I've written this as a short story three times, and have begun it as a novel two times, have outlined it three times, and have written the opening lines of the novel five times.

I wrote the opening lines of the novel a sixth time. Here they are:

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The flap, flap, flap of torn shoes, toes lolling out like tongues. Dust kicked up from the road and the sun scorched skin. He did not mind. Beyond the stones and tall dry pines and the bark of dogs chained to straining stumps was tea. Iced tea. Tea with an accent and a rare warmth, and it was escape, and so he ran to it, the shoes flap flap flapping a rhythm that was everywhere he did not want to be.

It was Tuesday.

It's rather brief, I know. Sorry.

A good start, though. Atmospheric.