Joey couldn’t take his eyes off the guy’s leg. Why did that guy have to constantly shake his leg? Why do people do that? Nervous energy? Does it sooth them, like playing with a spiky ball might sooth a kid with a mental disorder? It was driving Joey crazy. He couldn’t say anything because then he’d sound like an asshole. He held his hand over the right side of his face, blocking his view of the leg. But it was awkward to keep his hand there. He’d have to leave and find another table to sit at.
The GPS monitor dug into his ankle and it hurt, all day. Thomas figured out a way to fall asleep with it, but by morning the black metal box with its flashing red and green lights had twisted around and it felt like someone had spent the night quietly sawing off his foot while he slept. I’ll get used to it. Sometime in the next 4 1/2 years of my probation I’ll stop noticing it.
I love creating worlds. I spend hours mapping out the details of the world my friends will explore after school. I am the Dungeon Master. I have control over everything that happens. My friends roll the dice, but I have already planned for all the possible outcomes.
Editor’s note: This is probably a work of fiction. In any case, none of us here at Daisybrain condone violence or look down upon people for their beliefs. We thought it import to publish this story because we found it in a capsule and it appears to be a work of historical fiction written in the future.
Ever since the Government mandated that all citizens carry guns, Eric enthusiastically complied. For as long as he could remember, at least the last 70 years, he had been a disciple of nonviolence. He had marched in countless peace demonstrations, protesting each generation’s pointless war, and was an active member of the Resistance. But, when the Lower House of Trump passed the mandatory carry law, something finally snapped.
You want to start a story with an enticing first line. Here are some first lines for your essays, short stories and novels guaranteed to peek reader interest. Or at least to peek their fear. Feel free to use them as writing prompts. If you get published, please pay me money. Any amount. Enough for a bar of chocolate.
Fifteen Future Famous First Phrases:
- I probably know more about humans than I know about my own species.
- I promise not to kill you if you read this entire story.
- This book explains the six easy steps you can take to achieve physical immortality.
He’d been getting underground CRISPR treatments for years. Maybe his new friends didn’t suspect, but I knew Elray back in the 90s, when I was in high school and he was pushing 40. He should have been in his late 70s, but with a full head of jet black hair and athletic build, he looked younger than when I hung out with him. Plus he had to be eight inches taller. He was all brilliant white smiles as he walked up to me in his signature black tuxedo, through the crowd of retro-punks and retro-mods.
There is a pair of delicate purple tulips, with just a few inches of stem, in a small glass tea cup with a handle. The cup is filled about one third with water, leaving no doubt as to the authenticity of the flowers. At least the flowers are real. The same can’t be said for the slice of Boston creme pie on my plate. The diner was honest enough to spell it as “creme” since it obviously has no real cream in it. It is quite a beautiful imitation of a dessert. I guess that’s why I got a slice, after seeing its radiant beauty in the display case. But I wouldn’t dare destroy this work of art with a fork. I know that it would taste like artificially sweetened coagulated grease. And besides, just look at it – it’s a perfect, idealized replica of a real Boston cream pie.
My house was filled with giant spiders, the size of horses. I was having the same dream again, about the house I lived in between the ages of five and eight. I figured that spiders represented decay, or death, and now that I was about to turn 30, perhaps my subconscious was mulling over the end of my youth. It was true, much as I tried to stretch out my adolescence, when you’re in your thirties, it’s harder to pass yourself off as a punk rock rebel kid.
One day, not too long ago, I sneezed too hard and my body turned completely inside out. My organs, unprotected by skin and muscle, felt the cold outside air like thousands of icy needles. All was dark as I peered inward. Enough light entered through my throat and interstitial crevices that I could make out some details in my new interior. My skin was on the inside, all shriveled up. So was my hair. So, I thought, this had been the exterior that I had been showing to people. Nothing much to look at now, was it?