Authors and Their Books: Post the first paragraph (only!) of your book

[Mathieu]

I'm hoping to spur some interest in indie/emerging authors by having a discussion thread where those willing can post the first paragraph of their work. Could also be useful to hook readers or get input on what works... and what doesn't. Please, one paragraph only!

I'll start. This is the first paragraph to my debut novel, the Outage Series Book One: Darkness Falls

It starts as a twinkling speck of light, indistinguishable from the countless others like it peppering the vast expanses of the cosmos. But as I observe it, my forehead pressed to the porthole of thick glass and my eyes straining to make out any detail, this point of light means much more than all of the others combined. What sets it apart from the rest, as far as I’m concerned, is that it is home, a planet called Earth, a place nearly forgotten. The ship’s computer describes it as a rocky planet, third out from an average sized, middle-aged orange star in a solar system about two-thirds of the way to the edge of the galaxy. The idea of seeing it up close intrigues me, but it also scares the hell out of me. My name is Robert Jones Hendricks. I am a member of the species known as human. I have not seen my home in more than one hundred and fifty-three years.

[Richard]

Great beginning, Mathieu.

The two bits that really drew me in were:

. . . , a place nearly forgotten.

Adding this tidbit as a throwaway clause at the end of the sentence made it especially potent. Bravo.

and, obviously, the last line:

I have not seen my home in more than one hundred and fifty-three years.


Here's mine. It's the first line of THE MOON COIN:

Ebb Autumn stood tall and slender in his coat of many pockets. He was wearing his world-traveling clothes, and while the items in his many pockets normally remained private, tonight he had presents.

Terrific idea for a topic! Thanks for the invitation to share. (I'll post the first paragraph of the second book later on. I don't want to be a hog.)

Cheers!

[Mathieu]

Thanks, Richard! I liked yours as well. What wonders could possibly be contained in all those pockets?
If the character is anything like me, he carries his whole life in there!

[Nancy]

I should post something from the mysteries I write but you can read them ( and at least the first chapter)at http://www.goodreadmysteries.com so here's the start of my change-of-pace-book that is in process.

My name is Margaret Sybil Broadly Benson (nee Spencer) but you can call me Mags. I should tell you I’ve been married three times, not twice, but the last guy, Jimmy Hooper, hardly counted. We were only married for five months before he died. I didn’t even bother to change my name, not that I would have because Henry Benson was the love of my life and I wasn’t about to give up his name, especially not for a little marriage of convenience like my last husband was. You don’t have to become my friend to call me Mags; I’m Mags to everyone: friend and foe alike.

[Cheryl]

Great thread, Mathieu!


*****************************

Here is the first line from my fantasy book, POOL OF SOULS:

The mare sounded apologetic but urgent. I’m sorry to disturb you, Caz, but I think
you should know that someone is trying to steal me.

*****************************

And, the first paragraph from my fantasy book, WIND AND FIRE:

Against a blood-red sky streaked with flashes of lightning stood a giant figure, silent and terrible, arms outstretched in a triumphant gesture towards the sky. Hot ashes, borne on a wailing wind, fell like sooty rain around the figure as hungry flames licked at its feet.

[David]

Here is the first paragraph of my latest book, MAN HUNT:

The picket gates swing open, rusted hinges screeching in protest. Flickering orange-yellow light from oil lanterns illu-minates walls of adobe brick slathered with a thick layer of brown mud. A tan jenny mule with dark brown mane and tail and a brown stripe running down her backbone emerges through the gate and out into the star-lit darkness beyond. Riding the mule is a small man dressed in homespun wool pants, a buckskin shirt and a bearskin coat. He leads a contin-gent of horse-mounted soldiers. It is an unusual time for a pa-trol to leave Fort Garland, just after midnight October 12, 1863. The protesting gates close slowly. The interior parade grounds of the fort and a uniformed officer standing, hands on hips, disappear from view.

[Geoff]

First para for Ice King;

The masthead of the Margaret Rose was bathed in the ghostly blue glow of St Elmo’s fire. The light danced and sizzled as First Mate, William King, breathed a sigh of relief. The eerie light was a sign that the storm was abating.

