Although terrified, I knew a new life was waiting for me soon enough.

The day started out so well; how could I have know that I would end up in the arms of my father's murderer, yet somehow I knew it would end up like that. You see, this morning the sun was red. That alone spelled trouble with a capital T. In my part of the world, omens are an everyday thing. I shouldn't have even left the house! You see, my father was a pirate. He was viciously killed when his first mate decided to take over the ship. No... I know what your thinking! The first mate didn't do it. It was the cabin boy, in the kitchen, with a paper clip. How you ask? Well, I'm glad you brought that up.

Prescott stared dumbly at the Kit-Kat candy bar in his hand as if it were a nosy neighbor engaged in a round of fence gossip. He came to when some cretin bumped him from the rear as he made his way, clumsily down the snack isle in the cramped convenience store. Prescott used the word cretin often. He loved the word and loathed the imbecile behind it.

I glanced anxiously at the clock on the wall tick, tick, ticking away endlessly and impatiently rushing; just waiting eagerly for me to do the worst mistake of my entire life. The clock skipping away presious seconds under my watch was intoxicating. Sunlight streaked suddently in from the window casting a dark shadow on the clock. The high up window in the room was pointed in precisely the right angle so that I was simultaneously blinded and it made me feel uncomfortable, but when did I really have time to feel comfortable when I knew my next move could change the world for the worst and for forever.