It was the first time she’d experienced a feeling she couldn’t describe. She was tapping rapidly at her phone when the girl walked in. Barely visible to Emily, she was petite and unassuming. Her simple brown hair hung dead straight down her back. Her body was so slim she could have easily been mistaken for someone of the opposite sex. Her lack of curves prevented her entrance into the cafe having any effect on the people inside. The cafe was small, only capable of receiving a dozen or so people at any one time. Most people sat on the benches that lined the walls meaning you could look up and see who sat on the wall opposite. The entrance was placed in a way so that you could not enter or leave without someone looking up, you were visible to everyone.

Emily had only looked up once as the girl approached the counter. She continued to tap at her phone, her e-book reader lying on the table in front of her; caught between two pieces of technology, both vying for her attention. After sending her text she was only distracted from her book by the girl asking for an extra-dry cappuccino. She had always wondered what dry or wet meant with regards to coffee. This was the only reason why Emily could remember the girl at all. Other than her coffee order she could barely remember what had happened after the girl had entered. 

The girl had gone straight to the small one stall bathroom after ordering. An action that had momentarily struck Emily as strange and yet hadn’t been that strange at all. Continuing with her novel she brushed the wet remains of chocolate powder from her top lip, before patting them dry with a napkin. The cafe was quiet, the ideal reading space. It was strange how much thinking was going on with so little noise. A shout. Or at least a shriek so high-pitched it barely qualified as being a formation of letters. The noise was undefinable. Everyone turned to the girl seated nearest the bathroom door, looking for a reason for her sound. Her eyes drew Emily’s attention to the floor as they stared at a dark red puddle of liquid that pooled out from under the door.

When his lips touched hers it was the opposite of a kiss. His lips crushed against hers wildly, but as they touched his raw passion did not cross the threshold that stood between them. She stood there motionless, cold. The heat from his body dying out like a candle wilting without oxygen. She was not a participant but an object frozen in the moment, waiting for something she couldn’t describe. This wasn’t what she had expected. His hands which held her felt unnatural, like they didn’t belong to him. It was like kissing a stranger, someone she had never spoken too who had grabbed her without her realising what was happening. The sweat from his hands feeling cold and clammy against her arms as he grabbed her.

This wasn’t how it should be. That’s all she could think of while it was happening. For that was how it was. She was not involved but merely watching the action take place, removed and emotionless. Her eyes blinked open and close, his face turning into a blurred old movie that flickered before her. It was better when she did that. Not so real. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he pulled away, his lips breaking from hers but his arms still enfolding her. As if to see her more clearly he held her back staring into her eyes that registered no acknowledgment. Her arms hung limply by her sides. In fact she had been so unaware of their presence she was shocked to find that they were still there. Reaching across to him she stroked the side of his face, finding a tuft of hair at the back of his neck to tug at. He blinked once as if the whole scene was only finally coming into focus for him. She still remained aloof, one arm still wrapped around the back of his neck before pulling him in closer. Expecting affection his lips lusted forward to hers but she merely dropped her head, letting his lips fall onto her forehead. The moment of one-sided love reduced to a fraternal gesture.

So I take a famous first sentence and then write for 20 minutes. This first sentence comes from Ruth Rendell’s The Crocodile Bird. Enjoy! And please send me feedback if you have any comments! Thanks.

The world began to fall apart at nine in the evening. For it was at nine o’clock that my boyfriend of eight years told me he was leaving me. It was not that another woman had stolen him from me, a country had. When Mark had gone to New York for a meeting, he returned to Cornwall a completely different man. He no longer loved the hamlet that we lived in and our Friday evenings spent in the local pub chatting to neighbours. He wanted out and it he hadn’t even considered that I might want to go with him.

‘I’ve been offered a contract in New York as soon as my current one is up in June.’ He said. ‘I know it’s only two months away but I feel like I really need to do this. Make a clean break from this town and find myself a better career in a thriving city.’

Though his first words had been a complete shock it was the next few that killed me.

‘We’ve had a good run of it but I just don’t think I can handle a relationship at the moment. I need to focus on my career. And anyway you’re not a ‘new york’ kind of person. It just wouldn’t work.’

My reality was becoming a dream, or more accurately a nightmare. I felt like I was swimming up above what was happening and was looking down from a different perspective as if someone else was living this scene. I couldn’t fee anything but numbness. I’d seen this moment countless times in movies. The charming guy leaves the girl for better things and she’s left sobbing on the sofa eating ice-cream and watching Titanic. I had never believed this would happen to me. Although I guess every woman says that.

