 Short Stories: September 07, 2005 Issue [#600] |
  Short Stories
This week: Edited by: Red Writing Hood <3  
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The short story is like an old friend who calls whenever he is in town. We are happy to hear from it; we casually fan the embers of past intimacies, and buy it lunch. *On Ted Solotaroff ed's The Best American Short Stories 1978 Houghton Mifflin 78, ib 9 Apr 79.* Source: bartleby.com
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LAST MONTH: We introduced our first set of flash fiction for mass critique.
Question list recap:
--Do you feel as if you’ve really gotten to know the character(s)?
--Did they grow or change by the end of the story?
--Was there a conflict to overcome?
--Does one paragraph make you want to go on to the next?
--Does it set the scene?
--Does it have a plot?
--Does it have a climax?
--Does it have any denouement?
--Are there good word choices?
--Is the writing tight?
--Is there a good hook (ie. opening paragraph)
--Is there a good wrap up? (avoid moralizing)
Story recap. They are anonymous here but I will be featuring them in the editors picks next month (so we can give the authors time to edit if they wish).
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STORY A:
The old man moved slowly along the path, a lightweight aluminum folding chair in one hand, tackle box and fishing rod in the other. As he exited the woods of the hummock, he looked up and out across the wide expanse of water that was his destination. He’d fished here frequently; it was one of his favorite spots. The fishing wasn’t that good, but the access was easy and the setting spectacular. The wide bank was on an angle to the inland waterway, so the sun was not in his eyes as he sat. The small, mangrove-covered islands across from the bank were filled with egret, heron, and osprey. Pelicans dived in the distance, and porpoise and manatee were frequent visitors. He had often wondered why more people didn’t fish here; he usually ended up fishing alone. Probably because the fishing wasn’t all that good.
Shuffling over next to the water, he stopped and set down the tackle box and rod. He unfolded the chair and set it firmly into the coarse sand. Crouching beside it, he began readying his gear. He pulled on the line, testing the drag off the reel and setting it just right for the thin monofilament; inspected leader, line and hook to be sure they were in top shape; reset the bobber to the correct distance from the hook. He had always been a careful man, attentive to details. Even as an only child, he had been thought of as studious and meticulous. And perhaps overly cautious. He had disdained some of the rougher sports the children played, preferring games of fantasy and imagination. He could frequently be found in his own company, whispering to himself as he slew dragons or battled monsters. It was rare that his mother ever had to tell him to tidy his room; he liked everything in its place so he could find it easily when needed.
Unfolding a small packet of once-frozen shrimp, he carefully threaded half a shrimp onto his hook. The bait, inexpensive, was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself. That and the two beers he consumed daily at Ricky’s, where he maintained a reserved seat at the bar from 3:30 until 5:00. And the tip. He never forgot to leave fifty cents on the bar for whichever lovely young woman was working that day. He felt a little guilty about that. They were so young, so full of life, the daily tragedies they shared so insignificant. He flirted with them shamelessly. And they flirted back, secure in the knowledge they were safe from this now harmless old man. He knew they considered him harmless, but he did it anyway. It was only a game. There were occasions though, as he inspected the curve of their bodies while they bent over to pull a beer from the cooler, when he would truly ponder the possibilities. Hence the guilt; they were so very young and foolish. Or maybe he was just so very old.
He stood and deftly cast the bait out, watching the sun flash off the hook and leader as bobber, lead, and bait tumbled in crazy orbit around each other. It all landed in the exact spot he had chosen, causing a small splash; then only the bobber remained sitting proud upon the surface with circular ripples expanding ever outward. There had been a time when he had actually hunted fish, stalked them with live bait and no lead weight or bobber. Sneaking up and casting on them right where they were sure to take the bait. He had felt strong and smart, so clever to catch a fish that way. He had been proud of his talent; it had made him feel virile and masculine – the hunter able to provide. But that was another time. Today he was content to sit in the sun and watch the bobber as it wobbled up and down on the small wrinkles made by the breeze.
