The search for the winner of this year's Meager Puddle of Limelight Award for Best Opening Line begins.
There are eight heats in all. The winners from heats one - seven go straight through to the final. The second place finishers battle it out in heat eight to see which title joins the others in the final round.
What's at stake?
Bragging rights for the winner, an interview and/or guest post here on An Englishman in New Jersey, as well as signed copy of my book, Fur-Face, and a couple of I are a writer! pens.
I think you can vote using Facebook, but if you need an LJ account, they're free).
From the following list, please select any opening lines which you think should progress to the final round
A whiff of river breeze through the tomb; a flash of torchlight on metal upon the copper mirror; the ring of the brass bells over the aeolopile.
Aednat cringed at the coppery taste that flooded her mouth as she sucked on her newly injured finger.
"Aren't you a bit young to be raising the dead?"
As soon as I rounded the corner, the son-of-a-bitch threw a pie in my face.
Bertha Grubb lolled languidly among the bursting bubbles in the swirling steaming water.
The burning came and went, depending on the painkillers flowing through Laurel’s bloodstream.
Dr. Theodore Wagner sipped his tea at a table on the far edge of the station platform, filling avoid that five years of percolated coffee had eroded, mouthful by mouthful, into his soul.
First no light or hope, now shadow.
He ran his hand over the rough stubble on his face, regretting that he had not brought a razor to this distant outpost in Sumatra in his rush to photograph the frail purple orchid Randolph had just stumbled upon.