So these a few drafts I have for the first paragraph of my book. This is very important to me as I want it to really grip the readers, let them know what they are in for. I got a bit carried away though guys, and I would love for you criticisms and ideas.
     My aim for this is to be abstract, but clearly showing a scene that will set up the rest of the book. It needs to be brutal but graceful. It needs to be abstract, but I don't want anyone confused as to what is going on.
     Can you guys help me??

                       Thanks, Shezza xx

P.S. These drafts are all of the same scene. :)

     The cold bite of steel is like the hot bite of a snake. Only momentary. Only brief. But deadly all the same. The pinch before the hilt meets the flesh; the prick before it breaks through skin on the other side. Like the hot sting of a snakes bite, it kills. The gasp of breath, as though all breath has escaped the body - fleeing from the silent pain. Weakness of the knees as legs give way for the floor. A foot, pressed and pushed into the chest to wrench the sword free. The fall from grace. The blurry vision as the artist hovers over its artwork, beautiful and bloody. Scarlet pools wash away the life from the skin, bringing the pallor of death and staining marble floors pink. Fingers twitching and the neck twitching and the lungs collapsing as the snake slithers away, looking for its next victim. Hissing with its two swords bare, hissing with the promise of more death.
It did not disappoint. And each death was not all too similar as the last. Brutal in their own way: venomous in its air. The temples floors were stained pink, and the temples walls were stained pink, and their robes were stained red and the heart stained black. Death is black. Death is nothingness. Death is empty. It's mind is branded with images of dying children it will not soon forget. They will linger. It knows this. In each time it blinks, betrayed eyes and twitching fingers painted crimson will flash across its vision. It knows death, but not like this. It's bite kills, slow enough for it to move on. To ignore the consequence its venom inevitably has. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

        Okay so I really enjoyed writing this. This is the first draft that made me think I could do better. All others are inspired by this piece.

The cold bite of steel is like the hot bite of a snake, so I've been told. Brief, like a warm breath in winters air. Momentary, but deadly all the same. The recoil of its head. The realisation of what's to come has not come early enough. And so, the bite. Pinching before sinking deeper, until gum hits flesh and the sword rips through the barrier on the other side. Gasping. Fire and ice and poison and death shooting through each nerve and each vein. Be quiet. A gentle hand somewhere, lowering your limp body to the ground as the breath escapes the body - fleeing from the pain. A boot, muddy and stained pressed and pushed into a chest to wrench free the sword in one sharp tug. Blood. It stains the marble floor pink, and the teeth crimson, and the robes brown. It boils at the base of the throat, and leaps out trying to escape the furnace in which it finds itself trapped in. Pain. The pain fades like a memory from childhood, fingers twitching and droopy eyes focusing, unfocusing, focusing, unfocusing on the snake as it slithers away. Bloodlust glimmering in its eyes, and a sword trailing fire in its wake.
And the fire spread.
Bodies on the ground writhe silently as infernos rage beneath their skin. Mouths open and close soundlessly, unable to scream and unable to call for help. A young man's skin even breaks out into blisters, slowly through each layer of flesh it sizzles and pops. Flesh is not so nice a smell when its burning, the snake concludes. Lovely advice for anybody who cares. Nails screech and crack as the dead claw at the floor, some slipping in their blood as they try to grasp something. Anything.

       I think at this point I decided, perhaps I like the violent, gruesome approach to unsettle and edge my readers. I don't want to slowly build up. I want to chuck you in the middle of the mess and watch as you navigate through the aggression.

It's been said that the icy bite of steel is like the hot bite of a venomous snake. You watch it innocently. You watch its head recoil, and its mouth open to reveal two sharp fangs. You realise, and realise too late, that it means to kill you. There is a slight pinch, you note, as it breaks the surface, and a slight prick as the sword pushes through the other side. Hilt to flesh, life to death. Snake. You hiss in your head. It wants you to be quiet, so as you fall, as your breath escapes your body and the pain, it catches you. It wraps around your shoulders and places your body on the cold marble. It wants you dead. You hadn't noticed the fangs still in your body until the floor pushes it up and you want to scream, but the best you can do is groan. It's boot against your chest, your lungs protest as your body lifts skywards as it wrenches the only thing prolonging your life from the body. Don't worry, you shan't die slowly. You shan't bleed out, no. That death is too good for you. Your fingers twitch and start shaking. The snake observes from a distance, as though you were not dying, just injured and mad. Feeling the momentary burn as the fangs plunged into your flesh was preferable to what you feel now. Your body is set a light. You feel molten lava in your fingertips and your toes; your wound explodes in swift flashes of fire and ice; you know when it spreads because your muscles start to fight off the fire, and you tense before they jump around in the confines of your greying skin; your eyes bulge and you struggle to find the snake. You want to scream and curse it, but your throat has closed in on itself, and you can't breathe. Snake. You want it dead. You want revenge. Serpent. Traitor. It has seen enough. It knows what its venom can do. Your neck jerks up, your head following, your shoulders following, your chest following. If you were able to move, you would scratch and tear at the skin on your neck as the lava slips its way up your throat, blood leaking through your already stained teeth. The venom reaches your heart, your black, hardened heart and you die instantly. Your silver eyes lingering on the trail of blood the snake left behind, leading to its next victim with its jaw gnashing, wanton for more.

