What’s your strongest opening to a story?

[EmilyMiller]

Someone said something nice about At Whorey’s Piers just now and I idly started reading it. I had this “did I write that?” kinda thing going on. All I had remembered about it was the Jersey Shore place name in-jokes.

Here’s the first few paragraphs, just 280 words. Please share an excerpt of your own.

—

Life can sometimes be surreal. That was the thought that flitted across my mind as I stood beneath a giant, plastic pelican, catty-corner from The Blue Grotto, which was far less alluring than its name might suggest. Beneath my bare feet, a languorous, chlorinated flow was hemmed by faux rocks; its surface clogged by transparent toroids, some occupied by somnolent seniors, others, less serenely by skittish youths. Yet more were vacant suggestive of blood cells bleached of their color.

It was in the low nineties and the sun was relentless. In only a few days, my legs had turned a darker shade than at any previous time. Staff legs didn't get a lot of cover in these parts. There were a number of uniforms. Supervisors in khaki shirts with royal blue shorts. Ride operators, for whom the khaki migrated to their shorts, topped with pale blue shirts. And then people like me. A red swimsuit, more at the athletic end of the spectrum than the exhibitionist. When beside, rather than in, the water, a shapeless light gray T. And -- best of all -- a matching red visor, emblazoned with "LIFEGUARD" in white. Sunglasses were not mentioned as being mandatory in the employee handbook, but they might as well have been.

Standing above the masses enjoying their summer vacations, I gripped my float, held my whistle between my teeth, and tried to ignore the various guys using my elevated position as a free upskirting opportunity. This was the Angry Torrents water park on Seafarer's Pier, the middle of the three Whorey's Piers, pride of Feralforest on the South Jersey Shore. And this was my summer job. Eden Baker, lifeguard.

—

Emily

 

[StillStunned]

Probably The Countesses of Tannensdal:

Tannensdal, seen from the train, was as I had expected. Gloomy forests covered brooding mountains along the valley's vast length. Mist ventured out from the safety of crevasses and gorges to send probing fingers oozing up the slopes. Small hamlets stood isolated from each other by dark woodland and steep cliffs and, most likely, centuries of mutual dislike and distrust.

Though it was only a little while past noon, the autumn sun felt pale and weak, like the false smile on a villain's face. I shivered inside my greatcoat, more from the sense of cold indifference that leeched out of the place than from any physical discomfort. It was all a far cry from the soft glow of the Mediterranean, the blazing sunlight of Abyssinia, the sweltering heat of India.

More than half my lifetime I had spent away from Europe, and I had grown unaccustomed to the chill and gloom. Even so, this place in the depths of the Continent seemed a far cry from my fond memories of home: England, with its golden light, its rolling hills, its babbling brooks, its stout folk and cheerful beauties.

For that was another realisation. The people I saw were remarkably close-faced. They stood in the fields along the track, and looked upon the steam locomotive with distaste and incomprehension, as if it were some monster that they regretted welcoming into their valley.

 

[ElectricBlue]

It was the movement that first caught my eye.

That automatic sequence of movements done by muscle memory, repeatedly and without thinking, dexterous and complete - the red nail fingertips of her right hand, several silver rings on her fingers, flipping open the top of the box. One finger aligned the flipped up lid so the angle was right, then two fingers grasped the filter and pulled a cigarette out.

They could have been touching her clitoris, the movements so precise, the purpose so similarly exquisite.

I was three tables away with a direct line of sight.

Garter Belts and Cigarettes

 

[EmilyMiller]

Probably The Countesses of Tannensdal:

That’s super evocative - well done!

Emily

 

[EmilyMiller]

Garter Belts and Cigarettes

A cafe? How surprising. But elegantly minimalist.

Emily

 

[StillStunned]

That’s super evocative - well done!

Emily

Thanks - I'm very fond of the story. I leaned heavily into the Gothic flavour.

 

[visioneer]

Interesting idea for a thread. From my stories, I’ll offer the opening to Bitch Seat Rider: Rule Number Three.

=====
The afternoon sun cast the big Harley's shadow across the simmering asphalt. Not a breath of wind rustled the gnarled mesquites and thirsty creosotes dotting the low hills. A few cottony clouds drifting above the distant mountains spoiled an otherwise ocean blue sky, but their presence heralded the coming desert monsoon that would break the June inferno.

