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

The detective answered his telephone and heard what sounded like Elfish on the other end. He switched the translator to 'Elvish' and sure enough, pure Sindarin vernacular spewed forth from the earpiece. It was a recorded advertisement, for some kind of magic pixie dust that could unclog any drain. But the Detective knew there was, very likely, more to this message than met the ear, and, deep in thought, he leaned back and lit a cigarette with his plain Zippo lighter as his fingers toyed idly with a small nondescript object on his desk and listened intently until the message ended. Then the Detective rose from his chair, donned a plain grey trenchcoat indistinguishable from any of a thousand other similar raincoats that could be seen adorning thousands of men wandering the streets of this particular city at this particular time in history, and went out. At the bus station,he bought a ticket to Rivendell, via Lindon and Lothlorien, and the game was afoot!

Fine writing poured forth from Brian's brilliant brain until there was nothing left to say, and the great novel was at last complete.
 
***Based on a true story***
----------------
Fine writing poured forth from Brian's brilliant brain until there was nothing left to say, and the great novel was at last complete. Contented, he retired to his bed and consigned himself to slumber, dreams of advances, fame, and fortune filling his mind.

Upon awaking and taking a brisk shower, Brian returned to his computer and pulled up his manuscript, prematurely basking in the glory of its perfection.

It was gone. All of it. Yes, the words, characters, storyline... everything was present. But this was sh*t. No; referring to it thus was an insult to the digestive processes of a range of mammalian and amphibian species. He furiously ripped through his work, misbegotten character arcs flying in the wind. Finally, he had it back. A good, strong novel. Probably a best seller. He consigned himself to his first peaceful night's slumber in months.

Upon awaking, he opened his manuscript. It happened again. This wasn't even the passive fecal matter which sat there; this was aggressive sh*t which violently assaulted the senses. Brian braced himself and dove in, half surgeon and half butcher. Finally, the glow had returned. He sent it to his friend for a beta read...
----------------
20 generations onboard a spaceship... for this?
 
20 generations onboard a spaceship... for this? Now they were stuck in this purgatory of blazing sand and blinding sun, forced to wear the skimpiest of clothing so the team didn't roast alive while the slavering onlookers shouted rude anatomically incorrect suggestions, all for some ancient ideal of contests of honor for a country on a planet none of them had ever stepped foot on and never would during their lifetime. The agonies of constant training. Never seeing another soul outside of the team. Cloning tank replicas of the original team sent off so many light years ago. Her team stood ready to do battle, preparing every second of their short lives for this one contest against imposdible odds, a fight that may end up ended in seconds . Zebar took the striped ball and spiked it towards the aliens side of the net. Intergalactic Olympic Womans Beach Volleyball game commenced.



The old man had come to collect a corpse but it wasnt quite dead enough yet.
 
The old man had come to collect a corpse, but it wasn't quite dead enough yet. Oh, you say. That's a good thing. Too much of the old bring out your dead, lately, you say. Too much plague. Too much death.
Well, that's as may be. But while you're all smiles about a life not yet done, how am I supposed to do my job? With the plague all over the land, people dying all the time, well, I'm what you call an essential worker. And I can't bring out the dead if they're not dead yet.
A necromancer's work is never done, grumbled the old man.


There was movement at the station, which was strange, because the line had been decommissioned during cost-cutting measures a thousand years ago.
 
There was movement at the station, which was strange, because the line had been decommissioned during cost-cutting measures a thousand years ago. Robert Gibson snapped shut the spy glass and changed his plans on the spot.

A quick recce confirmed that it was just the ancient clock tower finally collapsing into a pile of rubble and wood dust, while the rusted clock’s mechanism wasn’t even useful for scrap - all iron oxide, no iron. But the essence of the clock... He grabbed a time scoop and switched on the detector. If he could just catch a trace of the clock when it was working, it might be his ticket out of this dead end of a future. Just one tick of the clock, that was all he needed...



The ticket to Barnstaple had been punched already; but here came the ticket collector, and the zealous gleam in his eye didn’t bode well for Flynn.
 