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Sorry there was no post yesterday! Had no chance to do one and I was feeling uninspired anyway. In case you haven’t read my previous posts I am challenging myself to write a short piece of fiction starting from a famous first sentence. And I stop after twenty minutes. So here’s today’s attempt using the first lines from Middle Passage by Charles Johnson.

Of all the things that drive men to sea, the most common disaster, I’ve come to learn, is women. However for me it was not so much women but the lack of women in my life. Having spent my youth on the Greek island of Santorini, it was expected that I would marry one of the local girls from the town. I had had a few girlfriends over the years but after I turned eighteen the interest in me seemed to die down. In fact it was stone cold dead. As the tourist industry waned, the small family businesses suffered and so many relocated to Athens and Patras, and the daughters followed. I put my energy into working hard in the harbour. I spent many hours sitting in my boat, the ‘eleutheria’, with my best friend Christos while we fished for salmon that we could the sell to nearby restaurants. But as the years went by I become a lonely man and by 27 I decided things needed to change. I was sad to leave Santorini, the island where six generations of the ­­­­­Anastas family had lived and died. I didn’t know where I would go but I knew I would miss the white washed walls contrasted against the dazzling azure sea.  I packed up my things into a small canvas bag and headed to my boat. I had stocked up on a few essentials, some wine, and a variety of vegetables that I could eat with whatever fish I caught on my travels. Though it would be a lonely life for a while I couldn’t contain my excitement. Somewhere out there was a future for me. There was no time to hesitate. After kissing my mother and shaking my father’s hand goodbye I left the dock and headed out. The white walls faded into the distance till I could see nothing but sea and the sun.

The first sentence is taken from Anne Tyler’s novel, Back When We Were Grown Ups.

Once upon a time, there was a woman who discovered she had turned into the wrong person. Or at least for a time she believed that she had. It was quite by accident that Constance had tripped down an escalator and by the time she reached the bottom she was no longer herself. An ambulance was called and they rushed her to hospital though all the while she was completely unconscious. After the usual blood tests, MRI and CAT scans she was taken to the operating room. 

Twenty two days, eight hours and seventeen minutes later she finally awoke. Surveying the room she could not determine where she was. There was a strong smell of bleach and everything was white. Was this a hospital? She found she could not move though by stretching her fingers she could reach the button to call the nurse.

A large, round, middle-aged woman entered. She was plump with a red face that made her look as if she’d just run a marathon. As she approached Constance realised she was actually much younger than she’d thought. ‘Hello dearie! I’m Emily. How you feeling?’ She spoke with a Yorkshire accent. ‘You had us worried for the while. Me and the other nurses been taking it in turns to come and sit with you. I came yesterday and sat with you while I did some crotchet. Do you like crotchet?’ Constance was finding her manner thoroughly irritating but her throat was too dry for her to speak. She indicated that she would like some water. ‘Oh of course. How silly of me!’ She wobbled over to get the jug and yet continued to blabber on, waving the jug around in her hand as she spoke. ‘The doctor should be in soon and will come and check on you.’ ‘I bet you won’t believe how long you’ve been asleep! Oh I wish I had the luxury to stay in bed all day! Much nicer than working long 20 hour shifts especially when the weather’s been so lovely. There’s been a hose pipe ban on recently so my lovely petunias have been wilting a little. You like to garden? Everyone tells me I’ve got green fingers…’ She continued on in this manner till she was called to the nurse’s station.

‘Thank god’, thought Constance. ‘Will somebody just tell me what has happened to me. And why does the name on my wristband say ‘Constance Billiard’? They must have made a mistake. My name is…’ But it was at this point that Constance stopped for she had no idea what her name was.

This time I start with the first sentence from City of Glass by Paul Auster. 

Here we go…

It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other end asking for someone he was not. His wife Dorothy had thought nothing of it. The man on the line did not ask for him and so she believed it was not important. But Daniel had heard the name before. ‘Maxwell Peaks’; It stirred in him a feeling of uneasiness, it was something he had longed to forget and yet now it was staring him straight in the face. Though his wife did not know it Daniel had been placed in the Witness Protection Program almost seventeen years ago. His past now seemed to be spilling into his meticulously crafted future.

