RULES: List the openings of the last ten stories you published. Look to see if there are any patterns that you notice yourself, and see if anyone else notices any! Then tag some friends.
Thanks to @cowboyjakes for tagging me! I love these, clearly y’all know me well :P
Publishing? Who’s she, I don’t know her. I’ll just take the openings of ten random stories I finished
"…don't you think? Morse?"
This late October lunchtime found DC Morse sitting in the usual noisy pub, opposite his superior, DI Thursday. And, of course, opposite the usual pint of beer. Whilst Morse had been working on his crossword, Thursday had been reviewing the rough facts of their current investigation, a particularly puzzling problem about-
"-the drowning, in Carshall Newtown? Morse?"
(hhh that’s. terrible on it’s own, it gets better (I’ll be publishing this for Inktober, the 25th))
An autumn day, bright and sunny if a little crisp. Bernie had woken Louis up too early for him with a phone call, inviting him to join her at the airfield if he wanted to do some tricks in the Stearman. Against his better instincts, Louis had grudgingly dressed, grabbed some breakfast and made his way to the airfield. Bernie was just starting the gleaming radial engine when he arrived. A few minutes later, the wheels of the Stearman left the ground, and Bernie started putting the Stearman through its paces.
(OC time yeet(for Inktober, 26th))
The day was heavy, with dark, brooding clouds gathering on the western horizon. The sun was just managing to shine, it's bleak light seeping slowly through the deep shadows beneath the trees, not quite reaching the darkest recesses. Even lightly curtained rooms were pitch black inside; thin panes had gathered frost from overnight, which was not to be dispelled by the puny warmth that the daylight bought. Bernie, sitting in her room at the airfield, was wrapped deep in many layers of blankets, a book clasped in her fingerless-glove-clad hands. The heating at the airfield had picked the perfect time to give up, and the whole building was freezing. Apparently, the Commander had started using the old fireplace in his office again, with old papers for fuel.
And now thunder was rumbling in the distance.
(dun dun DUN(for Inktober, 27th))
The sun beating down on the beach was past its zenith, but still high enough to cast deep shadows as pools of shade in the sea of burning sand. Where the grains petered out and stopped in the north, the sea started; an endless flat plane of blue. The other side of the beach there was a long strip of flat grass perfect for landing the Stearman, so that's what Bernie had done on the first nice day. After taking the Stearman from Mecrenris airfield, she landed it in the large field behind Louis's house and picked him up, then flown them over the River Maer to Ripley Banks, a small island to the east of the mainland. Sitting in the shade of the Stearman's wings, they talked and ate a picnic that Bernie had taken from the airfield.
(It gets less ominous(for Inktober, 2nd))
"YOU DID WHAT?!" Louis stormed into the hangar, slammed his rucksack down on the tool cabinet and glared at Bernie, an angry smile playing on his face.
"Good morning to you too." replied Bernie, sliding out from under the Stearman on a creeper board.
"WHY ON EARTH WOULD YOU DO THAT?" continued Louis, gesticulating wildly in anger.
"Yes, I'm fine thanks." Bernie put away the spanner she had been using and wiped her hands on a rag.
"Sorry, but just to be clear, what are you talking about?" Bernie asked. "Also, tea?"
The Cessna continued stalling for a couple of seconds before the altimeter hit 12,00 feet, then its downward progress morphed into gliding like a free falling safe. Louis had gone past scared to being scarily polite.
(this one’s on @carryon-writing)
The Commander was walking along the forecourts of the hangars on Mecrenris Airfield, out to get a breath of air from his office, when suddenly a scream rent the air. It came from the middle hangar, and he quickly rushed over to see what the noise was about. Opening the door, he was horrified at what he saw. Bernie was sitting on a small step, a dripping red line along her arm and a circular saw silent in the background, the blade slightly broken. Louis was unconcernedly whistling on the other side of a Cessna.
(it’s not what it looks like. this is also on @carryon-writing)
The low pressure around Mecrenris Island had bought in a spate of rain, high winds and hail, which everyone on the airfield had agreed were precursors to a thunder storm. Even though the airfield was trying to operate as normal, the inclement weather conditions had grounded all but the most plucky pilots, and the airfield had received a record low of two visitors in the last two days. In preparation for the storm, some spare supplies of drinking water and food were being distributed to King, Fleece Island and isolated areas of Mecrenris Island south of Lamen Peak. Charlie and Major Tom had been taking most of the supplies as Bernie was ill, and staying at Louis's house at the request of his mother. Two days after she had arrived, Bernie was feeling much better, and when Louis went into the spare bedroom where Bernie was staying, he found her trying to get out of bed.
(if it’s not on @carryon-writing, it soon will be)
Sub-lieutenants Ben Major and John Hurst were standing at the almost completely packed bar of 314 squadron mess, passing the time at R.N.A.S. Lossiemouth in Scotland. Sitting on bar stools, their first beer of the night each in hand, the conversation had started with the patrol they had both flown earlier but had now turned to something completely different.
(this is the start of one of my personal favourite projects of all time, Commander Hurst’s backstory. as yet unpublished)
A beautiful blue summer's day, and all was quiet on Mecrenris Island. At the Airfield, Bernie was on the edge of the tie-downs near the water point, having landed the Cessna from a short maintenance flight earlier. Wearing old blue overalls, she had a hose in one hand and a large sponge in the other, washing down the plane of bugs and pollution. Louis was sitting on a small bank near the tap, changing the pressure for Bernie with one hand and eating a sandwich with the other. The only sounds were the splashing of water on the aluminium of the plane and a bird singing in the woodland to the right. Otherwise the entire island seemed to be silent from were Bernie and Louis were.
(macaroni, do you recognise? as yet unpublished)
Hhh some I forgot some of those existed lol. Anyway, I’m tagging @spiltpencilsink and @macaronimood because. Friends?