He removed a small spiked tube from his tackle box and imbedded it in the sand next to his chair. Placing the handle of the rod in it, he sat down. The short walk had tired him a little. He sighed heavily and removed a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket – the Camels that had been his daily companion for over half a century now. He had tried to give them up a time or two, but that was ages ago. Now he was resigned to the morning hack and obnoxious smell of stale smoke that hung ever-present in his small apartment. Besides, he liked smoking; it gave him comfort and enjoyment. It wasn’t as if he had to worry about cancer anymore. Not at his age.
As he smoked, he watched a gull hovering in the bright, clear sky over some prey in the murky depths below. What a glorious day to be on the water. At times like this, he felt so very alive and free. Young even; or ageless. He thought about all the years he’d spent tied to his job, working obsessively not because he wanted to, but because that’s what people did. He loved the freedom that retirement had brought, though money was extremely tight. People said you needed to find a hobby to keep you occupied. Well, he fished. Not compulsively or even really caring whether he caught anything, but just relaxing in the sun and reflecting. It was great that he often did catch something edible though, as he loved seafood and it helped with his meager budget.
He couldn’t think of anything in life he’d ever enjoyed more than being alone with his thoughts in this beautiful place. The backs and fins of two porpoise caught his eye in the mid-distance as they gracefully moved through the water in search of better feeding grounds. Two of them. He thought of his wife Grace, dead some twenty years now. They had been comfortable together; he had loved her deeply. But twenty years is a long time, and he found it difficult to remember now the feeling of holding her in his arms. He fondly remembered wonderful times with her – special dinners and trips, relaxed evenings at home, long nights of passion – but he had difficulty associating them with any particular feeling. Such a pity. She had been a wonderful woman and he knew she was probably the best thing that had ever happened to him.
He thought of his daughter, Margaret, who had left him at the much-too-young age of fifty-two, a little over five years ago. A smile touched his lips. At first, he hadn’t been able to think of her without a stabbing pain piercing his breast. But now he could remember her as a child and the woman she became, and take pleasure in the memories. Part of that had to do with the hours he had sat on a bank somewhere watching a bobber float up and down, thinking about her. They were both gone now and he was alone with only his thoughts for company. “Just like when I was a kid,” he whispered to himself, smiling again.
When it happened, it was quick. A single small grunt as his last breath left him was the only outward sign of the devastation that had suddenly occurred within his body. The stroke was so massive and destructive that signals from his brain were instantly cut. His beating heart, without changing rhythm, just suddenly stopped.
His hand holding the cigarette fell to the sand, the Camel rolling away. The gull that had been hovering in the air dived, hitting the water with hardly a splash, and emerged to fly off with a small fish wriggling in its beak. The porpoises, having found an appropriate spot, splashed and frolicked offshore while the cigarette burned slowly in the sand until the small tendrils of smoke eventually faded and stopped. The bobber drifted in the slight breeze and small, puffy white clouds passed by as the sun rose slowly in the sky.
Meanwhile, the old man sat there in his chair, his limp body soaking in the sun, still fishing. The small grimace he’d made while his body deserted him had softened into a slight smile. His open eyes were fixed in the distance, overlooking the peaceful tranquility of this idyllic setting.
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STORY B:
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“Go on, it will be good for you,” said Peter into his hands-free headset.
“Good for me or good for your commissions?” said Martha.
“Both. It’s a symbiotic relationship. In your case, it will be good for your portfolio.”
“I know I enjoy making money, but are you planning to reimburse me if it goes south?”
“If the thing sours, I’ll know it from the horse’s mouth right away. If the old man sells, I’ll give you a friendly heads up. You don’t get service like that anywhere else, do you?”
“That kind of arrangement was a no-no when I was a stock broker and when I was a director on the New York exchange. Are you trying to tell me things are different now?”
