First Paragraph- A Dirty Little Secret

Judy Leclair was the all-American girl. Her beauty was undeniable, but the attraction that all men felt for her went well beyond looks. Judy had an immense capacity to please, but was able to maintain her identity as a strong and independent woman. Unpredictably she’d married the nerd from high school, instead of the quarterback, but Judy never followed the rules. The man had no looks, little personality, and a slight limp when he walked, but Judy had apparently found all of his flaws charming and pledged her life to him nearly 8 years ago. Judy’s three children thankfully took on her looks as their Christmas card photo annually chronicled. Judy really could do it all; full-time mother, volunteer at no less than five local charities, and a devoted wife that never let her husband go to bed unsatisfied. Tuesday the 31st was just another ordinary day in her extraordinary life. She had exercised, showered, and was dressed to the nines before anyone else in her house had pressed the snooze alarm. Breakfast was individually prepared for each family member and her husband’s lunch was specially prepared and already placed in his briefcase. She kissed him goodbye, the type of kiss that let him know there were no others, and watched in the door as he backed out of the driveway and drove down the street. Judy’s two oldest were dropped off at school and her youngest at daycare and by 8:30 am Judy was already back home ready to tackle the day. As she did every day, she went upstairs to her home office and logged into her computer. While it churned to life, Judy pulled open the futon, put her hair up in a bun, and put on a pair of black rimmed glasses. She was the real life replica of every man’s naughty librarian fantasy, which is exactly what she wanted. The beep on the computer signaled to Judy that her 9:00 am had arrived in the chat room and she was pleased to see it was a regular named James. Judy positioned herself in front of her webcam, unbuttoned her blouse, and prepared herself to give the main in the wheelchair the very best that $4.99 a minute could buy.

First Paragraph- The Legend of Lost Creek Lane

Lost Creek Lane was nestled in the woods, barely visible to those who passed its entrance while on the busy two lane road. The sign to the road was partially obstructed and the overgrowth of trees would cause you to entirely miss the entrance unless you specifically knew it was there. Accessibility was not really an issue anyway given the road gave entrance to a single home almost two miles at the end of the now barely paved path. But Lost Creek Lane did have its share of visitors, however infrequent they may be, and those visitors tended to be important in nature. The owner of the house was a mystery and the nearly 5 acres of electric fencing and vicious guard dogs kept even the most adventurous of onlookers away. Rumor had it the man who owned the house was once a prominent doctor some 40 years ago who’d dropped out of the profession after serious allegations surfaced regarding misappropriations of goods intended for some third world country. Apparently several shipments of medicine as part of the Government’s “Hands Across the Globe” program had gone missing under his watch. But like many things in this part of the country, it was all rumor and innuendo and was never verified despite the many attempts of the gossip hungry town. No one knew his name and he rarely ventured into town. So infrequent were the sightings of him, that many were not even sure he was still alive. And then one fall day he showed up in the middle of town, in the middle of the street, in the middle of the day, incoherent and wobbling back and forth. He was shouting, but his sentences were slurred and the now gathering crowd could only make out an occasional word. When asked later, one onlooker would swear she heard the word “fault”; another would attest to hearing “surgery”; and yet another would witness the man slurred “conspiracy”. What all three, and the rest of the crowd, would unanimously agree upon is the man’s slurring and wobbling both stopped when a sniper’s bullet ripped through the side of his head.