The ticket to Barnstaple had been punched already; but here same the ticket collector, and the zealous gleam in his eye didn't bode well for Flynn. He hadn't planned on the man coming back through to check twice, and he struggled to keep the panic from overwhelming him. He glanced back at Alice, his eyes meeting hers and seeing his panic mirrored there. He subtly signaled here to relax and that it would be all right, though he doubted he was being very convincing.

He looked back forward and swallowed hard. He knew what he had to do, and he knew it wouldn't be easy. Flynn was afraid of what would happen if the Syndicate caught him trying to cheat the system, but he would do anything for Alice. He just hoped she would forgive him.

Kaston's breath fogged his heads up display and he furiously wiped it away, a moment of blindness now meant death.
 
Kaston's breath fogged his heads up display and he furiously wiped it away, a moment of blindness now meant death.

"I thought you nerds got this damn problem sol...hold up!"

Kaston had to rely on scent at this point to track. It was fortunate for him those synthetic fiber uniforms the Brilli issued reeked of chemicals. They were also loud and clumsy; he didn't need the sensory enhancements to detect these morons. He crept around the corner, and caught a guard not exactly on point, lazily smoking and nodding off against the guard-post by the checkpoint. Serrated steel quietly left its sheath, as Kaston whispered into his comm set.

"Spoiler alert, Doc: You and those geeks in R&D don't fix this condensation problem before my next mission, y'all ending up like the Marlboro man here!"

"Oh, that thing's got a LOT of sharp teeth on it!"
 
“Oh, that thing’s got a LOT of sharp teeth on it!”

“Mmm, mmm. Lotta good eating on an alligator.”

“But man, that thing’s a killer! Probably ate your grandmother, that’s why we can’t find her!”

“Man, COVID-19 got her. Gone up in smoke, like all the rest o’ them. Nope, that little puppy’s gonna give me a belt, a real nice pair of shoes, and some pretty fine dining for a week. I don’t plan on standing in line for handouts when this zoo’s just aching to supply all my coronavirus, flu pandemic and fuel shortage needs. Now all I need is a big gun. Where d’you think they keep their really high powered rifles, Joe? Near the tiger enclosure?”

”Probably by the front entrance, Denny, where they gonna need ‘em most.”




The parcel was wrapped just in newspaper; it was a wonder that the postal service had been prepared to deliver it.
 
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The parcel was wrapped just in newspaper; it was a wonder that the postal service had been prepared to deliver it, newspaper now being made out of recycled soy cheese printed in squidink. A postman was taking his life in his hands after the hedgehogs had overthrown the government and put the paper tax on everything so most things were permanently written with plastic or on old shirts in sewn messages with thread. Having something smelling of food to be carried about these days put you in danger of being followed by hedgehog deprived owls looking for a new food source. Lately they had been eyeing people.



The vibroknife sliced through everything.
 
The vibroknife sliced through everything. The salesman cheerfully demonstrated how it could easily tackle plastic, wood, even a slab of marble.
"I bet you there's one thing it can't cut," called out Tony.
"Well there's a bet I'm willing to take! And what did you have in mind, young sir?"
Tony, his face set and emotionless as it had to be to stop the mask sliding away, approached the sales-stand and slowly rolled up his sleeve.

---------
Worst thing this country ever did was to connect guns to the Internet.
 
Worst thing this country ever did was to connect guns to the Internet. Spelling correction apps being what they are, it’s too easy to order an assassination when what you actually wanted was an assignation - bang goes that relationship! - or to request a drone attack on a New York theatre when all you were doing was reviewing a play which was doing very badly indeed. It created a whole new industry however, and as always the first into the market has a huge advantage: so here am I, the Spelling Corrector, the Sentence Parser, the Grammar Man with a Killer Plan, defending the planet from people who didn’t pay attention in English lessons! Dot your ’I’s and cross your ‘T’s, or be prepared to pay the ultimate price!

At least, that’s what my blurb says.

==================


After 32 bullets, the side of the barn was still untouched.
 
After 32 bullets, the side of the barn was still untouched. Five cylinders worth plus two loose rounds of .38s. The sheriff counted three dead chickens, one bullet hole through the outhouse and four in the radiator of the squad car. The Barker gang had escaped in the confusion. The sheriff looked grim. "I'm sorry," he said and held out his hand. "Barney, I'm gonna have to take your bullet."

