I didn’t take part in Chuck Wendig’s flash fiction thing last week because I was having the week from hell, but this week’s challenge was just to write an opening sentence. I came up with a few:
The journey between the walls of Ilyria and the gates of Bastandion is over five thousand miles, yet I had to make it on my own.
The baby wouldn’t stop screaming, so I ate him.
The day the robots came, I was playing baseball in the back garden with my kid sister.
It’s not every day you open the door to find your own future self knocking; in my case, it’s only on Wednesdays.
Thomas Edwards walked through his front door, closed it behind himself, and hung his head up on the hanger in the hall.
The snakes were moving again.
If there was one thing he hated more than anything else, Rodrigo would reflect later, it was women who smoked.
It took Jane a moment to realise what was unusual about the letter, but then she noticed that the postmark was the next day.
Phil had read that there were three thousand ways to kill a man; he only knew four hundred himself, but he was still an apprentice.
It was on the ninetieth day of the rains that I noticed something odd.
“Miaow,” said the dog.