The bike's pillion creaked as Claudia leaned back with her left boot planted on the parched ground and her right leg extended with her heel propped irreverently on the handlebars. She eyed her ex-Marine boyfriend David and rubbed her tattoo. Yesterday, the eyes of the black Celtic dragon entwined around her upper left arm had gained a hint of red ink, lending the beast a surly glare. On the night Claudia had summoned the courage to reveal the tattoo to David's friends, none of their tequila-soaked brains could see the dragon in the ornate design, but everyone could see a snake.

The name stuck, so pretty Veterans Administration nurse Claudia became biker chick Snake whenever she wrapped her legs around her lover's Harley Softail.

 

[Kumquatqueen]

From Wheelchair Bound?
It was the door-frame incident that had really knocked Ali's confidence.
She'd tied me up, as kinky girlfriends do, leather restraints round my wrists and the two buckled together behind my back.

Or a longer one, from Undergraduate Experiments: Drunk:
I was round at a friend's college room, comforting her latest broken heart. I don't know what Laura sees in women, least not the ones she's gone out with. Obviously women in general are glorious. Like her. I told her so, while I was offering to cheer her up totally to the best of my ability, if you know what I mean.

She laughed as she sniffled. "Adrian, no. You're drunk. Pissed as a fucking newt."

I told her, that really wasn't a problem. It wasn't like I'd regret her in the morning or anything. Nor like being half-cut wasn't my normal state of affairs. If I couldn't get it up, that's what a man has a tongue for, right?


Most of my stories are a bit generic for the first paragraph or two. Something to work on.

 

[TarnishedPenny]

From Number 23:

I already knew what the sign on the wall of the rocking, shaking change room would say, but took a minute to read it anyway.

Participants are permitted to leave the bus
with only shoes, socks, hat and glasses or dark glasses.
Participants are specifically not permitted
to take electronic instruments of any kind,
including GPS, watches, phones, cameras, etc.
Good luck!​

Below that, somebody had scrawled in crude letters, Beware of stobor!

I gave Heinlein a wry smile, then braced myself against the walls of the telephone-booth-sized space as the bus slowed suddenly, then swerved to avoid a pothole or something.

 

[Cagivagurl]

Someone said something nice about At Whorey’s Piers just now and I idly started reading it. I had this “did I write that?” kinda thing going on. All I had remembered about it was the Jersey Shore place name in-jokes.

Here’s the first few paragraphs, just 280 words. Please share an excerpt of your own.

—

Life can sometimes be surreal. That was the thought that flitted across my mind as I stood beneath a giant, plastic pelican, catty-corner from The Blue Grotto, which was far less alluring than its name might suggest. Beneath my bare feet, a languorous, chlorinated flow was hemmed by faux rocks; its surface clogged by transparent toroids, some occupied by somnolent seniors, others, less serenely by skittish youths. Yet more were vacant suggestive of blood cells bleached of their color.

It was in the low nineties and the sun was relentless. In only a few days, my legs had turned a darker shade than at any previous time. Staff legs didn't get a lot of cover in these parts. There were a number of uniforms. Supervisors in khaki shirts with royal blue shorts. Ride operators, for whom the khaki migrated to their shorts, topped with pale blue shirts. And then people like me. A red swimsuit, more at the athletic end of the spectrum than the exhibitionist. When beside, rather than in, the water, a shapeless light gray T. And -- best of all -- a matching red visor, emblazoned with "LIFEGUARD" in white. Sunglasses were not mentioned as being mandatory in the employee handbook, but they might as well have been.

Standing above the masses enjoying their summer vacations, I gripped my float, held my whistle between my teeth, and tried to ignore the various guys using my elevated position as a free upskirting opportunity. This was the Angry Torrents water park on Seafarer's Pier, the middle of the three Whorey's Piers, pride of Feralforest on the South Jersey Shore. And this was my summer job. Eden Baker, lifeguard.

—

Emily

I once found a very old book in the library. It was bound with leather and wood.
Now that was a heavy opening...

 

[karina_jayde]

Personally I really like my intro to my fantasy story: Three Hunters, One Heart

No real flowery prose or anything, I just think the first few lines cause the reader to ask questions, which in turn hopefully keeps them reading.

The Archon's command echoed within my mind.

