GAME: Hook my first line and sink her in to a paragraph!

The screeching of jungle birds woke Norbert from dreams of pastoral beatitude. ;) He knew where to dig. He finally knew why he had been called, compelled, had given up his body and his soul, why he had persevered in this wild, vain pilgrimage through every trial, past every worried glance, over every doubting word.

His two guides had beaten him, robbed him and left him to die three days ago, but the Lord had laid shown him safe lodgings in trees and caves, and provided quiet, clear waters twice yesterday. Norbert paid no mind to the irritation of sucking leeches or the giddiness of his fever; the Lord had shown him the way to Burma, and now He had revealed the site of the relic. Why He would choose a humble scouse Jesuit who taught Geography to ungrateful Wirral boys, Norbert could not fathom, but he was beyond questions now. From the strange maps the Lord had shown him, to the landmarks along the jungle paths, all had been correct in every detail. It was with knowledge now, not faith, that he proceeded: The relic would be a skull, a human face with a dome that swept back into five triangles of bone, like a crown of horns. The eye sockets would be tall, narrow and deep. And lights from heaven, brighter than sunlight, would pierce the jungle canopy.



"Emmy, where have you gone?"
 
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Typing fingers loosened up - check.
Keyboard hot and ready to go - check
Internet connected and running - ah, hopefully.
Here goes.

"Emmy, where have you gone?" Jenny asked.
A moment ago Emmy had been in the room with Jenny, now Emmy was nowhere in sight. Jenny checked the other room of the old two roomed cottage, there was nowhere for Emmy to hide and no one had come in or gone out, the creaky hinges on the door would have loudly announced that. Jenny checked outside anyway, looking all round the cottage. The grass was short from grazing animals, the land clear for hundreds of yards in all directions. Emmy had not been absent long enough to have wandered beyond sight so where was she? Inside, frantically check through the small cottage once again, then Jenny noticed the lid up on the old trunk in the corner. Her father had always warned Jenny to never open that trunk, not until she had the requisite knowledge and skills and never on her own.

The sword hanging on the wall was old, very old and the legends surrounding it told of ...

Have fun.
 
The sword hanging on the wall was old, very old and the legends surrounding it told of ...

"We've heard that one before!" came a shout from the back of the Inn. "The Prince uses it to free the maiden from the dragon and find the treaure. Boring!"
The storyteller looked up from his ale. "But were you told the words that awaken the sword? That give the bearer three lives, and two resurrections?"
"Boring..."
"I'd like to hear them," said a lad sitting cross-legged on the floor.
The storyteller looked down, and his eyes were kindly. "What's your name, boy?"
"Elbr'ith."
If there was surprise in the storyteller's eyes he hid it well. He smiled and nodded.
"Elbr'ith gillonen, ashancr'i corlain," he said firmly.
"Get on with--"
The heckler's voice died instantly as white light began to curl around the boy, wrapping him in curling vines of luminescence. A flash, and he was gone.




I buried myself on the moor, and prayed my breathing hole would not clog with water if it rained.
 
I buried myself on the moor, and prayed my breathing hole would not clog with water if it rained. In a way I was lucky, the Chet'ak were hunting and one thing they did not like was water, the moor was an excellent place to hide from the hunting Chet'ak but it was a place where rain was pretty much a constant at this time of the year. I only had a few minutes to wriggle down into the bog, to remain hidden I had to be fully covered so my scent wouldn't draw the Chet'ak, they would enter the bog if they got the scent of their prey but not if they weren't certain. My breathing tube was only an inch or two above the murky surface, all it would take to make my life decidedly difficult would be a heavy shower of rain. If this should happen then I would be forced to break from my hiding place; that wouldn't be a problem if no Chet'ak were near but if I should be spotted or scented it could be the last thing I ever did.

One cartridge left in his pistol, an old but reliable weapon, two discharges left in his sonic disruptor and at his hip his trusty knife still held a razor edge.
 
alternatesanity said:
Nothing like I expected but intriguing. There is a serious danger in this game, replying to a prompt could fire off another book.
Click to expand...


Absolutely: it's almost a mini brainstorming session - giving yourself free rein to create from the smallest of starts.

