Balancing a live goat on the back of your bicycle has its challenges. Tia stood on the pedals and pushed uphill toward the market as the young pygmy bleated and kicked against its bungee straps.

Anyway, this is my opening paragraph:

“Jeffrey threw the screwed up report at the maglift floor. Another attempt to recreate his experiment, another laboratory explosion. He punched the wall. He had made a successful shunt once. Why couldn’t anyone else? ”

The story is called ‘Shunt Space’ and is a sci fi short story. It is about a researcher developing what amounts to hyperspace, but he has to tackle both a major flaw in the work and ‘Greenpeace gone mad’ before he can find success.

Thanks for taking a look.

He made it to the edge of the lamp-lit street with only four hard strides bridging the gap between him and his freedom: Maggie’s farm truck. Even in the pallid streetlight, his Granny’s old rattletrap never looked so good.

“That’s far enough!”
===============================
(46 words)

11 February 1990 - Thousands of people were gathered outside the gates of Victor Verster Prison just outside Paarl, a town surrounded by the vineyards of the Western Cape. The air was filled with excitement and anticipation as Nelson Mandela was about to be released after he was sent to prison 27 years ago.

The seven astronauts stood stunned and silent in the command room of the International Space Station, Galaxy Gaia. But it was not the explosion that held them frozen in disbelief. The blinding flash below them, over in a nanosecond, hadn’t even registered. It was the video monitor that held their attention. A split second ago the screen had been filled with the contorted face of the earth’s first great leader, the speakers blasting his strident, triumphant voice. Now they stared at a dark screen, and the shock of his announcement, cut off in mid-sentence, reverberated off the cabin walls. The invisible flash and the blackout had come at once.

My first paragraph:

They came for me on the fifth night of the hospital stay, when my arm had started to heal and I was restless to get back to my guardian Luc. I cursed the rock, in my sleep, that had brought me down in the fields, brought the thirty lashes on both me and Luc, left him bloody and unconscious and me just alive enough to watch. Was he alive, was he dead? They wouldn’t tell me.

(The protagonist, by the way, is male.)

They came for me on the fifth night of the hospital stay, when my arm had started to heal and I was restless to get back to my guardian, Luc. I cursed the rock, in my sleep, that had brought me down in the fields, brought the thirty lashes on both me and Luc, left him bloody and unconscious and me just alive enough to watch. Was he alive, was he dead? They wouldn’t tell me.

My first paragraph(s) (which already have me cringing):

“Riverside. 25 Kilometres”
The sign flashed by. No warm homecoming feelings surfaced. Only coldness filled Rik Chandler. Ten years failed to ease the pain this town had inflicted on his life.
He’d sworn he would never set foot here again. Seems fate wasn’t going to let him off the hook. Gossip surrounding one death a decade ago sent him packing; now another death drew him back.

‘Mum!’ Rissa yelled as Lauren ran up the staircase. ‘It’s just a photo album!’
‘Not just a photo album, it’s your baby photos.’
Rissa turned to her dad and gave him the look. ‘You’re the one that got us into this in the first place. You and your stupid feud with Richard.’
Colin gritted his teeth. The knuckles of his hands whitened as he tipped his head back and shouted up the stairs. ‘Lauren, it’s nearly sunset!’
‘No need to get agro. I’ll be down in a sec. You said they never attacked before dark.’
‘The latest report had them down river fifteen minutes ago. With this cloud cover it’ll be dark in ten.’ He slapped a hand on the banister. ‘We have to leave now!’

Mysteer Castle loomed in Karel’s view, its dark walls melting into the nighttime forest. A sliver of moon revealed a sentry rounding the east corner of the castle wall. Karel allowed a smile as she touched the scar above her collarbone. Time to right a wrong too long held in abeyance. Time to recover the Stone.

One hour and fifty-nine minutes.

Kevin Ramsey sank his hands deep into the fleece lined pocket of his hoodie. His fingers, stiff with cold, clasped onto the folded bus ticket. In less than two hours, he would be free – and for the first time in control of his life.

