I found her in a quiet cafe, down a side street on the outskirts of Portofino. Not that she was missing. Her face brightened when I asked if I could take her photo. But as I flipped the lens cap off my new Leica she raised a stilling hand. "First," she said firmly, "You have to tell me why." I put the camera down "Why what?" I asked. She took a drag of her cigarette and blew a tight stream of blue smoke from the corner of her smile. "Why me?" The look in her eyes warned me that a bullshit answer would not win her favour. "Because I like taking photos of young women." I said, looking right into her interrogating stare. "And you are the only young woman around here." She nodded, stubbed out her cigarette and chuckled, "Good answer," as she stood, took me by the hand and pulled me towards the door. "Come on." she said. "You don't want a photo of me sitting at a cafe table. Its too cliche' don't you think?" "I suppose" I shrugged, somewhat bemused by the tight grip she had on my hand. The last person to lead me anywhere like this would have been my mother, decades ago. "Where are we going?" I asked, as the cafe door banged closed behind us. She turned to me, and winked. "My place. I hope you have lots of film."

They say the first line of a story is either a door or a wall. We want doors. Dark ones. Share the opening line of something you're working on, or one you've always wanted to write but haven't yet. It can be one sentence. It can be two. Just make it the kind of line that makes someone need to know what comes next. Drop it in the comments 👇

A paragraph, an opening line, a scene that's been sitting in your drafts, or something you finished last night at 2am and can't stop thinking about. No polishing required. No apologies needed. Let's see what you've got!

From "The Butterfly Defect" a novel currently at 150,000 words that will never see the light of day. In this scene, Tracy, having already been led to the dark side by Simon before he died, finds out what he left her in his will. And when she wonders what to do about it, she finds out even more about herself. -------- The contents of the box revealed themselves to be eighty thousand pounds in cash, which Tracy asked Adam to bank for her, a tangled bunch of war medals, pouches of rare coins and a rust stained dagger with a swastika and "SS" engraved in the hilt. She recoiled at the last item. "Is that what I think it is?" "It is. And it's illegal in the UK and most of Europe, being genuine Nazi memorabilia." When he saw Tracy frown, he added. "Oh, don't worry, it wasn't Simon's originally. He liberated it from East Berlin after the war. Nevertheless, you can't put it on the open market without risking a stiff penalty. But we have contacts if you'd like us to sell it for you?" Tracy thought for a while. Her first instinct was to have it destroyed, but her inner, darker voice spoke up. To do so would be to invalidate whatever Simon had endured to acquire it. Maybe even death-defying efforts, for all she knew. And who was she to just write that off? If he'd wanted it destroyed, it wouldn't be here. But still… "What would you think of me if I tried to make money from that?" she asked. Adam took a large swig of whisky. "It's irrelevant what I'd think of you," he said, turning the dagger so it caught the light. "I suspect you know that. But you also might like to know that I wouldn't care in the least. See, this firm has quite a niche clientele, with Simon, and now yourself being prime examples. It's okay, don't be shy about it." He placed the dagger back on the table and flicked it into a slow spin with a pudgy finger. When the spin slowed, then stopped, it was pointing right at her. "You're special, Tracy. It's no surprise you and Simon found each other. We're a little special here, too. People have their own interpretations of morality. You, Simon, me and the other members of this firm share an interpretation that's somewhat distant from the middle of the bell curve, shall we say?" He looked up from the dagger and right into her eyes. "You've not only entertained Simon's butterfly collecting, as he called it, but you've enjoyed it too, yes?"