Rejected First Lines for Short Stories

Posted: February 10, 2012 in Uncategorized
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I had fun crafting the horrifyingly bad band names that I put up yesterday.

With that in mind, here are some horrifyingly bad first lines of short stories!


The morning after the night I lost my virginity, my stomach was swollen and purple-colored, and bulbous alien larvae were already beginning to ooze their way out between my legs.


It wasn’t exactly a dark and stormy night. It was dark all right– but there was no storm. If I were to use the pathetic fallacy to describe the sky that night, it would be to describe it as something like a quarterback who has been sacked one too many times: no real emotion, completely brain-dead, and with a horrible tendency to drool all the time. 


“I’m sorry,” my boyfriend said to me one morning over coffee. “But I’m leaving you for your grandmother.”


“Do you want to talk about feelings?” asked Harold’s father. 


Fog shrouded the moors like pot smoke at a Pink Floyd concert– an apt metaphor, since whatever lurked in the fog was liable to be hairy, shambling, and prone to speaking in incoherent, animalistic proto-language.


As I stood alone in the desert, breathing heavily and clutching a blood-spattered length of lead pipe, a slow smile spread across my face. God was dead– and I was the murderer!


I was starting to regret ever entering this pissing contest. 


“Jesus,” said the checkered-shirt-wearing hipster sitting next to me in my chemistry lecture, “was a giant prick.” 


As Theodore H. Seersucker awoke blearily from his half-fevered nightmares, he realized that he had inexplicably transformed into a nineteen-year-old woman. 

“All right!” he cried. “Now I can wear string bikinis to the beach without anyone screaming!”


Wait. That last one may actually be totally rad.


Anyone want to do anything with these? (I’d really recommend that you don’t, but what the hell: feel free not to listen to my advice.)


~ Ian


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