The Springboard of a Prescribed First Sentence
I’m going to give you all a “prescribed” first sentence today for fun, and because it’s a hard time for many of us to write due to the stress of this week.
See if you can write a tiny story to follow.
In your story, try to include:
1. something soft and inviting to the touch.
2. a brief memory of feeling very genuinely confused.
3. An object of significance, such as a stuffed animal or a father’s broken umbrella.
“Her parents were talking quietly in the kitchen.”
Here’s an alternative:
“Today she had become a stranger in her own house.”
Directions: Set a timer for 15 minutes. Launch off with the first sentence, and see what happens. Don’t think, just write. For over-thinkers (like me, ha!) you may want to try writing with a black screen or with your eyes closed.
One thing that may be fun would be to write 3-5 stories launching off with the same line. Take this exercise in any direction you like.. Can’t wait to read your stories, if you would care to post them here.
Turned to Ice
Her parents were talking quietly in the kitchen. The scent of fresh-baked cookies filled the air, which pulled up the corners of her mouth. Her mother's voice trembled, though. Her father's responses were quick, too quick. Her stuffed giraffe sat propped against her pillow, its neck bent from years of being clutched even tighter than she was clutching it now. The giraffe seemed to look up, like a sundial at midnight. The memory hit her: three days ago, the grocery store's lights suddenly too bright, too harsh, the aisles stretching out to everywhere and nowhere until she looked up and realized the man in blue was not her father, the woman in red was not her mother. She remembered all the moments when things had been simple, when parents were parents and strangers were strangers, when getting lost meant only waiting to be found. Why did she feel the same hollow terror in her own room now, on her own bed splashed by the late-night moon? She slipped from beneath the covers and found herself in the kitchen doorway. The cookie sheet glowed on the counter, without getting even a glance from her parents. Her mother's voice faded to whispers, then rose again from far away when the girl picked up the tray: "Darling, your hands." Her palms felt nothing but cool metal, as if the heat had reversed itself, turned to ice. One by one, she placed each cookie on the floor, and pressed her heel into their centers. Her father reached past her for the last cookie on the tray, and she stopped to watch him consume it slowly, deliberately, like a man granted one last meal.
Bumbershoot: Today she had become a stranger in her own house. Overhearing what her parents were planning for her, she decides to escape. Wants to take her umbrella with the carved handle. Pushes it out her window. Now it’s caught in a tangle of branches. She dives in after it. Pushes her arm through the thicket. Can’t withdraw it. Can’t climb up the tree. Can’t drop down. When the branch that cradles the umbrella breaks, the umbrella tumbles down the street, faster and faster. Wherever it’s going, it isn’t going anywhere with her.