First Paragraph- Super Size Me

Andrew sat at the ketchup stained table in the local burger joint. He eyed his nearly 1 lb. slab of hamburger with complete satisfaction; knowing the mere sight of the decadent treat would send his overbearing health nut of a wife through the roof. He really couldn’t stand his bride of nearly 8 years. Their marriage was a sham from the very beginning, but he was just too weak of a person then to do anything about it. They were different in every way and those differences grew even larger with every shallow anniversary that passed. To the outside world they must have looked like June and Ward Cleaver, but the veneer of their marriage was razor thin and ready to crumble at any time. Andrew (by the way, he actually liked to be called Andy but his wife forbade this moniker) would never be good enough for his Barbie Doll wife whose only real need for plastic surgery would be to have the silver spoon removed from her mouth. With each defiant bite Andrew grew angrier and angrier with his wife and was even more convinced that what he was about to do was not only justified, but completely right. His focus on revenge was momentary derailed by a disabled man guiding his wheelchair into the table next to him. An entirely empty restaurant and this guy had to sit right next to him. Some people think they are entitled to the world just because they are handicapped. Andrew regained his focus and resolve, pulled out his pen and wrote something on a piece of scrap paper. He slid the paper into an pre-addressed envelope knowing full well the six words contained inside would send the wretched family into the hell they all deserved.

First Paragraph- The Curious Case of Joseph Johnson

He wasn’t exactly Benjamin Button, but it was curious nonetheless. It started small; so small in fact he didn’t even know it had begun. Only looking back did Joseph Johnson start to piece together the events of the past 6 months. It was the smallest toe on Joseph’s left foot. One day, April 30th to be exact, it just went numb. One of those things you never notice, until you notice it and then you can’t get it out of your mind. Joseph was working on a crossword puzzle and was stuck on the final 3 words. 37 across, “Latin for neighbor”; 78 across, “Chief Norse Deity”; and 22 down, “Word before many words”. Not the hardest crossword puzzle ever created; then again Joseph wasn’t exactly Stephen Hawking. No clue was the only answer that continually came into Joseph’s mind. He was in the crossword’s paradox; too stubborn to look up the answers and not smart enough to figure them out on his own. He was just about to fold up the paper and call it a day when it happened. Vacina was Latin for neighbor. How could he have possibly known that? Probably just a recall from a word of the day calendar or a ghost from crossword’s past. He supposed it wasn’t so strange to recall a word you didn’t realize you knew. And then it happened again. Odin was the Chief Norse Deity. What was happening? Five minutes ago he was barely sure what a deity was and would have thought Odin was Garfield’s nemesis. His thoughts were immediately disrupted when, without thinking, he began to fill in 22 down. Just as the final letter was being memorialized in the box and the crossword was completed, his toe went numb.

The next several days were pretty uneventful. His toe was still numb, but otherwise he was the same 43 year old man he’d always been. His greatest skill was being incredibly average at everything, but Joseph believed everyone was born with one incredible skill that set them apart from all others on Earth. He’d decided long ago that being pretty good at everything was superior in itself and he was okay with the notion he’d never be remembered for being abnormally unique. But he was wrong.

It was 17 days after his toe went numb that he noticed a disabled car by the local park. Joseph didn’t have a car; in fact Joseph had never driven a car in his life. The son of radical 1960’s Berkley parents, Joseph was raised to believe all things motorized were evil. He didn’t really carry those same beliefs, but never actually got around to getting his license. It was on his “to do” list somewhere between growing a vegetable garden and hiking in the Andes. He biked everywhere he went and was on his morning ride to work when he decided to pull over to help an attractive thirty-something woman in need of rescue. As it turns out, Pam was also on her way to work when her engine had sputtered to a stop. To say Joseph knew nothing about cars was a colossal understatement, but he was keen on impressing the pretty woman by at least pretending to be of help, so he asked her to pop the hood. A serial bachelor, Joseph had realized long ago the world’s smallest handcuff would never find its way on his left hand, but a beautiful woman could get him to do just about anything. The engine was a Rube Goldberg machine of metal and wire and the only thing he recognized was the oil dip stick. In the midst of his confusion on where to even begin, his hands started to move on their own and instantly the objects under the hood became as familiar as his own face. After 5 minutes of working like a one-man pit crew at Indy, he asked Pam to start the car. She slid into the driver’s seat and placed the key in the ignition. As the key turned and the engine roared to life Joseph’s entire left leg went numb and he collapsed on the ground.

