(no subject)

Sep 13, 2003 11:19

"It was a dark and stormy night. Suddenly, a shot rang out . . ."

The thought is always interrupted. Always. It's an absolutely brilliant beginning, ripe in its potential yet poetic in its simplicity. Over the ensuing pages, details will surely be revealed, the audience clinging to the edges of their metaphorical seats as the story captivates their entirety. Anticipation is wonderful, splendid, and, at the same time, oh-so-painful. The second sentence drifts into near obscurity, and a silence dangles dramatically over the room as a third forms on his fingertips. And yet, nothing emerges. Nothing moves . . . silence and emptiness, the scene somehow hollow. The typewriter pauses momentarily, the last remnants of its clitter-clatter echoing in the open air, and it is suddenly rendered useless. A typewriter without a typist, and a typist without a goal.

Promise. Unfulfilled potential.

"It was a dark and stormy night. Suddenly, a shot rang out . . ."

What I wouldn't give to know the rest of the scene that existed solely in that little dog's mind.
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