This is 71 words but I don’t want to cut the paragraph short. Delete it if it’s too long. thanks.

The San Isidro church loomed a dark hulk against the gray sky. The moon and Venus hung just over the bell tower. Paul came at dawn. He watched the old men and women shuffle to early Mass, coats and scarves pulled tight against the sharp morning air. Six times the bell shattered the clear air. Six times the echo resounded off the mountains. And six times quivers pulsed up his spine.

The kennel had been given with great ceremony, but in every way it disappointed. Father’s was a monster of mahogany beams and sandstone with two levels a man could stand upright in and fresh moss in the dog beds. Egil’s was oak and plaster with enough room for a crouching servant to clean the second floor and hay on the pallets. He was sure that his older brothers would have warranted a larger space or better trimmings. Their dogs would probably have been nicer, too, though he was never sure what he was looking at with the mutts. Still, when a noble admired a broad chest or strong back, he knew he possessed something that someone else wanted.

The kennel had been given with great ceremony, but in every way it disappointed. Father’s was a monster of mahogany beams and sandstone with two levels a man could stand upright in and fresh moss in the dog beds. Egil’s was oak and plaster with enough room for a crouching servant to clean the second floor and hay on the pallets.

She stirred and a slight moan escaped. Another drop plopped on her cheek, lazily rolled down her chin, hovered for a moment, then slithered down her neck. She shivered, then moaned again and opened her eyes. She blinked. Nothing changed the absolute blackness.

“Blood worms and swamp grass!” Tzmet screeched. “Why are the chairs on top of the table?”

A shuffling sound and giggling came from behind the heavy drapes that covered the north windows of the castle’s great room. Tzmet’s eyes narrowed as she tiptoed toward the sound. With one sweep of her arm, she wrenched the curtains aside. “Ah ha!”

Theresa Sullivan slowly closed the front door and leaned against it, sliding bonelessly to the floor. She stared down the hall, tears dripping from her cheeks. Mike can’t be gone; he was here this morning, singing in the shower like always.

At the sound of the back door slamming, panic struck. “Oh, God, what am I going to tell the kids?” she whispered on the end of a sob.

If Chucks, so called by those who knew him better, survived, he would be the first to stand against ML, the Mouvement de Liberté, and come back unscathed. He made a simple plan this morning: after the award ceremony, he would steal a secret manuscript belonging to ML, and leave for France the very next day. Once there, he would use the information it contained to track down Le Père and earn the $120 million the Americans were offering for his capture. He would return and within one year change Nigeria; in five years, he would change Africa. With that money, he would prove to the rest of the world how good things could be in this part of the globe.

Here’s my paragraph:

Professor Alejandro Miguel Juan De Cordoba-De La Rosa cracked the blinds of his office window and peered at the sea of angry students below. He craned his neck and looked beyond the plaza. Amazing. The trade unionists must have joined the demonstration. In only an hour the mob had swelled from the plaza, clogged the broad boulevard, and extended northward eight blocks to the Palacio Presidencial. He placed his hand against the windowpane. It vibrated from the chants of the crowd.

The resulting gangland war–or rather the end of it–had brought Mancini from New York to Chicago to make the peace. Washburn’s luxury box at Wrigley Field served as a suitable venue: public enough that each felt safe, yet private enough for earnest discussions.

Larn Wintel sank farther into the blue waters, but the more he struggled, the faster he sank. The sunlight above wavered and disappeared. Enveloped in frigid blackness, the increasing pressure rendered his efforts to break the surface useless. He called out once again for God, but he perceived no answer. His heart thudded and his lungs burned—

Thanks, Randy!

The paragraph of the Novel I am currently working.
Thanks Randy.

Paragraph.
The vanishing of Ocean Queen in the Atlantic is overlooked as an misfortune by the authorities and quickly forgotten. When Divine Star sets out to Hawaii with Roumoult Cranston’s friends and Family, he receives a uncharted homing signal.
Salvaging the crew of Octopus drifting in Atlantic Ocean is easy but when he and his friends set out to find the Phantom Pirate ship devising a plan and using the Divine Star as bait, an unexpected hurricane leaves Cranston and fifteen hundred innocent people in the hands of the uncanny and merciless Pirates.
With the coast guard and Navy formulating their own plans to seize the Pirates, its upto the Group to find the Base, salvage the trapped and unearth the sinking island before it takes their boss with it!

