By Patrick F. Cannon

I was amazed by the reception my recent effort to provide budding authors with the openings of possible stories received. To help even more struggling scribes, and as a service to the world of letters, I am providing a few more for consideration. I only ask some small measure of appreciation (a share of royalites would be nice).

• It was a dark and stormy night. Once again, Smithers had forgotten his umbrella. He considered: “What shall I do? What can I do?”
• The bear was somewhere in those woods; the dark and menacing woods; trunks looming and barring his way, as they had for generations of the Yokums; his people, indefatigable seekers, always hunting the bear; but for all those generations past, was the bear hunting them?; or was it even a bear (genus Ursus, family Ursidae), or some primordial hairy man; or indeed a female, or both; or the dreaded Sasquatch?
• It was winter, and that was the year the snow came rolling down the mountain. The air was crisp and cold, and the snow was always there. And the tenente had lost his gloves.
• He knew his age was held against him in certain quarters at the C.I.A. At 14, he was by far the youngest analyst. But there was no doubt about his doctorate from MIT. How could he prove to these older higher ups that the threat was real; that tiny Andorra was indeed trying to smuggle a nuclear device into the US in a tin of sardines.
• I often stood at the shore, looking through the morning mist at the flashing light across the rushing river and in the trees. What did those trees hide? Why was the light flashing? Would my modest dingy make it across or would I be swept out to the endless sea?
• Sir Dreadful had journeyed long. From Jerusalem he had ridden to Acra, then taken ship across the stormy Mediterranean to France. He and his faithful charger Argent then rode north, enjoying the hospitality of noble friends, until arriving in Calais. A short voyage in fine weather took them to England and home. As he approached his ancestral castle, he spied his faithful servant, William. Instead of rushing to meet his master, gone these two long years on the crusade, he ran back across the drawbridge, which was immediately raised. What can this mean, thought the puzzled knight.
• Flossie was taking the day off, so I was alone in my office. Business was slow, due to a declining divorce rate. As a private eye, I was used to these ups and downs. I knew my trusty key-hole camera would soon be needed again, but just now I was reduced to playing solitaire. Then, I heard to outer door open, and a silky voice say “hello, anyone here?” I opened my office door and there she was – long blonde hair, ruby red lips, and a royal blue silk dress that seemed to be all that was between me and curves that would put Mulholland Drive to shame. That’s how it all began.
• I had come to the remote kingdom of Diphtheria to walk among and enjoy the majestic forests and towering mountains for which it was so justly famous. After a particularly grueling trek, I was relaxing in my hotel room with a glass of warming local schnapps when there was a knock on my door. Opening it I was faced with a military officer dressed in the uniform of a hussar. Behind him were two common soldiers. “Mr. Smithers?” he inquired. I assented. “I must ask you to come with me. You have nothing to fear, but the matter is urgent.” With that, he escorted me to a waiting carriage, which sped us to the royal palace. I was brought to a splendid room and left alone. Then a door opened, and a dignified old gentleman came in. “I am the Grand Duke Dmitri, and I have a request to make.” Just then I noticed the large portrait on the wall of a man dressed in royal robes and wearing a crown. The face that stared back at me from the canvas was my own!  

Well, that’s enough for now. I can hardly wait to see how those stories end!

Copyright 2025, Patrick F. Cannon