[Sandra]

Here's the first sentence from my mystery novel, FALSE IMPRESSIONS:

If I'd known I would be visiting the morgue just weeks after I saw my husband sitting with Pam at Pueblo's Café, I'd have gone over to say hello that sunny Monday afternoon in July and maybe changed destiny.

[Forrest]

Here's the first paragraph from the novel I'm currently working on, SOLISTALGIA. Note that this is still a work in progress!

When the world now known as Stockholm 5 was terraformed, the transformation was incomplete. Things did not quite go according to plan. Despite all the early efforts of extrasolar frontiersmen on the surface and scientists overlooking the project from a half-dozen satellites orbiting above, not all of the changes “took”. The planet still held its share of native species, each tenaciously carving out and vigorously defending its ecological niche. Some compromised, hybridizing with the invasive species that man first introduced to the admittedly remote world. Others stubbornly refused to change, resisting even the genetic imperative to adapt through mutation, surviving through sheer force of biological will against the tides of change. It was mainly this force, this persistent struggling versus the alien interpolations of man, that allowed them to maintain their purity.

[Stuart]

Here is the first paragraph of the novel I have just released: The Bird That Nobody Sees -

"It begins with a washing machine. And it ends with angels..."

[Richard]

Stuart:

I like it, but it feels to me like it could use a tiny push. Something like:

"It begins with a busted washing machine. And it ends with angels..."

Or dented or leaking or whatever. And if you're going for comedy, I'd add a little something to those angels too: "And it ends with one really pissed off choir of angels."

But if you're not going for comedy, then I'd nix the pissed off angels. :)

[Stuart]

Cheers for the advice Richard! The book certainly has comedy in it but it builds as it progresses. I was kind of going for statements of fact with regard to the washing machine and the angels with the novel telling the story in between! It's a strange old book my friend!

[Chester]

Here's the opening of my Post Cold War thriller

VIENNA - LATE OCTOBER 1991
Chapter 1

Few lights glowed in the long dining room, giving it a subdued look similar to that on the face of the sullen restaurateur who stood beside the elegant table. Dark shadows reflected in the large, gilt-framed mirrors that lined one wall. Shattering the austere silence, a chilling rain raked the peaked roof with a blustery tirade. All in all, it struck Otto Bergen as anything but a promising afternoon.

[Jeff]

Love's True Second Chance

July 20th, 2009 7:00am I held her hand and kissed her face with the arrival of
a sunny beautiful morning, hoping for a miracle. The shift change for nurses and
doctors was in full swing. Staff checking in, charts being reviewed, doctors and
nurses exchanging information; vital signs being verified. Debbie’s breathing is very
labored as it had been for the last twenty four hours. I never knew if each breath
would be her last. The cancer was running its course through her beautiful body at a
terrible pace. An aide came in to change the sheets and clean her up. She asked if I
would like her to wash Debbie's hair. I pondered the thought for a minute looking at
the love of my live and replied in a hushed, choked tone, “She would like that. How
long will it take you to change her bed and wash her hair?” She said about fifteen
minutes. I stepped out of the room and called her friend Cathey to get an estimated
time of arrival. She assured me she would be at the hospital within thirty minutes.

[Jeff]

Occupation

For centuries, the Romanovs and Boirarskys fought each other not just for territorial and domination rites in Southern Poland, but also for the local food supply. After many brief but extremely brutal bloody battles between the clans, which achieved only scars and death, the leaders of the clans, Gregori Boirarsky and Ivan Romanov sat down and agreed to end their fruitless battles. They also approached the governors of the local villages they fed on and proposed a treaty. The clans would share feeding rights on a monthly basis. No member of either clan would be in any of the villages at the same time. The governors agreed they would give up their sick, dying, infirmed, and criminal elements. In exchange, the children and the healthy individuals would be left alone to live fruitful productive lives in peace.

[Richard]

Here's the opening paragraph for THE DRAGONDAIN, the 2nd book in the Moon Realm Series.

Jasper understood nightmares. Drowning, tumbling about in darkness, not being able to breathe—or just being afraid to breathe—these were all fair game in the realm of nightmares. The weirdest thing about this dream, though, was that he really thought he was wide awake. Of course, he'd had those dreams before, too: the lucid ones—dreams so real they were just like being awake.

