First Sentence thread

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Here is an opener I've been tossing around a little while:

If the term 'Energy', when stated as the fundamental essence of the universe, could be re-termed it would be 'Language'. Language is not only the building block foundation of humanity, it is also of life- of life's chemical bonds and of the atomic dance of the electron, just as the solar and galactic piourette of the celestials. Every single aspect of the physical and metaphysical, whether consciously experienced or not, is the universe communicating with itself. Humans live by no means in a sane universe, but one which spirals within the knowledge of itself as it fractals into existence. At this moment of realization Vernon, even with the full, horizontal support of Earth, can no longer contain himself as he stares into a vortex of tracing stars draining into the night sky that he desperately anchored his sight to in a failed attempt at not losing everything he had worked for that evening. Vern turns himself over as bile spills from his nose and lips. His abdomen contracts, multiple times more, eventually heaving what little remaining liquid and even less food from his stomach out onto the damp, untended grass between his outstretched arms. An indistinguishable murmur of voices can be heard approaching his person as Vernon, with specks of vomit and partially digested pizza topping his face, gives a belligerent grin of relief before succumbing to Earth's pull and the enveloping dark of night.

Unless the story is of a modern setting, and follows a very autistic child who spent most of his 'childhood' being left alone to the internet by his parents because they have no idea how to cope with and handle his level of autism being that they are too poor to afford real help.

- Manuel, me cago en tu puta madre

>English: Manuel, I shit on your whore of a mother

"Show don't tell " applies here, it just sounds preachy to open a story by bluntly stating the power of language.

Estraderm, Aldactone, Zoloft, Cannabis; gelcap rainbows smother my vanity.

>It was a dark and stormy night

you're kidding, r-right?

I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and their neighbohoods. For instance, there is a brownstone in the East Seventies where, during the early years of the war, I had my first New York apartment. It was one room crowded with attic furniture, a sofa and fat chairs upholstered in that itchy, particular red velvet that one associates with hot days on a train.

The woman looked down on her son`s coffin and felt only disgust. She almost spat on the grass, stopping just as she remembred there were others around her.

I like this one.
Im sure you invested a lot of time into choosing those words.

> It wasn't the first day she was unhappy, but it was the first she cried in someone's view. A joyous day otherwise, a day for festivities, though a sour mood still perpetrated. An ill omen appeared earlier, the sun had gone from a white beam to weeping tears of blood, and he smiths wife had locked herself in the attic, and only small mumbles and violent scribbligns could be heard from there.

> Weeping suns and unwell spouses were not the cause of her depression, she had been unhappy ever since she arrived. But it had leant her suspicion from the community, for she was the only stranger.

I'm most definitely gonna throw this away, especially since English isn't my first language, but sometimes it fun to just jot stuff down.

I wanted the story to open at the moment the character has an intense instance of personal revelation. It's the moment his character basically splits in two from his past and future self. That, and the fact that the character himself is preachy. But it's ironic being that he's very hypocritical about what he tells people, and that the whole story is a sort of tragedy where everyone he preaches to, believing genuinely to be helping them, takes his advice and at first seems to help them but eventually makes things worse. And everything he does for himself, against his own preaching, and what he believes to be slowly killing himself, eventually finds him happiness in the end.

The day was really moist.

I'm still not sure...

"Grandpa died today, or maybe yesterday, i don't know."

Too cheesy?

>Quite was the night that passed, the curtains danced like leaves falling in the wind as the breeze blew through the open window.

>The week before I left my family and Florida and the rest of my minor life to go to boarding school in Alabama, my mother insisted on
throwing me a going-away party.

“How aboutcha get on with it.” He got from the chair. Two other people in the house. He talked to who was looking through the hole. Who didn’t respond. Too busy with the hole to the dogs and the grass.

Yeah, that's a one-liner you're going to have to sell.

I love things like this. It shows the author is comfortable in their own skin.

"I’ve been alone for so long now I’ve begun to fear even the thought of seeing another human."

There are no happy endings:well, unless you count handjobs.

>CRASH Fuck Drumpf, fuck pancakes.

Dude, I may be stupid, but this is bad

>>The following chain of events have perplexed me for the past year of my life. I guess it’s actually the last two years.

Losing my mind came slowly then all at once.

"Fuck DRUMPF Make America GAY Again EHL LOW EHL", the extremely autistic pothead yelled out as he took another snort of cocaine.

It was the third of July, the day when they finally completed the system of German Idealism, and the bananas were polycurdling.

I'm going to die in an hour, wait until you hear the wacky series of events that lead to my death!

