The search for the winner of this year's Meager Puddle of Limelight Award for Best Opening Line continues with Heat six.
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
The thing about living in a city full of wizards and mythological freaks is that guns are almost useless against a mage, but not a killing spell.
They thought I was you, but I wasn't.
Three weeks before Thanksgiving, cardiac arrest had sent my Uncle Rawley to his grave along with nearly a lifetime of bitter grudges.
There were three blotches of mold on Herbert Mica's bedchamber wall when he woke, one more than when he went to sleep.
The two men sat in a nameless tavern, in a nameless place, somewhere in the southeastern corner of Siberia, a half empty bottle of cheap vodka on the scarred wooden table between them.
Ursula looked down on the man whose skin hung in heavy folds thanks to doubled gravity.
Vegin considered the man before him, a poor farmer from an outlying village.
"The war of Heaven against Hell is a war of attrition."
When his cousin aimed the holocam at him, Kiril felt his heart stop.