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Here is a re-write of the pink flamingos. Just for grins I decided to play around with it. (I don't have time to do this regularly). Remember that a story doesn't have to follow any literal events exactly. Just see if it reads well on the first read rather than analyzing.
A Mysterious Case of Pink Flamingo Migration
The Dallas sprinklers whirred in July heat as she drove through the tree-lined neighborhood and approached her house, everything looking as it had for the past fifteen years. Yet, something new caught her attention as she neared her home. Twelve large plastic pink flamingos were nonchalantly preening on her front lawn, like only old statues and plastic pink flamingos can preen... as if they are long-time residents and not interlopers.
She rounded the final corner, navigated the narrow alley, and eased to the back of the house. Her 18 year-old son's beat-up Supra claimed the drive. Good, she smiled. He wasn't out as usual with friends this afternoon. There would be only be a week before he headed off to college in that tiny west Texas town where she and her husband had met, married, and ultimately conceived him.
Maybe HE would know what was up with the pink flamingos, understanding in the way that only youth can understand the new, the strange, the unusual. She dropped her keys quietly on the counter as she entered the house, hearing him talking into the phone which seemed these days to be permanently attached to his ear.
"Hi, Mom," he began after clicking off the phone, "do you think we could get a microwave for my dorm room?" She absentmindedly perused the mail on the counter by her keys. "We'll see... Hey," she remembered "do you know anything about those flamingos on the front lawn?"
"Is this a prank...the work of one of your friends, or did they migrate?" Her smiling eyes locked onto his, if only for a moment.
He looked down, then mumbled in embarrassed teenager tones that it might have something to do with a youth fund-raiser at church where people had to "pay" to have them removed and pay more for them to be "re-located" to a particular person's lawn.
She considered him as he sat at the kitchen table again with his ubiquitous cellphone, texting friends, building his own world. She remembered all the things that a mother remembers....his first cry, the baby softness of his skin, the perfectly formed rosebud lips, his first steps, his first day of kindergarten, his first broken heart...
But now he was on the brink of adulthood. He would soon fledge the nest.
The next week the flamingos were gone.
The day after that, he noticed them in front of his dorm, nonchalantly preening, like only old statues and plastic pink flamingos can preen. He smiled.
-------416 words.
The flamingos are more clearly a metaphor for the leaving the nest. There is an elimination of the "She said" and straight factual statements. Ideas that could naturally be concatenated, like the heat, sprinklers, and drive, were.
While the removal of the flamingos normally would signify a poignant ending and finality, the kicker provides humor, and a sense that the break hasn't completely happened and to some extent never will.
To learn, dissect both versions a line or two at a time and compare. Remember that I write a LOT. How do you get to Carnegie Hall...
Yep, a vast improvement. Love, love, love that ending! LOL! Wish I had thought of that! The only thing I would insist stay the same is the title "The Summer of the Pink Flamingos" For some reason, there is just some unnamed, unknown, wistful thing that speaks to me in that title!!
Well, I'm glad you added the last line that "you write a lot." Really, though, I guess I've never much considered that writing, unlike music, could be very much improved with practice....
Again, I just really don't know if I could ever transform my rather prosaic "just the facts, ma'am" style to interesting fiction, but who knows? Thanks for taking the time to re-work it. Gives me something "concrete" to consider and that helps.
Harry, thank you for your willingness to edit our short stories. Mine is post 19 which was hastily written and I should have spent more time editing..So it would take too much of your time to edit it.. I would like to have a critique on one of my blogs that got a lot of comments both public and private..298 words
The Wooden Porch Swing
We live an easy, laid back life here in the mountains of East Kentucky..Our front porches are very important to us..If we are fortunate enough to have a covered porch we are doubly blessed, because not only do we have shade from the hot noonday sun, but we have a place to hang the wooden swing.
The wooden swing is an essential part of our favorite past time..Watching the kids and dogs playing, and keeping an eye on the road to see where the neighbors are off to..
The swing is a quiet spot in the early morning to sit with a fresh cup of coffee and watch the colors of the sunrise above the mountains on the East side, and a place to relax with a tall glass of sweet tea in the heat of the afternoon while we rest and enjoy the hollyhocks by the mailbox and the ivy that is covering the old brick wall out front..
In the evening, when the supper dishes are done and the day is melting into night, the swing is where we sit and watch the grandchildren play the games of our own youth..Tag, statue, hide and seek, red rover..games that many city children of today have never enjoyed..
Just before I turn in for the night, I sit alone on the wooden swing and look at the starry sky and hear the night sounds of crickets and owls and sometimes and the sounds of other wildlife in the mountains..I talk to God then and thank him for all the simple and most meaningful blessings that He has given me this day..I feel peace,and contentment flow over me and soon I am ready for the comfort of my bed and sleep..
Last edited by Miss Blue; 07-16-2009 at 03:51 PM..