Of course the Name of the Novel is ‘Pirates’

Phantom mists curled off the water nudging into the shadowy outlines of the harbor warehouses. Adame hunched into her coat, shivering as much with regret for the decision to pursue her errand as with the cold itself. The streetlights offered little more than fuzzy globes of stained illumination, not enough to see address numbers.

————

Let the discerning come, sit by my fire, and I will tell you the strange story that began with Rynvos—the hunter who became the hunted. Sure, and he was an obscure man, and his tale would have been unknown to me, save that he witnessed the coming of an adversary so dire that the lives of all who dwelt on the Island of the Mighty were in danger.

Sincerely in Christ,
Paulette Harris

Much as Kish’s words tormented and goaded him, Saul could not meet his father’s eyes. Every word sent flashes of light searing through Saul’s head and made him cringe. He hardly dared to raise his head enough to peer through bleary eyes at his father, Kish ben Abiel.

“Well? Did they take your tongue? Speak up!”

Iain, I’m nominating you for the title of second greatest!

I’m so far down this response list that you’ll probably never get to me, Randy, but here’s my first paragraph all the same. The book will be a historical novel set on the Isle of Skye in Scotland in the 16th century. Since I am so far down, I thought, “Well, if we won’t be getting around to discussing my work, perhaps the loyal blog readers might enjoy a little light reading.” The result of that thought is that I’m posting my entire first page. Randy, how are my MRU’s?

Roderick McLeod stepped out of his galley and onto the boat dock. He straightened his tartan and squared his shoulders. With head held proudly up and a firm, decisive step, he presented an air of confidence that he did not feel. He wondered what his fierce enemy, Donald Gorme, regent for clan McDonald, wanted. With wary senses, he scanned the landing for signs of an ambush. He saw nothing amiss. Gorme was standing motionless near the center of an open space. He appeared unarmed, but Roderick knew he undoubtedly wore a dirk and possibly a light sword concealed beneath his kilt, and a sgian dhu in his stocking and boot. Roderick approached the unusually blond, blue-eyed McDonald cautiously. He wondered what Gorme had on his mind. Gorme had asked Roderick to meet him to discuss “a subject of mutual interest.”

Gorme stepped forward. As he did so, he pulled his sword from its scabbard. A shot of adrinaline made Roderick tense and he grabbed for his own sword, but Gorme did not attack. Instead, with both hands on the hilt, he thrust his sword deep into the ground. Roderick relaxed and did the same. The two men approached each other and shook hands.

“Send ye galley away,” Gorme said. “Tell them to return in one hour.” His voice was soft and pleasant. “No harm will come ye. We are not here t’fight.”

Roderick weighed his choices for a moment. Gorme was ruthless, but he he knew Gorme to be as an honorable man, one who kept an oath. He might deceive with his words to set a trap, but Roderick did not believe that he would violate his offer of truce, signified by the standing swords. He turned to his crew waiting expectant in the ship. He shooed them away from the shore with his hands, then pointed at the sun with one hand while holding up one finger on the other hand.

Gorme waited until the craft departed before speaking. At last, he said, “The King sends his blessings.”

Roderick never expected to hear words like that coming from a McDonald! An amused smile twitched the corners of his mouth. “Would that be James the Fifth of the Stuarts or Grumach of the McDonalds?”

Gorme laughed. “These be the Isles, be they not?”

“Aye, they be.”

“Well spoken, then, me lad. If thou wert to be in support of James, as your brother, Alasdair Crottagh, 8th MacLeod of MacLeod is, then would I declare this discussion closed and we would at hand with yonder swords.”

Roderick stiffened at the mention of the humpbacked chief. He felt the back of his neck warm with the flush of blood as his long-held hatred and jealousy of his brother rose. Gorme nodded. “As I thought,” he said. “Then let’s begin this discussion at once!”

