Elect Your Favorite First Line

In honor of Michael Crichton and the sad news of his passing, I offer up the DVD film adapted from his novel, Timeline, as a treat for the Vortex First Line winner.

Of course, you knew it would be time travel, didn't you?

Cast your vote in the right sidebar before Sunday, 11pm CST; and yes, you can vote for yourself and more than once. If you'd still like to enter a first line, I'd be happy to add. Here's the photo again:



A: Mac Jennings guided his sixty foot Wellcraft through the Atlantic, thankful for the calm seas.

B: As he saw the great gray orb sprout up between the still-fragile leaves of young barley, old man Grant couldn’t suppress a wry grin. They were right. With good enough fertilizer, you can make anything grow.

C: I was the only witness, at the end of days, when the sun was gone and what was left of the moon settled in a desolate field crackling with the fading energy of a dying ember.

D: In the twilight evening, the moon came down to earth, and I found myself standing in its shadow waiting for the world's destruction to begin.

E: Zoltag clapped his hands in delight. "The new planet's here. The new planet's here."

F: It seemed funny, at the time, to see the world land in my yard, roll forward and squash Marin.

G: Scientists proved that the Spaghettio meatball's properties, when tested on alien soil, were not in accordance with the "Nutritional Information" found on the label.

H: It took thirty hours of driving on rain slick highways, each of us taking a six hour shift behind the wheel in between half-drunk groping in the back of the van or head bobbing to iPod-islands of personal meditation, and then after we ditched the car the stumbling slog through November fields with muddy ruts and stalks and rocks hidden in the night with only the beacon ahead to guide us, the light on the banks of the river and in the shadow of the mountains, some crazy Kinsella-if-you-build-it masterpiece of a bankrupt farmer gone batshit and in glow of this monstrosity looking like God's own Brunswick 16 pound bowling ball all Bobby can say is "Where's the little flag the astronauts left?"

Next week, I tiptoe through the market minefield of old skool Gothic Romance versus this-doesn't-have-nearly-enough-sex-in-it modern market demands and I play detective trying to figure out the mysterious handwriting on an old manuscript. Have a great weekend!