Tuesday 11/12/24
I've written five new short stories since yesterday. These are their first sentences:
A song was once played on instruments made of turtle shells and strung with horse hair in ancient times that told the tale of a wise man who smoked a grasshopper.
Can we not do this today?
Everyone thinks they're right far, far, far more often than they are.
A fat kid I knew in high school—awkward, not popular, meaner than you’d believe he’d be able to get away with as someone unpopular—used to sing a song on the bus but only on the way home from school, never in the morning as we were going there.
Rise up from those haunches at the bottom of the trench and extend the middle skywards in a back-arching manner right through the rumpus and into the viscera of life as if you don’t care whether you pull back out clean or besmirched.
They are: "The Smoked Grasshopper," "Big Inning," "Grateful Mantis," "The Scratcher," "The Thrust."
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