Alandra floated, high above everything, slipping gravity’s bonds for an eternity before beginning her descent; swimming through cold currents of air instead of water, allowing herself to fully experience the caress of the wind on her face, through her hair, along her body. The deafening rumble of the air ship receding into the distance as she made her escape. It was intoxicating

—————————————————–

“Be right there,” a voice called from behind a wooden door.

“Don’t hurry on my account.” I frowned as I set my purse on the counter and looked around. Ruffled curtains? Give me a break. This is a trucking office.

I ran through the snow-dusted forest, knowing the wolf would catch me if I faltered. Hunted like prey—I barely contained my terror as I pumped my legs. Cold autumn air burned my throat as I sucked it into my abused lungs. A stitch in my side begged for relief, and my thigh muscles burned with the effort. Yet I kept up my pace.

Kevin was dead and the people in my house wouldn’t go home. It seemed they were certain I was incapable of grieving properly outside of their presence. They sat in my house, eating sandwiches, drinking tea, and watching me. I didn’t feel grateful for their presence. I felt exactly nothing.

Come on, come on, come on. Rob Watkins scanned the spectators then checked his watch and mumbled. He hated digital watches, especially ones that reminded him it was Thursday, September 23rd, Megan’s final day in court. Any second she would stroll through the revolving doors of the Bob Casey Federal Courthouse and get shot by a rubber bullet.

Thanks for all the help you’ve been providing. I don’t expect you to get to mine, but here it is anyway.

—
Everyone knows of Hitler, he killed six millions in the death camps. Everyone knows of Genghis Kahn, he killed tens of millions in his wars of conquest.

Pikers.

I’ve killed twelve billion and it is still uncertain if the remnants of humanity will survive at all. I’m the king of genocide.
—

Technically, that’s three parapraphs, but still only 51 words. This is the potential first paragraph(s) of the sequel to my novel that was critiqued at the Alaska Writers Cruise (BTW, thanks for that too!).

Perched atop a metal cot, Richard Alan Harper writes letters to anyone who will read them. He complains about how his new lodging, a warehouse-type building that dates back to the 19th Century, is “cold, wet & drafty all the time,” that he is “sick with the flu, but not allowed to see a doctor”. He mentions elaborate theories about how he thinks he was framed.

Thanks so much,
Jan

Thick raindrops pelted the windshield of her car as Delia steadied the vehicle and willed herself toward the other end of the bridge in one piece. In the violent rain, the windshield wipers swished back and forth, reliable but not much help. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, her body tense as she peered through the dense fog, acutely aware of her impaired vision. She pushed her glasses up on her nose, then returned her vise-like fingers to the wheel. If she could keep the taillights of the car ahead in view, she could use them as a guide. And one thing in her day would have gone as planned.

Adero swung her weight back and forth as she gripped the top rung of the crude fence. Inside small horses, the prenti, twitched their tails in the late morning heat. They get more excitement than I do, Adero thought with disgust. The dust stirred up by their broad feet itched in her nose, and she grimaced as she stretched through the aged split rails to smack the rump of the nearest one. It flicked a patient eye at her but gave no other response to her abuse. Stupid prenti.

I’ve just put the finishing touches on this one. Here goes.

Stuck in rush hour traffic, late for her audition, Sydney couldn’t get her mother’s words out of her head. “You’ll never make it, you know. Do you honestly think you’ll earn a decent living as a drummer? Wake up, Sydney. You can’t be that naïve.”

When one hears of the stopping of time and space it is usually taken lightly and with little regard. Surely even in the most intense instances there could not possibly be a moment where time and reality fails. Though for those who have felt it, they will never forget.

Margaret hid at the edge of the kitchen window and lifted the curtain. She watched the dark-skinned girl in the yard next door. Lily sat on the grass with her legs crossed, leaning against the trunk of a giant oak. A breeze rustled through the trees, and a few dried leaves fluttered down toward her. No one else was out. The postage stamp squares of grass on the first block of Brick Street all looked the same, except that Lily was sitting in one of them. And the For Sale signs. That was the other difference. The signs began popping up in front yards the day after Lily and her family moved into the house next door where Lynda, Margaret’s best friend, had lived. Margaret counted them again. One more since yesterday.

