ITT: Post the first sentence of your story

>ITT: Post the first sentence of your story

"The smell of rancid feet permeated throughout the air (not that it was an unwelcoming sensation of course"

>"The smell of rancid feet permeated throughout the air (not that it was an unwelcoming sensation of course"

Go back to jacking off to Tarantino movies you freaks

"his crumbling greedy notepad scrabbled deeply with the scratchings of middlebreathing slandermouthed constables of inclusion, it appeared that the rat was afoot, the great scheming screaming bahamut of reason annotated with the diecast protocol of solitude."

I have a story about David Foster Wallace which I'm unsure anyone will really believe, but ... me and Dave went on a road trip together. I knew him from high school. The funny thing is, Dave never used the Foster in his name, it was just like with normal people, they ignore their middle name except in legal documents. He was always Dave/David Wallace to me, so it's still weird to me to hear and see "David Foster Wallace" whenever I hear and see of him; I mean, it does sound pretty assonant, though. Just say it aloud, or listen to it in your head: David, Foster, Wallace. Trochaic trimeter, one poetically inclined might call it.

But this isn't the point of my post. The point of my post is that I have a personal story to share, and I'm sharing it here because it's the one place that ... hm. Well, remember what "Not-Pynchon" posted with the Torquato Tasso theory about how maybe if great literary criticism was posted here, perhaps academia might re-evaluate itself? Same here. I don't want money, attention, fame even if for 15 seconds, Andy Warhol style, by like getting some corny interview from a magazine about how I knew David Wallace. I mean, I'm not even going to include anything that could potentially lead to my name or identity being found out, I just wanna post what I remember him as, what the guy was like and perhaps even what he would've thought of Veeky Forums, Veeky Forums, the internet in general and his joking deification here...

And but so, I realize that i am writing like my friend Dave here, very digressive and casual-like with a bunch of pop-culture and high-class literary references but never getting to the point, but that's unintentional, I think it's just proof of how deeply he influenced me, even unconsciously. Because I'm not gonna lie, this is how I write all my emails and letters to people, my diary, even my short stories. It's even how I talk to people. That's how much Dave influenced me, really. And the other way he influenced me is the sentimentality and love of his character and of his art, because behind this whole rambling, digressive, self-aware and sincere post is also also the sincere feeling of love. Which perhaps might be sappy or gooey and naive, but I think it's the most powerful emotion in the world and that's why we're afraid of it.

But I still haven't told you my story about Dave yet.

Don stepped outside

I knew Dave from high-school. The high-school I went to was called Urbana High School in (guess where?) Urbana, Illinois; yes, you can Google that and get it off his Wikipedia page, and no, I didn't do that because this is actually the truth. If you can do that, if you're willing to suspend your disbelief and be gooily naive for a second, not be afraid of being hurt, not be cynical and jaded for a second like so many people are nowadays. Now, high school then I guess was the same as it is now: hormones in rage, we're all starting puberty and our sexual urges are kicked up and we're starting to learn about our bodies and urges, and during all this there's the stress of schoolwork, of gossip and fights and friends and cliques, of extracurricular activities and sports (such as tennis, which Dave did), and yes, is this really relevant to the story, you might ask, me explaining so cliche-ily how high school was and still is in a totally expected way without any reversals or bullshit whatsoever? Yes, it is, it's all relevant. That's what Dave taught me: every single detail is relevant, especially the ones that show how we're really the same, we're not alone, other people have lived through our situations and we have so much in common and maybe we roll our eyes at cliches and stereotypes because we're afraid to admit that they're true. Maybe you're inwardly cringing at my description of what high school was like and still is like because you remember what it was like, how actually sincere and invested in it all you were then despite your teenage attempts to cover it up with a cool layer of Weltschmerz and jadedness and hip cynicism. I know. Maybe you're an adult who wants to forget that past, who thinks you're much older than the infant's that really in you; maybe you're in high-school right now. Hey, maybe you've yet to go to high-school.

