Gacked from damelola
Pick 15 of your favorite books or series.
Post the first two to three sentences of each book.
Let everyone try to guess the titles and authors of your books. (comments screened)
There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.
It was a nice day.
All the days had been nice. There had been rather more than seven of them so far, and rain hadn’t been invented yet.
Thunderstorms were common in Sarantium on midsummer nights, sufficiently so to make plausible the oft-repeated tale that Emperor Apius passed to the god in the midst of a towering storm, with lightning flashing and rolls of thunder besieging the Holy City.
First the colors.
Then the humans.
That’s usually how I see things.
Or at least, how I try.
After Farmer Flint of the Middle Valley died, his widow stayed on at the farmhouse. Her son had gone to sea and her daughter had married a merchant of Valmouth, so she lived alone at Oak Farm.
When they write my obituary. Tomorrow. Or the next day. It will say, LEO GURSKY IS SURVIVED BY AN APARTMENT FULL OF SHIT.
Even in high summer, Tintagel was a haunted place; Igraine, Lady of Duke Gorlois, looked out over the sea from the headland.
Mma Ramotswe had a detective agency in Africa, at the foot of Kgale Hill. These were its assets: a tiny white van, two desks, two chairs, a telephone, and an old typewriter. Then there was a teapot, in which Mma Ramotswe—the only lady private detective in Botswana—brewed redbush tea.
One thing I’ve learned is that strange things do happen. They happen all the time. Today, for instance, my best friend Jill’s cat spoke.
The Whistle Stop Cafe opened up last week, right next door to me at the post office, and owners Idgie Threadgoode and Ruth Jamison said business has been good ever since. Idgie says for that for people who know her not to worry about getting poisoned, she is not cooking.
This morning, just after 11:00, Michael locked himself in his office and he won’t come out.
Bill (Bill!) sent Michael this totally wicked flame-mail from hell on the e-mail system—and he just whaled on a chunk of code Michael had written. Using the Bloom County-cartoons-taped-on-the-door index, Michael is certainly the most sensitive coder in Building Seven—not the type to take criticism easily.
There is no lake at Camp Green Lake. There was once a very large lake here, the largest lake in Texas. That was over a hundred years ago. Now it is just a dry, flat wasteland.
On Mondays, Wednesday and Fridays it was Court Hand and Summulae Logicales, while the rest of the week it was the Organon, Repetition and Astrology. The governess was always getting muddled with her astrolabe, and when she got specially muddled she would take it out of the Wart by rapping his knuckles.
All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this.
In later years, holding forth to an interviewer or to an audience of aging fans at a comic book convention, Sam Clay like to declare, apropos of his and Joe Kavalier’s greatest creation, that back when he was a boy, sealed and hog-tied inside the airtight vessel known as Brooklyn, New York, he had been haunted by dreams of Harry Houdini.