Come and post your opening lines...

Sounds fun. Before I got really, really, really sick I wrote the first draft of a werewolf in antarctica story. Maybe I'll go back to it someday.

Antarctica, June 21st, 1983.

A month from now the region will reach its lowest temperature in recorded history: eighty nine Celsius in the negative; a novelty a month too late for there to be anyone left in the frozen bowl to record it. Beneath the Antarctic Ice the shadows of men grow tall and thin. It is here the Miskatonic Institute cowers beneath ice and steel, cocooned around the nadir of Earth itself. It stays standing, while everyone within it falls.

Morella Read was there to watch it fall. With hope, she would remain long enough to see it burn.It looked like snow, fluttering down from the high ceiling of darkness above. But she knew it wasn’t; so digested by the metal beast of the institute, only ash fell from these ceilings. Ash and blood. A limp brought her down the snowing corridor, the flakes coming to rest upon an encounter that preceded her. Water trickled through gaps in the metal grating at her feet, around her, blackened corpses with mouths stretched wide and fingers curled into arthritic claws. She didn’t care; the capacity drifted out of her mind days ago
 
I only have one story started (and it's been sitting for a while) but I think I started it OK.

Dawn wasn't quite sure what to do with herself at this point. The moment she informed her father she had a full-ride scholarship to Ricard Academy, he went ballistic. Her father was a two-star general in the Pentagon and had always planned to find some nice officer to set her up with because he didn't like the idea of his daughter out in the world alone. One of the traits that made Major General Robert H. Benson so skilled with Army politics was the fact that he was a micromanaging control freak. He had no intention of letting her off lightly. Since her mother passed when she was young, Dawn and her father had always butted heads. At the end of the fight, he was ballistic with rage and she was homeless and disowned.
 
uppitygracie said:
I only have one story started (and it's been sitting for a while) but I think I started it OK.

Dawn wasn't quite sure what to do with herself at this point. The moment she informed her father she had a full-ride scholarship to Ricard Academy, he went ballistic. Her father was a two-star general in the Pentagon and had always planned to find some nice officer to set her up with because he didn't like the idea of his daughter out in the world alone. One of the traits that made Major General Robert H. Benson so skilled with Army politics was the fact that he was a micromanaging control freak. He had no intention of letting her off lightly. Since her mother passed when she was young, Dawn and her father had always butted heads. At the end of the fight, he was ballistic with rage and she was homeless and disowned.
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He didnt like the idea of his daughter being out on her own so he kicked her out on her own? o_O
 
Mordredaggrfall said:
The whispers caused me to freeze in place. They were both distant and near. As if they were coming from in my own head. I carefully scanned the surroundings woods, trying to ignore the occasional bird. I focused on my right, the side had a slightly slope down. They seem to become fainter the longer I stared that way.

When I did the same to the left, they grew louder. I followed them into the forest. Some parts getting clearer, while others were still garbled. The leaves crunched as I pushed branches out of my way.

I stopped in front of an old cabin. They were the loudest here. I quietly moved around the old wooden cabin, long forgotten, looking for the door. I stopped as soon as I found it. I contemplated for a second. My former friend's words and warnings replaying in my head. I walked up to the door and opened it. The whispers became even louder. They were almost like a woman was talking. I stepped in, the whispers quieting down, as I spotted something shining. It was a jeweled amulet. Grabbing it, caused the whispers to stop.

You don't know want to know how many times I rewrote that...and if it helps, the story is a witch (the POV/protag) and her sister trying to 'summon' a Succubus (explained later on). But there is either very little of this type of story or there is none at all, so I had nothing to draw from.
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The scene seems a bit confusing to me.

Does she see a bird? I could imagine that you mean the sound of birds, so I would use "chirp" instead. Though as it seems that this is meant to be a "cursed" place, I would rather recommend making it more mystic and rather mention that she realizes that she hasn't heard a bird for several minutes.

Instead of walking, you could use other verbs that sound slower and less like it's a casual stroll.

It seems that the whispers in her head are caused by the amulet. If it is possessed by some entity who wants her to take the amulet, you could change the way of the whispers in her head. When she heads towards the shack, the whispers could be alluring. If she tries to get away, the whispers could sound agitated or angry.

The closeness could also be indicated by the colors of the wood, the brightness/darkness of the surroundings, or the presence/absence of life.

The shack could be covered by thick ivy. Some kind of "front entry porch" could indicate where the door should be and when she steps on it, there could be a rotten creaking. Pulling the door open could create a creepy sound as well.