[Howard]

My newest Epic Fable, PIERCING THE ELASTIC LIMIT has lots of true history & that aspect of this Time Traveling SiFi adventure has gotten the most feedback & been the most gratifying.

Here's the beginning of the first chapter:

Caesar was displeased and it was most evident. This was a unique happenstance, for the great man was well known for being expert at possessing a stiff and unreadable, grand and imposing demeanor. Not today.

[Jeff]

Chester wrote: "Here's the opening of my Post Cold War thriller

VIENNA - LATE OCTOBER 1991
Chapter 1

Few lights glowed in the long dining room, giving it a subdued look similar ..."

Good opening statement. Sets a stage of gloom and worry.

[Jeff]

Geoff (Scouse) wrote: "First para for Ice King;

The masthead of the Margaret Rose was bathed in the ghostly blue glow of St Elmo’s fire. The light danced and sizzled as First Mate, William King, breathed a sigh of relie..."

An excellent chilling scene.

[Mathieu]

We're getting some good stuff here, for sure. Keep it up, folks. Show us what you're made of!

[Ginger]

El Rey: A Novel of Renaissance Iberia
16th century love story set in Portugal and Castile.

1581

The alarming boom of cannonfire resounded across the rolling green plains of the island, shattering the quiet of the peaceful summer morning. The old woman sat in her chair next to a roaring fire. It was the last week of July, the sun already blazing in the midmorning sky, but that made no difference to her tired old body. Nothing she did lately seemed to warm it.

[Christa]

Mathieu wrote: "I'm hoping to spur some interest in indie/emerging authors by having a discussion thread where those willing can post the first paragraph of their work. Could also be useful to hook readers or get ..."

Thanks for the great post. Good first paragraph and great first and last sentences. It begins with an expansive view, which in the end is brought to the human level. I love the last two sentences. Very moving: "I am a member of the species known as human. I have not seen my home in more than one hundred and fifty-three years."
Christa

[Mathieu]

Christa wrote: "Mathieu wrote: "I'm hoping to spur some interest in indie/emerging authors by having a discussion thread where those willing can post the first paragraph of their work. Could also be useful to hook..."

Thanks, Christa! Let's hope it translates into sales at some point. LOL. This independent author path is a hard slog. Do you have anything of your own to submit?

[Christa]

Here is the beginning paragraph of my family/love story "An Uncommon Family":

"Karla licked the crispy cone, trying to catch the sliding droplets before they hit the ground. The raspberry ice cream was a dark purple, her favorite color. She wrinkled her nose as she caught another whiff of exhaust from the busy street along the Limmat River in the city of Zurich. It was August and hot in Switzerland."

[Mathieu]

Christa wrote: "Here is the beginning paragraph of my family/love story "An Uncommon Family":

"Karla licked the crispy cone, trying to catch the sliding droplets before they hit the ground. The raspberry ice crea..."

Good work, Christa. It's a well written scene that immediately feels familiar to me... that's why I try to get my ice-cream in a bowl instead of fighting the clock to eat it before it ends up on the ground. LOL

[Christa]

Mathieu wrote: "Christa wrote: "Here is the beginning paragraph of my family/love story "An Uncommon Family":

"Karla licked the crispy cone, trying to catch the sliding droplets before they hit the ground. The ra..."

Yep, it has happened to me before. LOL.

[Minnie]

Thanks, Rick.

Chapter One

Mother Belle’s casket glistened, poised over the pit, a blur. Brianna rubbed tears from her eyes, blinking the awful sight into focus. She whimpered in a low tone. The edges of the funeral canvas cried ceaselessly at its edges, assuming the chore that pat wet as her sorrow. Before her, the life that had brought her into the world: Belle Deville.

Whispers from the Mirror



Minnie E Miller

[Ian]

A great idea Mathieu

It didn't happen overnight like it did in The Dawn of the Dead. Nobody got off work, went home, fell asleep, and woke up to a neighborhood full of zombies, but we were all caught off guard just the same. Of course, in the grand scheme of things, the week or so that it took for the world as we all knew it to end wasn't a lot of time. Still, no one really saw it happening as it did, but we might have if we'd been paying attention.

Zombie Apocalypse 2012: A Political Horror Story

[Minnie]

Mathieu wrote: "I'm hoping to spur some interest in indie/emerging authors by having a discussion thread where those willing can post the first paragraph of their work. Could also be useful to hook readers or get ..."

