First Lines

I think it might be the entire story, really. Conflict, resolution. The end.

In fact, "The End." could be the title!
Or "The Pointy End!"
Or "Bob Gets the Point!"
Or "The OTHER Deep Throat"
Or "The Grave Gravitas of Gargling a Gladius!"
Or-
-(THWACK as Coolhand is belted around the back of the head by irritated members of the Chron)
OUCH!!! Okay, okay, I'll stop.
 
ooh,love this one,brain working overtime already:

howzabout:

He looked perplexed at the formula in front of him, his life's work:it was pretty watertight proof that time travel was impossible,and here was this girl suddenly appearing in his living room,holding a copy of something called "the Journal of Spatiotemporal Engineering."
or less,seriously:
There was silence in the Council Room,as G'lotq slowly unfolded his daring plan to visit the third planet of this G3 sun,and abduct the being its inhabitants called "Elvis".
Or on a darker note:
A little while ago a good friend of mine told me it was safe again to visit Paris without a radation counter.
 
The warships advanced into hostile space,decorated by hundreds of railguns and plasma canons; like a spearhead they drove themselves through the chest of the Kalimiriam Army.
 
Brent stood in the open doorway of the small apartment, flies buzzing around his head. To the left a window with yellow plastic curtains lit a squalid kitchen area littered with unwashed dishes and the occasional rat dropping. Immediately in front of him lay a small table with a half finished meal, a overflowing ashtray and a three month old Racing Gazette. To the right a corpse, its throat cut from ear to ear, sat upright in an armchair watching the TV midday news.
 
1: Three women sat at the kitchen table, an old and tired thing full of splinters that were not covered by the aged-yellow lace cloth. Thier hands were cold, for the coals had gone to ash hours ago. One wrapped a pale hand around her throat, clutching the pearls that still hung around her neck, a habit she was prone to when lost in thought. The other tapped her bare feet impatiently against the table leg. The last woman ruffled the ends of her frayed dress, a forced smile causing her face to turn in such a manner that her wrinkles increased tenfold.
 
Fire would not burn that night. Prayer would not ignite the flames and the darkness claimed many.
 
It was one of the most difficult things in the world to do - trying to keep your thoughts neutral when the Thought Police came to the door.
 
There she was, the ancient crone of Aderly Lane, her skeletal fingers dipped into a porcelain cup, frescoed ginger kittens dancing around its brim in morbid contradiction. The air was heavy with the scent of chamomile and mint - the acrid stench of age, souring it all. Slowly, she pulled her hand away and licked the thick brown liquid from her lithe fingers, one by one, all the while staring at him with her glass eye. Appraising him with the other. She sank further into the decrepit Victorian throne she rarely abandoned. The old wood creaked, and so did her bones. When she spoke, the hairs on the back of the Devil's neck would have stirred. But even the Devil himself steered clear of the Witches' Warder.

"Welcome, my little guest. I am Agnes. And you, you have come for my book. Oh, don't be afraid, I know many things, my dear. You want the Goblin's Grimmoire to save your sister from the clutches of the Banshee's kiss. And perhaps, to learn a few tricks, in the meantime. I know about your mother too, a gifted Lightbringer in her youth; the death of many from the World Below. And your father, the Wheelwielder, bane of Gemlin the Haunter. I know how they died, little one. Oh yes. I even know... about the diamond tipped stiletto you're hiding inside your sleeve."

Agnes issued a maniacal cackle. Diamonds were a witch's worst friend.
 
As I've already disclosed on this Forum,I posess a pet baboon who looks like George Bush(ask Pyan).I've been trying to teach him some English(they are capable of that,I thought),which seemed harmless enough.Last night I had trouble getting to sleep,so I thought I might just as well take a peek at the Chronicles. When I tiptoed downstairs, the familiar blue glow in my computer room told me someone was already in there,which was pretty scary.Little did I know,when I opened the door....
 
There she was, the ancient crone of Aderly Lane, her skeletal fingers dipped into a porcelain cup, frescoed ginger kittens dancing around its brim in morbid contradiction. The air was heavy with the scent of chamomile and mint - the acrid stench of age, souring it all. Slowly, she pulled her hand away and licked the thick brown liquid from her lithe fingers, one by one, all the while staring at him with her glass eye. Appraising him with the other. She sank further into the decrepit Victorian throne she rarely abandoned. The old wood creaked, and so did her bones. When she spoke, the hairs on the back of the Devil's neck would have stirred. But even the Devil himself steered clear of the Witches' Warder.

"Welcome, my little guest. I am Agnes. And you, you have come for my book. Oh, don't be afraid, I know many things, my dear. You want the Goblin's Grimmoire to save your sister from the clutches of the Banshee's kiss. And perhaps, to learn a few tricks, in the meantime. I know about your mother too, a gifted Lightbringer in her youth; the death of many from the World Below. And your father, the Wheelwielder, bane of Gemlin the Haunter. I know how they died, little one. Oh yes. I even know... about the diamond tipped stiletto you're hiding inside your sleeve."

Agnes issued a maniacal cackle. Diamonds were a witch's worst friend.

I think that passed 'first line' a ways back and became a hook, CM...
 
Errr... not quite. It's from a little story I started many years ago... and do you really want to hear about a fellow who ends up with a bunch of stogie-chomping penguins as roomies....?:rolleyes:

On the other hand:

As she ran her fingers across the near-invisibly fine tines of the comb, she heard the faintest whisper of a song; a melody reaching into a forgotten past, stirring amongst the dusty echoes of dead days a heart that had never forgotten to hope.
 

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