The opening to my new short story, entitled "Flush."
"Why am I here?" I ask, carefully avoiding the gazes of the two trolls manhandling my wings. You meet their eyes, they take it like a challenge, and it'll take me months to grow the feathers back.
Mister Magic sits his fat ass down on the chair opposite me, lays a hand on each squat thigh, and clucks. Not a human cluck, but a chicken cluck. It's some sort of command to the trolls and it makes my blood run white. Even though I don't speak Trollish, I've had enough unfortunate experience with goons to know when things aren't going well. Never mind that I owe Mister Magic several thousand pounds in gold and my pockets are empty. They know. They checked.
"Cory, Cory, Cory, Cory, Cory," Mister Magic sighs around my name, painting it with colors I don't like. "Cooorrryyyy."
Seriously, I think, only a runt human would call himself Mister Magic. I can feel a feather start to give in my right wing. The faeree goon Pricillian flitters around my face. I want to give it a swat that'll send it into next week. Faerees hate time travel. Get to the fuckin point, I think.
But I don’t say it. I don't do anything. I just sit and sweat.
My friend Carol Berg (author of TRANSFORMATION and ten other books, Mythopoeic Winner, and all around Super Sweet Lady) has some good hints on writing synopses.
Read. Learn. Synopsize.