Story Starters

[NoJo]

The best thing about vicars is that they rhyme with knickers, which explains the 750 year heritage of fine British hunmour.

 

[matriarch]

Ermmmm.............which part of the last interchanges is intended as a story starter??????

 

[Guest]

Ermmmm.............which part of the last interchanges is intended as a story starter??????

Who knows what it might inspire? Oral sex with a vicar is a hot topic. It's going into my novel.

 

[shereads]

Jenkins slowly peeled back Mrs Henderson's labia, and peered out.

http://storage.chatropolis.com/userfiles/shereads/icansee.jpg

 

[Kassiana]

I heard him squeaking, but I couldn't see him. "Maui?" I called.

His screeches increased. Finally! His human had heard him!

I looked around the room and headed toward the TV. The sounds were coming from there. The bird's cries mingled with hisses of fear.

I saw gray feathers and patches of white in the space behind the TV cabinet. "There you are, stupid. Come on out."

He hissed and bit at my hand, then the cabinet. I sighed and went to the kitchen, stretching my achy knees and back. I returned with the Best Toy in the World, a mirror with a bell on it. He hissed and hissed, and then upon seeing the mirror, wolf-whistled sweetly. Following the mirror, my stupid cockatiel walked out from behind the cabinet. I swept him onto my hand and mock-scolded him while he cooed and showed off his huge vocabulary to the mirror toy.

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

Tatelou and/or Sub Joe (turn-about's only fair)

Thank you so much for the edification. I'm feeling all inspired, now.

Ermmmm.............which part of the last interchanges is intended as a story starter??????

Yeah, what they said.

The Right Rev. Rumple Foreskin

 

[TheEarl]

"The door to her bedroom rattled on its hinges as he resumed his assault against it, beating out an insistent tattoo with his fists. She glanced up briefly, then returned to what she was doing."

Actually an opening line from one of my non-Lit stories (names removed to protect the guilty). Would be interested to see what other authors could make of it.

The Earl

 

[matriarch]

Groggily, sleepily, you wake to the sound of the alarm, surprising you because it is still dark. Its the middle of summer and its still dark. Your muddled brain tells you this isn't right.

You hear me moving from the bed, and turning your head, you see me slipping on panties and a t-shirt . Rude awakening turns to more surprise as I pull back the covers, and taking your hands, pull you to me out of the bed

Wrapping you in the large soft blanket I had left ready on the chair when we went to bed, I curved one arm around your back and the other behind your knees, sweeping you off your feet.

"What...???????????" you stammer, as I gather you up in my arms, and, smiling in delight at my ambush I carry you down the stairs, out into the street, to the car. Smiling again at your sounds of disbelief, I gently lower you to the pavement while I unlock the door.

"Kate? what are you doing? Its the middle of the night, woman, I was asleep!".

 

[ABSTRUSE]

Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark room and momentarily blinding her.

She sat there in the darkness, drinking alone. Laughing to herself she toasted the still air, "Cheers.". The electric was shut off for lack of payment, the phone was shut off for over a week now and the rest of the utilities would soon follow.
It was easier to sit and get drunk right now then to face the fact that her life was going to shit.

"Well at least the roof's not leaking." she thought.

A moment later the plop of the first drop of water landed beside her on the table.

"So much for that." she raised her glass again and drained it. The liquour no longer burned but slid down her throat sending the fire straight to her stomach and warming her all over.

The candles, which were the only light she had left, flickered and danced, mesmerizing her and bringing back memories she had long since buried.

"Funny, the poor can always afford booze." she thought. How many other artists or writers found their muse and courage in a bottle of fermened bliss.
She silently thank her higher powers that she was born in the days of indoor plumbing.

"I never would have made it as a pioneer. If I was in the Donner Party I would have been the first one eaten for the sake of the others sanity."

With that she stumbled to the bathroom and passed out.

 

[matriarch]

Re: Re: Story Starters

She sat there in the darkness, drinking alone. Laughing to herself she toasted the still air, "Cheers.". The electric was shut off for lack of payment, the phone was shut off for over a week now and the rest of the utilities would soon follow.
It was easier to sit and get drunk right now then to face the fact that her life was going to shit.

"Well at least the roof's not leaking." she thought.

A moment later the plop of the first drop of water landed beside her on the table.

"So much for that." she raised her glass again and drained it. The liquour no longer burned but slid down her throat sending the fire straight to her stomach and warming her all over.

The candles, which were the only light she had left, flickered and danced, mesmerizing her and bringing back memories she had long since buried.

"Funny, the poor can always afford booze." she thought. How many other artists or writers found their muse and courage in a bottle of fermened bliss.
She silently thank her higher powers that she was born in the days of indoor plumbing.