One cartridge left in his pistol, an old but reliable weapon, two discharges left in his sonic disruptor and at his hip his trusty knife still held a razor edge. At least he could die clean-shaven. He reckoned he could use the last sonic charge to bring the building down, and maybe kill a couple hundred of them. He wormed his way closer to the central pillar. It had taken damage during the invasion, and looked ready to fall. One sonic charge should do it. He used the razor to slash his left forearm - the fresh blood would bring them as soon as the sun went down, and they'd rush in when they thought he was helpless. Then he heard the sound.


The excavation continued, despite the warnings of the Mua'lu, and the drill bucked and distorted on the second day, when it struck something impossibly hard.
 
I hope anyone is allowed to join as I'm gonna hop right in.


The excavation continued, despite the warnings of the Mua'lu, and the drill bucked and distorted on the second day, when it struck something impossibly hard.
"Did we reach it?" Kaeli-Thara screamed. The foreman's response was almost instinctive.
"Sir, you need to see this."
Kaeli-Thara walked near the dig site and looked down only to be thrown back by the explosion. He heard the crashing sounds coming from the drill and understood that his dear excavation was going to end earlier than he thought. Mua'lu was right, but so what? He would have still continued if he knew the exact thing that was going to happen : unescapable death.
 
Ooops, I forgot to write a sentence. Here it goes:

The earlier models were always problematic but their simplicity was -sometimes- incredibly useful.
 
The earlier models were always problematic but their simplicity was -sometimes- incredibly useful. Consider, for example, the childishly monotonous conversations of such early pseudo-AI programs as ELIZA, DOCTOR, and PARRY. Such amusing, if ultimately trivial, bagatelles turned out to be remarkably adept at drawing lonely introverts into what resembled, to the unsophisticated, genuine conversations. It was only a matter of time until FRIEND, the first program able to pass a rigorous Turing Test, was developed. Perhaps the AI experts who worked for years to create it should have predicted that it, too, was in need of company.

______________________________________________________________

The wind clawed at Jonathan's face as he hiked along the rocky trail.
 
The wind clawed at Jonathan's face as he hiked along the rocky trail. The way was steep but his legs were strong, very strong. Fourty-seven hours later he collapsed at the pinnacle of Mount Blood, tallest spire in the region.
Below him, angry goats warred over sparse vegetation and tiny ant-sized soldiers scrabbled about on the rocky scree at the base of the mountain, preparing to pursue him up the cursed slopes of evil Mount Blood.
Let them come! The sacred Banana was his, his alone, and he would never be captured, they would never find him in the wild lands beyond the ominous mountain of blood.
He cackled as he prepared to descend the other side of the mountain. He stooped to pick up the sacred Banana - where had he put it? It was here just a minute ago... he turned, and stepped on something, which squelched squishily, and his feet went out from under him, and he began the long fall to the razor-edged rocks far below, where only death waited.

Dinosaurs stampeded past the cave as Charles spoke to the gorillas in their own language.
 
Dinosaurs stampeded past the cave as Charles spoke to the gorillas in their own language. "Stay still. It's our only chance," he grunted. "They should be passed in a moment." Well, actually, it was more like "they will be passed." The gorillas of M463 had no real sense of time. Just conveying the idea that it would end was about all he could do. The noise subsided after a few more seconds and Charles Paolo Singh set out to inspect the damage.

It was not a large object and for some reason that she couldn't understand she wanted to call the color "Bob."
 
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It was not a large object, and for some reason that she couldn't understand, she wanted to call the color "bob". It was a figurine of a man holding a gun over his head, mouth gaping in a victorious smile. The color of the figurine was a very odd color, a color you've probably never seen before. It's a very strange mixture of red, green, blue, orange, and an off-teal. There's another color in there, but god knows what that is.

She had seen the color of the figurine before, it was a color that her little brother, Bob, concocted one morning while painting on his bedroom wall. She remembered seeing the color then; she remembered how lonely and vulnerable the color made her feel. It was an odd color that exuded its own - energy? Seeing the figurine painted that same color, the color "bob", sent shivers down her spine. So it was true: Somewhere deep inside this haunted toy factory her brother was still alive.

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Like a mole, the insect burrowed into his arm, leaving a bloodless hole in its wake.
 
