I'll start, and then I really have to go, as I am late for work:

"It was a dark and stormy night, a meteorological event I barely observed, as the weather outside seemed merely a summer shower, a faint echo of the internal storm of emotion that nearly wrought me asunder -- each new onslaught of remembrance experienced as gale force, buffeting winds that drove surging waves of agony within my heart and soul; unnoticed, torrents of tears washed down my face to splash and ultimately render useless, the computer keyboard before me. "

Hah! Beat that for extravagant "florida"!

Good try , Dick, but bzzzt -- it has to be one sentence to qualify. Semi-colons, dashes, parentheses are all acceptable, but no periods allowed.
Try again, please? Personally, in addition to an entry from you personally, I'd like to see one from Senor Eduardo.

It was a dark and stormy night and it being that way rendered me quite unable to see were it not for the intermittent flashes of lightning lighting up the dark corners of the electricity-less house I was forced to share due to reduced circumstances with a total stranger who now seemed quite dead if the body slumped in the plaid upholstered wing-chair by the brick and fire-less fireplace was indeed the rent sharing stranger of whom I knew nothing, really, except that he quite often smelled of vinegar and toothpaste and was prone to talk relentlessly about paranormal phenomena while sipping raspberry cordial from a small crystal stem glass with a gold-leafed fluer-de-lis relief on the stem foot which bespoke of his aristocratic upbringing but said nothing of his current reduced circumstances forcing him to share living quarters with me, a total stranger, and also, too, because he might possibly be quite dead.

It was a dark and stormy night: the chickens murmured restlessly on their perches, (as the coop was open to the ravages of nature), their beady eyes darting here and there, glittering in the occasional flashes of lightning--which looked like delicate webs of violet to their ultraviolet sphere of vision, causing some to wonder aloud if a giant spider of epic proportions might even now be picking it's way through the atmosphere to their humble abode; as their lord and master the rooster, snoring loudly, slept on oblivious to the unease and worried cluckings of his charges.

It was a dark and stormy night at the Men’s Club in Tuscaloosa; so much had transpired in the gloomy November atmosphere whilst twelve flat screens had relayed the news signaling the end to civilization as the members had known it; the end of a two hundred year old dream of a master race headed by white males constantly served by handmaidens and minority servants all dressed in the finest of cottons; the end of an entirely new oligarchy holding all avenues of power; a new aristocracy created in the image of the English Aristocracy that had created a new monied mercantile class where money dictated all rules and regulations; the end of opportunities sequestered by trusts and estates once guaranteeing that generation after generation of white men would continue in the best of Western European traditions; the end also of a propaganda system that brought models of minority subjugation like Amos & Andy and other black faced satires; the end of women presented only as Lucys and Ethels forced to use device and subterfuge to get their way, the end of Southern Civility and Hospitality that was only really extended to a select few born on the proper side of town; the end of the proper propagation of feigned Christian Values that would ensure the safety of the ruling class and keep the less fortunate in their proper place as less fortunate all the while labeling any descent from the masses to the grand paradigm as treasonist and emanating from communists; and, finally, the end of welfare for the rich and free enterprise for the other 95%.

It was a dark and stormy night -- the wind howling through tree branches that protested such relentless pressure, first, by flaying the exterior walls of the house, and then, frustrated by their stolid imperturbability, venting (no pun intended) their abuse on the more vulnerable windows, which variously moaned like drama queens, or whistled as if unconcerned, or screeched hysterically, all of which responses were gratifying to the trees, but made me nearly crazed, setting my already jangled nerves on edge as if they were being treated to the torture of relentless squeaky scratches across a blackboard.... which teeth-gritting condition I suddenly ceased to notice when the door blew open and there, apparently lit from within as well as from the background lightning flashes without, stood a formidable creature with tubes that were curiously askew and glowing the dark emanating from its head that were an extravagant, attention-getting display that distracted one's focus away from the more sinister, clicking shuttered lenses that seemed to comprise its eyes; yet, for all its apparent horror, the neon creature radiated a sense of vulnerability (perhaps suggested by its rain-soaked, mud-spattered clothing) as it staggered into the room and, with a courteous nod, introduced itself quite politely by saying: "I am Quinn, struck by ideas 24/7, struck by lightning this night, struck by the notion that I could really use a sandwich --ham and swiss, if I may -- and literally dumbstruck by the idea of this idiotic contest because"....and, at this point the creature lowered its head modestly before asserting, apologetically...."because this exercise is a no-brainer for me."

