First Line Story
So, hubby has a wee bit too much time on his hands these days, and he too wondered what kind of story all of the first lines would make, and voila! Here it is, and I must say it’s quite entertaining!
He came to her in the deep of the night as he always did, a breath of sea-tinged mist along her skin, whisper-soft and damp like a lover’s lips. The culinary Casanova was at it again. Ziva’s tongue unrolled from her mouth, the forked end tasting, smelling the environment.
Thick clouds of steam puffed out of manhole covers and sewer grates, making it extra hard for Henry to see while driving in the dark. Silence in the idling Cadillac grew as stale as the gunpowder in the air. “Your sperm canister will be shipped… Did you just have an orgasm?”
“Okay, if everybody’s here, we’ll head on down to Betsy Ross’ house where she lived and worked when sheâ€“ You want me to do what?” Ainsley asked, nearly choking on her tea. “I wish alcohol didn’t exist.”
“That man would have taken you off my hands had you shown one iota of intelligence.” The mansion loomed eerily through the swirling mist, a sinister shadow against the backdrop of a storm darkened sky. His life consisted of death. Traveling through time hurts, at least for the broker. She was going to die.
“Hey, Sexy! Want to get naked with me?” Jackson Taylor’s toes clenched as he came abruptly awake, the left side of his body shivering. Sin in stilettos hunted him. How could her friend bring her to such a barbaric event? Only a few cars remained outside “The Hood,” the Sacramento dance club Bryn Donovon and her best friend Christine Lucas had decided to try out along with a bunch of other college kids.
Darkness did not fall gently this day. Lacey knew the moment she opened her eyes that something was wrong. The piercing pain in her chest grew worse, but she couldn’t stop running. Sometimes even a bounty hunter needed a night off, especially one on the hunt for a wayward Gypsy prince.
Dominique woke to the souls of her Carib ancestors demanding payment in food. “Who—What—oh God!” It was feeding time and humans were the only thing on the menu. “What do you mean I’m not on your list? I am the Keeper of Paradise, Purgatory and Hell.” Fate had painted a bull’s-eye on my back.
I wobbled into my apartment, legs wide, as if I’d spent the last seven hours on a horse. Jill tried to stand straighter, though the handcuffs bit into her wrists. The man holding the gun to her head didn’t know what she was capable of. He brought four items to their first date: a spray of orange roses, because he knew they were her favorite flower; a duffle bag containing a change of clothing; three condoms to capture any stray DNA; and a freshly sharpened hunting knife. Blind dates were the work of the devil.
“Zeus has summoned you.”
“I suppose there’s no turning back now?” There was no smashing of vases or maniacal yelling. I squeezed the trigger, the noise of the gun deafening in the confined space of the elevator. Blood dripped down the courthouse steps. It may sound odd, but sometimes moments in life seem to have a distinct smell. That’s where the body is.
“He’s dying.” The young prince was going to die. The man slouched on the edge of the bed, his fingers clutching the deadly syringe hidden in his jacket pocket. Nadia Reynolds’ cheatin’ SOB of a husband had dumped her for a twenty-something with plastic tits, telling Nadia he didn’t find her attractive any longer. Ephraim MacNeill would kill anyone who stood in his way.
The warmth of the desert vanished under a shroud of bone-chilling twilight. Christine’s night took an unexpected turn. A thousand years of unrest shall pass, while evil lurks and those on the outside must live without refuge.
“They have a two-hundred thirty year head start and I thought I could find them?” Lady Emma Caulfield whispered. A handâ€“oh God, she hoped it was a handâ€“gripped her ankle like a vise and tugged. Her limp hands distended toward the small waves and then she went under.
“We have a visual on the boat,” Coast Guard Lt. Commander Jake Carver reported. I had boarded the boat for Hades. It was going to be a dark and stormy night once Hurricane Lex stopped flirting with the coast and got his hands down Savannah’s pants. It was the best day of Phyrne’s life, even before landing on earth five days ago.
The hate mail started Monday morning. Guilty or not, Leonardo faced a death sentence. I expected to be jittery, that was only natural under the circumstances, what I didn’t expect was to freak out in front of thousands of TV viewers. I will not bore you with the myriad details of precisely how my situation came to pass, and the various indignities of my day-to-day-existence. Looking back, my mid-life crisis began on a Tuesday in March, right there on aisle twelve of the local supermarket between the laxatives and the condoms. Seven lockers down, my boyfriend was making out with Cheryl, the way-too-perky head cheerleader. I hissed when I saw it, my gut coiling, hide crawling in alarm. If she’d been a bad girl when she had the chance, she probably wouldn’t be dying right now.
“What do you mean, You can’t be alone with me? Have you ever had sex in an elevator?” Susan shouted, bolting up in bed. It came to Nick Holloway, gradually, that he was lying on cold, hard concrete. They had been in the interrogation room for twelve hours straight.
The last servant brought tea that morning arranged on a lacquered tray before fleeing. The best thing about being an heiress â€“ the low expectations. The blood on her hands trickled down between shaky fingers. A lone figure stood in the shadows of an abandoned warehouse, watching. Grace Carlton cocked the rifle and lodged it against her shoulder.
Megan Trent jerked out of a deep sleep at the sound of her clock radio turning on and off by itself in a rapid beat of white noise and eerie silence. My name is Isadora Macleod and I am haunted. Ghostly images floated before her eyes. The only super natural thing in this salt-water town is the crazy lady on Center Street who claims she can predict the future. Daisy wasn’t real.
“Oh, hell,” Brit Roberts snapped when the ringing phone on her kitchen wall stopped her in her tracks at seven AM. “Even Jane Eyre found her Mr. Rochester.”
The Lord of Harmeswood was a madman and a murderer, and Alexandrina Whitsett was headed straight for his house. Even two hundred yards away in near-whiteout conditions, Locklen Roane saw the red Accord careening too fast down Highway 145.
There was not much that could shock Nathan Ryder, the current Earl of Kingston, or so he had always thought. Cold trembling fingers reached out to trace the letters engraved on the headstone, the chilly marble slab the only tangible link to the family Jolene still missed. Sitting in a graffiti-smeared cell on a Sunday afternoon wasn’t what Molly Hicks would call a good way to end a weekend.