But Dave ... did you know about the latent homosexual subtext in his works? Literary critics after Freud are so harsh, so much about Oedipus complex this, Electra complex that and symbolic castration here, latent homosexual subtext here and so on and so forth that I'm surprised more critics don't pick up on this. The guy had the biggest repressed homosexual component I've ever seen in my life if I've seen one, no lie. But that's besides the point.

But really, in a way it's not. Because that's something else Dave taught me: everything is connected. Perhaps he picked it up from his friend Thomas Pynchon, who knows. But David called me one day and we were talking about stuff and I got onto the topic of Infinite Jest and I said, "Hey, man! This book is fucking great but what goes on in it, I'm confused about some points like what happens before the beginning of the book to make Hal like that--"

"No, no, no, no," he said in that voice he had when he was irritated and afraid his work was being misunderstood. "This is the part no one gets. Himself raped Hal as a child. As a wraith, he rapes Hal again. Hal becomes mute and insane because the wraith of Himself rapes him, reminding him of his childhood trauma."

And I was like, "Whoa, dude, is that really in the book at all? I'll go get it," and I was flipping through it, the conversation with the college people at the beginning then the conversation between Himself and Hal as a kid, Himself as a conversational therapist, then Dave interrupts:

"Yes, it's definitely in there, read it again. And keep an eye out for the latent homosexual subtext. The Moms molests Orin, for instance, as well as Mario. She also is having a sexual relationship with Hal during the events of the book and has been doing so since he was 7 years old. It's said on pg. 691, paragraph 4, the fifth line."

And so I looked at it and I was like, "Whoa, dude. You're right. That's pretty badass, I never would've noticed that myself." My admiration of his genius increased, but then he said something that always stayed with me and increased my silent admiration even more.

"Don't tell anyone, alright? I want the critics to work it out themselves, because then they might learn something about themselves."

OK, but I gotta get back to the story.

>As she stroked his shaft his breath grew shallower each second.....

There is a blurred line between right and wrong; the hard part is not always dictating when to cross that line, but when it has been crossed.
That's a weird first sentence

>middlebreathing
>Slandermouthed
>Diecast

Fresh

I was outside among the snow, soaking my nuts in the hot tub as I often do, when inspiration struck.

>not inspiration stroked
failed opportunity

and by failed opportunity, i mean missing out the reference to genitalia and perhaps a segue into the physical manifestation of a muse. cmon man

duly noted, but it makes it sound less like an allusion to genitals than verbage for an aneurysm. not subtle or on the nose, just vulgar if I paint it like that
how about
I was outside among the snow, soaking my nuts in the hot tub as I often do, when the pieces came together.
that might be too subtle i almost think it could be funny to put a comma between came and together for emphasis. too stinky

Senior Year, the big one.

...

>She
Dropped. Good luck getting published in that state, idiot.

"He eyes the bleating dirge of a dun white ceiling having woken in fright."

the fuck is his ceiling a goat?

That's funny. I'm imagining a ceiling made out of goats twined together like a net. The fact that you responded so quickly makes me think it works as a hook

no it makes me think "wtf is this guy adding words that shouldn't be here" why can't he wake up and look at his ceiling? why the fuck does it have to be a goat ceiling exactly? if it's a goat ceiling, you're sure as hell going to need to do work on the rest of the sentence to make it match with the surrealism. instead it seems you tossed in a fucking word and it made your ceiling into a fucking goat.

Well, would "He eyes the dun white ceiling having woken in right" be a catchier sentence? I think that's much less interesting. I was going for something like, the dirtiness of the ceiling is so oppressive one can almost hear the microbes growing on it. "Bleating dirge" sums that up in two words

Now only one enemy remained... Two if you counted god.

so it was shout, and bad dog

I can't get past the use of rancid to describe feet. I mean are these feet dismembered and rotting, if so I don't imagine that feet rotting is a distinct enough odour to identify from say hands or arms.

