It's a meme that has come and gone, mostly. One problem I have is that, I tend to work on something until I finish a draft or set aside. And stuff set aside often doesn't get picked back up again, it just lingers in the "In Progress" folder like a carton of eggs six weeks past its expiration date. Some opening lines from some works in progress.
From "The Spirit of Liberty," a short story:
I remember it all. I was there, sitting on the curb with Cheryl Lopez and Hector O'Malley, eating a chocolate ice cream cone while Cheryl held my sparkler, all three of us cheering along with everyone else in Jeffersonville as the Spirit of Liberty strode down Main Street in front of the Jeffersonville High School Marching Band. Overhead the Spirit's cherub assistants hovered, throwing out laurel wreaths to the crowd. A wreath landed on the asphalt right in front of Cheryl and Hector. They both looked down to grab it, but I kept my eyes on the Spirit the whole time. She was so beautiful. And as I watched, someone shot her.
From "Superman and Supermind," a short story:
I could see the superman easily enough in my Eye. The very image of the part: tall, blond, square jawed. He wore black slacks and a tie, giving him a retro-Madison Avenue kind of style. Only the choice of a bright red sportscoat ruined the look. Style points aside, what really got my attention was the crutch nestled under his left shoulder. What happened there?
I shook my head, ending the connection. No time for wondering. He'd be here any moment. I considered breaking my routine to act, before finally deciding against it. Supermen be damned, I wanted my tea.
From "What the Crow Saw," a short story:
Trees, tall pines waving in the wind. Carving in between them a long winding red line, a waving snake of infinite length. Moving along it, a cloud of dust.
Shift in the currents. Lower. Lower. Circling under the sun.
The red snake turns into a red river, the cloud of dust following a great blue turtle jostling down it. Beyond it, on the distant shore of green, lying in the center, half hidden in the weeds, something large, something delicious, something dead.
The blue turtle slows, crawls, stops. Gives birth.
Wind shifting again. Lower still. Wings come up, breaking speed, reversing motion. The branch comes up under the feet, grasped by orange claws.
From "Doodling" (not really a title, but not a codename either), a short story:
Nancy wasn't even watching her pen, Peter noticed, wasn't watching as her long fingers danced and whirled it across the memo pad, leaving in its wake shapes and figures, amorphous abstractions which came suddenly together like puzzle pieces to reveal a face of startling accuracy, faces of the people sitting in the meeting. Alonzo. Tricia. Boone. Even Peter, in profile. But no, Nancy wasn't watching what she was drawing. Like everyone else in the room, she was watching the red-faced Mr. Sunday rant.
A no-name short story:
There is no love lost between pirates and mermaids. Oh, to be sure, mermaids admire pirates for their bad-boy attitudes, not to mention finding their parrots adorable, wings a concept not widely known under the sea. And of course, pirates are irresistably drawn to the beautiful faces and full, cold bosoms of the mermaids that so remind them of the sea. While their lower portions are covered with scales, the pirates find the mermaids' sweet lips do very well instead, not being adverse to a little oral.
But then the pirates never call once the deed is done, earning the annoyance of the mermaids, and the pirates resent the way the mermaids snigger and point at what the pirates call their "mighty cutlasses," thinking them more like floppy worms. So while they come together from time to time, it never works out. Until one bright summer's day, when Red Pete of the pirate ship The Deep's Bride met the fair mermaid Tulala.
Of course, in the case of all these beginnings, I have no real idea where the story is going. Which can make it a bit hard later on to figure out if it actually got somewhere. Ah well.