>We rose from your bed with the sun in our head

I liked to sit up front and ride the fast ones all day long, I liked it when they brushed right up against the building north of the Loop and I especially liked it when the building dropped away into that bombed-out squalor a little farther north in which people (through windows you'd see a person in his dirty naked kitchen spooning soup towards his face, or twelve children on their bellies on the floor, watching television, but instantly they were gone, wiped away by a movie billboard of a woman winking and touching her upper lip deftly with her tongue, and she in turn erased a -WHAM-, the noise and dark dropped down around your head - tunnel) actually lived.

"My sperm is not my own!"

"what do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm carrying another man's sperm. I was sent to impregnate you but I can't do it. By the way I'm from the future."

"Are you lying? Now you wouldn't be lying to me now Graham, would you now?"

"No, and my name's not Graham, it's John Wiley."

Between bricks and a dumpster he relieved himself, making a game of aiming towards a lump in a pile of rags, and to his surprise the lump rolled over and groaned. he continued to piss.

fucking hell user why

It was the best of time.

The asylum did not loom, as he had been told, but instead drooped at all sides. Every brick, stone, and siding seemed to slant downward away from the hill peak, the entire structure threatening to simply drip off the hill. Atop the very tip of the building an weather vane wobbled in the wind, point an accusing iron finger towards him. The doctor unpacked his bag.

In the halls of the lord he sang, the choir taking him upward in the arms of faith. He sang with every fiber he could muster. He sang until his throat ached and his lungs screamed. He hang until his heart broke. And he wept.

To exist is to suffer.

What's that? Yeah? You want to fuck around a little? Want to fuck around a little? Bite me!

Right up there with:

I only have one enemy left now; well two if you count god.

>My dad, I guess you could call him my father really, was ejaculating inside my rectum for the second time in a row. Mom made pancakes.

4/10

4/10

3/10

6/10

0/10

3/10

0/10

6/10

6/10

You have me laffing Veeky Forums

Books are just carrying cases for brains.

I could dig faster and longer, for hours without quitting, but Johnny dug smarter, and when he found our baby sister's coffin he reminded me of that fact.

this is bad and also stupid. language is not anywhere near the same as "energy", not in the same category and it is not what moves humans either. it has played a huge essential role in the development of humans as a species, but it is not to be equated with as essential a term as energy.

Years later, remembering their youthful vigor, they realized that it was not merely the quantity of friendships, but rather the quality, that had really, truly meant something.

just buy sunglasses

I went to the store to get cheese.

>Red light, gray morning, you stumble out of a hole in the ground

He dreams of mountains, alpine air, and the thin fingers of clouds slowly grasping the highest peaks.

Jag talar inte Svenska.

On the third day I began urinating on all the household electronics, the toaster giving me the biggest surprise.

If you would've told me that this whole ordeal could've been avoided with a vacuum cleaner and two bottles of peppermint schnapps, it's likely that I wouldn't have shot that man. But one can't ruminate over the machinations of fate, I shot the bastard - and that's that.

Phenomenal movie

Her puffy pussy smelled like green eggs. Ham too.

>tips fedora/10

does anyone else write their stories on lit itself? i always find tons of errors that way.

Language/Sex is a dialect of genetics. DNA is a dialect of atoms, atoms of energy, and energy of essence.

here is my first sentence, and nothing more:

There was an old man who lived by the sea

Once upon a time, there was a little boy who lived in a village circled by vultures that squawk and shit on themselves.
The vultures laugh at the boy because he's not as ugly and intimidating or fucking stupid as they are.
They laugh when he shows kindness because they are unhappy and pathetic and too nasty to show kindness in their vulture society.
So all the nasty cunt vultures circle around the boy and squawk their cunting beaks to no avail, complimenting one anothers' large shit smears on their feathers.
One day the little boy took pity on a traveling turtle, handing the turtle a sack of peanuts because it moves too slow in life to feed itself.
The vultures squawk their beaks and shit on themselves, mocking and treating the little boy terribly for handing the turtle peanuts.
So the boy turns around and pulls out his assault rifle and slugs the vultures with thirty caliber rounds and their ugly scrotum heads burst into red pink shit.
The vultures die and nobody is left alive to give a fuck.
The boy takes their money and leaves the village.

The end.

Standing over the toilet, I thought that if I was ever going to start dealing with my problems in a manner befitting of a twenty-something living by himself, then I would likely start with the bloody shit before me and finish with finding my sister.

i really, really like this :)

I'm just gunna...