"Kill the beast. Bring me its heart. Purify your unclean blood."

For weeks those cold, cruel words had guided my steps and inflamed my heart with purpose. During my long, lonely trek through the shadowy forest beyond the isolated enclave, I'd even repeated the words aloud to myself, engraving them onto my very soul.

My hope was that it would give the readers questions that could only be answered by reading on. What is the 'beast' that must be killed? Who is the 'Archon' and why is the main character so obsessed with obeying this Archon? Why is the main character's blood 'unclean?' How will killing this beast 'purify' him?

All of those questions get answered fairly quickly within the story, at which point hopefully the readers were hooked enough to keep going.

 

[Rob_Royale]

My recent Skyrim story. Link in my signature line.

The warrior slumped to one knee on the blood-splattered path. Panting, he glanced around looking for further threats, but thank the All-Maker, found none. He surveyed the five bodies that lay strewn around him. He leaned his grandfather's greatsword against his forehead and kissed the blade. The first two road bandits had fallen quickly. Overconfident, they had come towards him close together.

The next three learned from their fallen comrade's mistake and spread out. Those men knew their business and had come at him slowly, shields raised, weapons low. They had been trained well. Their gear was a mismatch of Stormcloak and Imperial armor like most brigands those days.

He lifted his hand from his middle with a grimace and was dismayed by the amount of blood there. He also saw blood oozing from the plates of his layered pauldrons on his left shoulder. He lifted his left arm, and the pain told him that the sword had been sharp and had cut deep.

Planting the point of his sword in the earth he began to heave himself to his feet. Then a searing bolt of pain lanced through his middle and his vision swam. As darkness claimed him, his final thought was that with a civil war being waged here, it had very likely been a poor time to visit Skyrim.

 

[SimonDoom]

I'll offer two.

The opening paragraph of Unwitting Porn Star Wife:

One day, I got the idea to put naked pictures of my wife on the Internet.

It gets right to the point. That's what the story is about. That's about the most succinct beginning to a story that I've written. I generally like to jump into the story quickly, without much exposition.

The opening paragraph of my most popular story, Late Night on the Loveseat with Mom (my most-favorited story, currently number 54 all-time at Literotica):

The mid-summer heatwave enveloped the city for seven days straight. It drove everyone a little crazy. Evening brought some relief, but even as night fell the heat lingered, hours past sunset. With heat so constant and so intense, everything loosened up: clothes, morals, and passions that otherwise would have stayed buried deep.

Maddy Ryerson had long since tired of the heat. It wore her down, a little more each day. She poured herself a glass of chilled white wine and walked with it to the living room. It was 10 p.m. in the Ryerson house, and the family's favorite T.V. show was about to begin.

It sets a mood and a tone and a partial explanation for the incestuous craziness that is about to happen. Plus, I liked that I used only active verbs until the last sentence of the second paragraph.

 

[SofiaLaFrench]

Someone said something nice about At Whorey’s Piers just now and I idly started reading it. I had this “did I write that?” kinda thing going on. All I had remembered about it was the Jersey Shore place name in-jokes.
few

This is the beginning of my current WIP, another ”Encounter” story starring the MFC who called herself Claire in the first installment. Now she calls herself Tiffany.
I’m new to this but I think it’s my best yet. Feedback welcomed.
————————
I’m 400 feet above the Gulf of Mexico, hooting and hollering and waving my arms and legs like a crazy woman. This is such a RUSH! The views up here are amazing. I can see the city, the ship traffic, and even the curvature of the earth. Above me is a parasail, and the bright colors add to my mood. Out front, looking like a tiny toy is the powerful boat that pulls on my harness. The line connecting us looks finer than a human hair where it meets the boat, but here at my harness, I can see how stout it is.

Fort Myers Beach, Florida, is one of my favorite places to visit. Everything a vacationer needs is here: beautiful ocean water, white-sand beaches, restaurants, nightclubs, and resorts. There are even a few secret places tucked away where you can escape all that if you need to. I grew up near the U.S./Canada border, cold AF. My parents are gone, and my siblings all moved away, so I never go back. There’s nothing for me there. In fact, I only venture north of the Mason-Dixon Line from June through August. When I’m here, I’m as close to the ‘real me’ as you will ever find. I relax here, but that doesn’t mean I stop playing my games.

