This is the first paragraph of my first novel, Fluids:
On the first morning of the new Millennium, John, 30, named after Lennon, woke with a killer hangover, a dead arm and a dead girlfriend. She was lying across his arm, pinning it to the bed, her fidgeting over for good. John twisted his head to gaze into her sticky half-closed eyes and saw the light. Not flu, not just the tetchiness that comes with the time of year, but an appliance leaking colourless fumes. They’d pushed a leaflet under every door in the block about the dangers of carbon monoxide and it was only now, in the few seconds between sleep and the sight of her dilated pupils, that the message came home. Her choked bloodstream, his own red cells working against him, binding themselves gladly to the poison. He had lived through the night against the odds; remarkable enough in the circumstances to seem like a challenge, but fuck that. In the same revelatory seconds, John had resolved that there would be no fight. Maybe for Sarah, it if hadn’t been very obviously too late. For all the hand-holding people did, for all the snuggling up, baby talk and acting coy, this is what it came down to. The protective instinct meant human fragility, that is, the possibility of this – her; cold and unmoving, deader than punk rock, and him doubting that blowing his own toxic breath into her mouth would do any good. And it wouldn’t. She was gone. So he wasn’t even going to try saving himself. He would stage a bed-in with her for whatever time he had left; a quiescent John to her stiffening Yoko. I’m sorry Sarah, he thought, but don’t worry, I’m on my way.
This is the first section from my second novel, The Elastica Principle:
Lola could come back, that’s the risk I’m taking. The conditions are ideal for her; late night, low lights, bottles on the table, a room full of people keen to impress each other…
She’s been gone for two years and the blood has all but faded from my hands. So, the fact that this after-hours parlour game is my idea – well, you might call it a reckless flirtation with trouble.
I’m nervous. It’s after four in the morning and the noise from the road has waned to nearly nothing. Most of us have had too much to drink and every sound we make sounds loud and eerie. Somehow there are eleven of us crowded around the wobbly table. The Archangel is sitting to my left, the top joint of his little finger brushing vaguely against my hand. Maria sits opposite, not seeing it.
‘OK then?’ I say.
There are reluctant looks. Things haven’t stayed the same in the time between me suggesting it and all of us fumbling into position. Some would rather get on with their conversations.
Maybe this isn’t a great idea. It’s been said there are some things you shouldn’t mess with. But then the Archangel clears his throat and their attention comes together. They watch me for instructions. All I know of any of these people is the odd bit of chat we’ve managed between set ups.
‘You’re meant to go clockwise, starting with the youngest,’ I say.
The first voice falters across the table:
‘I Have Never…uh…had sex in a public place!’
There’s a short silence, laughter, then two bottles head for their owners’ mouths, claiming for them that they have had sex in a public place. I hesitate but it couldn’t really be said that I think. My bottle reaches my mouth a second after theirs and I make myself a liar with a swallow of beer.
The rest of them are laughing and waiting for the lowdown from the three of us. I’ve got my story ready. Am I the only one who thinks I hear a quiet voice over my shoulder? It says, ‘how long do you expect to keep this up?’
Years after I put an end to her, she’s here, she’s in this room, and this time I’m afraid I’ll have a hard time shaking her off.
Sian Cummins 
