 Short Stories: March 06, 2019 Issue [#9422] |
This week: Eight Seconds Edited by: Leger~  
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The purpose of this newsletter is to help the Writing.com short story author hone their craft and improve their skills. Along with that I would like to inform, advocate, and create new, fresh ideas for the short story author. Write to me if you have an idea you would like presented.
This week's Short Story Editor
Leger~
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Eight Seconds
Eight seconds. Not a long time, is it? You spend five times as much sitting at a red light. Or ten times that amount of time opening your mail. How many tasks can you do in eight seconds at your job? Maybe if you're a really good window washer, an eight second wipe down could be fast.
If you were writing something that took eight seconds, how many words or sentences would you use? A car crash takes less than eight seconds, but it would take more than a sentence or two to describe. It would only take eight seconds in a surgery for things to go horribly wrong and lose a patient, but much longer to describe.
In bull riding...eight seconds means the difference between big cash-payout glory and your butt in the dust. We're talking about a sport where a man willingly straps his fist under a rope and straddles a 1500-pound bucking bull. This guy is willing to have some very important parts of his body thrown up and slammed right back down onto the back of a riled cow. All the while the bull is bucking and twisting, this cowboy is holding on for dear life and trying to stay balanced enough to remain upright on that cow for...eight seconds. Did I mention style counts? Not only does the cowboy have to stay on, he has to look good doing it.
And then he has to get off the animal! He has to get that strap released and throw his body overboard, trying to land upright and not under the pounding hooves of the bull. Then, before he can catch his breath, he has to make a mad dash for the fence before he gets trampled or tossed through the air by the annoyed bull.
How long would you last? In 2009 the top standing bullrider in the elite tour of professional bullriders made almost $1.6 million dollars. In respect to professional athletes, that's not much. Kobe Bryant in the NBA is making $23 million this year for bouncing a ball down the basketball court. Ironic, don't you think?
When writing, give an important event the description it deserves. Even if the event only lasts eight seconds.
This month's question: What methods do you use to control pacing in your writing?
Send in your reply below!  Editors love feedback!
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Excerpt: It was late afternoon and it was already getting dark. I was ensconced in my recliner with four of my chihuahuas, and we were all covered in a soft fleece blanket. I had been doing the social media scrolling thing, and I must have drifted off to sleep. When one of the dogs heard someone outside and raised the alarm, I startled awake and attempted to jump out of my chair. I got entangled in the blanket and the dogs I was sharing my small space with, and my laptop took a header to the floor during the chaos that ensued.
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Excerpt:
“Twinkle, twinkle little star,
How I wonder what you ….”
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Excerpt: When the Porodom awoke, they found themselves in utter darkness. Their spirts struggled against the howl and rush of the winds and their thoughts drowned by the roar of the water, and they were aghast. Belo called to them. “Rally to me.” Then he covered them in an orb of white light.
“What is this place? Surely Jahave has not created such a terrible abode for the Man?” Modra asked.
“Yes, this is the place for the Man,” Belo said. “An unfinished work; tasked to the Porodom to complete.”
Excerpt: Jessie wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans, before picking up her cards. She tried to ignore the camera and its red light glaring at her. A crowd gathered around the final table at the World Series of Poker event, hushed and waiting, while she used the time to decide. Across the table, her two remaining opponents, Roy and T-Rex, also waited.
Excerpt: Rain paints the road, the streetlights and the pedestrians between into a shivering water colour wiped back into oil clarity. Kam adjusts the rear-view, in which Mosh’s alternately blurred, clear form recedes to enter the building.
Ringing trills in Kam’s headset as he pulls onto the main road. A police car draws near, siren wailing banshee calls. Into Kam's car splashes topaz light. It flickers across the passenger seat and casts the rucksack holding the box as a square ghost in the corner of the windscreen. He reaches over, zips the bag shut. Just in case.
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Excerpt: I glared at the tiny, pointy-eared thing sitting at the far end of the table, its ridiculous pointed hat, its cliché red and green outfit.
It was one thing being forced to deal with the elves at work--more and more of them each day it seemed, the buggers multiplying like germs. But to have one in my own house, eating at my table, holding hands with my daughter. Christ, Caroline wasn’t even out of college yet, and who knew how old that pig was. We had a three-hundred year-old one running around at the office still looking like a stunted teenagers without all the pimples.
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Excerpt: The first thing Cedric did every morning was drink a cup of coffee on the screened porch and look out over his vast empire of corn. It was a modest farm compared to some of the massive conglomerates around, just under one hundred acres, but it was all his. His friends thought he was crazy when he left the life he’d built for himself in the city. The truth was, he rarely even thought about those days anymore. The frantic intensity of Wall Street seemed like a distant nightmare, memories left in his head from a life lived by someone else.
Excerpt: “Honestly, I’m surprised anyone’s here at all.”
The bartender plucked stemware from a plastic tray and slotted it, piece by gleaming piece, overhead. I tried not to stare at her breasts, but they flounced with her slightest movement. I focused on the beer taps behind her; I was more likely to suck on those, anyway. “I’m just glad you’re open.”
“That’s Newport for ya.” She paused, holding a glass up to the light. A bar towel appeared in her hand, and she polished some invisible spot. “Big ice storm comes along, they close the hospitals, shut down the schools and sheriff’s office – but you can count on the bars.”
“Then why are you surprised I’m here?”
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This month's question: This month's question: What methods do you use to control pacing in your writing?
Send in your reply below! Editors love feedback!?
Last month's question: Is your mind sparkling clear or a host for dust monsters?
Paul  replies: Again: “Absolutely!”
My mind is about as clear as a stagnant swamp. It is MY swamp, though so most of it is me trying to remember anecdotes and experiences from the 76 years I’ve spent filling it with all that detritus. Sometimes I’ll remember something, but lack enough detail to decide if it really happened. So far it seems they all prove to be true.
It’s actually a benefit for ideas for stories on occasion. I hate not being able to remember detail, I’m (was) a computer design engineer and the minutiae has always been high on the importance scale. Well, I dislike it a whole lot because I try hard not to hate. Hating only damages me.
Thank you for the newsletter. It’s a lot of work and I do appreciate it.
Quick-Quill  sent: Dust Bunnies, because they hop in and out of my mind. If I don't write them down I probably will forget them in a day or so. I need to be better at doing it. However if the prompt/idea didn't stick around it must not have been a good one. There are less DB's lately as I tend to start writing them and they hop away leaving just Poop in their wake. Clean-up is hard and throwing away is messy.
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