I'm hanging upside-down from a cliffside by a shoelace-thin piece of rope knotted precariously around my left pant leg, which is on fire, and the only thing that I can think about is how this would be a great place to begin a story. In Medias Res, they call it, which means “into the middle of things”. The point before my certain death by a flaming descent from a massive height should probably be considered a bit more penultimate in the story, or ab iuxta finio, but this does not roll off the tongue quite as well, and when it comes to pillaging dead languages for personal use, sound is the only thing that matters. When human society dies out forever, the great writers of our history will be more or less completely ignored by whatever comes next - but the word “Rofflecopter” might still come up as an expression of amusement in casual conversation.
The pant leg, incidentally, is what is on fire. Not the rope, though that will happen eventually. I can understand how that sentence could be confusing.
The thing about In Medias Res is that it has a lot of punching power. Writers are always looking for that good first sentence, often before they even know what they're writing about, because like all good communicators they know it is best to get to the point first and then marvel at the details later. Questions like Who am I? What's my story? How did I get to this point? are less important than the ones running through my concussed brain at this point, like Will that knot hold?(No), Am I going to die? (Almost certainly), and Doesn't that hurt? (Yes. God, yes).
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