First Paragraph- Trick or Treat

TRICK OR TREAT

Ben was out walking his dog long before most people had decided to pour their first cup of coffee. He liked it that way; much less of a chance to run into someone from the neighborhood. It was early in the morning and the path he took was littered with the misplaced bounty of last night’s trick or treat mob. Like modern day Hansels & Gretels, the masked kids had left a trail of Tootsie Rolls, Suckers, and Gum that could lead any abductor right to their front doors. Ben craved isolation and was a man who took great lengths to separate himself from those around him. The mere thought of Halloween made his pulse race and his blood pressure rise. The same children who routinely mocked Ben had come to his door in a steady stream asking for their unearned treats; they were all scavengers and beggars masquerading under the guise of a pagan holiday. It was his first year in this house and the previous owners must have been generous, for even a turned off porch light was not enough to stop his doorbell from ringing well into the night. His nerves frayed and his dog nearly hoarse from barking, Ben had retreated to his bedroom closet in a futile attempt to keep his anger in check. He had vowed this year would be different, but the mini Michael Jacksons and Candy Corn Witches just wouldn’t leave him alone. He had convinced himself the closet was a place of retreat; a place to regain the balance the doorbell had tried to upset. But this closet held more than clothes, it also held secrets. Ben had spent his entire life posing as someone else, so why did a day where others did the same upset him so much? He had known what would happen before the night was through, but still did his best to fight off the urge that had grown so rapidly inside him. Replaying the video of his memory, the sound of candy cracking under his step and his dog barking at a rabbit jolted Ben back to reality. He tried to pass off the horrific memory as a dream, but his blood soaked shirt betrayed him. If asked, he would simply state he hadn’t changed from last night’s costume party. In reality, there was one less heart beating this morning and Ben had no idea whose it was.

First Paragraph- Checkerboard Lawns

I’ve always wanted to be a writer and I’ve always wanted to write a book. I’m just not sure I have the patience for it. I’ve heard tales of great writers who spend an entire day on one paragraph. Or hours on one sentence. Meanwhile, I feel like a pit crew at Indy trying to get my prose on the race track as quickly as possible. I’ve started many works of fiction over the years and rarely get past the first couple of pages. It takes time for a story to develop; time that I’m not sure I want to invest. Possibly it’s the fear of failure. Possibly it’s a lack of knowledge on how to develop a story. Possibly it’s a lack of talent. Possibly it’s just my extreme lack of patience in general. Whatever the reason, I stall before I ever have the satisfaction of writing “Chapter 2” at the top of the page. Whereas most writers have trouble starting a story, I have trouble with everything but the start. Therefore, I will have a recurring post to this blog called First Paragraph. First Paragraph will be the beginning words of all the ideas I have for a book. First Paragraph will be the beginning of everything and then end of nothing. Without further ado, I give you the first installment of First Paragraph.

CHECKERBOARD LAWNS

The first lawn turned brown in the spring of 2008. Most of us didn’t even notice. Why would we, we had yet to been trained that lawn color was an indicator of financial security. Those who did notice figured the Lawsons had just forgotten to turn the water on after a rainy February. But even the observant couldn’t recall the last time they had seen the Lawsons. By May For Sale signs had popped up like zits on a teenager. Mission Springs Community had developed a serious case of real estate acne. By July the lawns of Tennyson Street were a brown and green checkerboard pattern. Brown lawns had become a modern day easy mark for squatters and the vacancy was seemingly endless. By September new faces had started to appear. Our smiles welcomed them to the neighborhood, but our hearts bred contempt for their part in our declining home value. We despised them for their low mortgage balances; our only comfort in knowing we’d pilfered from them before they had a chance to move in. We shook our heads when asked why there were holes where ceiling fans once thrived. We shrugged when they pondered why all of the hardware had been removed from their top end cabinets. Our only satisfaction was in making their purchases from the bank as incomplete as possible. For what is more frustrating, stealing both shoes or stealing only one? By December the lawns had all turned green again. We convinced ourselves the worst was behind us, but what the rain had temporarily hidden, time was about to expose.