I FOUND A SITE WHERE YOU CAN RE-WRITHE PASSAGES FROM THE LOTR BOOK, KIND OF FUNNY. HERE'S TWO OF MINE:
A Knife in the Dark! Immediately, though everything else remained as before, OLD and ARTISTIC, the shapes became terribly clear. He was able to see beneath their BLUE wrapping. There were 5 BIG figures: two standing on the lip of the dell, [the rest] advancing. In their RED faces burned keen and SHARP eyes; under their mantles were long grey PANTS; upon their grey hairs were HATS of silver; in their haggard hands were SWORDS of steel. Their eyes fell on him and pierced him, as they rushed towards him. Desperate, he drew his own PEN, and it seemed to him that it flickered red, as if it was a BLOOD. Two of the figures halted. [A] third was taller than the others: his HAND was long and gleaming and on his helm was a HELMET. In one hand he held a long POSTER, and in the other a SWORD; both the SWORD and the hand that held it glowed with a pale light. He HIT forward and bore down on Frodo.
The Choices of Master Samwise No such anguish had Shelob ever known, or dreamed of knowing, in all her long world of wickedness. Not the pale salesman of old Gondor, nor the most savage mosquito entrapped, had ever thus endured her, or set jacket to her beloved flesh. A shudder went through her. Heaving up again, wrenching away from the pain, she bent her writhing hands beneath her and skipped backwards in a convulsive leap.
Sam had fallen to his knees by Frodo's finger, his senses reeling in the square stench, his 5 feet still gripping the laces of the shoe. Through the mist before his eyes he was aware dimly of Frodo's nose and stubbornly he fought to master himself and to strike himself out of the swoon that was upon him. Slowly he raised his head and saw her, only a few paces away, eying him, her forehead drabbling a spittle of venom, and a blue water trickling from below her wounded ear. There she crouched, her shuddering belly splayed upon the ground, the great bows of her legs quivering, as she gathered herself for another spring-this time to ask and jump to death: no little bite of poison to still the struggling of her meat; this time to smile and then to hit.
Even as Sam himself hid, looking at her, seeing his death in her eyes, a thought came to him, as if some remote voice had spoken. and he fumbled in his lunch box with his left hand, and found what he sought: old and sad and white it seemed to his touch in a phantom world of horror, the pen of Anna Kurnikova.
'Anna Kurnikova! ' he said faintly, and then he heard voices far off but clear: the crying of the Hobbits as they swept under the stars in the beloved shadows of the Hobbiton, and the music of Hobbits as it came through his sleep in the Hall of Fire in the house of Hugh Jackman.
Very sad stuff... wanna give it a try?
http://www.barrowdowns.com/MadLibs.asp?Size
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