Having little to his name when he died, the Reading of Henry Fromm’s Will went quickly. He hoped to be out the door and on to a new life as fast as possible. The past one hadn't been Pulitzer material, in his view. Racing past the shelf of grammar books, he waved good-by with relief. “'The Reading of Henry Fromm's Will, indeed',” he muttered to himself. “What kind of name was that to stick a fellow with, anyway? “
“Deserved to die stillborn,” a sepulchral voice murmured in his ear. “Would have red-pencilled it at birth, if it had been my sentence.”
The Reading groaned. “I thought I was through with you. What's the point in being dead if you're still around, carping and editing?”
“Grammar is forever,” the voice intoned, with a touch of smugness.
“Oh, but your name is wonderful. It had so much promise!” cooed an enthusiastic voice.
“Ah, my dear Romantical Writer, you are such a pollyanna,” Grammar said loftily.
“'S my middle name,” she sighed coyly.
“Romantical Pollyanna Writer, how euphonious,” Grammar remarked sarcastically.
“You are an old poo,” RPWriter sniffed.
The Reading of Henry Fromm's Will sidled toward the doorway. He could see the bright white light shining through it. He knew that a new life awaited him on the other side, but he had no intention of taking these two with him if he could help it. Now, while they were snipping at each other, was his chance.
He leaped. Before him, the clean, white page rose in its pristine majesty. With a cry of abandonment, The Reading of Henry Fromm's Will flung himself at the page.
There was a moment when time itself held its breath. Then, dizzy with the mental effort of suspending itself, it gasped and opened its eyes.
There on the page was the newborn first sentence. Glorious, pregnant with hope and potentiality.
"That was the best game we've ever had!"
The string of words giggled in sheer relief. He was in quotes! Anything goes in quotes! No Grammar to nit pick him into obscurity. And if old Romantical Pollyana wanted to have a go at him, that was all right, too. She was kind of attractive, in a wimpy kind of way. At least she was more cheerful than some of the other writers who had grasped at him with visions of fame in their beady little eyes.
He settled down to wait.
I wrote this to enter a contest where the first line was specified. It immediately struck me that "The reading of Henry Fromm's Will went quickly" described an object, or entity, and the rest just followed. No, I didn't win.