Famous Last Words
I’m pretty good at coming up with story premises, but sometimes I have trouble wrapping them up into a coherent way. I often write short stories one sentence at a time. I think of a first line and let it take shape from there. Unfortunately, it’s these stories that usually get the most existential feedback:
“The end kind of petered out.”
“It feels unfinished.”
“I got lost.”
I am thinking that I need to take a new approach to short stories. In a short story, you don’t need the reader to fall in love with your characters if instead you send them on a journey that ends in surprise. The first line gives your reader a question. The last line answers that question.*
What if I started a story already knowing the ending?
Here are some potential endings for general use. Pick one and work backwards to create a story. Remember, each of these is an answer, so your next step is to figure out what is the question.
She pulled up the blanket and lay down, feeling that she had missed something.
The real one probably would not be long in coming.
It was as good a reason as any to wear a dress.
The glove lay on the ground, almost covered.
People shouldn’t trust me with their happiness.
Clearer, brighter, lighter—even the air smelled different.
I tried to pull my wrists apart, but the cold steel bracelets were still there.
As the balloon’s basket thudded to the ground at last, I was the first one out.
Who needs a South Sea island?
For the first time ever, I can sort of see how it’s done.
The one thing this cannot mean is that no one did it.
I set my empty glass on the bar. “I just found out where we’re going.”
The wagon was brown and coffin-shaped.
I put on my special night shirt and walked several blocks down the boulevard to the Losers’ Club.
As soon as they had strength they stood, joined hands again, and went on.
For she was not a woman who easily abandoned hope.
She ran from the room so violently that the floor shook.
The soldiers had paid for our drinks.
Then they all went upstairs and into their separate rooms.
“Where shall we have lunch?”
Only then did she let go.
“Oh, I threw it in the river. I don’t think I’ll be needing it anymore.”
There was a point to this story, but it has temporarily escaped my mind.
On such a humid planet, hatching should begin fairly soon.
Both of them smiled a secret, private smile.
She started to walk home slowly, hands in her pockets, glancing up at the sky every now and then, as if for confirmation.
I always wanted love, I just didn’t know how much.
But she was deep in thought, her face a mask of startled, growing horror.
Two other cars were parked on both sides of it, and I had some trouble squeezing out.
I awoke in a cold room.
He stood alone in the silence of the street.
Sometimes, on long summer evenings, the friends would take a stroll together.
My uncle never tried to do any magic again for as long as he lived.
They lived happy, long lives and both got married, but not to one another.
The forest was full of pale, dreary light and she was soaking wet with dew; it was nearly morning.
No one would ever know what she’d done.
He gently shut the lid and turned the key in the lock.
I stumbled off toward home, an outsider in a place I’d foolishly thought to call my own.
“Do you have any questions?”
And for once, he didn’t look back.
The train pulled into the station at last, but I’d already left.
Her knife plunged into the table, missing my hand by inches.
If you use any of these to end a story, please let me know! I’d absolutely love to read it.
*The answer is always 42.