He had not dared to face up to the fact that there was a problem. Daniel tried to distract himself from going over and over the facts and yet he couldn’t. He tried to recall the voice on the on the other line. It was raspy, harsh and yet most definitely female. It was one evening a week later that he called his emergency number. Even this was written nowhere in the house, he had been ordered to learn it and never tell anyone about it. His wife was out for the night and he wanted to report it without her getting suspicious. The man on the other end of the line asked him for a code. CARTER.23.28.94. There was a click on the line and he was redirected till he heard a familiar voice, he described the event in as much detail as he could. He hadn’t heard Jonathan’s voice once in those 17 years and it was strange to hear it once again. Once Daniel was finished with his story, Jonathan spoke up. ‘Yes, I’m sorry to say that I was expecting a call from you. Our intelligence has ascertained that the man you helped us to convict has been released from prison on early parole.’ ‘Though we do not believe he has any information related to your location we have a strong sense that he intends to find you.’ Daniel, who had been drinking a glass of red wine, choked a little at these words. ‘How could this be happening after all these years’. Daniel was stunned; he felt a mixture of rage and fear. ‘Daniel, you still there?’ He reassured him he was and begged him to continue. ‘I know this may worry you but we’re going to put a tap on your phone so we can record anything that comes through. We’ll also place an agent near the house but I’m afraid there is nothing else we can do at this point. All I can say it that we’ll be watching and keeping you abreast of any developments.’ ‘And if the woman calls again, I’d ask that you keep her on the line for as along as possible. It’s the only way we’ll get a full identification.’ Daniel breathed deeply. ‘And I know this is hard but you will have to tell Dorothy. She needs to know for her own safety.’ Though all the information was difficult to hear it was this that made Daniel go cold. How would he ever tell her about his past and the things he had done.

Today’s story was a bit of struggle. Partly because I knew the first sentence which is from Ford Maddox Ford’s The Good Soldier. I found it hard to remove the sentence from the story which I know so clearly. Anyway…not my best work but enjoy!

This is the saddest story I have ever heard. It was recounted to me on a sultry summer night in Manhattan. She had hopped on the bar stool next to mine. Her face was tear stained and her name was Martha. It was only by chance that our paths crossed that night but I’m glad they did. She ordered a strong martini with an olive and then she turned to look at me. Her eyes took in every aspect of mine. It was as if she was assessing my face for signs of kindness, working out if she could confide in me. We spoke for hours that night, never moving from our place at the bar till the place eventually closed.  We wandered down Lexington Avenue, past the 24-hour grocery shops and Chinese restaurants, gazing into the windows of department stores, which had closed up for the night, the conversation never wavering.

Her story was not unusual. She had moved here from England, looking to get away from a past, though this she did not elaborate on, and hoping to get a small apartment and a decent job. She recounted facts about her life. The friends she had been sad to leave and the family she doubted could afford to visit. The week she arrived she had met someone, a highflying businessman. They had what you might call a whirlwind romance and he had asked her to stay with him since she was living in a tiny, roach infested hovel. His name was Jeremy Sacks and he was a native New Yorker. He showed her the city, they visited museums and sat in cosy diners drinking iced coffees and learning everything they could about each other. She had never known anyone quite like him. One day they had arranged to meet for lunch at a little sandwich bar by his office but he never turned up. The date was the 11^th September 2001. 

Continuing with my project. I’ve been really enjoying writing in different styles of fiction. This one continues from a first sentence by Edward George Bulwer-Lytton’s novel ‘Paul Clifford’.

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the house-tops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.

He looked out of his window at the shadows flickering under the street lamps. The road on which he lived was almost completely deserted and yet there was an unnerving presence that someone was about and watching him. He walked over to a small table that stood next to his ageing leather armchair and clicked it off. The room was now in complete darkness. Only a slither of light could be seen from under the door that led away to the rest of the flat. He moved calmly back to the window. Yes, there was certainly someone there, standing beneath a butcher’s awning on the other side of the street. He was suddenly roused from his contemplative trance when the phone rang. ‘Burt, that you?’, the voice at the end of the line hesitated, waiting nervously for a response. ‘Yes Charlie, of course it’s me. Have you any news?’ A tense moment of silence followed. It hung in the air palpably before Charlie had the courage to continue. ‘Yes, they’ve found the body.’ ‘Scotland Yard issued a press conference saying they had more clues and an idea of who it might have been.’ Charlie’s voice slipped from Burt’s mind, becoming background noise. Then Charlie spoke up, louder, ‘the body was found hidden under the tracks of the tube line at Green Park Station. The police are worried that it’s just the beginning of a string of murders. But who knows…’

I interrupted, ‘I better go now.’ ‘We’ll speak again tomorrow morning.’ Before I could place the phone down Charlie spoke, ‘I’m sorry for your loss Burt. I know how much you loved her.’ Then he was gone. Burt placed the phone down and looked back out the window, but there was no-one there. Whoever had been there had given up but Burt knew he would be back. The body might have been found but it didn’t mean they knew.