WORST OPENING PARAGRAPH.

The information I had received at the station made me think that this murder had all the makings of a classic "whodunnit", but little did I know that it wouldn't be the butler that did it this time, but the Earl's third cousin, called Fredo.

Oh, that a book I would buy right off!

Actually, I've always had a hankering to write a romantic novel.

Portia was shy and uncertain as Lance took her in his arms, but began to feel her passion rise as she experienced the pleasure of french kissing for the first time. Her heart raced as his expert tongue worked round her teeth, like dental floss but without the minty taste. It was when his tongue made contact with her uvula, making her retch involuntarily, that she made up her mind. "Anyone with a tongue that long is worth hanging onto, preferably by the ears", she thought.

Her heart was in her mouth, literally, and she didn't know how to get it out. Out of the corner of her eye, which wasn't really a corner, as we all know, she spied a huge, hairy spider scurrying toward her. Swallowing her fear, and her heart at the same time, she flapped her wings uselessly, getting them get caught up in the silky threads of her demise. Bzzzz Bzzz Bzzzz it was a bitch being a fly.

Moriarty sat at his battered desk and contemplated the ink pot. He contemplated it because it was the only thing on his desk, except for the scars of use and abuse, of course, and the quill pen, several envelopes, the Bible, and his used handkerchief. He rubbed his grimy forehead with a callused hand and wondered how he'd get out of this one.

The doors swung open with a bang, clattering against their respective walls. Why there wasn't a doorstop, Inez would never understand. This constant clanging and banging would be the end of her. She trudged to the faded formica counter and nearly flung the dirty plates onto it. Ick. She shuddered. God help the next patron who came through her front doors wanting a meal!

My opening line would be:

This will be one of the worst fictions you have ever laid your hands on, so quit wasting your time, and find another book.

Panting, she stopped running and leaned against the tree. The bark felt good. Her tongue hanging out, she panted. Ahhh.... that felt better. She hoped he wouldn't find her but she didn't hold out much hope. He was clever, that one, and he was a bloodhound. Literally. And she was a cocker spaniel. In heat.

The thunder rippled across the canyon and faded slowly, like a motorcycle receding in the distance, but not one of those new high-performance Japanese jobs, more like a Harley, struggling with the weight of the rider, who's fat rolls jiggled like a bowl of jello recently removed from the fridge, because he'd forgotten his leather jacket and was wearing just a T-shirt.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, the king looked upon Grace, the child of his youth, Patience, the child of his middle years, and lastly upon the child of his old age, Flatulence.

She rose from her chair like a graceful ballerina, except her toes weren't pointed to the outsides, she wasn't wearing a leotard or a tutu and she weighed considerably more... more like about 300 pounds more. And it took her several tries.

Hi Mame, Yours has potential. LOL

Thank you, CI - great thread, isn't it?

Let's see you go a little wild

You're all wonderful!

Mad, but wonderful. I had forgotten all about this thread, but have been re-reading it after Mame revived the thing.

Sitting here uploading Nimrod from Enigma variations by Elgar onto my iPod, I was in need of some sophisticated reading.

Thank you, from the heart of my bottom.

He picked up the fire distuisher and aimed it at Morgan who began sweating infusely, his heart beating like a wild thing within his chest cavity walls. His nerves were frayed and it bothered him; he liked to be tidy. He looked at Ted and realized he had to pull a miracle out of the fire. "Ted," he said, "you're a man of great statue. It is beyond my apprehension why they let you go." Ted looked him up and down like a metronome and gnarled like a caged tiger.

It was dry. There wasn't a hint of wetness, not even an inkling of wetness but just the dryness. It was so dry even the TV weatherman had said it was zero percent humidity. The dryness was like old toast that had been burnt in the toaster and then left there for a week except it didn't smell like toast. It smelled like the dryness you get from a dried up dead mouse that has been kept in a dry space for 3 weeks, a mouse kept away from the flies because if the flies had gotten to it the mouse would be filled with maggots and everyone knows maggots aren't dry. They squish when you bite down on them, droplets of a foul liquid squirting onto your tongue. It was so dry there weren't even maggots. That's how dry it was.

The wily old capybara farmer looked down at the two ticket stubs and smiled. In an effort to woo the refined Eva, he had told her that he was a devotee of fine classical music, and had invited her to accompany him to a concert at their local town hall. If he could pull this off, he would have her in the hayloft by midnight. He could feel her looking at him as the lights dimmed and the orchestra stopped their tuning, waiting for the conductor to give the signal. The hairs on the back of his head bristled as a trumpet blast rang out the familiar notes to the opening bars of the William Tell overture. Overcome by a strange compulsion, he suddenly let go of Eva's gloved hand, stood, and shouted " A fiery horse with a speed of light, a cloud of dust, and a hearty HI YO SILVERRRR!". "That's f*cked my chances" he thought.

http://www.endeavorcomics.com/largent/ranger/lone.wav

She was tired. Tired, weary, fatigued. Bone tired. She was exhausted. She was so tired she couldn't move. She was so tired even the hairs on her arm didn't move in the slight wafty breeze. Her eyes felt like they were full of sand, but they weren't. But that's how tired she was. Like she could really go to sleep. And sleep like the dead. But the poor old tired woman could not go to sleep because she was on duty. And her duty required that she not only stay awake, but that she move. But she couldn't move. She was just too tired. Plain old tired out. Sort of like a worn out tire hidden by long grass somewhere on the road where, when you pass it, you wonder how it got there, how long it had been there, and who it had belonged to. You also wonder what those folks did with only 3 tires on their car. And did their car look as bad as this worn out old patched up tire full of brown water and mosquito larvae. And you knew you'd never know.

It was a dark and stormy night and all the elements were there to conspire against man (or woman). The moon was hidden by ugly sinister black clouds and the rain pelted down like bullets from a machine gun. The wind howled like a banshee and whipped through the trees like a knife through butter. It was a night not fit for man or beast; however, both appeared to be out roaming around this awful, foul night. The man had to buy some fags, you see, and his dog needed a pee.