Je t’aime

 

[NotWise]

Made me review my own stories. It's hard to pick one, but they're short so here's a few I remember sweating over:

From Sex and Dinosaurs:

Harlow climbed the sandstone ledge and used her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. She surveyed a vast expanse of barely vegetated rock and sand, bound only by distant blue mountains shimmering on the horizon. It wasn't noon yet, but already the heat had spawned dust devils that danced on the ground and towered into the blue sky.

I stopped the rock drill and took my hat off to wipe away the sweat hanging on my eyebrows and on the tip of my nose, and I watched her. Dana Harlow was long and tan; she was a perfect, sinewy desert rat with sun-bleached hair that just fit into short pony tail.

From Finding the Fourth Girl:

Kate stirred her margarita with her finger then swept her red hair behind her ear and looked around the party. "You shouldn't have a hard time breaking the ice. You've probably slept with half the girls here."

To Seth, that could be good or bad. "There aren't very many girls here. Not yet, anyway. How would you know something like that?"

You know we tell stories, right? Even the ones that don't know you are probably saying, 'Oh yeah, that guy.'"

Seth swigged his beer and turned to look over Kate's shoulder. "That doesn't make me feel great. Is Beth here? Don't believe anything Beth tells you." He watched across the room as a woman separated herself from two men by the piano. She touched one of the caterers to say something, and then her eyes met his. He nudged Kate. "Who's this?"

Kate turned close by Seth's side. "That's Nadia—my boss. It's her party."

From No Brand on My Pony:

I almost overlooked her until she smiled, and then I tipped my Stetson and asked, "How's that cocoa?" Had to say something, right?

To me, she looked like a refugee from some religious cult. She stood on the sidewalk in the glow from a gallery window while snowflakes swirled around her. She nursed her drink, and studied the fanciful landscapes in the display.

"It keeps my hands warm," she said and inhaled the fragrant steam from the cup. "Tastes good, too."

It was a little dark on the sidewalk, but I didn't see any sign of makeup. Her red hair—I thought it was red—hung down the back of her quilted jacket in a long braid, and her flat-heeled shoes barely peeked from under the hem of her dress. I thought she was kinda pretty for a refugee.

From Oscar's Place:

The bus squealed to a stop at the curb and sent dried leaves skittering across the sidewalk. Nick looked up from his phone to see a young woman step out of the bus and wave to the driver. She glanced at Nick then pulled the hood of her cape over her head.

The day started as one of those beautiful fall days. It was crisp in the morning then calm and bright, and not too cool. Now dark clouds in the west hid the sunset. A chill breeze caught the leaves that the bus kicked up and sent them swirling around the woman's high-heeled shoes.

And last, from Escape from Cimarron:

Big Baby Blue was a car built for the long road. Steve sat back with one hand on her wheel, stretched his arm across the back of the seat, and let the sun warm his face. They were almost there--him and that big, old car--and the snowy peaks that grew gradually closer drew a jagged horizon above Cimarron.

Steve rolled to a stop at the hotel where, not long ago, gold miners rubbed shoulders with gun slingers, land barons, and thieves. Dusty pickups lined up along the street, and a row of Harleys leaned on their stands where travelers once tethered their rides.

This last one was difficult to do, because I planned the ending of the story to bookend the beginning, so they had to be in step.

 

[MelissaBaby]

Abby and the Outlaws


Let me start out by sayin' that I did not smother Roy Henderson with a pillow. That was some malarkey his old battle axe of a wife made up because she couldn't stand the notion that her whore mongerin' son of a bitch husband met his maker while some young gal was ridin' his pole. It was just my poor fortune to be the gal ridin' it.

Now, my personal thought on the matter is that he had himself an apoplexy of some sort. He was well known to be a slow squirter, and he put a lot of strain into the deed. If you ask me, he should've been charged extra for all the time he took, but there ain't no point to makin' that argument now.

Whatever reason he went to meet his maker, it weren't my fault. I fuck good, but I ain't never fucked a fella to death.

But the widow made the claim, although smotherin' a customer who paid me regular don't make no sense. I reckon nobody truly believed her, but she had just come heir to the second biggest cattle ranch in the territory, so that senile old coot Judge Vickers bought her story like it was five cent whiskey, slammed down his gavel and told me I had to hang by my neck until I was dead.