Exciting opening, Mathieu.

[Geoff]

An excellent chilling scene.

Jeff

Thank you

[Dave]

Here is the first paragraph:

It had become her predicament, this Fort Mitchell neighborhood. It was not what Connie had imagined for herself as she grew up like a wildflower on horseback, a few miles deeper into Kentucky. She was used to being the epicenter of the earthquakes she started, controlled, and manipulated for her own pleasure. Damn this neighborhood! And everything it had begun to stand for.

[Mark]

George W. Hamilton USMC: America's Greatest World War I Hero

Centennial events surrounding WWI will give Americans a unique opportunity to reflect once again upon a war we have learned to forget. In its time the first global war was known as the Great War, the war to end all wars. A war today, overshadowed not only by the preceding Civil War, but by WWII and other wars to follow.

Mark Mortensen

[Mathieu]

"The war to end all wars." What optimism! Do you think they really believed it?
I guess they just didn't do it right, so we had to spend the rest of the 20th Century working on perfecting it.
Now in the 21st, we can kill as many people as died in that entire war with the push of a button. Thirty minutes and it's done (well-done.) Ah, Progress. Where would we be without you?

[Bryan]

Mathieu, thanks for this post (yeah, just found it!)

Here are a the opening paragraphs from my novels:

Jaxxa Rakala: The Search

Blinding light slips through Ken Brody's bedroom window, consuming everything from visibility. He tries to open his eyes but it’s as if he were looking directly into the sun as it races toward Earth in a mad pursuit to end everything.

-----------------------------

Year of the Songbird

The scent of smoke that came with the man who called himself Grayland was oddly familiar. It was more dense and pungent than the aroma of the natural flame to which I had become accustomed, having spent many peaceful moments sharing stories with my family in front of the fire during the cold nights of winter. But the richness of its fragrance infused me with the sensation of an opaque memory—a ghost of a life before the time of remembrance. I shuddered to even consider the possibility that my kinship, for whom I loved among all else, may not be my native home and that perhaps this man—the first man to have ever come from outside our land—was from a place before time. Then again, the thought of such a truth was intoxicating and left me pleasantly euphoric.

You may also read longer samples as well by clicking to the page.

[Jeff]

Wednesday, March 6th 10:00am, 2015

“General!” yelled a jubilant Professor Skorzenzy into the 400” LG overhead wide screen. “The machine works! Captain Christopher has returned of sound mind and body. He holds in his hands the treasures of Egypt once thought lost, and his renderings of the happenings are astonishing, to say the least. It is time we put the machine to the task we set out on. The correction of all...” General McCulloch’s hard facial features remained passive as the good doctor. Danced around like a madman, or a child who had received a treasured Christmas present. “...the mistakes of the past! We have the tool to control our destiny!” The word destiny did not escape the general’s attention. He would allow the doctor a few more minutes of elation before he broke the news.

------------------------------------------------------




“Alonzo, switch on the tracking device. Let’s see if it works.
He flipped the red switch on the dashboard. A few seconds passed as the satellite signal was received. The DVD screen lit up, revealing an area approximately one mile square.
“Zoom in, Alonzo.”
He turned the black fine-tuning knob. No mistake, it was their prey.
“Where do you think they’re going, boss?”
“From the looks of it, they’re headed to Wendover. From there, I would guess Cheyenne, Fort Collins or Denver. “
“Want me turn back and follow them?”
“Nope. Skorzenzy was good to his word. The device works. Following them won’t be a problem. Let’s get back to Vegas. We’ll put the boys on stand-by, and I’m gonna make a few calls. They can run, but they sure can’t hide.” He flashed a grin as he lit up another fine Cuban

[Patricia]

The sky was just beginning to get light when Karra led her daughter toward their new place. Karra knew Chalatta was probably full of questions, snippets of them gasping out at odd moments, her little girl’s eyes wide, the way they became when she had a hundred questions nudging toward expression. But Karra had no time to answer them. They were hours away from where they needed to be, and soon would be visible to everyone.

Chalatta kept stumbling in mounds of snow, and then would run to catch up, but Karra didn’t slow. She had to get through their old neighborhood before someone recognized them.

