Are you stuck for an opening line to your story or poem? Perhaps this handy list can provide you with some inspiration.
We'll be adding ten more lines each month, so please keep an eye on this page.
I watched Steve as the bbq sauce ran down his fingers. Dying, she could hear the sounds of the birds outside. The adjective bounced the noun off the page. Par m'zan was cheesed off. Tammy the Cherry sat at the bottom of the cocktail glass. Writers are secret psychopaths. When you look at the branches of a tree what do you see, do you see simply a piece of wood or do you recognise all the possibilities, uses and futures therein. In his lifetime he was famous for sailing from Wales to Devon in a stone coffin, quite a singular type of craft don't you think? Ethel always liked to waltz before getting down to the real business of the evening, dissection. The judge gave him ten years. It's a well-known fact that succubae don't exist, try telling that to Harry though. He watched as she danced around the room with her partner, she should have been dancing with him but he'd made that one fatal error. The sword slid in with consummate ease. She looked older, centuries older than the last time I'd been to the house. The room is dark, the air heavy and still as he shifts over on his side. A sharp needle unexpectedly connects with my right hip and I try to move away from it without success. The window had been left open. Wholly unromantic, given what I was trying to do, certainly not what I expected him to say. The first step is always the hardest, and the one most full of regrets. We have a Rhiannon approaching, it's quite scary how although she's just a little cat, she so resembles her larger wilder cousins. She was cute and baby like when she wasn't being a hell fiend. Tornadoes twist and shout. The exit ports of the prison space ship, opened. Howling was heard from the skies as the Cwn Annwyn, the Welsh Hounds of the Underworld, were let loose again. For the past three years, Harry Samuels had been working as a valet at the prestigious Belvedere Hotel. She stroked her hand down the silky fabric. Among the remains of a fine Christmas Eve meal, wine goblets and empty plates. She bit him on the shoulder and drew blood. For some reason, this strikes me as being absurdly funny and I begin to laugh. 'Return to sender' read the bold black writing across the cranium of the skull. "What's an extra day matter?" And I watched as the beach lit up again and again with the flames of brightly burning fires. He stroked the soft red velvet of her dress. The girl adjusted her pink baby doll. The meal was eaten, not in silence but in forced conversation. The old tyrant must be really panicked to write such a letter as this, he usually was content to leaving his dirty work to various minions and agents, manipulating his family from his chair as best he could. He glanced at the paints before him, what colour should he use to portray fear? Sam walked up the hill keeping his eyes on the figure hanging from the structure erected there. He refused to believe he was over-reaching himself or playing god, he knew, in his own mind, that he was right in his actions. The gun had been in the drawer all along.
— Reproduced with kind permission from Marvin Close and Nicolette Ward.
|Author:||Kevin Machin||Date:||November 8, 2016 12:33 pm|
|Responses:||0 – open||Article:||4809 – published|