starts for novels

...that i cant be arsed to write, what with my CAREER and all?!

How to begin an autobiography
My father was a famous inventor and my mother I never knew for she died while I was very young. She fell into one of fathers newfangled devices and emerged insane and hungry. Papa brushed her down and took her to dinner but she screamed so much at the mashed potatoes that he had her taken upstairs and locked in the attic. It was an accident waiting to happen for she crawled out onto the roof three weeks later and fell to her death. My childhood was made merry in spite of this and I grew to be a great bounding antelope of a man.

finishing it
With some effort, Julianna removed the steak knife from her husbands chest, sighed and apologized to the corpse. She then went a roving through the town, slightly shivering for it was a fairly cold October night and she felt awkward wandering the streets clutching a bloodsoaked steak knife, but you gotta do what you gotta do.

eating it
Whats it like to have a purpose in life, to have that solid rock that juts out of the featureless ocean to which you can cling to no matter how high the waves? Don't ask me, Global warming got mine last week..

Believing it
charlie habb and michelle mcfortis walked side by side up to the door of the house and charlie pressed the doorbell. Presently a young woman opened the door "in these times of doubt and despair where the false institutions of man crumble under their own greed, only the love of god can be trusted and we want to talk to you about that love and how to let it into your life" The door slammed shut in their faces. That's what sinners do, lost corrupt souls determined to dwell in sin; shut the door or else stand there mocking them with their own self serving beliefs and blasphemous twisting of the holy word. Charlie looked at Michelle, "I think its your turn to vomit in the letterbox" he said.

knee deep in it
july 13 1976, 3.30 in the afternoon on a tobacco plantation in northern cuba. Little Pavel Nachamp is sitting on his grandmothers lap in the veranda of their small house while his grandfather makes great effort of beheading a chicken for tonight's dinner. The chopping block wobbles, the chicken thrashes wildly and the axe he holds unsteadily is meant for chopping wood rather than feathery necks. "Dont cut off your fingers Papa" grandmother calls before resuming her humming and rocking in an effort to get Pavel to drop into sleep. He does after he sees the chickens head come off - he's seen it many times before but there's always something satisfying about the way the chicken dies. His grandpa had lost his glasses before they sat down and Pavel's grandmother had made him help search by threatening that without them, grandpapa's eyes were so bad he might chop Pavels head off by mistake for he was acting very much like a chicken all morning. He had been running around the yard since he woke up, teasing the animals and trying to climb up on the roof so that when he finally fell asleep, he dreamt wild dreams.

my groovy hipster poem

in tandem
obstacle
turning brick
forced full carrier
buttons click
in the dark room
peaks and troughs
through eight windows
people talking
eep eep eeep
succinct