For the part where the whispers appear to be a woman's voice, you could use word fragments instead of just telling it. I could imagine "yes" or "gether/gather" from "together" (You could just think of what the voice might say and then scrap everything that would reveal too much.


They're just suggestions given the present material and I don't know if any of it makes sense in the overall context of your story.
 
uppitygracie said:
Dawn wasn't quite sure what to do with herself at this point. The moment she informed her father she had a full-ride scholarship to Ricard Academy, he went ballistic. Her father was a two-star general in the Pentagon and had always planned to find some nice officer to set her up with because he didn't like the idea of his daughter out in the world alone. One of the traits that made Major General Robert H. Benson so skilled with Army politics was the fact that he was a micromanaging control freak. He had no intention of letting her off lightly. Since her mother passed when she was young, Dawn and her father had always butted heads. At the end of the fight, he was ballistic with rage and she was homeless and disowned.
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Might sound odd as suggested before. But you need two to fight, and strong emotions can lead to rash words.

Personally, I don't like the kind of beginning where the character's whole life is squeezed into a paragraph or two. (Or ten pages)
I could imagine the story starting when Ms. Ricard talks to her or when Dawn is waiting at the academy.
In the latter case, she could read the name of the school and remember excerpts of the fight with her daddy and what they did to each other. (If the relationship to her father actually matters.)

If it's all about "I'm homeless and disowned," I could also imagine her watching out of a car window while she hitchhikes to the academy.
She could be sad and some talk with the driver could reveal a little of what happened before.
The reader might feel with her instead of reading a report of what happened.
 
uppitygracie said:
Dawn wasn't quite sure what to do with herself at this point. The moment she informed her father she had a full-ride scholarship to Ricard Academy, he went ballistic. Her father was a two-star general in the Pentagon and had always planned to find some nice officer to set her up with because he didn't like the idea of his daughter out in the world alone. One of the traits that made Major General Robert H. Benson so skilled with Army politics was the fact that he was a micromanaging control freak. He had no intention of letting her off lightly. Since her mother passed when she was young, Dawn and her father had always butted heads. At the end of the fight, he was ballistic with rage and she was homeless and disowned.
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I echo gene.sis on this. I feel each sentence could spawn a small paragraph of snapshots into Dawn's recent past. What I instinctively imagine is she's going somewhere or allowing herself to drift to somewhere, and along the way small events, small conversations and exchanges, looks at other people, looks at the environment all continually remind her of the path that led her here - wherever here is. And that I would love to read.
 
This is from the very first story I ever posted on CHYOA. It makes me laugh.

It's hot as shit and my dick's hard. It aint right but I can't help it. Even though she's asleep I try not to stare. Mom's laid out on the couch in a loose red, sleeveless shirt. Well it's mostly loose. It's a bit tight around the chest. And damp from sweat. I see her nipples poking through the dark fabric. Her body is almost shiny with sweat. God. I'm sweating too.
 
Deadedge said:
This is from the very first story I ever posted on CHYOA. It makes me laugh.

It's hot as shit and my dick's hard. It aint right but I can't help it. Even though she's asleep I try not to stare. Mom's laid out on the couch in a loose red, sleeveless shirt. Well it's mostly loose. It's a bit tight around the chest. And damp from sweat. I see her nipples poking through the dark fabric. Her body is almost shiny with sweat. God. I'm sweating too.
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That's so apt and funny it's brilliant. Buckle up, this story is getting there *fast* is the vibe and I love it lol.

None of my stories have particularly clever, interesting or well written beginnings honestly. I'm usually too focused on getting the plot lined up to worry about the 'hook' of the introduction and it's a shortcoming. Something to think about more for the next story, at least. :)

But here is a typical one:

The club, the Paradise Gentlemen’s Club, was a large commercial building with a slightly off-kilter exterior. An expansive parking lot surrounded it, as they did many other buildings in the area, but the windowless structure had some ancient Greek style columns and faux-marble steps to go along with the large “PARADISE” sign. Nothing else indicated that it was in fact one of the larger and more successful gentlemen’s clubs in the Chicago area.

Getting out of his Uber, Joe looks around and grins sheepishly. The Paradise had been the most tantalizing, most incredible thing around when he had grown up as a teenage boy not 10 minutes away. But now, this imposing building on the side of the road beside I-394 and the Lincoln Highway south of Chicago just seems tacky and out of place, surrounded by empty fields, shipping companies and a few service roads. In the distance, a big rig rumbles out of a yard toward the interstate.

“Well, I’m here now,” he shrugged to himself as he started walking up to the bored bouncers at the front door.
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