Grillick wrote:Is Inspiration the last dasher who's playing? If so, can I dash once before the game is over? I have an awesome first line.
drachefly wrote:They set out much too late to find any, of course.
CCC wrote:It had been a chilly day, he recalled, in the depths of winter.
kitoba wrote:At the time he was little more than a boy, yet all the melancholy whores on their balcony turned their heads to watch, as his father hurried him past the brothel that was the last building on the road out of town.
Stan Cold wrote:That day was marked vividly in his mind, for it was not every day his father said, "Son, let us discover ice."
Solara Hanover wrote:It was a muggy, hot day; the sort where one wishes for the blissful release of a November rain to wash the sticky sweet perspiration from the brow.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez wrote:At that time Macondo was a village of twenty adobe houses, built on the bank of a river of clear water that ran along a bed of polished stones, which were white and enormous, like prehistoric eggs.
Jorodryn wrote:A simple question about the tops of the mountains began that journey, just as a simple question brought him here.
AlternateTorg wrote:Having lived all his life in poverty and the sweltering heat of Riohacha, Colombia, Aureliano had never seen an ice cube, much less anything like a glacier or even a frozen pond.
Night had come to the city of Skalandarharia, the sort of night with such a quality of black to it that it was as if black coal had been wrapped in blackest velvet, bathed in the purple-black ink of the demon squid Drindel and flung down a black well that descended toward the deepest, blackest crevasses of Drindelthengen, the netherworld ruled by Drindel, in which the sinful were punished, the black of which was so legendarily black that when the dreaded Drindelthengenflagen, the ravenous blind black badger trolls of Drindelthengen, would feast upon the uselessly dilated eyes of damned, the abandoned would cry out in joy as the Drindelthengenflagenmorden, the feared Black Spoons of the Drindelthengenflagen, pressed against their optic nerves, giving them one last sensation of light before the most absolute blackness fell upon them, made yet even blacker by the injury sustained from a falling lump of ink-bathed, velvet-wrapped coal.
inspiration wrote:CONGRATS KITOBA!
In Cat's Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut wrote:Call me Jonah.
drachefly wrote:Because it's not really a round, right?
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