The First Lines of Nine Novels That Do Not Exist
The wind teased its way westward like fingers through hair.
I died yesterday; it was less permanent than one might expect.
The lightning tore out of the sky and for a moment connected Dewey Kimble to the clouds above his head. As he lay stunned and slightly ionized on the damp sidewalk, Kimble was struck again, this time by a revelation. He knew how to save the world.
Learning how to fly is exactly as awesome as you think it would be—until you swallow a bug at Mach 2.
Lenny Smitts was the greatest thief the world has ever known, as long as he never had to actually steal anything.
True hate is a learned skill. There is an art to it, roughly equivalent to the space between butcher and surgeon.
Karen stepped out of a car, five thousand miles from home. The grass smells different, she thought.
I hang off the drop clamp, watching the world beneath me. Its spin slows as we match orbit, a marble coming to rest on a black velvet cloth.
Once upon a time, we were righteous and strong and possibly even immortal. This, like all fairy tales, was a lie more important than the truth.