“Nah, but who would ever accuse you of anything? Your homespun image is bulletproof.”
“Well, that’s true. All right, I admit it. It’s a good thing. I’m in.”
“You made the right decision. What can go wrong?”
~~~~~~~~~~
YOUR comments on Story A and Story B:
Submitted By: robi4711
Submitted Comment:
STORY A was a very moving story, sad ending except when you see the smile. I seem to know the man. STORY B seems to be about a stock broker advising a client to buy stock. It didn't move me much because the incident is so common I guess.
MY comments on Story A and Story B:
STORY A:
***I felt I got to know your character, good job there. However, I didn’t see your character grow or change and I saw a lot of reflection (which isn’t a bad thing) but I didn’t see a plot or conflict. Perhaps you could have him “battle” a fish like the mythical monsters when he was a child. It could be a single battle that occurs at this fishing trip or it could be an ongoing war and both man and fish give their last breath at the same moment – whatever works for you 
***It has a climax (when the man dies) and the denouement is short (which is neither good or bad – denouement is what it is – what’s left to tell after the climax). The scene was vivid and I could picture myself there.
***There are some areas where I’d consider different word choices but you need to start that after you’ve found a plot to work with and use your word choices to reinforce it.
***Writing tight – (very important in any piece, is especially important in flash fiction):
I found 5 uses of “just”. I’d use three of them and get rid of this one: “but just relaxing in the sun and reflecting.” And this one: “without changing rhythm, just suddenly stopped”
I found 4 uses of “only” and those could go either way. Read the sentences carefully and see if they have the same meaning without them.
I found several uses of “that”. Most are needed, a few on the fence and this one: “the Camels that had been his daily companion” I’d rewrite it as this: “Camels had been his daily companion” and this: “He loved the freedom that retirement had brought” as this: “He loved the freedom retirement had brought” and this: “Probably because the fishing wasn’t all that good” as this: “Probably because of the poor fishing” or something similar. It’s too close to what you’ve written above.
I’d get rid of “some of” here: “He had disdained some of the rougher sports the children played” and rewrite this: “he inspected the curve of their bodies while they bent over” as this: “he inspected their curves as they bent over” and this: “removed a pack of cigarettes” as this: “removed a cigarette pack” and this: “long nights of passion” as this: “long passionate nights” and this: “small tendrils of smoke” as this: “small smoky tendrils”
***The hook was okay but I’d work on plot and use something that brings the attention to it right away to make it better. The ending was good but again, you may end up rewriting it after you’ve incorporated a plot.
***All in all you have GREAT potential here, it only lacks a plot but that is an easy fix. (The benefits of writing flash fiction!)
STORY B:
***I’ve gotten a glimpse of your characters (I see that this may be based on a real life moment of Martha Stewart) but I think you could add a bit more here and there. This example may not be what you are looking for but it will demonstrate what I mean.
This: ‘“Go on, it will be good for you,” said Peter into his hands-free headset.’
Could be this: ‘“Go on, it will be good for you,” said Peter into his hands-free headset as a sinister smile snuck to the corner of his mouth.’
***I didn’t see growth or change but if you utilize what I’ve said above you can incorporate that in easily.
***You had a climax and plot but it could be strengthened.(Is this a fight for Martha’s soul or something else?)
***There isn’t much of a scene but depending on what your point of the story is you may not need more than “a phone conversation.” You could add to it in the same way as I’ve shown you above if it works for your plot etc.
***Your denouement is the last line (because your climax is Martha’s agreement) – all good there.
***The writing is tight and the word choices seem fine – you may decide to alter them as you add characterization and strengthen your plot.