Oh, this is so much fun....so diverse, from chicken eyeballs to chihuahua's to the arctic circle. More, please!

It was a dark and stormy night, the kind Reginald the one-legged horse appreciated more than... Ok. Do over! No one believes in one-legged horses, for starters, so I just gotta say - they exist, they're fine animals, and Reginald is actually a prince in disguise. Got it? Right.

It was a dark and stormy night, the kind Reginald the one-legged horse appreciated more than anything, more even his cart, made by those most trustworthy friends - the beavers - trusted not only for their uni-toothal dental bits, but their origins in the Great White North, a land of which Reginald had often dreamt of, a land where the long-limbed were disadvantaged by nature, a land where sliding on one's belly was a sign of superiority, a land where "4-legs bad, pogo not so much" was carved upon the door of every home (albeit only about 2 feet from the ground, because difficult to reach and all), and also, trucknutz, said often, warding-word of the
Wonkette, trucknutz and good-breeding going hand in hand, though best not to be caught at it, and breeding a difficult process for Reginald, unless one included those unpleasant episodes at boarding school, what with the wart hogs and that bit best not remembered, though the salve... ahhhh, the salve... administered by the school nurse, oh she of gentle countenance and well-clipped nails, ahhhh Gentle Mary, seamstress for the band, anal salvist of his dreams, dreams of a land where the long-limbed were disadvantaged by nature, a land where sliding on one's belly were disadvantaged by... wait a minute...

Damn.

They sat arms akimbo and cross-legged around the blazing, wind-whipped campfire, a grey, mist-like rain cleansing their souls and blood-stained hands, feeling without any trace of remorse, the full and inexorable weight of earthly destiny settle upon their utterly and supremely distended abdomens, having just gorged on the neighboring Papua New Guinea village's, (the one over the jagged, near impossible pass, to the superstition-laden south of their own bucolic home), fearsome, nay, rapacious, witch doctor, (a Bachelor and the Bobby Soxer kinda 'man with the power'),a powerful brujo to be reckoned with, (one could say 'dead-reckoned with, heh, heh...), whose formidable spirit now dwelt inside their roiling, but sated bowels.

With apologies offered beforehand, I will say that you can blame Quinn for being the genesis of this second submission:

It was a dark and stormy night that enveloped the city, but not nearly as repressively as the thoughts that overtook Ignatius as he lay in his bed, the victim of adolescent insecurities that ran the gamut from concerns about the acne blemishes that would not go away to worries about ill-gotten warts to the sinking feeling that he would not ever get laid in this lifetime, yet his deepest concern - that of the fact that he was in fact a bisexual - had been recently lifted from his darkened heart with the newly acquired knowledge that "bisexual" was not merely another word for "ambidextrous" and, in a respite from all the other worries torturing his adolescent soul, Ignatius found relief in finishing his day in performance of the one sure means by which he ever got a grip on himself.

You can perhaps consider this my homage to John Kennedy Toole and his Confederacy of Dunces.

Next?

It was a dark and stormy night as I sat in the dark corner on a dark covered hassock, turned inward, wondering wistfully, yea broodfully wondering when he would return to release me from my shackles that I might saunter forth again to wistfully lay across his big brass bed, you know, lay lady lay, lay across my big brass bed, but I was becoming chafed from the shackles and mostly from the duct tape that taped me to the stupid bed; I was bored with this stupid game and was growing more wistful by the minute, so wistful that I leaned hard into the corner hutch, back and forth, forth and back until I jammed my duct taped shoulder under the lips of the hutch, dislodging the very key with which he taunted me with day by day, day by day, oh dear I leaned to retrieve the key, I was getting the key, when wistfully, the door opened...

I'm new round these parts.

