A Story told one sentence at a time

(How sweet it is! Welcome mchol and BeaWare to A2K and to this particular amusement. If yall read back a bit you will note that we're not real big on logic; just a page or two ago we were in a bus in a ditch or was it a gas station in the desert. When you weary of a story-line and sense that others are also, please feel free to take us on another path.
Again, welcome). - realjohnboy

All this talk of sunrises and sunsets somehow reminded Dylan Thomas of "Fiddler on the Roof," whereupon he suddenly broke into song -- "If I Were A Rich Man" -- Tevye-style, shaking his belly a la Zero Mostel down the stone-cobbled streets of Pamplona.

Dylan, who famously had once forgotten his children on a railway station in Devon, was not at all forgetful when it came to words, and his rendition, in a cross between a rich winy tenor and a cracked falsetto, caught the attention of many a student of the English tongue, as well as that of a particularly bilious bull.

Hemingway used the commotion to make his great escape by hailing a donkey, and riding off into the sunset!

Thanks for the welcome, realjohnboy!

Dylan and Dylan eyed each other across the table, both quite drunk of course and stuck with EH's large bar bill, and each got off the best line he could...

(Ooh, that is such a great open-ended sentence, and I'd love to finish that thought, but I think it should be finished with something brilliant, and I can't come up with anything at the moment. Dammit!)

<me either>

(I'm stumped at the moment too. RJB, maybe you should finish it?)

"Barkeep, can I have another?" they said in unison.

Good enough, BeaWare, to mercifully end that story. Any ideas for a new one, Bea? New characters, new place, new plot. Yippee, let's go.
(if yall don't, I'll do my old redneck characters yet again-because I'm an old redneck, but I hope we can go elsewhere).
How about you, mchol? -rjb-

waiting...anxious to jump in...

I think we need to keep that space blank to come back to, it was a good riff, and there could be good ripostes. (was that post 853530?)

I was going to try to substitute ripostes from other poetic folk in their places, but I ain't smart enough.

Yes, let's have bea or mchol go for it (by the way, it doesn't matter what you say, the story has its own life...)

I agree. I would be interested to see what you think up .

I sent a pm to mchol and got one back, claiming that he wasn't good at writing. I'm reminded of when realjohnboy was young and on the road, thumbing, and would end up at truck stops late at night. With the long-haul truckers, the waitresses and the prostitutes.
"Golly gee," rjb I mean the naif would exclaim, "I've never played poker (or shot pool) before and we're playing for money? I've only got $100."
It was important to know where all of the exits were so that when the other people finally realized that you were totally sober and they were drunk and you had won their money, you could get out alive and run like hell.
Come on, mchol. We just need one line. Something you experienced or saw today in the city. Thanks. -rjb

Wonderful story, RJB. Would you thumb lifts to-day, if you had the chance, or have things changed too much?

Go on, Mchol. You can write a line for us. You can do much more.

I noticed mchol long before this. You have nothing to lose, mch, just say what e'er you feel like.

The evening air was crisp, but not crispier than the hundered dollar bills neatly tucked inside her satin Prada clutch.

She walked at a brisk pace, anxious to get to the lushly furnished apartment on the upper east side, where she would soon be in the arms of her gigolo lover, Rocco.

But as she approached his block on Lavender Blvd., she noticed a swarm of law enforcement. Police cars, paramedics, and 2 bright red firetrucks blocked the entrance to the apartment building.

(ha, I think we snared mchol! Warning: this could be addictive. Thanks, mchol, for joining)

She, reluctant to even have a name at this point, watched from the entrance to another apartment building, across the street and perhaps 150 feet away, smoking a cigarette: Loral.