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Fourth Annual 2009 Best Worst First Line of a Mystery Story Event
Sponsored by: THE EDWINA BULWER LYTTON CAUCUS
Joyce Arquette, Spiritual Mother
It was neither stormy nor dark, and, in fact, was not even night when Micqui flipped her sort of curly grayish hair and then surreptitiously
twiddled and caressed her recently sharpened Boy Scout knife as she maliciously glowered at her cheating, irresponsible (and unsuspecting) boyfriend.
Kaye George, Wandering Secretary
Micqui fought her way through the silently drifting, piling up really fast, downward coming,
very cold, as it usually is, snow, her ill-shod freezing cold feet sinking in clear down, all the way up to her ankles, in the cold snow, because she had to get home as soon as humanly
possible—well maybe just as soon as possible, humanly or not—and here she wished she were Wonderwoman—because she thought she might have left the stove turned on.
Weslynn McCallister, Member Wherever
On a quiet, humid night in Waco, Texas, Micqui Miller, a beloved resident and amateur
sleuth, was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of a door slamming shut and not bothering to awaken her husband who was ill, she rose and moved to the other side of
the bed, opened the top drawer of the nightstand, and grabbed the flashlight and then she tip-toed quietly out of the bedroom and moved toward the area that she had heard the door
slam, but just as she saw the tall figure of a man outlined against the sliding glass doors which she had locked before she had gone to bed, she slipped on the wet tile floor which
indicated that the roof had leaked, and of all things that could go wrong, not only had she alerted the burglar that he’d been found out, she accidently hit herself on the forehead with
the flashlight that she’d been carrying and knocked herself out.
2009 HONORARY MEMBERS (Though in fact it is in perpetuity, but we don't tell them that in advance.)
Gale Hathcock, 2009 Aspiring Writer
Micqui Miller stood in my office door holding a gun, the dame who had torched a hole in the ozone layer of my heart.
Susan Rogers Cooper, 2009 Mentor Author
Micqui awoke in the wilderness – not just any wilderness, but the kind of wilderness that is
wild, and full of wild things that make you wonder if the word wilderness is actually a form of the word wild or if they’re two separate words that just make you think of one when you say the other.
Helen Ginger, 2009 Mentor Author
The sun stabbing through ominous clouds like blood seeping through denim, slow and
splattered, sent shafts of light slicing through the sky, encircling mud puddles, abandoned chairs, overturned beer bottles drained of their sweet mahogany nectar, and one
anthracite-haired, Shar-Pei wrinkled, drenched, shrunken woman sitting in a blue and green mesh striped lawn chair, eyes narrowed, lips pulled back in a skeletal grin, who squeezed a
fist to the sky and whispered through clenched teeth, “Jokes on you, all you damned weather wizards with your forecasts of clear skies. You didn’t get my Micqui Miller book this time! I
laminated every single page. Just like I did my second husband.
Jan Grape, 2009 Mentor Author
The really, really black sky hovered low over the really small town where the really horrid heat
and humidity pushed against all the town people like an orange and white very wet blanket causing a young woman named Micqui, to look askance at her
red-neck-tobacco-chewing-beer-guzzling husband as he lay asleep and snoring on the orange and white sofa while she gingerly ran a finger over the newly sharpened butcher knife
while wishing for a Hugh Jackson look-alike to come and sweep her off her size ten feet, and all the while wishing she had the guts of that lady named Bobbit; instead she pumped
her fist into the air, her index finger and little finger extended and whispered, “Hook ‘em Horns!!”
Diane Holmes, 2009 Aspiring Writer
Marilee picked up the zucchini and said, "This vile murder weapon has been filed to a pointy
nubbin and laced with poisonous Miracle Grow, before impaling the beloved and radiant Micqui, who will recover and write about this in her next novel.
Joan Upton Hall, 2009 Mentor Author
As the killer's big gas-guzzling SUV T-boned Micqui's environmentally friendly car, at that
point in time, her lack-luster life flashed before her eyes, boring even her, due to the fact that, in the grand scheme of things, she thought, getting this guy arrested for homicide with
a motor vehicle and having the police put him in jail and throwing away the key might be her greatest claim to fame.
Russ Hall, 2009 Mentor Author, and Jennifer Old, 2009 Aspiring Writer
Micqui Miller always said she wanted to get ahead, which is why she was the first person we turned to when we found the decapitated body.
There was no Lassie to bark to us that Timmy was in the well, and twasn’t a Timmy anyway,
but a Micqui, the now officially late Miqui Miller, and from the way she was tangled up in the rope we had to guess she’d kicked the bucket on the way down.
Lorie Shaw, 2009 Aspiring Writer
Micqui Miller, perfumer to the pop stars, stepped over the rotting corpse in the studio
threshold, crinkled her nose knowingly, and proclaimed, “I think I smell Eau de Mystery.
Sylvia Dickey Smith, 2009 Mentor Author
Micqui hurriedly ran down the long long hallway and dashed into the super hot kitchen that
felt like the oven had been roasting ten pigs wrapped in thermal blankets until she noticed flames shooting out of the refrigerator like Satan had taken up residence and moved in lock
stock and barrel--ahhhhh, her lover finally came to call!
C. L. Phillips, 2009 Aspiring Writer
The north wind blew cold across Micqui's softly lined face as Jake fell from the fifty-first
story hotel balcony while she watched in silent horror at what she had single-handedly done, had meant to do, and now regretted if only for a fleeting moment before she replaced her
revulsion with that little self-satisfied, impish grin that always accompanied these surprising moments in which she knew her killing season had started again without provocation for the
thirty-seventh consecutive year.
Vallie Taylor, 2009 Mentor Author
Detective Norwood stared down at the lifeless female body in the bathtub as he pointed out
to volunteer sleuth Micqui Miller that the fact she was almost totally covered in oatmeal was designed to make law enforcement believe she was giving herself a beauty treatment when
in fact, he confided to wide-eyed Micqui, "This is the work of a well known cereal killer.
Anna Slade, 2009 Aspiring Writer
It was a dark stormy night and Micqui, a really knock-dead gorgeous and lovely young
woman whose boyfriend was a knock-dead gorgeous vampire with super powers, alone in the lovely old house because her beau was busy saving the world, heard a child's cry for help,
jumped out of her lovely silk-sheeted bed, loped upstairs in her lovely pink baby doll pajamas and climbed the rickety attic stairs; too bad she'd left her grandfather’s dead
accurate Glock by the lovely antique nightstand, right next to her boyfriend Slasher's hidden bottle of blood.
George Wilhite, 2009 Mentor Author
Her name was Miller, Micqui Miller--spelled funny and all exotic, like a topless clown stripper,
so that you didn't know whether to laugh or get excited--and they were giving her an award, an award she'd have shunned if she'd only known how much it would cost--$22.95, I think with
the senior discount and state taxes, but taxes are another mystery, one best left for brightly lit daytime talk because they're too damned scary to consider in the dark.
Ricardo White, 2009 Aspiring Writer
In the name of multiple clauses and run-on sentences, with and without commas, I remain
occasionally, though without warning, and also without the blood-stained cloak that I requested, and no heap of male pulchritude upon my doorstep, dead or not, respectfully yours, usually,
Sarah Ann Robertson, Guiding Spirit, really rather most of the time though occasionally not, perhaps sometimes not at all, if only...
Fourth Annual 2009 Best Worst First Line of a Mystery Story Event
Sisters in Crime Heart of Texas Chapter
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