The orange streetlight's illumination vouched for an all morning sunrise analgesically coating the piquant crests netherlong. I was twisted up feeling quite full of myself in stripped pajamas, eyes red after a certain macing and hands shaking from a psychokinetic attempt to turn the lights on. The vacuum says, "good morning sally D" emerging for its morning clean, "great choice in recreation". Hypnotized by the polaroid 600 of my ex-agent and lover you see, a reminder for that affinity to concrete walls and tight spaces traversed in the point-a point-b weather, very little pretext, the intercity steak out make out. A date at the wall begs something more than its tandem, and I always had a card up my sleeve. Her eyes would drag when stagnant and point when in flight to those urban ledges, guided by the voices. We'd squeeze each other to stave the nigger remoteness and wait it out when we wouldn't quite orthogonally fit. It was a stipulation to pack yourself away in this age; even in the private eye (that's that they call me). If my exes made up some kind of team they'd be little meat pieces but hell with the odds.

Auroras waned outside but I was already under house arrest for not paying attention if you get my speak. Vacuum-robot RJ-40 insists I am a modern Casanova then finishes his cycle. With friends like this one must wonder if it's just in destiny's concurrents to throw you the worst of the worst down its rivers, mangers and all, after you blocked the ones outstretched. I need a fucking scotch. 5am? I don't a crap! I had a case ahead of me, something you don't get the privilege of pursuing every day. I look to my gun, engraved, it reads, "THESE ARE THE CHOICES I MAKE".
i dont think thats true but dont give up what youre cooking

Pellets of ice-cold rain blew through the trees of the great forest. The storm had raged for hours, with no foreseeable end. In all of this was one house, a traditional country home that sat snug by a pond at the edge of the woods, farthest from the paved roads to civilization.

"This is a confession, to the world."

Three days ago I stripped nude and lay down on my kitchen floor, determined to stay there until I died.

Here's the start of what I've started recently.
{
“Mister Davies please present your Daily Calorie Intake Approval Seal to the Medical Practitioner Authentication Officer,”

The woman before me muttered her commands from behind a wall of paperwork on her desk, while casually gesturing to the well dressed bureaucrat directly to her left. Somewhat perplexed by the whole affair I took a step to my right and faced the stoic gaze of the 'Medical Practitioner Authentication Officer' to whom I hand my folded paper.
}

"Do you have any oats brother?"

youtube.com/watch?v=8I1sQlRiJdY

i like it

bland, but it might get way better with the second sentence

too raunchy

this one is good

good start for good literature, pretentious start if its bad literature

bland

eh

llama la atención bien, but the story better be funny

It was my intention, when I began, to write an introduction to my work on the Germans.

So woke they'd put you on a chain gang 'cus you don't tire boiii.

"I'll kill him."

When I was a young boy, my father took me into the city to see a marching band.

bad

What's this from?

I don't write stories because I have no imagination for plot and I don't interact with people so I don't know to write dialogue but every day I try to write a single descriptive paragraph based usually on a picture I find on the internet or one I take while doing my work here is one

> The old castle was perched on a rocky promontory jutting out from the shore, connected to it by means of an arched stone bridge. None had occupied its premises for centuries, and the scant radius of land around it was now reclaimed by thick, wild grasses and evergreen shrubs whose roots had delved deep into the quarry stone beneath the structure.
It was neither the grand castle of a King nor a place fit for a Baron. It was made up of two short, stocky buildings connected together by a narrow rampart. The building facing the east was taller than its brother facing the west by about a good thirty feet, and adhered to its southern face was a conical tower that merged with the aforementioned rampart. Both structures possessed grey stone chimneys, as well as slate-tiled roofs and narrow slits for windows.
The shore surrounding the castle’s point was surrounded in a turgid mix of algae and pond scum, brown and green mixing together like water and oil. Underneath the rank surface were thick fields of kelp where countless schools of freshwater fish hid, as well as snapping turtles and other ill-mannered reptiles.
Across the lake to the northwest, was the other shore, which rose quite dramatically into a great, gently sloping mound blanketed in thick foliage, mainly evergreen trees over thirty feet in height. A small dock could be seen on this shore, where two fishermen made their home.

The Tunnel

In my olden days of youth this town felt warmer.

"...shel shabat."

Meh

only one I'd read

I want to do a meta beginning like so

"The first sentence is always the hardest" and then it describes a character's prison sentence

>tfw your three are so forgettable no one even comments

First is part of a short story, the second a novel, the last another short story.

>She was indulgent, if anything, of all things. The way that indulgent feels as it rolls through your mouth and fills your chest is best to describe her, regardless of the connotations or denotations of the word. She would relish something to its utmost, use it up and empty it of its contents and essence: people, music, art; and then, once gone, fall into languishing, into dark hollows of something that held the traits of ennui and apathy and deep, sick, lifeless depression until one day, seemingly without cause or notice, she would become animate again, a workshop built in an instant in the corner of her flat, her pallor and demeanor resurrected, sputtering words in half-cohesive, excited splendor, mostly to herself.

More than a sentence but you know