        Okay. I admit. I have never done second person before and been invested. I hope it isn't obvious. This one was fun, I wanted to play around with the persons view, and why not go all out? How do we feel about this one guys? Oh, the next one is the exact same just in third person. :p

It's been said that the icy bite of steel is like the hot bite of a venomous snake. They watch it innocently. They watch its head recoil, and its mouth open to reveal two sharp fangs. They realise, and realise too late, that it means to kill them. There is a slight pinch, they note, as it breaks the surface, and a slight prick as the sword pushes through the other side. Hilt to flesh, life to death. Snake. They scream in their head. It wants them to be quiet, so as they fall, as their breath escapes their body and the pain, it catches them. It wraps around their shoulders and places their body on the cold marble. It wants them dead. They hadn't noticed the fangs still in their body until the floor pushes it up and they want to scream, but the best they can do is groan. It's boot against their chest, their lungs protest as their body lifts skywards as it wrenches the only thing prolonging your life from the body. Don't worry, they shan't die slowly. They shan't bleed out, no. That death is too good for them. Their fingers twitch and start shaking. The snake observes from a distance, as though they were not dying, just injured and mad. Feeling the momentary burn as the fangs plunged into their flesh was preferable to what they feel now. Their body is set a light. They feel molten lava in their fingertips and their toes; their wound explodes in swift flashes of fire and ice; they know when it spreads because their muscles start to fight off the fire, and they tense before they jump around in the confines of your greying skin; their eyes bulge and they struggle to find the snake. They want to scream and curse it, but their throat has closed in on itself, and they can't breathe. Snake. They want it dead. They want revenge. Serpent. Traitor. It has seen enough. It knows what its venom can do. Their neck jerks up, their head following, their shoulders following, their chest following. If they were able to move, they would scratch and tear at the skin on their neck as the lava slips its way up their throat, blood leaking through their already stained teeth. The venom reaches their heart, their black, hardened heart and they die instantly. Their silver eyes lingering on the trail of blood the snake left behind, leading to its next victim with its jaw gnashing, wanton for more.

      I don't think I've read through this one as much as the others so let me know if the persons view is botched. Mwah.

Lions hide in tall grass. Murderers hide in plain sight. Though, what's similar is how they kill. Their bite and their blade, powerful and deadly. They go for the neck. They want an easy kill, a clean kill.
They stalk their prey, a young, injured doe - alone and unsuspecting. Perhaps it doesn't care, perhaps it doesn't know better. It's innocence will be the death of it. Clinging to the shadows, fang and sword bared, ready. Deadly. They approach slowly, as to not disturb the environment, as to not draw attention.
They sneak up from behind and wait; they wait for a sign; for a warning; they wait for anything.
Nothing.
And so they pounce. The lions jaw clamps down onto the jugular. The murderer's hand acts as a vice on the doe's mouth. The lion jerks its head and before the doe can bleat, before it can buck, it goes limp. The murdered brings their blade flashes in the dim light with a crimson waterfall as it slices open the does neck.
Quick, quiet, efficient. They will both move on eventually. The lion will feast, having its fill beforehand, despite having just eaten its hunger for more grows. The murderer leaves the body to whatever the fates decide. Fawn coloured hair stains with blood as the body is lowered to the ground gently, stark white skin and a stark white robe stained with scarlet.
They return to the shadows, mind already on the next kill.

       I think I was bored writing this one. At this point I was overthinking the whole snake metaphor.  Kind of funny, personally.

I hope you guys enjoy the little sneak peak to my book and if you responded with your opinions, thoughts or criticisms then you're amazing and I appreciate you. If you didn't but enjoyed reading then thank you for being here.

Mwah, much love, Sherry. Xx