Hooks; let's write 'em.

4:22 AM, February 3, 1974
Through a mist of nausea, Avy felt the bed roiling under her. Loud, harsh voices crashed in her mind, screaming out warnings and unholy declarations. An earthquake had taken hold of her world and shaken it mightily. She tried to push up from the bed but her arms did not obey. Her legs were lead, and when she tried to open her eyes for a moment, she could only see white beams flitting about. She heard a voice: “Secure the scene.” She thought this a very odd thing to say.
“That’s her all right,” said a voice.
“Avalon Labrador!” boomed another husky voice. “Are you Avalon Labrador?”
She looked to the side of the bed, commanding her eyes into focus. A large shadow loomed arrogant, a man of questionable intentions and massive girth.
“I…I’m Avy,” she said, not too sure herself. Her head ached with a pounding thrombosis. More words:
“Don’t touch the knife -- kick it off the bed with the gun butt. Will somebody find the goddamn light switch in here? Clear a path for the crime scene investigator. You there. Get that laser sight off me!"
The bedroom light flicked on and it was like a welder’s torch going off in her face. Momentarily blinded, Avy reached out with a hand and groped. Someone grabbed her by the wrist and wrestled her off the bed and onto the floor. A heavy knee came down on her back depressing her lungs. She felt her hands snapped together behind her back with something metallic and cold. “Wha….” She tried to enunciate but the wind was lost from her chest.
“You have the right to remain silent,” someone droned, “anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. If you decide that…”

(This is actually a paranormal thriller, but it opens like a detective/mystery story)

Tri
 
OK what the heck, I'll give it a shot.

The water beneath the ice moved ever so slowly as if it too were dying. The sun had long since settled beneath gliding spires of ice. The ice bridges reflected the mourning pallor of the moon, twinkling down upon the weary travelers. It was an awesome sight, but one that in its awe reminded even the most light-hearted of the group that death hid in the ice. Sometimes, death was the ice.


“”Er you been boy?” Ducky said, his accent improving to where ‘been’ sounded less like ‘bin.’


The boy took a moment’s breath. He had been nowhere, and everywhere. That was his blessing, and his curse. “Up there sir. That far most spire. It’s the last one we’ll cross, for sure.” Because the boy never stated the obvious unless there was a reason, everything the boy said was, in itself, a reason.


“What did you see boy?” The Elder asked. “Get on with it, Gypsy.” He then showed his irritation by waving the cherry pipe about. “Eh, we’ve no time for this, boy.”


The boy, who still had years to earn his name---if he could, being imprisoned like this---and had yet to memorize the stars, had fewer words than he had already given. “It’s the last spire we will cross, Elder.”


Years of dealing with Gypsy slaves, who could not lie but would never admit more than they wanted too, the Elder suppressed his urge to have the boy whipped. It would not matter, the boy would say no more on the matter. The Elder knew this because a decade of testing Gypsy torture devices had yielded no more knowledge than the Gypsy wanted to give. A beaten nation? Bah, the Elder thought as he into those odd dark eyes of the boy. More like a people in waiting.
 
The moist coolness of Geldrik's tongue cleansed first one eye, then the other, then the other. It returned to his lips dry and tasting strongly of the bitter dust that was carried on the wind. Rubbing the tip firmly across the secretory glands of his cheek pouches, he prepared for another round of grooming.

Before tasting the air again, however, Geldrik was stopped by a peculiar vibration running through his barbels. Shutting his jaw with a firm click he turned into the wind, the fine, fleshy whiskers around his head splayed in obvious curiousity. His small black eyes squinted into the haze.

Gripping the heavy whydsaw in his fist, Geldrik stropped the blade against the ground in a deliberate rhythm. After a moment of tension, he felt the familiar reply. Drawing the weapon to his breast, he resumed his ablutions and waited for Bense to reach him.
 
