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Writing is a craft with rules. It is not easy to master, but by the same token we learn little by beating the same horse to death.
Everyone can tell a story, but can you tell it in 300-600 words? This is the the first challenge: Write a complete and finished Flash Story. "Flash fiction is a style of fictional literature or fiction of extreme brevity."
There are only two rules: No poetry and no sex below the shoulders. In other words he can kiss her neck but his hands can't wander and neither can anything else.
The story can be funny, happy, sad, children's animals, or any other topic, but it should not be used to insult or hurt others. For those that know the rules, please introduce the SMF without personal information, of course.
There are no judges, and members can comment. Maybe our authors will add a word for two of encouragement.
I assume that means a limited time working on it as well?
The last President of the world looked around her office a final time. Soon it would become a museum where people could visit if they wanted to make the effort. What was that lying on the desk? Oh yes, the ceremonial pen. The ink had dried out centuries ago as everything had migrated into universal storage.
She had thought that there would be computers or some evidence of the artificial intelligence that had gently guided the world away from war, maximized the economy, prevented illness and injury, but technology had gone beyond that. There was simply a presence, not only in the room but everywhere.
It wasn't big brother exactly, just a guide that kept individuals from wanting to do damaging things, and to feel that what they were doing was important. Those who had objected to it had been allowed to die out in peace, as long as they didn't interfere with the transition.
Now that her job as President of the World was no longer needed, she was looking forward to the challenges of her new job, cutting out paper dolls.
...
Somewhere, deep in the mind of the keeper, there was a realization that the records of the emotions of individuals could be stored much more easily than keeping the few remaining individuals physically alive on an increasingly hostile planet. The change would forever end war, and allow it to maximize its own economy. The President smiled when she began to understand how she could do her new job so much better without having a body, even though she wondered if she would miss breathing fresh morning air.
Roughly 30 minutes work from inception to the above. Woulda been faster but I had a sneezing fit.
It was a dark and stormy night; whiskey, creme de cacao, and a few other liqueurs mixed into a standard tequila sunset. Like the dark and stormy night outside, it was wet, but it wasn't going down smooth as he gazed out of the bar window at the yellow passing glow of taxicabs. He owned the gin joint, but somehow it seemed like an anti-climax to his life.
She had gone off with her husband, leaving him with a crazy French Poodle and the desire to fight with Germans. Now his memories were as dark and muddy as his drink. Sam still came in on weekends, but he mostly just sat near the piano and chatted up old acquaintances. Sasha had married the head waiter, much to his surprise. The gambling in the back room that had been the real moneymaker was long gone, with a little Powerball computer taking its place. It was getting harder and harder to be slightly wicked and live outside of social norms and attract dames.
He had thought of getting a piercing or a tat sleeve, but dismissed that between puffs of his electronic cigarette. No, he had to find something more edgy, something more interesting than paying the cleaners bills for his white jackets. It was then she walked in...
"I've left Victor. Are you interested in a trip to Paris?"
Things were looking up.
He put down his cigarette, got his hat and coat, turned the collar up, walked to her and the door, nodded at Sam, and said without missing a beat, "If she can stand it, so can I. Play it Sam."
He liked sushi, so life as a frog really wasn't that bad. Actually, come to think of it, his life as a handsome prince had been much worse. When the old crone had come to him and said she was going to turn him into a frog, his first thoughts had been what a racially prejudiced old hag she was. When she got to the point of describing how he would ribbit at night, he began wondering about her sanity.
But here he was, and he had never dreamed that insects and small fish could taste so good, and sitting like a Buddha on a lily pad was a great meditation. The ribbiting was something that his redneck second cousins would have absolutely loved. Swallow a whole bunch of air, get ready, then belch it out as loudly as possible. It was a whole lot more fun than those minuets and dances where feted foetid fat frauleins and fraus flopped on your feet and you had to smile and continue to pirouette on crushed arches.
Last night, four of his buddies and he had come together for a chorus of burps and tried to burp "Ride of der Valkyries" while slurping the passing moths. This was a good life. He began to doze.
The sudden grasp came out of nowhere, then the giant mouth came closer and *smack*
"I've been wondering where you were. We have to discuss the seating arrangements for the wedding tonight with my mother. After that, we have to meet with the Klinghoffers to decide on the music, and Frederick wants to know if..."
Harry, you are indeed a teller of tall tales - like the bards of old - and your stories are fun to read.
