Hermione book 1

Zoe G.

United States

I may or may not be a werewolf.

Message to Readers

These are not actually stories I’ve started. Some of them inspired ideas, but they were all created for the purpose of the prompt, and are all beginnings to different stories. Thanks for reading!

Five Beginnings, Five Unwritten Stories

July 30, 2015

WITH A CHARACTER DESCRIPTION
The girl had kind, crinkly hazel eyes, shiny tresses of golden hair, a contagious smile that filled you up with a bubbly warmth inside, and blood on her hands.
It wasn’t her own.
 
WITH A GENERALIZATION OR STATEMENT OF FACT
No one on the island knew what was across the writhing, roiling sea, and no one cared to find out. They were happy with the familiar, cramped comfort of the island, happy with what was known and tangible and sitting right in front of them, happy with the known and easy way out.
 
WITH A SPECIFIC MOMENT IN TIME
At eight fifty-six on that fateful June night, Harper found three things in the clearing in the woods. One, a fat notebook opened to a page filled with familiar scribbles. Two, a knife smeared with blood. Three, her boyfriend holding it.
 
WITH A PRECURSOR
This tree is quite an uncomfortable place to write the story that determined my life course, sent my best friend to a juvenile detention center, and mortally wounded my ELA teacher’s pet chinchilla. But the house is crowded with police officers and family, and the rest of West Grove is too nosy to let me write in peace.
 
WITH A DESCRIPTION OF PLACE
The circus gym was technically closed. The aerial silks that were usually free to ripple in the air conditioner’s breeze were knotted and tied up. The wire was pushed to the wall, its silver glint lost in the darkness. The juggling balls were jammed in baskets, the trapezes lying in a tangle on the floor, the stilts snoozing against the wall. But that didn’t stop Anastasia Foster from slipping through the window in the dark of night and letting the rich fabric of the silks envelop her in a cocoon of warmth.

WITH DIALOGUE
“I didn’t mean to… Nat was my best friend… the wave… It was two years ago, I really was just playing around and-“ The policeman cut Beckett off.
“That’s not why I’m here, Mr. Fitzpatrick. But you are right to be concerned about Natasha. Your friend was found on the beach last night.”
“She’s… she’s dead, isn’t she?”
“No. Natasha Osborne is alive, but I won’t lie and say she is well.”
 
WITH AN OMINOUS NOTE
Cassidy Burke did not feel tears coming to her eyes as she looked at Darcy Burke’s grave. Her own twin… she should be pounding the ground, screaming “why” at the gods above, letting waterfalls pour from her glassy, traumatized eyes. But no, Cassidy felt a bubble of relief surface. Her mother always said that violence didn’t solve problems, but it just had.

BY PLANTING A QUESTION IN THE READER'S MIND
The winter forest was hers for the taking. But instead of building snowmen with carrots stabbed into their faces or creating so-called “snow angels” that Fiona thought looked more like deformed elven children, Fiona was planning something she definitely shouldn’t have been. Something she would spend her entire life paying for.
 
WITH A ROUTINE
Thalia’s routine was faultless. She’d walk home from school and pretend to enjoy her friends’ company. At home, she’d text her mom saying that yes, she was fine, no, she hadn’t been mugged, and maybe she would eat the baby carrots in the fridge but probably not because her lunch had been very filling. She’d root through the freezer, grab whatever meat she could find, don her steel-tipped combat boots and enter the basement where her very own dragon was sleeping.
Her homework came later.
 
WITH WEATHER
The day was too pretty for a murder. The clouds lolled around, puffs of lazy, chubby, white cotton candy. The sun was an egg yolk heavy and yellow, dripping rivulets of thick sunlight out into the world. The wind swirled and sang about, cooling the masses of sweaty people crowding the city. But soon the crowds would be one short and the perfect cerulean sky would turn grey and violent.

WITH A CHILD NARRATOR
Tabitha, the teeny seven-year-old you may have recently seen picking her nose or executing a not-so-perfect cartwheel on her lawn, and the ten-year-old, overweight cat were best friends.
The problem was, Tabitha had no other friends. Just her and the cat and a pack of Oreos. And, of course, her slightly telekinetic brain. Only slightly telekinetic, though. Definitely not fully.

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  • July 30, 2015 - 4:10pm (Now Viewing)

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2 Comments
  • Norah

    These are awesome! I'd love to see some of the stories that go along with them.


    about 2 years ago
  • Takeacake

    Great stuff. Each opening is a unique introduction to a story's setting and plot


    about 2 years ago