Shivers wracked my entire body, and I fell to my knees as icy fingers grasped my upper arm. He had come from nowhere, and he didn't even say anything as he continued to grip my arm tightly, his long black jacket (if that's what it was) billowing out around him. I wanted to ask him why he was here and what he wanted, but the words froze in my throat.

My skin broke out in goosepimples as those icicle-like fingers held me. Scared now, I reached out my own hand to him - a pathetically trembling hand that was white with fear - hoping that the expression on my face would convey the words my voice was unable to speak, and I looked up at his face.
 
"Geterr off me!" yelled Rhagudan. He threw his arms up, trying the fling the black labrador away, but no matter how much he tried to shoo it, it kept slobbering his face with its cold, wet tongue.

Johanna laughed. "Down boy," she said. She whistled. The dog stopped and ran back inside the fence to her, sitting at her feet, its tail wagging back and forth. She crouched and scratched its ears. It lied down on the side of its belly and squirmed happily.

"Seems to like you, this one," she said after a while, looking up. "Yes sir. Wanna give it a good home?" she asked, much to Rhagudan's ire.

He stared at the supid beast, reaching out for a napkin inside his shirt pocket. "Don't have much of a choice, do I?" he grunted, wiping his face. The dog was now staring at him with an innocent grin on its face as it sat at its owner's feert. Give me a chance, it said. I won't bite. I'll love you very much. I'll guard your home. I won't even complain.
 
Zara froze at the sound of a distant howl. It's a werewolf, she thought, please let it be a nice friendly werewolf and not a hungry wolfpack. The sounds seemed to be getting closer, but she couldn't her footsteps, or see moving bodies through the trees.

Before she could move, there was a panting sound and a growl right by her ear. She was surrounded.
 
Deana was surprised how incredibly wrong it had all gone. It was only meant to be a harmless joke; a Grand Prank, they'd have called it, if only Old Man Walters hadn't come out to investigate the large chalk 'X' on the sidewalk. Slipping the length of rope into her pocket, she ducked into the bushes, unable to tear her eyes from the scene unfolding before her.
 
It was only when the first crack appeared that people began to take the legends seriously, but he knew from the moment the first striation formed on the surface. And then, when the striation widened and fragments began to fall upon the world, the first claw, tipped with a silvery nail and covered in dark green scales, emerged from its heavenly shell. The time had come.
 
The first punch caught Aleka by surprise. It shouldn't have, she realised a little later, but hindsight is a wonderful thing. The blow caught her awkwardly on her cheek, knocking her face sideways. His hairy course fingers made her skin crawl, but the stench bought tears to her eyes. Gods this man stank.
Vision clearing, she took to her toes, and flexed her jaw, pulling her cheek taut. Nothing broken. A crowd of jeering inmates had formed an immovable human chain around them.
For the first time since the cell doors closed, Aleka wished to see a guards face.
 
Peering into the distance from high atop their watchtower, two observers could make out a motley band of travelers approaching from the desert. The lead, the guide, appeared to be a mercenary, clad in armor, with a long sheathed sword peaking out from behind. He paced forward, stopping occasionally to allow the rest of the group to catch up. They seemed to be regular people: an old man, two children, four adults, and three teenagers – nothing in particular to watch out for, no weapons, no heavy bags, nothing dangerous. They were tired, sweating and tottering forward in fatigue, and one of the teenagers tripped over a stone, got to her knees, and started yelling at the guide, who in turn turned around and started yelling right back.


The one with the binoculars told his partner to inform the others.
 
One would have thought that a paleontologist with a keen eye for detail would have seen the sidewinder nearly under his boot, but it seemed that Davis Salinger had to watch both of their footfalls.
“Mind your step, man!” trumpeted Davis. “Serpent!”
Andrew Besser made a small kangaroo hop over the snake, to land with a thud, rattling his backpack and dropping his pick hammer. He recovered the pick hammer and stuffed it in his waistband. “Crotalus cerastes,” said Andrew breathily. “Nasty little bugger. Good eye, professor. I’m afraid I had my eye on these sandy washes and cuts. These small canyon arroyos that wash down into the reservoir are where we have to look. I covered the entrance with some scrub and tumbleweed. Only problem is, this part of Diamond Valley all looks the same. But I know it’s on this incline about 50 feet up from the reservoir. There’s nothing up further on the hard pan flat.”
 