Reason: edit post number 16 to 19
Yep, a vast improvement. Love, love, love that ending! LOL! Wish I had thought of that! The only thing I would insist stay the same is the title "The Summer of the Pink Flamingos" For some reason, there is just some unnamed, unknown, wistful thing that speaks to me in that title!!
Well, I'm glad you added the last line that "you write a lot." Really, though, I guess I've never much considered that writing, unlike music, could be very much improved with practice....
Again, I just really don't know if I could ever transform my rather prosaic "just the facts, ma'am" style to interesting fiction, but who knows? Thanks for taking the time to re-work it. Gives me something "concrete" to consider and that helps.
"Summer of the Pink Flamingos" it is. It is your story. There is a John Waters movie that I didn't care for called Pink Flamingos, hence the modification of the name in the edit, but that was just a personal thing.
One thing I left untouched that I'm not comfortable with is the "phone attached to ear" cliche. It has become too common, but then again, cellphones have become too common as well. If I wanted to spend some serious time, I'd try to figure something else as a phrase there.
How did the ending get tacked on? Very simple. The bones of your story were good enough that I could feel the living through it. The smile of you as the mother made it obvious, once I had changed the leaving dates of the flamingos and the son to the same day, to tighten up that metaphor.
Miss Blue, I can almost hear that as a short story. Not quite as written, although parts of it would work in nicely indeed. The imagery almost builds itself.
Errk. Awwk. Errk. Awwk. The front porch swing spoke to the dusk with its quiet breathing. Curled upon its peeling ivy-green paint, one foot touching the pine floorboards for propulsion, sat Emily. Overhead, the swallows swooped endlessly between the ancient oaks that bordered the Kentucky farmstead's yard. Emily watched them dreamily, drowsily; the boys and dogs had long since gone to their beds fed and tired from summer games. This was her favorite hour, the hour in which she communed with the animals, her departed family, and her God. Comforting, sibilant voices drifted to her on the warm breeze, not in words, but in the soft, secret essence of them.
Miss Blue, I can almost hear that as a short story. Not quite as written, although parts of it would work in nicely indeed. The imagery almost builds itself.
Errk. Awwk. Errk. Awwk. The front porch swing spoke to the dusk with its quiet breathing. Curled upon its peeling ivy-green paint, one foot touching the pine floorboards for propulsion, sat Emily. Overhead, the swallows swooped endlessly between the ancient oaks that bordered the Kentucky farmstead's yard. Emily watched them dreamily, drowsily; the boys and dogs had long since gone to their beds fed and tired from summer games. This was her favorite hour, the hour in which she communed with the animals, her departed family, and her God. Comforting, sibilant voices drifted to her on the warm breeze, not in words, but in the soft, secret essence of them.
Well, you get the idea ...
Amazing..Thanks Rocky, what wonderful visuals you present! I can close my eyes and picture myself absorbing the essence of the soft voices on the breeze. That is what iIstrive to do, bring my reader where I am.. Most of the things I write are based on memories of my own very long life or the present things happening with the people around me..
Harry, thank you for your willingness to edit our short stories. Mine is post 16 which was hastily written and I should have spent more time editing..So it would take too much of your time to edit it.. I would like to have a critique on one of my blogs that got a lot of comments both public and private..298 words
The Wooden Porch Swing
We live an easy, laid back life here in the mountains of East Kentucky..Our front porches are very important to us..If we are fortunate enough to have a covered porch we are doubly blessed, because not only do we have shade from the hot noonday sun, but we have a place to hang the wooden swing.
The wooden swing is an essential part of our favorite past time..Watching the kids and dogs playing, and keeping an eye on the road to see where the neighbors are off to..
The swing is a quiet spot in the early morning to sit with a fresh cup of coffee and watch the colors of the sunrise above the mountains on the East side, and a place to relax with a tall glass of sweet tea in the heat of the afternoon while we rest and enjoy the hollyhocks by the mailbox and the ivy that is covering the old brick wall out front..
In the evening, when the supper dishes are done and the day is melting into night, the swing is where we sit and watch the grandchildren play the games of our own youth..Tag, statue, hide and seek, red rover..games that many city children of today have never enjoyed..
Just before I turn in for the night, I sit alone on the wooden swing and look at the starry sky and hear the night sounds of crickets and owls and sometimes and the sounds of other wildlife in the mountains..I talk to God then and thank him for all the simple and most meaningful blessings that He has given me this day..I feel peace,and contentment flow over me and soon I am ready for the comfort of my bed and sleep..
This one is an easy one. What you have is the makings of a free verse poem. You are attempting to convey feelings, sense, sight, sound. You aren't trying to tell a story or linear thought. You are familiar with prose, but poetry can be just a different form of editing. I'll go through it first to convert each paragraph.