 

[EmilyMiller]

Thanks - I'm very fond of the story. I leaned heavily into the Gothic flavour.

A bit Mary Shelley I think - that’s meant to be a compliment

Emily

 

[SofiaLaFrench]

Someone said something nice about At Whorey’s Piers just now and I idly started reading it. I had this “did I write that?” kinda thing going on. All I had remembered about it was the Jersey Shore place name in-jokes.

Here’s the first few paragraphs, just 280 words. Please share an excerpt of your own.

—

Life can sometimes be surreal. That was the thought that flitted across my mind as I stood beneath a giant, plastic pelican, catty-corner from The Blue Grotto, which was far less alluring than its name might suggest. Beneath my bare feet, a languorous, chlorinated flow was hemmed by faux rocks; its surface clogged by transparent toroids, some occupied by somnolent seniors, others, less serenely by skittish youths. Yet more were vacant suggestive of blood cells bleached of their color.

It was in the low nineties and the sun was relentless. In only a few days, my legs had turned a darker shade than at any previous time. Staff legs didn't get a lot of cover in these parts. There were a number of uniforms. Supervisors in khaki shirts with royal blue shorts. Ride operators, for whom the khaki migrated to their shorts, topped with pale blue shirts. And then people like me. A red swimsuit, more at the athletic end of the spectrum than the exhibitionist. When beside, rather than in, the water, a shapeless light gray T. And -- best of all -- a matching red visor, emblazoned with "LIFEGUARD" in white. Sunglasses were not mentioned as being mandatory in the employee handbook, but they might as well have been.

Standing above the masses enjoying their summer vacations, I gripped my float, held my whistle between my teeth, and tried to ignore the various guys using my elevated position as a free upskirting opportunity. This was the Angry Torrents water park on Seafarer's Pier, the middle of the three Whorey's Piers, pride of Feralforest on the South Jersey Shore. And this was my summer job. Eden Baker, lifeguard.

—

Emily

I like it! After the first paragraph of knew the setting was a water park. Then I picture a colorful cast, with the MFC being a lifeguard in the classic red athletic one-piece. In just those few paragraphs I’m transported to someplace familiar. I can smell the chlorine and hear the kids yelling.

 

[EmilyMiller]

The afternoon sun cast the big Harley's shadow across the simmering asphalt. Not a breath of wind rustled the gnarled mesquites and thirsty creosotes dotting the low hills. A few cottony clouds drifting above the distant mountains spoiled an otherwise ocean blue sky, but their presence heralded the coming desert monsoon that would break the June inferno.

A sense of place for sure

Emily

 

[EmilyMiller]

It was the door-frame incident that had really knocked Ali's confidence.
She'd tied me up, as kinky girlfriends do, leather restraints round my wrists and the two buckled together behind my back.

Hey we have doorframe bondage in common

Emily

 

[countdowntolov3]

Mel and I arrive at Rude Food only thirteen minutes late. Which is practically punctual for us. I'm already livestreaming as we enter the dark little restaurant. I can feel Mel's annoyance as I point my phone at the friendly hostess who takes our reservation, and ushers us to the establishment's sole table. I know my streaming bothers people, but what they never seem to understand is that the staff here is temporary. After our meal, we'll never see them again. But the views. The views are forever.

 

[EmilyMiller]

From Number 23:

That’s intriguing

 

[EmilyMiller]

Personally I really like my intro to my fantasy story: Three Hunters, One Heart

No real flowery prose or anything, I just think the first few lines cause the reader to ask questions, which in turn hopefully keeps them reading.



My hope was that it would give the readers questions that could only be answered by reading on. What is the 'beast' that must be killed? Who is the 'Archon' and why is the main character so obsessed with obeying this Archon? Why is the main character's blood 'unclean?' How will killing this beast 'purify' him?

All of those questions get answered fairly quickly within the story, at which point hopefully the readers were hooked enough to keep going.

I agree that it leaves you wondering stuff…

Emily

 

[SofiaLaFrench]

Probably The Countesses of Tannensdal:

I picture an Eastern European country, dark and damp. The government buildings would be Brutalist architecture, and the residential areas would be primarily rundown but previously beautiful structures.

 

[EmilyMiller]

One day, I got the idea to put naked pictures of my wife on the Internet

That’s almost Kafkaesque