Here are our stories for next month:
STORY #1
When he woke up, he did not know how long he had been sleeping. He looked at his watch. It was 6:00, but he did not know whether it was morning or night. He sat up slowly and looked around the room. There was nothing familiar about it. He had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. There was no one else in the room. He looked at the couch on which he had been sleeping. It was brown and the throw pillow was dark green with a fringe of pale green. There was an end table and lamp at each end of the couch. Both lamps were lit. He stood up and walked over to the door. He tried to open it. The knob turned but the door would not open. He swallowed nervously and looked around again.
He walked to the desk on the other side of the room. On the desk he found a blotter, a pen, a blank pad of paper and a phone. When he picked up the receiver and listened, there was no dial tone. He opened the drawers. They were all empty.
There was a window next to the desk; or at least he thought there was a window behind those heavy drapes. He took hold of the cord intending to open them. Suddenly he felt such terrible dread that he changed his mind.
He looked around the room again still trying to find something familiar. This time his eyes stopped on the fireplace. The fireplace was made of bricks and had a marble hearth and mantle. There was wood in it but no fire. A large framed mirror hung over the mantle. He stared into the reflection. Now he really began to panic, because he did not know the person he saw in the mirror.
He sat down on the couch and picked up the pillow. Hugging the pillow tightly to his chest, he took deep breaths and tried to stop shaking. He had to think, and remember. Suddenly he turned and looked at the door. He heard something that sounded like voices. It sounded as though there were people talking on the other side of the door. He ran to the door and listened, but he couldn't hear what they were saying. Gripping the knob he tried to force the door open. He began pounding on the door, first with his palms, then with his fists. "Is someone there? Can you hear me? Help me! Please help me! Open the door! Let me go!"
**************************************************
She sat in the chair by his bed holding his hand in hers. The clock on the wall read 6:00. The nurse was on the other side of the bed checking the IV's and the leads to the machines that were forcing his heart to beat and his body to go on breathing. She had been sitting here by his side for more than a week. He looked as though he was sleeping, but in her heart she knew that this was not true. He was not going to wake up. Dr. Gruber cleared his throat as he entered the room. She looked up. The doctor put his hand on her shoulder, "Lydia, are you ready to do this?"
"Are you absolutely sure?" she asked as she wiped the tears from her eyes. "There's no chance...no chance that he might recover?"
The doctor shook his head, "No, he will not recover, he's gone. The machines are just keeping his body alive."
"Then I must let him go." She leaned over and kissed him on his lips, "I love you, Bobby. I always will." Then she turned back to the doctor, "Do it." Dr. Gruber reached over to the machines. Suddenly the room was very quiet, except for Lydia's sobs.
************************************************
The voices behind the door stopped, and he heard a clicking sound as though someone had unlocked the door. He turned the knob, pushed the door open and stepped out of the room. He found himself surrounded by bright white light. It felt warm and comforting. Now he remembered it all; the terrible pain in his chest, the sound of his wife, Lydia, crying as the paramedics worked desperately to save him. He turned to look back.
He saw the room. There he was lying in the bed. His wife was holding him and crying. He heard her repeating over and over, "I love you, Bobby. I always will." He tried to touch her, but it was as though there was a wall of glass between them. All he could do was watch and listen.
A voice behind him spoke, "She'll be alright, Robert, and one day you will be together again. Now it's time for you to come home. You've earned your rest."
He looked into the light and nodded. He turned, looking one more time into the room, he pressed both hands against the wall between them and called out to her, "I love you, Liddy. I always will." Then he turned, stepped into the warm comforting light, and was gone.
STORY #2
Sitting at my computer, I didn't even bother looking up when I felt her enter the room. I waited, mentally counting, placing a bet with myself on what number I could reach before she blew up at me.
I lost. It only took to three before she started in with her nightly rant. I didn't hear what she said, it didn't matter. We'd stopped talking long ago. I would sit at the computer while she screamed shrilly at me and we both knew our roles.
She would dominate, I would be dominated.
I'd find something to do on the computer until the wee hours, then slink into our (her) bedroom, and slip under the bedclothes, fully clothed. I'd sleep for a few hours and be gone to work before she woke up.