Taking a shower. Cleaning my asshole. Slight discomfort. I poke a finger in a bit, less than a centimeter, wipe it. Something is on my finger. Doesn’t seem like poo. Hold it close to my face. Sniff it. Smells nutty. Maybe part of a nut I ate. Never saw it in my poop before. Still has its nutty smell. Felt like i was picking my teeth and a piece of nut was stuck to it which I normally eat, and for a split second my brain thought about eating this one from my pooey finger. I probably shouldn’t. By the time i thought this I accidentally inhaled it. It was in my mouth, went right down my throat. I began puking. Loud. Everywhere. Onto the wall, running down into the tub, into the shower drain.

“Are you okay?” Wife asked not knowing what was going on. Best I rinse this off the walls before she sees or smells it, and if she does see it definitely do not tell her what happened.

I rinse my mouth with the shower water and throw up more, rinse again. She smelled the puke and came in.

“I threw up, sorry”.

Underrated kek

"Holly...I want more..." Ted said to his wife.

Clock says midnight but the sun shines brighter than ever on my face.

There was a time when he never would have went so far, but in the end he knew that he had.

He carried the bucket of water up the hill, only realizing after some spilled onto his leg that it was really a bucket of acid.

Religion is the first word written, all in white, over the black slate surface.

"Marrying a robot was a good idea, they said," rued Gaylord as he hovered in astral form above his unconscious body, watching his wife BJ-69 begin the process of amputating his head.

English is not your first language, is it? A smell is not a sensation, and you mean unwelcome, not unwelcoming.

Ten million lines and thirteen years of watching, it took.

You mean gone, not went.

Native English speaker here. A smell is a sensation; and a smell can be unwelcoming.

Unwelcome means "that which would not be made welcome"
Whereas unwelcoming means "that which does not make on feel welcome"

So rather than if being a sensation you would rather not experience, it is a sensation that makes you not feel welcomed to the environment, and thus less inclined to enter it.

s/rather than if/instead of it/

His story is about the trenchmen of WWI. His opening line describes trenchfoot.

The vein in the side of my cock contracted as I blew my load in my wife's perfect ass, tickled from her body vibrating in a seizure-like orgasm.

>climax of the story is in the first sentence
This is either retarded or genius; it's some avant-garde level shit.

Not really because the next sentence is "I began punching the top of her ass as hard as possible, i just kept punching and punching, until i pulled out and her rectum prolapsed so much that it looked like a tiny pink dick. I sucked it like a dick while jerking off my own dick and came again almost immediately."

You shouldn't have him cum twice in succession like that. I overestimated your literary prowess; have fun with your shitty erotica.

BullshitWkwardof the word (a physical feeling), and the sentence obviously meant "unwelcome." The sentence is crap.

congratulations i just switched my wife with you in this story, and me with a 20 in dick black guy.

He would realize way before that because acid in that kind of quantity is stinky.

The footfag gasped furtively as the lights began to dim in his eyes while my grip on his degenerate throat only tightened.

Is this old pasta? Is there anymore to this?

>Implying my protagonist has a sense of smell

I can't ever piss.

I was light and lightless, I shocked cumulonimbus with photovoltaic weight.

“And on and after appears but before I can a stone a rift a cavern hand printed the open mouth ends about end and up into it comes phlegm and crumbs cracked in thunder spittle quarks through and out shoot for the moon even if you miss you’ll land among the stars between a slice of life dark aged all inflated a down and we and you see extension cum in me the picosecond parturition hammerblown and thunderfell dust and firefight up in lungs and blown out up kin and less the habitant away my journey home i came i am the begin a metal from hot boiling water we rest the schooner no child the bulbous muscle in mouth of the spilling word warts bent acted and remained though how remain the no all broke and into again we come DEEP INTO THE MALIGNANT SWAMP it comes bright and shrouded and banked in not I no I

garbage, go read ezra pounds theory of imagism

The weather-beaten trail wound ahead into the dust-wracked climes of the baren land which makes up large portions of the Noregolian Empire.

