So, I was reminded today of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest: www.bulwer-lytton.com/. As some of you may know, it is an annual competition for the best first sentence of a work of literature. Some of them are truly entertaining to read.
I was wondering if y'all'd be interested in a little mini-version of that here, except focused on the Magic World? If you were to write a Magic Novel, how would you begin it? I'd rather not judge such a thing, because I am no expert on Magic Lore, and I imagine that a lot of the subtleties would go over my head, but I'd be happy to host, and vote, and potentially even participate.
Anyway, the rules are simple and I'm going to steal them directly from Bulwer-Lytton. Really, there is only one (kinda two) guideline(s):
Sentences may be of any length but we strongly recommend that entries not go beyond 50 or 60 words. Entries must be “original” (as it were) and previously unpublished.
So, Magical sentences away!
(P.S. if you guys aren't into this, that's okay. I come from YMtC, and up there contests and competitions are like most of the cool things going on.)
Keeping it nice and simple, yet brimful of possibilities:
In the hushed back alleys of Stensia's slums, in smoldering hovels and behind bloodstained walls, it is said that a certain elixir makes men immortal.
Tezzeret awoke wondering if such a sex machine would help him earn Gitaxias' love.
Tezzeret awoke to find that his clothes had, once more, vanished in the night, and raising his newly remade fist to the heavens, the Planeswalker howled, "Quit screwing with me, Bolas!"
(This is, of course the first sentence of Tezzeret Punches Out The Multiverse.)
The village of Layton was one of Bant's more prosperous locales, with lush green fields, burbling brooks that flowed year round, the sweet fragance of blooming flowers that left the taste of mint on one's tongue, and a titanic ash-grey dragon that bellowed triumphantly as it started to burn Layton to the ground.
Thalia slumped into her chair and savoured the gentle steam of her freshly made cuppa, breathing 'Please Avacyn — just this once.'
Ha ha. Thanks you guys. I'm really enjoying all of these, and I'm amazed that we're still on topic. I guess I will add one in a little bit. I have to run some errands first.
"The young priest stepped into his new quarters, adorned with lime green Shag, and glittering torches, with his scantily-clad man servant, Pylar, crouching anxiously in the corner, and he quietly thought, "So. . . this is how they do it in en-Vec."
Expanding the previous idea:
It was not unusual for Jaya Ballard to be bored--quite the opposite, in fact; however, the overwhelming fog of boredom she had been drifting through for the past week was unprecedented, and it had only become worse over time as those familiar with the task mage's erratic moods had quickly found reasons to absent themselves from first the room, then the building, and finally the town when the pall had shown no sign of lifting, knowing that when her funk inevitably broke it would take everything in range with it in a radius directly proportional to its duration.
Bolas appeared in his meditation realm, and was unsuprised to hear a familiar voice, "Glad you could make it."
"It was a dark and stormy night..."
The man in red sighed, ennui eating at his soul; he shouldn't be apathetic, he thought, he should be tense, nervous, even excited - but he wasn't, which was odd; after all, it isn't every day you set out to kill a god.
Really like zamm's entry as Jaya Ballard is one of my favourite characters. Not least because (with a bit of a stretch) you can translate her name into Victory Song.
Ashling looked through bosk, through its tangles and dank air, into the sun, And ashling felt the warm embrace of freedom that she had once indulged before.
The town of Jinskrad was known for exporting two things: killers and clothes. Tezzeret needed both.
Telzer listened as the chldren outside were discussing what would be the scariest sound one could hear, and while the screams of souls being forced into eternal slavery and the laughter of Rakdos were both strong contenders, years as an assistant in Izzet labs ensured him the answer was "Oops".
Some people think it's easy to sneak around while wearing a full suit of armor, but I assure you I've trained and practiced for countless hours and I'm still not very good at it.
John's life flashed before his eyes. It was yellow.
Lyttle Lytton sentences seem to be much shorter than Bulwer-Lytton ones.
"Y'know" said Ajani, "those goat balls of yours don't actually taste half as bad as I thought they would".
"You know," Chandra said as she reached down, "you should consider investing in a kilt, for ease of access."
That was less innuendo and more in-media res. I lifted it from another scene I'm working on and just swapped character names and speaker.
It said something about Corin's life that he no longer found it to be so strange that a goblin was trying to throw a mountain at his head by clapping.
"So, Markov, my archnemisis," sneered Tibalt, "we meet again, at last."
Marchuk was a scholar, which would normally be unremarkable in a plane that was near-to-bursting with sorcerers; but Marchuk was also a Goblin, and that made him singularly fascinating.
Inji watched the slow creep of the water as it poured across his very rare, very expensive Nayan carpets and wondered just what it was that the Commodore found so interesting about this "indoor plumbing" nonsense.
Nicol Bolas backed out of the room bowing to the horror before him, making sure never to break his gaze into the monster's many eyes.
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