And now, a sad one:

It was a dark and stormy night, and Torn Thomas -- so called due to the tear in his old wool coat which he wore not only on nights (and days, for that matter) such as this one but also on the sunniest and warmest and most humid of days (and yes, nights), simply because it was one of three things he owned, his shirt and pants being his only other possessions -- huddled gracefully and gratefully in his temporary home comprised of a large cardboard box and an overturned barrel, the barrel being very handy due to the fact that Thomas had extremely long legs and he was accustomed to having to bend them into improbable and uncomfortable positions most nights, causing him to limp slowly most mornings as the cramps and soreness eventually disappeared during his daily meanderings from garbage dumpster to garbage dumpster in search of edible food.

wwstaebler, totally fab competition. Like, really.

A friend of mine, recently, introduced this game at her party and we have been playing it on email ever since. I've come to associate this game with her and it's a fun game. She introduced me to this singer as well, a year ago. For your listening pleasure, wwstaebler. ;)

It was a a dark and stormy night and in between strikes of lightning, I feverishly wait at my mullioned window of my attic room for a glimpse of my love, the highwayman, my dark and stormy knight, to appear riding up the gravel path and soon I will hear him clip-clopping in on his Star, his face wrapped in his mask, his cape billowing in the wind and he will fling his song at me over the screeching wind calling me by my secret name and I will feel his heat crawling up my leg in his demand that I give myself to him without much ado, which I have every intention of doing as beknownstedly obvious by my packed valise and my note to my Fa on the mantle above the fireplace, awaiting him and my brothers to find in the morning, which then will undoubtedly set them after, riding ventre a terre to preserve my honor but in vain, for I will have given it away freely before they arrive hence confounding them into keening on the moors, rending their clothes as they fall on their knees mourning me as one lost off the Aillte an Mhothair, just because I went so far as to ride-hell-for-leather up to Gretna in the impassioned arms of my Highwayman whom they deemed a neer-do-well, nevertheless, who will keep me in comfort by preying upon the rich and endowed.

LOL. ;)

It was a dark and stormy night, but then they were all dark and stormy nights these days, Global Warming having turned out to mean incessant global storming, and fitful sleep for believers and deniers alike, exhausted as they were from the labors of a thousand small chores that now were done by strength of hand, sweat of brow, or back-breaking work instead of by the now rusting remnants of the fossil-fueled machine age. Only Thundarr slept soundly, as barbarians were wont to do.

I'm happy to be here. Thanks for the welcome and the chance to let you know of my predicament; I'm typing one handed wistfully.

LisB, you lose. Too good.

The rest of you: Let the games continue!

It was a dark and stormy night, and Willie shuddered as yet another loud crack of thunder pierced the night with a heavy boom and a following flash of lightning strong enough to fell Quinn whilst he was standing out in the storm eating a ham sandwich, said thunder peal causing Willie’s brother Wallace to jump up on the bed next to Willie and curl up in a tiny white and brown and black ball, prompting LisB to get in the bed with them and curl up in a big white ball, dreaming of a highwaymen, yes, yet another bad boy, adding to her list of bad boys she’d already been through and seen there and done that with, and wouldn’t you know it but she just had to get up again and race back to the computer to see how her friend Bwak was faring in the storm, and happily Bwak was faring just peachily, thank you verah much, because she had the other Lis, LisD with her and she and LisD and their five cats and one hyperactive dog were all perched together on their perch, cozy and warm and content in the storm of storms, this storm of the century, er, rather, the century so far, seeing as how it’s still rather young and fresh and brand spanking new and who knows what’s in store in our future, as per Donal and his warnings of warming.

It was a dark and stormy night and goddamn it she's gettin loose again and I taped her shut to the bed AND I let her sit down this time, so I'm getting very sick and tired of her games; she's my cousin so it's not so bad if she gets the marks on her skin, she has certainly bitten me many times and I use the peroxide for the bloody ones so don't tell me I put too much tape on her over the shackles, geez, you'd think they'd be enough, but NO, she said to make it hard to get away so I used my mother's tape, the rest of the roll, the hole role almost, and look at her, she's
she's coming at me...
she's singing some song, day by day, jesus, what the hell...