The Exceptionally Long Dark and Stormy Night

It was a dark and stormy night, raining cats, dogs, and pitchforks. Not a creature was stirring, not even a man or a mouse. The trees, however, were ripping themselves to shreds. Because when it rains it pours, everything in sight was wet: the blankets, the ears, the whistles, everything. Nearly the whole village had evacuated at the news of the coming storm, though there was some turmoil over the matter: To flee or not the flee? That was the question. In the end, only one inhabitant chose to go it alone in the storm.

Inside the house it was not dark and stormy but it was still night. It was midnight in fact. The clock struck twelve. Despite the fact that there were no creatures stirring, there were still many things going bump in this night of all nights. Amidst the emptiness, a single candle burned the midnight oil, at both ends no less, acting as a guiding light to those drawn by the powers of darkness. The candle flicked and sputtered eerily, eluminating the red writing on the wall, as if the writing itself was on fire. Unfortunately, as this was the worst of times, not the best of times, the red-letters were not worth the wallpaper they were written on.

The writer had hoped that people would come from far and wide to see his work of art and cry him a river. After all, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and he would soon be conspicuous by his absence; therefore, the world should be quite fond of him soon. They'd be sorry.

They were always telling him that he was barking up the wrong tree falling head over heels for that girl. They said he was wrong to wear his heart on his sleeve. They said he should not be so obsessed with finding greener grasses and that he'd be better off on his side of the fence.

He did not take to this train of thought. When he saw her, he felt he was opened up to a whole new world, that he had flown over the rainbow and that they were destined to live happily ever after. However, it was not to be. The cold hearted woman took his heart of gold and broke it into a thousand pieces. But his body remained whole.

It was upon this observation that he decided his body should join his heart, to keep body and soul together as it were. And so it was that he took a knife as sharp as a tack and used his own blood to write the suicide note on the wall.

But no one ever saw the note. The villagers never returned to their village. The house remained empty and dark, the candle remained lit, no creature ever stirred, and it was always a dark and stormy night. Because suddenly, out of the blue, quick as a flash, quick as lightning, the author ran out of clichés.

The End