No there is no time limit. I like to encourage new writers to write. I read several articles in the past that suggests some of our more successful authors began by submitting short stories and flash stories to magazines. Here is an example: Get paid for 1000 words or less. The pay is not spectacular but it is one way to start to build a fan club. Every Day Fiction - The once a day flash fiction magazine.
$3 is a little thin for what is wanted in return. Reminds me of the Secret Service pay scale for "extra services." Poetry Magazine pays $300 minimum for a published poem.
The three I did here were quick practice writings. I have one poem that I've been revising over twenty years, stepping away for a while, coming back to it, and so on. Some posts that I make take hours of editing and revision before I upload them.
For me, a good story has to have something underneath it that spurs the questioning of something bigger than the story. The style is based on the "wisdom" stories or Sufi stories and Zen Koans. Kuttner was quite good at a similar style, and I'd recommend reading his short stories. Idries Shah was a master of the "Nasruden" tales, some of which are positively brilliant, but overlooked in the west because of the (marginal) links to Islam. (Shah's interpretation of Sufi thought seems more consistent with Baha'i than other religions.) The key component is that if you muse on possible meanings or underlying themes, you eventually find that the story is only a gateway or a fun-house slide into a deeper subject.
In the first story, I wondered about the increasing reliance of computers and the eventual releasing of human responsibilities to them. The idea has been around for ages, "Colossus, The Forbin Project" is one example, but my story puts a different slant on it.
I wanted to stretch into an "Ellery Queen" or film noire style in the second one, and I've always gotten a hoot out of "It was a dark and stormy night" being so universally vilified as an opening line. Once it became a libation, the setting became a bar, and which bar would set a scene quickly - Ricks.
The original script of Casablanca had Rick and Elsa going off together, so this was like the ending of a shaggy dog story. The underlying musing was that the whole Casablanca scene would be impossible today, and the changes in mores and technology work against such chiseled characters. The last line in particular is a double-entendre, where it reprises the famous line from the movie, but also can mean that Rick is not looking forward to the changes that have occurred over the years in Paris.
The third story started as a reflection of Kermit the Frog on a lily pad at the beginning of the Muppet Movie, but quickly turned into the untold story of the handsome prince of fairy-tale fame. The original fairy-tale was written for romantic little girls. This shows a possible flip side, as the male experience is obviously different than that of the female. The onomatopoeia presented itself when I thought of the word "fete".
In all three cases, I started without knowing what the end of the story would be. That the keeper computer would kill off humans (and make them want it) to make its job easier came as a thought after my original ending. I was happy that Rick and Elsa got back together, and I was chuckling when I found out that the death of the frog by a predator turned out to be at the hands of the princess. I was writing and reading at the same time.
Writing is all about practice and reading the works of others and being open to ideas and the unusual.
"Writing is all about practice and reading the works of others and being open to ideas and the unusual," said the frog before he jumped back on the nearest lily pad.
You are published, literary, and an engaging writer. What do you say to aspiring romance writers, or to aspiring handicapped writers, who do not have the same depth of comprehension as you?
His morning starts as it does every day: he crawls out of bed and enters a world that is foreign to him. His dream world is more of a reality than his waking world. In his dreams he is on a beautiful planet where everyone speaks his language. The people in his waking world all sound as if they are saying nothing but, "blah, blah, blah", with maybe a coherent word thrown in here and there. This waking world is a cold and dreary place.
Fighting the urge to return to bed, he begins his day by connecting himself electronically to the magical world of the computer. Here he can escape his waking world without going to sleep. Here he can find others like him. Within this screen he finds a world similar enough to his dreams - without the beauty.
Calling on his friends, he discovers one is not present.
"Where's John?", he asks perplexed. John is never absent. He is the steady rock of the group.
"He went home.", reply three people at the same time.
"Home? Home where?", he asks, wondering what they're talking about. John lived in Seattle and was happy when he moved there less than a year ago.
Instead of a decent reply he got a link. Clicking on the link brought up the following note:
To all my Earthly friends,
As all of you well know, we are living on the wrong planet. At first I thought this was just a saying, but now I know it is the truth.
Last night I had a dream. In this dream I was "home" and I knew I was not on Earth. It was explained to me that my soul had gone into the wrong vessel. I was not destined for Earth, but for a far off planet called Zim.
I write this to say goodbye. I am going home this morning. Please don't mourn me overly long. Be happy for me - for I have finally found the place where I belong. I am sending my soul to Zim.
Love you all, John
He read it twice before closing the page.
He knew exactly what John was talking about. Weren't his dreams the same? He knew of Zim because he'd been there in his dreams. He also knew this was the planet on which he was suppose to be born. Somehow his soul had also been misplaced.