"I never would have made it as a pioneer. If I was in the Donner Party I would have been the first one eaten for the sake of the others sanity."

With that she stumbled to the bathroom and passed out.

Classic Abs.
Love it, love you.

 

[NoJo]

Who knows what it might inspire? Oral sex with a vicar is a hot topic. It's going into my novel.

I bet you have a pierced novel.

 

[inkstain]

This is actually the start of my latest story:


I AM Chilli-Fire. I will tell you my story.

My real name is Akiko.

I could have become a Samurai warrior, and died valiantly in the battle of Hara. But I was born the daughter of a merchant.

I could have become a kabuki dancer in the theatres of Edo, but my father was crude and disapproved of the arts, and so I had to abide with the cooks and the maidservants, and learn how to season broth and press the creases from silk robes.

I could have become a wandering ronin, and fixed fences and chopped trees for handfuls of rice.

But these stories are not mine, except in the tales I tell myself as I lie awake watching the moon through the shutters of my bedchamber.


i'm loving every minute of writing it...

 

[Quiet_Cool]

A trick I've heard of but haven't tried (mostly because I don't spend enough time writing) is to take an old story that you've already written, one that might have pulled you in different directions, and begin re-writing the beginning, word for word, until it draws you into something new. The act of writing itself, even if you're just copying, should inspire something. Theoretically, that is.

As for a story-starter:

She hadn't seen her ex-husband in ten years, not since he'd walked out the door, on his way to the store for a pack of cigarettes and somehow gotten lost out there, as though the journey to the corner market were a long and arduous one.
But he'd been here, she knew. In fact, she'd seen him, approaching the mailbox, opening it, and placing a letter inside before turning and walking away.
Part of her wanted to believe there was an apology in that envelope, maybe some money as well, but she wouldn't allow herself to dream as such. She'd made it this far on her own, mother of two kids with a father who'd run off, leaving them all behind. Pride wouldn't let her make herself a fool.
He'd gotten into a car, one she couldn't quite tell the make of, and driven off.

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

Picking up on Quiet Cool's idea, this may be the opening I'm proudest of. It's from one of my Lit Romance stories, "A Special Photo."

Sensual and seductive, she lay amid the rumpled sheets where we'd just made love—relaxed and at ease within the golden skin of her petite, perfect body. Not posing, not looking at the camera so much as through it, into the photographer, into me. Waiting with an expression of amused tolerance for me to finish and rejoin her. It was a special photo of a special lady.

Rumple Foreskin

 

[Weird Harold]

One of several ideas I've managed to do nothing with. If anyone can use it, feel free to use it.

"Pardon me sir, Your fly is open."

It was one of those voices that just reaches inside a man and twists the valve that redirects blood from the Big Head to the Little Head. I was almost afraid to turn and look at the speaker.

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

One of several ideas I've managed to do nothing with. If anyone can use it, feel free to use it.

"Pardon me sir, Your fly is open."

It was one of those voices that just reaches inside a man and twists the valve that redirects blood from the Big Head to the Little Head. I was almost afraid to turn and look at the speaker.

Very nice, Weird Harold.

Rumple Foreskin

 

[Weird Harold]

Very nice, Weird Harold.

Thanks.

Unfortunately, that particular opening just won't turn into a story for me. Maybe someone else can use it.

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

Thanks.

Unfortunately, that particular opening just won't turn into a story for me. Maybe someone else can use it.

Might make a good beginning for a fun, first-person private eye type spoof. Just a thought.

Rumple Foreskin

 

[BlackShanglan]

Wait ... I have this fabulous line. I just know that it will do well.

"It was the best of times; it was the worst of times ... "

What d'you think?

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

Beat ya. I posted this on side one. It garnered a favorable review from shereads. But I'll be glad to share the glory.

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

I'd nailed the girl of my dreams. She'd given me the clap.

Rumple Foreskin

 

[Weird Harold]

This image wouldn't let me sleep, and I figured giving it up for someone to use might purge it so I can doze off. It might lead to a Walter Mitty-esque fantasy, or it could lead to some Genie in a Bottle tale -- where would you take it?

He gazed at the bathroom mirror as he toweled his hair, absently considering the image before him.

Thick curly hair framed the face of a pagan god. Thick cords of muscle and tendon defined the neck and thumb thick veins fed the massive pectoral muscles of the chest and shoulders. Perfectly defined washboard abs and narrow hips led down to the heavy muscles of the thighs, which framed a package that would make Smarty Jones feel inadequate. It was the image of a man as perfect as nature and hours of exercise could create.

Willard donned his thick glasses and wiped the steam from the mirror to face reality. "Don't I just wish," he sighed.