Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion
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First sentences
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by
Caitlan
(new)
Oct 31, 2011 08:15AM

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“What? That you’re pregnant?” He shrugged. “You’re in a circus, darling.” He looked away but his eyes didn’t leave her long. They slid back to rest on her. “Do you really think you’re the first widow for us to find?”


One success.

Feel free to steal. In fact it would be awesome to have a contest based around first lines instead of topics. Just a thought ...

And how do you mean, Edward? Do you mean a story told by a chain of people, one line (or maybe better, one paragraph) at a time?
I like the idea a lot. It has an echoe of the popcorn thread, but with a bit of a twist.
Al, would you like to start one - or, since you are very busy, I could start it? Let's see, what might make a good starting paragraph?
It was when she asked 'Where am I?' and no one answered that she knew she had arrived. She raised her white knuckled fist with a slow determined grace before opening it to reveal the line of blood slowly seeping from the shallow cut before picking up the torch in order to crawl up to the attic. Decades of research. Trillions of dollars spent. Dozens of failed breakthroughs, funding cuts, and ruined careers. Eight deaths. One success.

Okay, combining our sentences like that was just weird. That definitely sounds like a story I might read.

I'm cogitating how to proceed with this idea, which has challenges. And I am seem to be particularly busy with life right now. Stay tuned. I'm thinking of twisting this idea just a bit.

The trees were so green in the unknown forest, it looked like Central Park in the middle of summer.

The pounding on the window sent shiveres down his spine. He knew it was only the tree, but it couldn't hurt to check.

Her eyes darted to the scissors, then back to her attacker. She groped behind her for them.

Painting was her way of expressing herself. Cutting was his. How it ever worked out is beyond either of them.


nice one aj XD
The wrapping paper fell to the floor, forgotten."
Hopefully she hadn't punctured the condom in her haste to unwrap it.

Her eyes darted to the scissors, then back to her attacker. She groped behind her for them."
She found her eyes and put them back in, suddenly everything became clearer.


Vomit splattered out the car window and onto the girl, ruining her sun dress.

Painting was her way of expressing herself. Cutting was his. How it ever worked out is beyond either of them."
I am making this into either a novel or a novella, titled 'A Cutter and a Painter'





Clearly that's the beginning of a story about being held hostage at a Krispy Kreme.
I collect mugs, so a bullet blowing through my coffee is twice tragic: Lost mug and lost coffee. Oh, and someone's shooting at me, so thrice tragic, I guess.


That was a terrible sentence. I need some sleep...