Best Opening Lines To Books Novels & Stories

The book was an ancient one from the looks, it had latin words and strange patterns written all over it. The only understandable word was the bold 'Garou' written at the top. I touched the book in Crescent's hand expecting to get the same reaction, but i didnt, it was just normal. I guess the book knows what it's doing, it wanted Crescent to open it. Scratch that, it wasn't normal, the feeling of touching the book was different from the feeling of touching a normal book. It felt like the book had a life of it's own. "Should we open it?" Crescent asked." I don't think we should, we aren't supposed to be here in the first place" I said and he agreed with me, then he put the book back in it's p

The weakness in my body did not vanish, but the emptiness inside me shifted, rearranged, like space being made for something old and familiar. I placed my palm flat against the book. And it lit up. Soft at first. Then brighter. Symbols bloomed across the cover like they had been asleep and finally heard their name. The bindings loosened on their own, threads unraveling without being cut, pages fluttering like they were eager. The book opened instantly. Sammy sucked in a sharp breath. Jane swore under her breath, awe naked on her face. Victor went very, very still. And I lay there with my heart pounding, staring at the open pages like they had been waiting for me my entire life.

Spread my palm across its surface. The language rose before I even opened it. It was never words on the tongue first. It was sensation. A familiar ache that slid under skin and promised compliance. I let it build. Letting its darkness curl obediently along my wrist. “Yield.” The book opened without touch, that was new and I would be proud, but this was not the time. The pages ruffled as if wind lived only inside them. Ink stirred and the symbols woke.

"Then begin." She opened the book. The pages were heavy vellum, script ink written in flowing black. She breathed in and started reading, her voice deepening as she became caught up in the book. It was rich and sensual, of the god's coming, the scent of rain and mature grain that clung around him, the fear of the gentleness of his hands.

When compared to the ones that come with it, that's a bit thin. She took it in her hands and glanced at it. "Perhaps I'll read this first," she thought to herself before settling into a chair on the bedside table. As soon as she opened the first page, she was immediately drawn to the subject matter. "Silver Wolf: The Beginning of a New Era." A tear appeared on one side of the page when she moved the page. No, all of the other pages is a messed. She returned to the opening page of the book, where she was greeted by the name of the book's author.

"The thresholds. Thomas. Everything." "The editor will want to discuss it." "Let her discuss it. It's right." "I know it's right." She looked at the notepad. "It arrived the way first lines do. Complete." "Call her today." "I'll email her. I want to see it written first." She went back to the coffee. "How does it sit with you." "What The House Kept." I said it again. "It asks the question without being a question." "That's what I needed. The opening line is a question. The title can't also be one."

In May of the seventeenth year Don showed Ernest the first full draft of the third book's opening section. He read it aloud in the sitting room — the established form of the sharing, the reading aloud that had been established with the Thessaloniki piece and continued through all the subsequent pieces and books. Ernest listened with the quality he had brought to all Don's readings: entirely present, without anticipation. The opening section began with the first year. Not the arrangement's first day — the first year's December entry, the first year's accounting. Don read Ernest's journal entry from the first December: The arrangement has begun. The managed distance. The viable but provisional

Dean stiffened beneath me, his arms tightening instinctively. “Shit,” he hissed, voice low and urgent. I scrambled off his lap, his cum dripping down my thighs as I grabbed the phone. My hands were shaking. Dean stood up quickly, adjusting his sweatpants, his face tense with sudden panic. “Answer it,” he whispered, eyes wide. “Act normal.” I swallowed hard, trying to steady my voice as I swiped to answer. “Hey, Mom,” I said, forcing a casual tone even though my legs were still trembling and I could feel Dean’s fresh load leaking out of me.

“Let’s see how well you grasped it.” Oh, for God’s sake. Still, I stood there, trying not to show how nervous and agitated I was as he flipped through my pages. He leaned back. “Explain your opening line. ‘Opposing forces are bound to collide, but sometimes collision is the only way stars find rhythm.’ What does that mean?” I met his gaze, arms crossing. “It means conflict doesn’t always destroy. Sometimes it creates balance.” “Balance,” he repeated slowly. “And you think chaos can create that?”

First, it was the sent, it sent shivers down her spine. “Good Morning.” Second, it was the voice. November’s back stiffens. She sat very still in her chair, her hands gripping the book she was holding. She bit her lip, her heart started pounding against her chest. The hairs on her nape stood on its end, there was a feeling of rush, a feeling of something inside her wanting to claw its way out. “Morning! How can I help you today?” Human. “Hello.” “So what book would it be today, Son?”