Tonight was going to be the same.
"I'm serious, Ronald... I'm not going to put up with this anymore!"
"Mmhmm."
"I should've listened to Mother...you're a lazy, good-for-nothing..."
The ticking of the keyboard was my only reply. She continued on in this vein for a few more minutes before stomping out. I let out a relieved sigh.
I waited another hour before retiring to bed. Inside the room, I slipped off my shoes and listened. I could hear her breathing: quick hitches, then a long held breath, followed by more controlled hitches.
I sat at the edge of the bed, hesitating. In the darkness, I could make out her form, back turned to me. I listened to her near-silent crying for another minute before sighing loudly and sliding under the covers.
I turned to my side, away from her, freezing.
Next month: Mass Critique of our two new stories; tell us YOUR take and I'll give you mine.
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TOPIC: Flash Fiction
EXCERPT: I can't tell you when or why I started doing this. It just happened one day and here I am again parked in front of her house waiting for her to come home.
EXCERPT: Professor Shirley McNuttley splashed her latest failure down the biohazard disposal chute.
Once again, Shirley was thwarted in her quest to become published in one of the big scientific journals that she admired. To be taken seriously by her colleagues was Shirley’s goal in life.
EXCERPT: Typh reigned up his horse as he watched the clouds billow in. Black as night, they swirled and convulsed as they swept through the sky, devouring everything in their path.
EXCERPT: “You’ll be going off to college, soon. You need to know how to cook food that is healthy and cheap.” Grandma said.
EXCERPT: “She’ll be okay. Go to bed. I’m sure she’ll be home by morning.” With a hand on my shoulder, my father guided me along.
EXCERPT: Andy sat cross legged on the floor. What to make today?
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Gotta question, answer, problem, solution, tip, trick, cheer, jeer, or extra million lying around?
If so, send it through the feedback section at the bottom of this newsletter OR click the little envelope next to my name Red Writing Hood <3 and send it through email.
COMMENTS ON MY LAST NEWSLETTER:
Submitted By: Amelia 
Submitted Comment:
Enjoy the NL and the picks..Thanks for the answer about flash fiction. Thanks again Amelia
Submitted By: gingerosa
Submitted Comment:
Thank you, Red, for including my "Last Word" in your flash fiction segment. I received valuable feedback, especially from Martin Mills, who made a specific suggestion about how to end the piece.
I truly enjoyed this newsletter and look forward to your next one! Thank you again.
Submitted By: April Sunday
Submitted Comment:
Hi, read the story before. With a list of Q to critique it seems silly? (To me.) In the vein that flash fic, someone's term for Eng Comp, actually, defeats the purpose. Char == gen flat in flash, too brief. Setting left out, word limit. Plot, seldom seen. Climax, ending often in mind of author, unwritten. Yeah, I bash the flash.
GASP! *faints*
Seriously, characters can be flat in short stories and novels - plots can be seldom seen or weak in short stories and novels - climax and endings can be only in the mind of the author in short stories and novels, too.
My point is: Flash Fiction isn't the culprit - the author is and that is the whole point in this series on Flash Fiction - to educate the author of the pitfalls and in so doing creating good "flash" writers and perhaps good novel writers one day.
The questions are simply a tool - you, as a reviewer, can use what is best for you in your reviews here But I won't force you to like Flash Fiction...
*no, really*  - to each his or her own 
Submitted By: Rixfarmgirl 
Submitted Comment:
I have enjoyed this edition of the newsletter very much. While I am still reeling from the Train of Thought (50-350), I have especially enjoyed reading the feedback from others. Keep up the good work and thanks for including my Tweety Bird Story and for giving me the heads up on omitting the last line. Great newsletter and great reviewing!
Submitted By: FG - The Power of the Circle
Submitted Comment:
I thoroughly enjoyed reading your Editor's picks. Some great writing! Thanks. FG
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