Category: Opening Lines Page 1 of 8

We all know we’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover (yet, publishing companies spend big bucks on cover design/art and we all do judge them that way). But, the opening sentence(s)/paragraph(s) are fair game. So, when I stumble on a good opening (or remember one and pull it off the shelves), I like to throw it up here (especially if I’m out of time to come up with a post that involves writing on my part).

from Murder by Memory by Olivia Waite:

Near the topmost deck, in a small lift with glass walls and flickering buttons, I, Dorothy Gentleman, ship’s detective, opened a pair of eyes and licked a pair of lips and awoke in a body that wasn’t mine.

It was the nails that first tipped me off. Blank bodies were just that: blank. My nails ought to have been the same color as the skin beneath—in my case, somewhere in a range of pinks, tending to florid.

Not silver, and not shaped.

This body was already inhabited.

My skin—someone’s skin—broke out in gooseflesh. Of course every human body was a horrifying collection of juices and tissues, acids and effluvia poured into a bag with a bunch of long rocks, a shambling accident of biology that made its own mysterious and often frustrating decisions without reference to the mind. They were disgusting miracles, every one. It was always a bit unsettling to wake up in a fresh form, until habit made a home of it.

But someone else’s home, and my self inside it! A nightmare. Imagine going to the washroom to be sick and having someone else’s sick come out.

I came very close to making this more than a metaphor. It took many deep, deliberate breaths for the squeamish feeling to subside.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

We all know we’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover (yet, publishing companies spend big bucks on cover design/art and we all do judge them that way). But, the opening sentence(s)/paragraph(s) are fair game. So, when I stumble on a good opening (or remember one and pull it off the shelves), I like to throw it up here (especially if I’m out of time to come up with a post that involves writing on my part). Today seemed like a good day for this.

from Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury:

First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys. Not that all months aren’t rare. But there be bad and good, as the pirates say. Take September, a bad month: school begins. Consider August, a good month: school hasn’t begun yet. July, well, July’s really fine: there’s no chance in the world for school. June, no doubting it, June’s best of all, for the school doors spring wide and September’s a billion years away.

But you take October, now. School’s been on a month and you’re riding easier in the reins, jogging along. You got time to think of the garbage you’ll dump on old man Prickett’s porch, or the hairy-ape costume you’ll wear to the YMCA the last night of the month. And if it’s around October twentieth and everything smoky-smelling and the sky orange and ash gray at twilight, it seems Halloween will never come in a fall of broomsticks and a soft flap of bedsheets around corners.

But one strange wild dark long year, Halloween came early.

One year Halloween came on October 24, three hours after midnight.

At that time, James Nightshade of 97 Oak Street was thirteen years, eleven months, twenty-three days old. Next door, William Halloway was thirteen years, eleven months and twenty-four days old. Both touched toward fourteen; it almost trembled in their hands.

And that was the October week when they grew up overnight, and were never so young anymore….