Oh, what a night

(See this post for what’s up.)

Though not meaning to, Sally created havoc when she lifted her skirt in anticipation of getting off the escalator. Petticoats, bloomers, and an unmoored bustle billowed in an unseasonal snowstorm of lace and white cotton as the edges caught between the moving handrail and metal safety guard; emergency lights flashed, and the machinery ground like a Datsun's transmission as it slowed and stopped. Had it been a simple cotton number, it is likely that no one present would have remembered Sally's name or, indeed, her existence.

Aghast, Mrs. Smythe-Johns from Ladies Undergarments and Fine Lingerie came dashing over and said, "Has Zell Miller gone completely insane?"

Sally, strapped to the handrail of the escalator by her bustle strings and noticing the ominous silence in the store looked at Mrs. Smythe-Johns and said, "Listen toots, who the hell is Zell Miller and why are you just standing there gawking." And with that she gave her skirt a spirited yank, ripping a hole in the lace and cotton that revealed a Superbowl XXXVIII Souvenir rip-away thong. A young man passing by, distracted by the sight, slipped on the yards of material strewn about. To break his fall, he instinctively reached out and grasped the table holding the prominently displayed volumes of the Unabridged Oxford English Dictionary on sale as Valentine's promotion to "The Man looking for Just The Right Words". As books and table went careening across the highly polished floor of the Ladies Undergarments and Fine Lingerie Department, he landed at the base of the escalator, stunned and said,

…dark…
…even stormy

(See this post for what’s up.)

Though not meaning to, Sally created havoc when she lifted her skirt in anticipation of getting off the escalator. Petticoats, bloomers, and an unmoored bustle billowed in an unseasonal snowstorm of lace and white cotton as the edges caught between the moving handrail and metal safety guard; emergency lights flashed, and the machinery ground like a Datsun's transmission as it slowed and stopped. Had it been a simple cotton number, it is likely that no one present would have remembered Sally's name or, indeed, her existence.

Aghast, Mrs. Smythe-Johns from Ladies Undergarments and Fine Lingerie came dashing over and said, "Has Zell Miller gone completely insane?"

Sally, strapped to the handrail of the escalator by her bustle strings and noticing the ominous silence in the store looked at Mrs. Smythe-Johns and said, "Listen toots, who the hell is Zell Miller and why are you just standing there gawking." And with that she gave her skirt a spirited yank, ripping a hole in the lace and cotton that revealed a Superbowl XXXVIII Souvenir rip-away thong. A young man passing by, distracted by the sight, slipped on the yards of material strewn about. To break his fall, he instinctively reached out and…

It was a dark and stormy night...

In a naked attempt to keep interesting content here whilst I ramp up at my new job - which is flexing my brain to the extent that new entries just aren't finding time to relax on the couches of my mind and express themselves, instead finding practical work-related thoughts taking up all the room - I am starting an exercise in public writing that has an official name that I can't recall right now, nor do I care to look it up, so there. (And if that last sentence only had a footnote reference on it, I could claim to have David Foster Wallaced it, alas.)

Anyway, here's the deal. We are going to write a short short story. I am going to write the first sentence, and you, my friends and loved ones, are going to write the next one or so in the comments, from which I will choose the best (as determined solely by me) and add it to the existing text in new blog post. We will keep adding from the comments to each post of aggregated story until we have ourselves a short story. I intend to update it daily, and will unless there are circumstances beyond my control.

The only rules are thus:
- No racism. And merely mentioning race or nationality doesn't count as racist, btw.
- Not too blue. We are not writing a Penthouse letter here. Raunchy is just fine.
- You can offer up to two sentences per post in the comments. I will also post my entries in the comments, and then choose from what I think is the best.
- Any other thing I decide is a rule as we go along, but I'm not anticipating any at the moment.

We are not trying to outdo the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, but if we do, that's cool. Here goes:

---

"
Though not meaning to, Sally created havoc when she lifted her skirt in anticipation of getting off the escalator.
"

And so there I was...

In the middle of days and days with nothing useful or fun to say. Not that I'm not having fun...

But I guess it just ain't hitting the page yet.

It will, tho...

Come back sometime soon, please. I'll have SOMETHING for you. I promise.

(Does it mean something that Moby is the most reliable blogger on my "must read" list these days?)