Fiction: The Short Story Graveyard

Apparently, the first sentence is the most important. (Pause..) Didn't seem very important to me. Did I lose you already, dear reader? Dang. This is tough. Should I start over with an attention-grabbing first sentence? Forget you read this...

Starting over. Take two: Have you ever attempted to write a short story, dear reader? No? What? You hate to write? Oh...

Take three: A priest and a rabbi walk into a bar...That's just lame, which was the point. But it still didn't work.

Do you know how difficult it is to start a blog? Well, whether you do or not, it's even more difficult to start a short story. Don't get me wrong: I write just as many crappy short stories as I do crappy blogs. The only difference is that you read the blogs. Sometimes, at least. No one will publish the stories -- not even sometimes. I can publish them on here, which I do infrequently, but it just feels cheap. It's like cheating. I mean, though they are still just as "unpublished" as before, they are at least doing something besides taking up space on my flash drive.

Anyway, like any writer (I think: I don't know because I'm not a real writer), I have a large collection of unfinished stories. And an even larger number of dead first lines. Therefore, I am going to share my favorite introductions to unfinished stories with you. I might even include a quick note after each.

Welcome to The Short Story Graveyard.

I spend most of my time in the bathroom. I don't think other people realize the possibilities. It's the first place I go when I get home. It's where I always go when I need to think. It's the safest place to be. There are no emotions in the bathroom. There is piss, crap, and toothpaste -- they don't threaten my sanity.

(Note: Wait, that dude read my mind.)

Winter's cold fingers took hold of the small village of Garth a week before the harvest festival. Many of the town's farmers had already taken their crops; others had not. For those souls who hesitated to harvest, their livelihoods were as fragile as the icicles which hung from the roofs of their huts.

(Note: My cousin and I were going to write a fantasy novel. He wrote this.)

The last time I saw you, all I could focus on was the back of my truck.

(Note: Dierks Bentley song? Maybe Taylor Swift? Who knows, because that's as far as I ever got.)

Hunched over, she scratched her legs just below the knee. Her milky pale limbs blended in with her light khaki shorts and white shirt; freckles spotted her face. I tried not to look while she scratched her legs, swatting away mosquitoes. She was always scratching them during the summer, but it never bothered me.

(Note: Curious.)

Scott Heritage still believed in God; though, without a doubt, he would deny it. But he knew, as he grumbled requests, now wasn't the time to get reacquainted.

(Note: Always liked this one.)

Anyway, I am trying to jump-start my imagination. Sorry that it has to be at your expense. Just don't steal my ideas -- I have too few ideas as it is. Post your own dead stories, if you want. We can bury them in the short story cemetery and hope they come back to life.