Like a mole, the insect burrowed into his arm, leaving a bloodless hole in its wake. He expected pain, but instead there was only a sensation of coolness running through his nerves. Soon he would be one of the Speakers, and his life would truly begin.


______________________________________________________________

SwiftDiver pushed herself through the warm, salty water, shifting her dorsal fin slightly as her goal came in sight.
 
SwiftDiver pushed herself through the warm, salty water, shifting her dorsal fin slightly as her goal came in sight. Glorbulon- the haunted lagoon of legend. Now, finally, after all these years of swimming, swimming, swimming around the entire planet of water, she had made it. Soon now, the curse would be lifted and her arms and legs would grow back. She would be a woman again, instead of the freakish fish-thing that the evil Zircopheles had mutated her into with his dark necromancies.
She entered the enchanted waters and immediately she felt the change begin. Her flippers fell off, her fins faded out, and shortly she was whole again. A true woman, a beautiful woman, a woman who was numb with relief - she wept tears that deepened the haunted waters around her.
A`woman who had suffered long, agonized without hope, a woman with more courage and grit than all the armies of Zircopheles, a woman who could not swim!
Help! Glurgle! TBC

The eerie sound from the basement came again, and Fenwick knew that he must act.
 
The eerie sound from the basement came again, and Fenwick knew that he must act. He'd hidden all the bodies down there and knew they were dead. He assumed the build up of intestinal gases from decomposition was causing movement - sometimes they bloated beyond belief, and he'd ahd to use a sharp knife to release it. But as he reached for the doorknob, he heard another sound. Someone - something - was climbing the stairs.


He launched the kite and it flew into the teeth of the thunderstorm, as he held the wire.
 
He launched the kite and it flew into the teeth of the thunderstorm, as he held the wire. The coils at his feet hissed as the slack was taken up and the huge sail spiralled off ahead of him. Rain rattled on the huge nylon balloons as they swayed and bounced, drops and rivulets raced over the goggles of his helmet. Suddenly taut, the line sprang from his hands and his body jerked upwards, suspended a foot above the ground. He clicked his flailing heels to release the chocks that held down the balloons and unbuckled the anchor at his waist. The stormrider soared upwards into grey clouds crackling with blue fire.

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Elegance was the only requirement.
 
Elegance was the only requirement. Riches, fame, power; none of these could ensure membership in the Club. (The Club: It had no other name.) The slightest awkward gesture, the smallest faux pas, and one was denied entrance forever. It was with a mixture of excitement and trepidation, therefore, that Emily Moyers regarded the small golden invitation in its fawn-colored silk envelope. The message, engraved in tastefully restrained italics, was simple. Thursday 7 PM. There was no return address. One either found the Club, or one did not.


----------------------------------------------------------------------

The diary was missing the first few pages.
 
The diary was missing the first few pages. Eleanor scrabbled about on her hands and knees in the unlit basement. Where had they gone? She had set them by her side mere moments go, and she must find them or the incantations would be lost forever. Maple syrup was flooding into the room from above and time was running out. She hoped, prayed, that she was having a very silly dream, and that she would awake momentarily on her familiar comfortable bed of raspberry jello in the land of flying pumpkins, but it was not to be.

It was the greatest book he had ever read.
 
It was the greatest book he had ever read. And he knew why his life was in danger - taking the last letter of each chapter, then aligning them backwards, had revealed the codex for the chamber in which the Ancients' weapons were buried. They would be waiting for his answer, and all those who had tried before him had been beheaded when their answerts were wrong. Would he be any different?


It was the way she walked that caught my eye - I knew she had something concealed beneath her skirt.
 
It was the way she walked that caught my eye - I knew she had something concealed beneath her skirt. Nobody could move that smoothly, as if she were floating above the ground. The floor length black silk gown (Alicia had recently gone Goth, much to the regret of those of us who had so appreciated the microskirts of her Hippie phase) billowed around her like a dark cloud. When the orchestra -- half human, half automated synthesizers -- began a waltz, I requested the favor of a dance. Between fragments of small talk, I glanced at the edges of her skirt as we swirled in time to the music, hoping for a clue to this enigma. I made an effort to conceal my astonishment when, just beneath her petticoats, I caught a glimpse of dozens of small metal wheels.

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"If I were you, pal," the barman said, "I'd get out of town pronto."
 
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