Rachael from Oz

I’m actually vacillating between two different openings. I’m ready to start the query process once I make this decision. So, I’m going to press my luck and submit two possible openers to my novel.

Option #1:
The average American woman is 5’4”, 164 pounds and wears a size 14. Let’s just say that I’m above average—and I’m not talking about my height. I didn’t start out this way, mind you. At birth, I was actually below average. And I didn’t catch up real quick either. It took a combination of factors to bring me to my above average status. Genetics, environment, economic class and emotional health all contributed to my current dress size.

Option #2:
If I have to look at one more picture of a rail-thin “all-American girl”, I’m going to puke. Or eat another cupcake. Okay, the truth is I really hate to throw up.
I had been looking at the images for over an hour in the course of designing my newest client’s website. Mon Amie, Clothes for the Average American Girl, sizes 2-8. I can’t even begin to touch on everything that was wrong with their tagline. But they paid me, so here I am, trying to stay true to their “vision”.

I realize I’ve pressed my luck even further by submitting two paragraphs for the second option, but the first one is really short. Thanks a million!!

Tapping her foot a mile a minute, Paige Andrews looked once again at her watch. Two minutes left. Why on God’s green earth did something like this take so long? The person who figures out how to create an instantaneous pregnancy test will surely be a millionaire within hours of bringing the product to market.

Donald Maas is fixated on character. He has to like the character in the first paragraph or he doesn’t want to read the book. I think he would care about Jeremy. WHY???

I know it’s all about word choice, and how they’re arranged, but what you’ve got here (for me, anyway) is more than just craft. It’s more like art. I’m amazed that in this one paragraphy you’ve managed to set the tone of the book, create an atmosphere, and make me want to know 1) why it’s been a year since Jeremy’s seen his house and 2) what his second thought will be. I want to write like that.

I’m full of questions I need answered. Why does she own a trucking company? Did her husband die and leave her the business? Or her Dad? Why would she feel she had to be obstinate about going to the company office? What kind of problems is she going to have making a go of it? (She’s obviously going to make a go of it, what with her multiple chins and spunk and all.) I want to meet her.

By the way, dear fellow writers, regarding characters you’d like to meet, no one beats Lindsay Davis for creating them, in my opinion. If your writing style/tone is comedic and spunky, like Barb’s, you’d enjoy checking out some of Lindsay Davis’ books. I think the first in her major series is called The Silver Pigs.

Dang, I like this paragraph!

Ginny, you’re not so bad yourself!

I’d found nothing but dead bodies and burnt buildings after stepping through the village gate of Riversend. Defeated, I slumped to the floor in one of the last homes still free of fire for the moment. “Help me.” I lifted my head. My heart soared. Someone was alive! The voice had sounded raspy as if breathing itself were an effort. I stood up, my eyes searching the dim interior of the room. A thud from the next room drew me in that direction. Following the sound, I entered the kitchen. Another thud. I pulled open a door to my left and found the figure of a female gnome lying on the pantry floor. I took a deep breath and stepped into the pantry. I knelt to peer into the woman’s face.

That’s the first paragraph of my novel.

A roar rose from within Boruma’s great hall. One voice remained incoherent from another. “Hear me!” Lord Damach bellowed; his growling words grew to a dull roar. “How long shall we allow that braggart to remain on Cashel’s throne? If he and his kin remain he will have the foreigners themselves reigning over us!”

My first attempt is being moderated, but I wanted to submit a revised version with corrected spelling. I omitted the second half as well to keep within the recommended 50 words.

“Without warning, the door shot open, angrily hitting the wall behind it. I sat up slightly, only to cower first at the bright light, and more so at the large looming man at my bedside. I screamed as he began searching my bed for the apparatus. I couldn’t let him find it and I tightened into a ball to create an impenetrable barrier around it.”