The early dawn had blossomed into full morning by the time they stopped, so suddenly that Chalatta ran into her. Karra pulled her daughter close and eased into the shadow of a building while she kept her eyes on the airway glistening not far away in the morning light. No dark uniformed Security guarded the entrance, but a handful of people moved toward the airway. More people in the distance also strode toward this location. Their number made Karra nervous.

She glanced down at her once-beautiful B’anu silk dress, and sighed in defeat. Nevian attire was very out of place here in the Area. They would be noticed.

“I had hoped to be there by now,” Karra said, more to herself than her daughter. She kept staring at the airway and at the increasing number of people.

“Wh…,” Chalatta tried to ask while gulping for air. “Where?” she finally got out.

Karra knelt beside her daughter. It was time she knew a couple of things about their destination. “There are some people I know. We’ll be staying with them but…” Her eyes flitted toward the airway again. This place, even in the shadow of a building, was not safe. She wondered when she would be able to offer her daughter a measure of security.

“No one I know is safe, baby girl,” she finally admitted aloud. What was she thinking, taking her one precious jewel into her world?

http://patriciascholes.com/

[Michael]

As he did every morning, Athmane watched as the red sun rose slowly up from the western horizon. The giant ball of flame wasn’t bright enough yet to hurt his eyes and Athmane could clearly see the three huge black spots that marred its surface. He didn’t know what it meant and he didn’t care, all he wanted was for the warmth to come back to his blood. The desert, especially in winter, was cold at night and the strong wind blowing in from The Void far away to the south made it even colder. Athmane had taken shelter overnight in a hollowed out limestone overhang, one of many in his hunting area. Millions of years of erosion and weathering had left it broken, loose and precarious to climb on but Athmane had no other option. Without shelter from the biting wind he would inevitably fall ill. Between the ages of eight and eighteen he had been taught the skills needed to be a hunter and to survive for long periods in the wilderness. Athmane could set traps but was particularly lethal with his weapons – a bow and arrow, spear and knife. He had never liked killing with his knife, close combat was not his style and using it meant that he had missed with his spear and arrows. However, Athmane was the top marksman from his class and he was confident of his ability to hit anything within 50 metres. At the age of twenty, despite his youth, Athmane had a mature head and he was one of the very best hunters Nimar had.

Shadows in the Sand

[Patricia]

Sorry. I misread the instructions. I read first page, not first paragraph. Now I sound stupid.

[Tracey]

The day Minister Li retired from office, he lay on his bed and felt a great sense of release , as if the values and morals that had controlled him through his life were as frail as the morning dew. For a moment he felt he was hovering an inch above the mattress and gripped the sheet. He took a few long, deep breaths and relaxed enough to wipe the cold sweat from his upper lip. Get up, get up , the insistent birdsong seemed to say : you have many years yet.

Passing Under Heaven by Justin Hill

[Ruby]

It was one of those long and chilly winter nights and at the bottom of a brook, a very old fish had gathered all her 12,000 children and grand-children around and was telling them this story... "Once upon a time there was a little black fish that lived in a brook just like this one with his mother. The water that filled the brook came from many small cracks and holes in the rocky mountains high above, and continued its passage to the bottom of the valley...
The Little Black Fish

[Mickey]

Vice Principal Zant’s enraged voice easily penetrated the office’s thin walls, which provided only a token sense of privacy. Kendra inched closer to the windowed partition and took in the unfolding drama through the dusty blinds.

From "School of Lies" a mystery novel by Mickey Hoffman
a tale of public school dysfunction.
www.mickeyhoffman.com

[Ruby]

My story begins from the time I arrived in Tehran, the capital of Iran. I wish I could narrate all that happened during those months spend away from home and recount my experiences and valuable life lessons which would otherwise have taken years to accomplish, but that will be a very long story needing several volumes and you might get tired of it. Therefore I will only write about the events of the last 24 hours, which I am positive will be very interesting to read. Of course I have to back up a little bit and start my story from the time my father and I decided to travel to Tehran.
24 Hours Between Dream & Reality

[Forrest]