The Wooden Porch Swing
We live an easy, laid back life here in the mountains of East Kentucky..Our front porches are very important to us..If we are fortunate enough to have a covered porch we are doubly blessed, because not only do we have shade from the hot noonday sun, but we have a place to hang the wooden swing.
The heat of the noonday sun cannot penetrate
the shaded porch, with the wooden swing
The wooden swing is an essential part of our favorite past time..Watching the kids and dogs playing, and keeping an eye on the road to see where the neighbors are off to..
Where we watch
the kids and dogs play,
keep sight of the road,
and who passes by
The swing is a quiet spot in the early morning to sit with a fresh cup of coffee and watch the colors of the sunrise above the mountains on the East side, and a place to relax with a tall glass of sweet tea in the heat of the afternoon while we rest and enjoy the hollyhocks by the mailbox and the ivy that is covering the old brick wall out front..
with our sweet tea.
Morning dew Christens the porch rail between us
and the sunrise we celebrate with coffee
In the evening, when the supper dishes are done and the day is melting into night, the swing is where we sit and watch the grandchildren play the games of our own youth..Tag, statue, hide and seek, red rover..games that many city children of today have never enjoyed..
Evening
back and forth
back and forth
a lullaby of red rover, tag, hide and seek
in the even shadows
Just before I turn in for the night, I sit alone on the wooden swing and look at the starry sky and hear the night sounds of crickets and owls and sometimes and the sounds of other wildlife in the mountains..I talk to God then and thank him for all the simple and most meaningful blessings that He has given me this day..I feel peace,and contentment flow over me and soon I am ready for the comfort of my bed and sleep.
Night
Alone on the big seat
the sky goes on forever
to the tunes of crickets
the calls of night owls
talking to God
I await sleep.
----
Now I just link it together and arrange it, with edits, and a refrain
The Wooden Porch Swing
Morning dewdrops Christen the porch rail
between us and the sunrise we celebrate with coffee
the sun stretching and rising
us sitting on our wooden porch swing
going back and forth
back
and forth
The heat of Kentucky noonday sun cannot penetrate
this shaded porch, with our wooden swing
though it tries each summer,
going back and forth
back
and forth
That porch, that swing,
where we drink in the sights;
kids and dogs play,
keep sentry of the road,
and with sips of our sweet tea
mark who passes by
going back and forth
back
and forth
Evening
a lullaby of laughs,
and giggles
red rover, tag, hide and seek
in the even shadows going ever more
back and forth
back
and forth
Night
Alone on that special seat
the sky goes on forever
to the tunes of crickets
the calls of night owls
talking to God
I await sleep.
Going
back and forth
back
and forth
----
You see? Critiquing what you wrote would have meant beating your feelings around when in fact those feelings were the most important part of what you wrote. All I did was clarify that it was feelings, and bring them into a natural cadence. There are other ways of handling material like this, but I like the play of words possible when people and things and ideas go
back and forth
back
and forth
Actually, that poem is only a first draft, so I would return to it in a few days, make more changes, wait, make more changes, until it had a polish. This version is kind of rough and needs work.
He looked up to the rigging, then down to his broken hands. He had devoted fifty years of his life to making puppets fornicate. Starting at the young age of five years old, he began to arrange his Army Men toys into obscene and various positions. Often enough his mother would walk in to see a whole slew of his toys stacked on top of one another in an orgy-like fashion.
As he grew older, he moved on to bigger and better replications of his obsession. He would move forward with his sisters' Barbie dolls and put them in amusing configurations. In school, during his free time, he would make origami with lewd acts and positions in mind.
Finally, in his twenties, he had moved up to master the art of ventriloquism with puppets dangling from strings. It had been a dream of his to one day strike it big and after many years of trying, opportunity finally came knocking.
As he stood before the crowds of people on the corner of Bourbon Street performing for tips, his puppets configured themselves in positions reminiscent of the Kama Sutra. With pride beaming in his eyes, he had the crowd under control. With one gust of wind, his puppet strings began to tangle, the rigging flexed, and his puppets crashed to the ground in a hideous tangle of death and destruction.
He stood there somber and defeated, ashamed at himself for dedicating his whole life to making puppets fornicate.
If anyone wants serious criticism from me on a story here, please make it known in the same post as the story. A lot of folks have fun writing stories and I have no desire to clip wings that are just taking flight.
You can hack on mine if you want (I did go over, lol). I never mind a crit. I wrote it off the top of my head. I'm sure it could stand some tweaking.
We seem to have gotten off Harry's original intent of a friendly competition and wandered into a post-and-get-critiqued session (partly my fault, for which I apologize.) Perhaps a separate thread for critiques/workshopping?
So, back to the initial idea - any other short-short stories to be enjoyed?
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Love, love, love that ending! LOL! Wish I had thought of that!
The only thing I would insist stay the same is the title "The Summer of the Pink Flamingos" 
If I wanted to spend some serious time, I'd try to figure something else as a phrase there.
