It Was a Dark & Stormy Night - adventures in rule breaking

note: there are rules that are thrown at us in every genre, things not to do, more than anything. How not to open a story, words, phrases - entire sentiments to stay away from, et al. In short, rules for everything. Sometimes it feels just a wee bit constricting. So here is my little exercise in rule breaking, partly because I'm bored, and partly because my old brain needs to be perpetually conjuring up things to write. If you want to play along, feel free to continue this in the comments. What happens next? I honestly have no idea, but hell, it just might go someplace nifty. Or not at all.

Dark Stormy Night - A Maybe Adventure

It was a dark and stormy night. Yeah, I know - what are the chances, right? But truly, it was. Dark (because night) and stormy. One of those the skies opened up and unloaded wet sticky snow to the sound of trumpets (that would be the howling winds, but trumpets sounds better, no?).

I stand up and flip my hair up (almost brown but not quite, washed so it’s shiny, landing somewhere below my shoulder blades). I smudge dark lines under and over my stark blue eyes, dab a bit of blush on those prominent cheekbones–my best feature–and squeeze my not as perky as I’d like ass into a pair of a hundred dollar jeans - a Good Will find from years ago.

Adventure waits for no storm, I tell myself, because there isn’t another person in my tiny apartment. Not even a cat anymore, though there used to be one when I first moved in. Not mine exactly, but a cat nonetheless. A beating heart I could talk to when I wanted to talk to somebody, which is pretty much always.

I throw on my boots (mid-calf, dark brown leather, four-inch heels, making me seem less like a midget I am), and grab my coat. Tonight, dark and stormy and all, I am going to find him. The brooding stranger with a fantastic set of abs and just the right size penis.

In my head, his eyes are that weird green that looks nothing like emeralds, but it’s the in word for that.

In my head, I walk in to that club all the good looking men go to and scan the place for a pair of glowing emerald eyeballs. He sits alone at the end of mahogany bar (there doesn’t seem to be any other wood used for bars nowadays) looks up, lips (big, fleshy, soft-looking) curve up in a smile. Because good looking fictional men always smile at me like I’m the most important person in the room. Then they steal my secrets…. But we’re not there yet.

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