The grist for my tale ascends from the boiling of my thoughts. They are a churning stew of experience, blind opinion, psychic stress, belief, eccentricity, and whimsical fantasy. It is this moil of confusion that prevents me from objectification. They collide, debate, and contradict one another, each vying for acceptance from me in an attempt to become my reality. They claw at each other, trying to submerge their immediate opponent in obscurity, only to be taken and shoved under by another. A thought surfaces from the dark well of sub consciousness; I view, with stark clarity, its face. It is as utterly vivid as any physical object I have seen, heard, tasted, or felt. Then, after hovering in my view only momentarily, the thought is pulled from beneath like Dante's Sullen and Angry in the River Styx, disappearing into an ill-defined gloom, only to be replaced by the slow surfacing of another. It is as if the stage is mobbed by the audience, an anarchical confluence of Masses' Tyranny imposed upon the director's wishes, the play writing itself. It is uncontrollable, this onslaught of visionary sub consciousness. I am engulfed by it.
Archangel Morpheus by Forrest Aguirre

[[deleted user]]

She stood inside the door and scanned the stool roosters for her prey. Her eyes met mine for an instant and moved on without expression. Finding the sucker she wanted, she sauntered straight for him.

That is the first paragraph from the middle book of Murder at the Jersey Shore, a trilogy of three mystery books in one volume avaialbe on Kindle for $2.99

Read about Murder at the Jersey Shore on Amazon or at my website.
Richard Brawer
www.silklegacy.com

[Iscah]

From the prologue of The Girl With No Name.

Once upon a time there was a girl with no name. She lived in the landlocked country of Gourlin in a small cabin with a very old man who was her keeper and only friend. She was not unloved nor very lonely for the whole of the world sang to her, but she had her share of difficulties.

[Cindy]

COMPOSED IN BLOOD

The flame from the old oil light cast eerie shadows around the room. The night was still, except for the steady "ping, ping," sound of the last of the evening's rain drops, falling from the shack's roof to join the many before them in the rusty black cast iron pot which was a permanent fixture on the kitchen table. A breeze caught the flame and made the shadows appear alive as they swayed to and fro on the blood soaked walls.

[Cindy]

UPON THE FINS OF A UNICORN

Gone are the lush forests of my youth. The trees now stand bare of leaves as if locked within winters spell and the clear running streams that once meandered their way through the kingdom have long since dried up. I myself spent many a lazy day frittering away the hot summer hours, lost in dreams at the edge of one of these streams, as a worm at the end of my line teased a trout into biting.

[Mary]

TALLY: AN INTUITIVE LIFE

It all began with an invitation, this intersection of lives. Rogue invited me to meet him in Greenwich Village. We came together on the corner of Greenwich Avenue and West 10th Street.

Read more about Tally on my blogsite: http://literaryeyes.wordpress.com/201...

[George]

From Four Fathers Volume I "For Whom the Book Tells,"

Lorraine “Ma” Camphor was a crusty old bird whose face resembled an unhappy bulldog. She was bestowed both with wrinkles and well-worn remnants of an hereditary epidemic of sebaceous cysts. Ma's smooth comfort about herself made outward appearances irrelevant, to herself and to all those who knew her. You could feel the light within her. The Camphor house was located on Lake Street, near the E. J. & E. railroad tracks in the little Village of Barrington, Illinois. There was no “wrong side” of the tracks in the Barrington area. But the houses in Ma’s neighborhood paled in comparison to many of the other houses in the Village. Further, there was simply no point in comparing the Camphor homestead to the large and sumptuous homes found throughout the communities in the Barrington area that surrounded the Village.

http://georgepritchardharris.com/

[George]

From Four Fathers Volume II "Huckleberry Friend"

All men have been humbled, whether they live in the best of times, the worst times, or in times of mediocrity; whether they are governed by a monarch, by an elected leader, or a despot; whether they are devout, unsure of the existence of the Almighty, or atheists; whether rich, poor, or decidedly middle class; whether bright, dull-witted, or commonplace; whether athletic, lacking in vigor, or just able to walk and chew gum at the same time, and whether they are handsome, ugly, or just so-so. There is nothing in life more degrading than being a Freshman boy in high school. The girls are only interested in the much older boys. Freshman boys do not even merit slight attention. Every day they walk through the high school halls vaporously, as invisible as ghosts. The biggest fish, the ones from even the largest of the smaller feeder ponds, are not even relegated to the lowest rung in the food chain.

Huckleberry Friends