What is the opening paragraph of that story you may never write?

I have actually started writing a story. It is a murder mystery. Here is the first paragraph:

Jack Merrill was stoned. As he drove the winding road, aluminum canoes clattered against the metal rack on the trailer behind the ancient brown van. Held down with strong, black bungee cords, the canoes added significantly to the structural integrity of the rusted red metal trailer. The van’s passengers, damp from canoeing, were bounced against the sticky vinyl seats. The air was hot and humid and the rear windows of the van opened only as far as their latches would allow.

My father ran out of time on the day before he turned 55. He always had a million things he wanted to do and only a handful he had completed, and now there wouldn’t be a tomorrow in which he could finish building his tire house. Or get the backhoe repaired. Or get his idea for a windmill motor without ball bearings patented. Or find out what happened to my brother. He’d always meant to do that.

Here goes…
There once was a girl from Nantucket,who sat at her desk with writer’s block.
Guess what she said? ;)

Nothing adds up. People don’t act that way. What did he want? Was it really one person? Is anyone really that rich though? Is anyone that crazy? Why am I the only one that sees this?

Where am I? Why can’t I feel my… anything?

My idea is a psychological thriller about revenge and superstition.

Lok’s scream rent the night. The stray dogs jumped back from their feast of garbage, startled. Birds woke and awkwardly scattered in a dazed stupor. The dim lightbulb in Lok’s room flickered. It was the third night without sleep. The third night that the room refused to stay still around him. The third night with those damned voices in his head. The eighth night the police had been looking for him.

The charging Cheerios gorilla gave me the first clue that I might be dreaming, and I had a spoon in my hand and a hose marked milk. As I turned the hose on, milk splattered the angry animal as it approached closer. I began to hope that the Cheerios wouldn’t stay crispy in milk and would begin to get soggy. Sure enough, he began to droop and soon parts were completely falling off. In no time, the creature fell as a glop at my feet, and I gleefully dug my spoon into the mixture and took a satisfying bite. Munch. Munch. Munch. Gorillas taste good, I thought to myself.

Three days before her birthday, Katla began to float.

She sat at the kitchen table eating a snack of apples and peanut butter when the chair beneath her was no longer beneath her. Only two centimeters separated her body and the seat. The distance was jarring enough that she sensed something peculiar had occurred. She called to her mother for aid.

“Mom! My chair is being weird.”

“That’s nice, Katla,” her mother said, not looking away from the stew she was busy stirring at the stove. “Eat your fruit, love.”

I swear I will get all these stories written one day.

A group of refined gentlemen loosely gathered in a circle around the young woman who lay dazed and unconscious on the floor. A rough-hewn table in the officious room had collapsed, and its contents now were scattered on and around the intruder. The men conferred, their voices a low murmur in the otherwise quiet room.

The sleazy little pub on Capitol Hill attracted congressmen who didn’t want to be seen, recently former congressmen who left suitcases behind the bar, and various low-level staffers at the Library of Congress who started drinking at noon. The owner-bartender quietly watched porno on his smaller TV at the back of the room, while the larger displayed news or sporting events.
@Kayak8, to strengthen sentence:
As he drove the winding road, aluminum canoes clattered against the metal rack on the trailer behind the his ancient brown van.
Interesting beginning. :-)
@roundsquare “I’m moving to Pawtucket!”

@anartist ahhhh…. but it isn’t his van . . .

“It’s always hard,” said the man in charcoal gray suit with pale pink pinstripes, “to lose this game. But it’s even harder to win.” Then he reached deep into his pockets and pulled out some bills and change. “Here’s cab fare home. When you’re up to it, coming back that is, give me a call. You have my number, right?”
“Yeah,” I said back, “I got it.” Walking down the steps of the flat, I took a sharp left towards my apartment. I’ll be back. And I won’t fucking lose next time.

I included the second paragraph because I wanted to.

The afternoon rain beats upon the windows. I ease into my slicker with a wry smile on my face. The wrought iron umbrella holster is nestled by the front door. I’m always prepared for both the shitty days & the beautiful days. I push aside the red polka-dotted umbrella & grab the rifle. Today. Today is a beautiful day.