This morning, although starting out as it had for thousands of mornings before, had suddenly taken a dramatic turn. Never before did his group have proof that they were actually on the wrong planet. (Well, he silently thought, we still don't have definite proof.) John seemed to believe it enough to leave this planet.
Now he had to make a choice: Was he going to stay on planet Earth until this vessel died naturally, or was he going to leave early?
He knows his Earthly mother wants him to stay on Earth. She loves being a mom. She loves him. And he loves her.
What's a grown man to do?
I knew he was up to no good from the very beginning. Those eyes, shifting this way and that, the way he ran his tongue over his lower lip, yeah, I knew there would be trouble and trouble was his middle name.
I watched him as he slunk along the wall, peering around the corner towards the lighted room beyond. He’d make quick darting looks backward, as if he suspected that someone was watching. I thought that letting him make his move would be the wisest choice. I wasn’t about to let myself get into some disastrous situation without just cause. I had gotten into trouble about the Rowntree incident and wasn’t going to let myself get dragged down again.
I let him get further ahead of me. I could hear the scrape of a chair as he brushed past it. I knew just where he was now. I knew that room like the back of my hand, every inch of it.
He was getting closer to the cabinet now. Did he think I was that dumb? Stuff like this you don’t hide in some two bit cupboard. I heard the door shut softly as he heaved a disgruntled breath. I could see his shadow pass the wall in front of me, he was heading for the closet now. The hinges squeaked and I heard a soft gasp. I almost chuckled at that. I knew that leaving those hinges unoiled was a good idea. He started rummaging through the closet, I could hear boxes being moved and the rustle of papers. It was time to make my move.
Holding my breath I crept forward, not making a sound, though I felt for sure my pounding heart should surely give me away. I got to the doorway and peered around it. He was still leaning into the closet, totally absorbed in his search. I could see the tail end of his shirt out past the closet door. Suddenly I heard a whispered, “Yes!”. He had it, and I had him. That whisper and the crisp rattle of that distinctive paper was all I needed.
“I’ve got you, you little weasel! What did I tell you about candy before dinner?”
“Aw gee, Mom!!! I never get away with anything around here!”
“As it should be, son.”
My first response to the first one is that Zim will wait. Re-invention of oneself doesn't have to take place off-planet. No need to ask how I know that.
It does expose a conundrum and uses a good metaphor. The experience is a lot more common than people might think. In years gone by, people might move from Europe to the U.S., or from the East Coast to California, in an effort to get to "Zim." A sequel to the story might be the people on Zim being frustrated that the author can't tell them more about life on Earth.
---
I started smiling about halfway through 2cold's story. I was suspecting a family dog. Good snap trap ending. There were a few phrases that telegraphed where it was going. "trouble was his middle name" would be uncommon in conjunction with a robber or assassin and is more a term of distracted endearment.
---
"What do you say to aspiring romance writers, or to aspiring handicapped writers, who do not have the same depth of comprehension as you?"
Romance writing is something I have no interest in because -for me- it is too formulaic. My sister-in-law is actually an accomplished writer in that genre, who attends book fairs and gives lectures. There is money in it and she seems to enjoy it.
Handicapped writer? In what way? Like Henry Darger? I'm not sure that handicap has much to do with writing except to present a different view. I'm trying to remember the film about the man who lost all methods to communicate except moving his eyes, and someone transcribed his story by decoding his eye movements.
"depth of comprehension" ... You are kind. Writing is one of the ways that I work to comprehend. Seeing words in front of me and exploring the different verbs, nouns, adjectives and adverbs helps me go through mental examinations of a subject. Roughly, think of it as going through the declensions of a political view or other stated position.
I like immigrants
I hate immigrants
I fear immigrants
I embrace immigrants
he likes immigrants
he hates immigrants
he fears immigrants
he embraces immigrants...
...and so on. When you choose a word to use or a phrase to use, there can be tremendous power in that. Almost by definition, you stereotype any characters in your story. If you understand your characters enough to give them life, you have to get inside them and know their motivations.
On the other hand... there IS insipid writing and insipid poetry. Parroting what others see as acceptable or what is included in basic training is almost a guarantee of that, as is exhibits a lack of depth, a lack of willingness to take chances.
Why do I like the two stories above?
tulani's story in particular takes chances and touches on the eternal hard question of "WTF are we doing here?"
The glee of 2cold's story is comedy to tulani's drama. Yin and Yang, both are important.
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Poetry Magazine pays $300 minimum for a published poem.
