Prologues get a lot of bad press, but sometimes they do a lot of work for the story that follows, often by telling their own story. I can always nit-pick some things, but I thought both the prologue and the story starts here worked. The Last Guardian, by Shane Johnson
Prologue:
Death.
It is an unseen, unfelt, unwanted companion, closer than arm's length throughout every hour of every day of a man's life. It is a silent, fathomless shadow, falling surely and inescapably within one's own, step for step, move for move. It is a numbing, irresistible, black abyss of a shroud, never sleeping, always watchful; its icy grip always coiled, always at the ready.
It waits.
The ancient man's heart raged against his ribs, forced beyond the limitations of aged flesh. Razored fingers of pain cut into his throbbing temples and aching, dusty lungs. His stringy hair, matted with sweat and dried blood, stung his eyes. He was beyond the point of collapse, his body now an enemy, but he knew he could not safely stop. Not to rest, nor to heal, nor even to die.
Chapter One:
A crystalline veil of stars stretched like a dewy web from horizon to horizon, each radiant pinpoint a gem set into the black velvet expanse beyond.
T.G. Shass lay on his back, his hands behind his head, peering wide-eyed into the inky depth of the cold Colorado night sky. As the warm glow of the campfire washed over his still form, he wished that the city sky at home could be even half as clear and wondrous as the panorama above him. He imagined himself looking not up but out, as if the ground beneath him were a wall to which he had been pinned and the sparkling display were spread head to toe before him. Meteorites cut momentary scars of brilliant light into the chilled autumn air, dramatically underscoring the etermal stillness of deep space.
[This message has been edited by Kolona (edited March 17, 2004).]
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