I remembered my Old Man saying, "Son, if you ever get thrown in jail, call and let me know where you'll be spending the night."
 
I remembered my Old Man saying, "Son, if you ever get thrown in jail, call and let me know where you'll be spending the night,” so I did.

”Dad” l said, “I’m at Barnard Castle nick. I’ve been arrested for murdering thirteen coal miners with a plastic teaspoon, I’ve just murdered all the policemen here with a rubber band, and now I’m heading over to your house with a plastic-coated paperclip, where I will be spending the night with you. Actually, I’ll be there for the rest of your life.”


”Pass the port to the left,” barked the old buffer.
 
”Pass the port to the left,” barked the old buffer. "Then keep on going straight, up the hill to the very top, the grey house right there is the one you're looking for. The Chargrins House."
"Thank you, sir." I said but the man had already turned back to his netting which he was repairing, with a disquieting infatuation.

It was an awfully strange name for a house I thought but it was definitely the one my employer had asked me to evaluate, "Prime real estate!" he had said jovially and clapped me on the back as I left on the train that morning.

I saw no one on my climb up to the house and as I arrived, the house was even more imposing than the name.

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

"What do you expect me to do!?" I cried in frustration, the heat from the flames now licking at my ankles.
 
"What do you expect me to do!?" I cried in frustration, the heat from the flames now licking at my ankles.

Lucifer gave me a deceptively sweet smile. "Why, go back to standing on your head. Coffee break is over!"


"There's nothing ordinary about an ordinary house cat."
 
"Theres nothing ordinary about an ordinary house cat" He purred, arching his back and flexing his claws. I was gobsmacked, did he just say that? I thought.
"Did you just say that?" I said.
The ginger tom looked up at me and spoke
"Meow." and went back to licking his paws nochalantly
______________________

I wish the prison had given me shoes! I thought desperately, my eyes screwed shut, my hands grasping for the wall behind me.
 
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I wish the prison had given me shoes! I thought desperately, my eyes screwed shut, my hands grasping for the wall behind me.
But then, no shoes meant no escape, not when the mud outside the walls was infested with suckblud worms as long as my arm.
The old man in the kitchens had laughed at me as he handed over the potion. "Put this on your feet," he cackled. "It might keep them off for a minute or two."
"Only a minute?"
"You want it or not?"
Of course I did. I gave him his money and hid that foul smelling potion in my cell. There would be a moment, I knew, and I would have to wait for it.
Now was the moment.
With the prison walls at my back and the swamp stretching ahead of me in the gloom, now was the moment.
Yet the mud writhed and rippled all around as the suckbluds swarmed towards me.



It was only fifteen miles. No distance at all. Except that it was straight down into the boiling soup of the lava flows.
 
It was only fifteen miles. No distance at all. Except that it was straight down into the boiling soup of the lava flows. Lucile peered into the crevice, allowing a searing pocket of air to flare over her cold suit—her HUD showing 99.99% heat displacement. The crowds were packed tightly into the surrounding hoverstand, cheering for Lucile to jump. She scanned the VIP boxes at the base: interplanetary tycoons, king's and queens, and Grayson Grudge—the world lava diving champion. She gave him a cheeky wave before backflipping of the ledge.


A flash and a sharp rip of thunder tore through Rod's bedroom. Finally, lightning season was here.
 
A flash and a sharp rip of thunder tore through Rod's bedroom. Finally, lightning season was here.
He clutched the blankets to him, entranced, his eyes following every arcing spasm of brilliance, his ears pricking up with the booms and crashes that rolled in on their coat tails.
Underneath that glass dome, the moon sailed in a stygian sky amidst boiling clouds as the storm raged and crashed across huddled houses and thrashing trees.
Without taking his eyes off the wondrous scene, he reached for his phone. "Hey Jacko? Yeah, I bought the expansion pack like you did. I take it all back man, Lego is the coolest ever."


"Tread carefully," said the voice. "There are only fifteen gates between you and your nightmares."
 
"Tread carefully," said the voice. "There are only fifteen gates between you and your nightmares."

In the dying firelight, I sharpened the sword's blade in long, careful strokes. "I know a shortcut."


"Have you seen what happens when a marshmallow is accelerated to relativistic speeds?"
 
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