It was a dark and stormy night, the sky was brooding moodily, and an infant moon was making little headway in breaking through the dense clouds. Every few seconds, a bright flash of lightning would illuminate the skies in the way that bright flashes of lightning are won’t to do. A balding, middle-aged man clutched his coat tight against him, and scrunched his body up, holding his hat down with all his strength of will as he bullied his way through the shrieking wind. He was dripping, freezing, and cold, so cold! But he gritted his teeth and continued on.
The streets of Magicality City were empty, everyone sane had managed to find shelter from the storm. And everyone was sane, except for dear Charles. He chuckled wryly to himself, not that he could hear it over the constant sound of the pounding rain, howling wind, and the regular percussive booming of the skies. Like that scene in Lord of the Rings, where the drums go “doom….doom….doom….”
He nodded sagely to himself, or would have, except that the force of the gusts kept him from having free reign of his head’s movements, and it was all he could do to keep it attached to his neck. Why the hell am I doing this? Not that he had amnesia, though, because that’s quite possibly the most clichéd plot device ever. He was simply asking himself a rhetorical question, he knew plenty well why he was doing this: The Sun said that all good broadsheets drip with sex, so he was on his way to make the Wire a good broadsheet.
Of course, we can’t get to that yet, because this wholesome family publication isn’t about to have smut in its pages. Much more sophisticated and respectable to simply lead the reader up to the door and let them fill the rest of the night in, you see, and we here at the Wire are very sophisticated.
In-between telling himself that this better be a very good smut scene (don’t tell Charles we aren’t getting that far in this story), and humming The Who songs, he marveled at how perfect Magicality City was. Well, except for the weather, of course, but it was damn near perfect in every other capacity. No homeless people to be left out in the cold, for example. Of course, under this façade lied a terror unspeakable.
So Charles finally made his way to the apartment of his secret love (not that either of them were married, because that wouldn’t fit in well with a wholesome publication, they just liked the excitement of having a clandestine relationship) and wondered why he hadn’t just drove himself. But such thoughts were immediately vanquished when he realized that all he had to do was take out the key she had given him and enter her apartment and he would have one of the best nights of his life waiting for him.
Giddy with excitement, he turned the lock, knob, and pushed the door open, already forgetting how cold and wet he was as his eyes fell upon the image of The Most Beautiful Woman Ever. So beautiful was she, that her parents had simply left her unnamed, deciding that a body like that was beyond description or label. Coincidentally, it also meant the author did not have to think up an actual name for her. Because we’re sophisticated, we end now with the two lovers rushing to the bedroom (or kitchen, or simply staying in the doorway, or, well, etc), and allow our readers to finish the story as they see fit.
The streets of Magicality City were empty, everyone sane had managed to find shelter from the storm. And everyone was sane, except for dear Charles. He chuckled wryly to himself, not that he could hear it over the constant sound of the pounding rain, howling wind, and the regular percussive booming of the skies. Like that scene in Lord of the Rings, where the drums go “doom….doom….doom….”
He nodded sagely to himself, or would have, except that the force of the gusts kept him from having free reign of his head’s movements, and it was all he could do to keep it attached to his neck. Why the hell am I doing this? Not that he had amnesia, though, because that’s quite possibly the most clichéd plot device ever. He was simply asking himself a rhetorical question, he knew plenty well why he was doing this: The Sun said that all good broadsheets drip with sex, so he was on his way to make the Wire a good broadsheet.
Of course, we can’t get to that yet, because this wholesome family publication isn’t about to have smut in its pages. Much more sophisticated and respectable to simply lead the reader up to the door and let them fill the rest of the night in, you see, and we here at the Wire are very sophisticated.
In-between telling himself that this better be a very good smut scene (don’t tell Charles we aren’t getting that far in this story), and humming The Who songs, he marveled at how perfect Magicality City was. Well, except for the weather, of course, but it was damn near perfect in every other capacity. No homeless people to be left out in the cold, for example. Of course, under this façade lied a terror unspeakable.
So Charles finally made his way to the apartment of his secret love (not that either of them were married, because that wouldn’t fit in well with a wholesome publication, they just liked the excitement of having a clandestine relationship) and wondered why he hadn’t just drove himself. But such thoughts were immediately vanquished when he realized that all he had to do was take out the key she had given him and enter her apartment and he would have one of the best nights of his life waiting for him.
Giddy with excitement, he turned the lock, knob, and pushed the door open, already forgetting how cold and wet he was as his eyes fell upon the image of The Most Beautiful Woman Ever. So beautiful was she, that her parents had simply left her unnamed, deciding that a body like that was beyond description or label. Coincidentally, it also meant the author did not have to think up an actual name for her. Because we’re sophisticated, we end now with the two lovers rushing to the bedroom (or kitchen, or simply staying in the doorway, or, well, etc), and allow our readers to finish the story as they see fit.
Only love
Can make it rain
Like the sweat of lovers
Laying in the fields.
Love, Reign o'er me
Love, Reign o'er me, rain on me
Can make it rain
Like the sweat of lovers
Laying in the fields.
Love, Reign o'er me
Love, Reign o'er me, rain on me
I love you.