Opening paragraphs.

It was a rainy Wednesday. Grey clouds smothered the sun and spat at the pavement. A steady procession of black umbrellas walked past.

The salty air whipped her hair against her face and basted its flavour onto the roof of her mouth. The wind wailed, as if it had just lost something irreplaceable. The waves crashed against the battered wooden hull of the boat. She still didn’t move.

It was raining tears, small splatters that landed with a melancholy plop. The view was empty, a crumbling wall and a shrivelled, blackened tree. It was slumped over; had finally admitted defeat to the world. She turned away.

The lake surface was calm. Its murky expanse covered a whirling mist of mysteries. A shopping trolley, an old red tricycle, a tarnished engagement ring and a particularly vicious pike.

The street had been made with the same stamp as all of the others. Three tower blocks hovered over it, the steeple of a long neglected church could be seen and a signpost pointed to the nearest WC. The pavement was grey. The sky was grey. The air, had it been coloured, would have been grey.


These are possible starts for a piece of fiction with as yet unknown plot. Which do you prefer? Any opinions welcome, thank you,
Zoe