Anywhere but at the climax or denouement. OK, probably not in the middle of the lead-up to the big fight, either. But you can start in the middle of things and trust readers to happily roll along with it, only revealing a little of the richness of your mental world.

Here’s an example, inspired by a photo and comment on a different blog:

He set one hand on the weathered, sun-hot wood and pushed the door just a bit, then slid into the welcoming shadows. He bowed to the altar and walked forward. The stone under his shoes rang the slightest bit. As his eyes adapted to the cool darkness, he took in the four worn and well-used wooden pews and kneelers. Nothing unusual for this part of Spain, except … A dagger of light fell from one of the clerestory windows. Colors sang in the darkness to the right of the altar and rail. He eased closer, listing to the cool silence inside and the sound of a car on cobbles outside. 

He went to one knee before the painting and bowed his head. Brother José had captured beauty no mortal heart could bear to gaze upon, and captured it in oil, a miracle of sorts. Again the man felt his breath catch, awe and terror filling his heart and bones once more. 

“A true miracle indeed,” an old voice murmured from the deeper shadows behind the painting and easel. “Rise, brother, and join us. We take a late coffee.”

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Granted, this opening is slower than the ideal story. It is a fantasy story about sort of homecoming, and remembering people and events past. It could be part of a series, or it might not. But there’s nothing in the opening that more than hints at who the protagonist is, and where he is, and why he finds the painting so meaningful. Readers have to trust that you will tell them and that it really is important.

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Below is a short story opening that begins in medias res, in the middle of things:

He sat, slowly. The world turned even more grey, then slowly resolved into the low clouds and distant silvery hills. Blood stained his clothes, and pain. He gritted his teeth and got to one knee, then staggered to his feet. Bodies lay all around. 

No. It could not be. Crows already fluttered, hopped, and feasted, stripping the dead of their flesh. Twilight mist shrouded the farther hills, turning crimson, then blood red, red as the tabards and banner of their attackers. “Kai?” He called, softly, as he limped among the dead. “Gregory? Leopold? Geoff? Lukus?” Only caws answered. No knights, only bodies, some stripped of their arms. None had worn armor. A bitter smile spread his lips: why wear armor in friendly lands? He would now, if he survived.

And here’s the start of one of my novels. Keep in mind, this is from the end of a series, so readers will know a lot more background:

He turned the crystal wine glass. The contents swirled like molten garnet, and he fancied that he could see the abyssal beast’s blood mixing with the heavy Hungarian red, both tempered and transmuted into the fire of life. He sipped the wine. Complex flavors bloomed on his tongue, deep cherry and perhaps a hint of smoke, then rich burgundy flowed into spicy bitterness before finishing with the slightest flavor of chocolate. He swallowed, eyes closed. Fire bloomed in his blood, the Fruits of the Hunt working their way, life given by life justly and cleanly taken. 

Heavy steps crossed in front of him, between his seat and the fire, then returned. He opened his eyes. His elder brother, Skender, glared at the fire, then at his own half-empty glass. “Our prey grows canny. This I do not like.” He drank more, then growled, “Such bodes ill.”

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All three have hooks, things to catch the reader’s attention. Who was ambushed, why, and what form will justice take?

Why is the painting so important? What does it show? Who is the protagonist?

What is the blood wine and why are the men drinking it? What is a Hunt?

The second story and novel start signal genre faster than does the first short story, in part because genre (urban fantasy) is less important to that particular short story in some ways. It will be more of a vignette, I suspect, than a full story. Or it might surprise me.

The point is that short stories have less space to catch and hold a reader’s attention, so we authors have to work more quickly, like an Impressionist painter working in plen air, as compared to an academic painter working on a large historical scene. The reader needs to be caught and pulled into the tale as quickly as possible, without backstory or world building more than is strictly necessary. Sketch what is needed, outlines and cues for genre, and then dig into the action.

Keep in mind, too, that I tend to write “slow,” books that are detail heavy and move more slowly than do thrillers or contemporary romances. This is not ideal for short stories, although I can make it work, and do. But it does not come easily, and requires discipline and paring away all the things I want to put in. Short stories often require trust on the part of the author that the reader will build things in his own mind. Knights, horses, a battlefield with crows already dining … the reader will fill everything in. It must be fantasy, or historical fiction, but probably fantasy. The first one could be a lot of things. The novel bit? Probably urban fantasy or historical, depending on where things go. Again, there is time to do world building and scene setting there. For the short story? Nope.

Start with action or a mystery, sketch the setting lightly, then race ahead. That’s how short stories in genre fiction work.