Tom was dreaming. He was dreaming the dreams one normally dreams when they're dreaming.
 
Dont bother reading this it'll only depress you.

Go find a book, with a good looking hunk on the cover or a big breasted blonde or maybe even one of those self help books you so desperatly need hmm?

Why are you still reading?! If I wasnt trapped in here Id knock some sense into you!
GO!
Before He comes back and does the same thing to you, what he did to me!...
 
"What the hell is that?" she protested, staring at the plate of pink goo before her.

"Lunch," replied the dinner lady. "It's the governments new nutritional standards. Free-range, organic."

"But its moving," she said.

"Like I said, Free-range."

"But it's got eyes..."

"Uh-huh. That'd be the organic."

"And it's looking at me! It's.... AAAAAAARGH!"
 
Falling had never particularly scared her. It was landing that frightened her - especially after the height she had fallen from. Now she found herself screwing up her eyes to stop the stinging wind as she plummeted, her hair streaming out behind her and praying for some kind of intervention before she hit the ground.

And she got exactly what she prayed for.
 
“Have you tried artificial insemination?”
“Sir, my sperm are dog paddlers and can’t even get out of their own way. My wife has had so many yeast infections, we could start up a bakery. Between us, we don’t have a tube thicker than a hair that would allow the passage of a bacterium, much less a fruitful blood-born microcosm. Not only are our systems incompatible, they have declared war on each other. Our lovemaking is blunt force trauma. My wife is of the opinion that her next vaginal exam or Pap’s smear is likely to involve the use of Pine-sol and fire tongs. In short, we don’t need counseling or answers – been there, done that. We need a child, to put it bluntly. And we are very selfish about this determination to the point of extreme prejudice. All I need is an application and I’ll be on my way.”


Tri
 
He'd never seen a dead person before. Especially not like this. With his jaws clenched, Michael inched around the body, his gaze never breaking from the sightless eyes of the corpse. Torn between fear and duty, he hesitantly reached for the left pocket of the woman's jeans. He could at least see if she had any ID. After that...

Michael's heart froze, then abruptly did a wild flip in his chest as a strong hand gripped his right elbow, spinning him around and knocking him off balance. He looked up. Stern eyes glared at him from beneath thick brows. "You have violated the sanctum of the dead, young fool. Now I will do what I must."
 
The wide heavy tracks were greatful for a rest, and the melting snow cooled them off. Ahead of The Nixbank lay a sheer impassible drop onto a lower ice. shelf. A side hatch burst open, and a young woman dressed in loose desert robes dropped onto the freshly fallen snow. She looked behind her, and then ahead. She sighed deeply and removed her helmet of which a thousand grains of sand fell from. They were to late, the arm of ice linking canada and greenland was melting fast, already she could see chunks of ice escaping off into the sea. She was trapped, with no food, and no fuel and no water. Trapped on the wrong side of the world with the desert invading the ice like an unstopable plague behind her.
 
The soft, pudgy little fingers were sliding away. Why couldn't I grab her? She's right there! I stretched out farther, holding onto the exposed tree-root by my fingertips. I could feel my grip failing on the rainslick, muddy thing. My backpack slid and hit the back of my head. My balance waivered under the sudden shift in weight and I lost my footing. I started to fall and had to kick violently into the muddy clay. She...she started to scream when we lost contact. I screamed too.
No! Shannon! No....
She was past me and falling away into the darkness. My baby.
My baby.
What could I do? I leaped after her. My right knee twisted and gave as I did and I spun awkwardly after her. The backpack half-pinned my arm to my side but I reached out to her screams. I stretched for all I was worth.
Shannon!
 
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