The cafeteria doors opened outward to me like labia I had heard so much about, revealing a strange and sexually charged substrate in-navigable to even someone with experience in feeling this displaced. Something happened. Fingers began to point almost before the strawberry milkshake dripped down my pulp fiction t-shirt I had kept clean and safe the whole summer for this very day. Time stopped. A narrator stepped out between some tables. He looked like a faggot, like shit. Bearded clearly for the purpose of hiding a few patches of festering skin he had neglected for so long. I realised it was myself, only much older. Though I feared not much older. He blurted out obnoxiously, regretfully: "You're probably wondering how I ended up in this crazy situation". The smile on his face was so forced it no longer made me pity him and instead plunged me into sheer joy having encountered such rare and saturated depravity. Then I remembered the Jocks. The Jocks. The narrator began to piss himself. I began to piss myself. None of them knew they were gay yet. I remembered how their barely post-pubescent torso's glistened with young rich sweat and incidental splatters of Gatorade. Red of course. They gathered in the locker rooms sweetly, gently humping their sex doll together. Taking turns filling the silicone effigy with their thick, hot, cum completely unaware I could see it all through my peepyhole in the ceiling.

From that day I became accustomed to missing out.

How did it feel to be alone?

"It's a truth self-evident to those possessing even the most rudimentary capacity for inductive reasoning that the odors resulting from one's own digestive processes seldom reach parity, as regards the perceptible effect, with those of exogenous origins, so it's no wonder that this product, "Clorox Automatic Toilet Bowl Cleaner, 6 Tablets Per Pack (Pack of 2)" ultimately falls short." he typed blearily, grinning to himself as he sat semi-naked and unkempt at his computer on an rainy president's day morning.

sadly prophetic

pahlaniuk?

The balcony was a warm tongue in a hot mouth.

desu this wouldnt be too bad of an homage to the album as a first sentence

"What a curious thing, the clock on a cell phone is. Ignored, for moments, and then recanted into obscurity, for the phone had stolen so much from its owner."

Cold morning wind blew through the docks; long gone was the warmth granted by the sun, and the naked feet felt it dearly.

She has an ass like a suitcase too full of wigs.

Scrap that.
>The bitterly cold morning wind boomed through the empty streets, carrying with it the reckless and hollow sounds of uncovered feet desperately prancing on the metal floor.

A far better one.

Meant to quote

I've been having a lot of trouble keeping food down recently.

>fighting postmodernism with anything other than full aesthetics
lol

I like this OP, keep it despite other user's suggestion.

i'll post a few beginning sentences if that's ok

>The bus speeds by Rachel as she's still walking towards her stop, prompting her to sprint after it down the street.

>Captain Morgan was crying when she saw the Fox come dancing down St Laurent, flashing speaker in his hand.

>"I'm sitting on the curb of Lanthier street, a strange spot for my Author to have placed me.

>Coalhead was sitting behind a bush, masturbating furiously and repeating to himself over and over "Lord why have you forsaken me, Lord why have you forsaken me, Lord why-"

This is such a shit revision man. WTF haha

>lengthy and uncessary adjectives
>that bland and uninviting style
>calls it a far better opening line

Either a troll or extremely untalented

Thank you.
The idea is to get a novel out of it. A girl and her younger cousin go on an adventure.

REACHING UP

>It was a declarative statement about the current environs with a few adjectives thrown in.

What do you think, Veeky Forums?

I implore you to inspire an emotion, fairly simple one at that, to grab the audience.

Thank you for the constructive criticism, user! I can't wait to get my cliche published!

At some point, it is no longer a cliche, but a trait. You see, book covers didn't always exist, nor did they have images. The change didn't become a cliche.

>Knuckles tapped away, with his nervous eyes twitching at a screen blaring, as he managed to type in lucidity: "Post feet or BTFO".

>The building was on fire and it wasn't my fault.