Archive for the 'Short Stories' Category

Short Story endings

40 Comments »1st October, 2008; Category: Fiction, Master of Arts course, Short Stories, Writing prompts

One of the lecturers I have this year often starts her lecture with a writing exercise. It is a creative writing class in prose fiction after all, so this is entirely appropriate. Rosanne uses a variety of approaches, each writing exercise is stimulating. It is also very good writing practice under pressure. I love these exercises, and I have become keen at sharing my writing later during the workshop session after the lecture.

Last week Rosanne wrote a sentence on the whiteboard. She then challenged us to write for about five minutes – ending our piece with that sentence. Here are some interesting (I hope) and challenging (I hope) story endings. Use them in whatever way you like. Try them as warm up activities for your current writing project.

Which one will I poison first?
That is how the school burnt down.
I will never go there again.
That is the last time I ever saw her.
It still amazes me that I lived to tell this tale
I never expected to hear from him again.
The precious key slipped from her hand, bounced once and disappeared over the edge of the jetty.
Just when I’d given up all hope, the phone rang.
Sometimes life is stranger than fiction.
I was left staring at the solid door that had just been slammed in my face.

It was the first one we were challenged with. Here is what I wrote. Remember that we only had five minutes. This left little time for story or character development and none for rewriting.

Tuesday started like any other day: shower, breakfast, cuppa, paper, crossword and then don’t forget the teeth. All was going well, on schedule, according to plan, just like any other Tuesday.

Until.

Until my brother-in-law came to stay with his tribe of brats. All seven. Four boys and three girls plus two over active Jack Russells who always decided to wait until getting here to relieve themselves – on the new carpet.

‘I’ve left Susanna,’ he announced matter-of-factly. ‘Nowhere else to go. So I’ll have to move in with you. I’ll use the spare room shall I?’

I stared in disbelief. This was the fifth time it had happened. I couldn’t stand my brother-in-law. The Brat Pack was uncontrollable. The Jack Russells beyond control.

‘Which one will I poison first?’ was my immediate thought.

Have a go – let me know in the comments how it went.

Good writing.

Writing success

No Comments »31st July, 2008; Category: Master of Arts course, Short Stories

This year I have not had much of my writing published (apart from this and my other two blogs). That is because I have been concentrating on the reading and assignments for my Master of Arts in Creative Writing course.

One of the units I studied last semester was called Creative Writing in the Christian Context. We were required to write a major poem of 50 to 100 lines. I received a High Distinction for my poem.

Another assignment was due at the end of the semester and this took the form of a major short story of 2500 to 3000 words. I worked hard on this story and it went through many drafts. In the workshop after each week’s lecture we worked in small groups, reading through each other’s writing and refining our stories. While this was somewhat confronting at first, I soon realised that having a group of people critiquing my writing was an excellent method of honing my skills. Some suggestions were accepted, some rejected.

I was delighted to receive another High Distinction for my efforts. Then just this evening I received an email from a faculty member asking me to submit the story for consideration for inclusion in the university end of year anthology of poetry and short stories. It is great when that happens.

Good writing.

Short Fiction #39 “George”

No Comments »9th December, 2007; Category: Fiction, Short Fiction, Short Stories

George

George didn’t know why he was there. Or how he had got there. Well, actually he knew the method of getting there – several plane flights and then non-stop climbing for several weeks. Though it seemed like an eternity. The guides had said it was a trek. What an understatement. It was a trial, an endurance test, massive torture and very demanding.

If I had to guess it probably started several years ago. His best friend Kevin challenged him to go on this crazy trip. It had taken all his resources to get to this point; money, time, physical effort and mental capacity. Climbing a mountain in this country didn’t come cheaply. The essential equipment was heavy and they needed extra helpers to get all their stuff up the mountains.

Time had been the biggest expense. Nearly two years of special training took huge chucks out of his already tight schedule. Physically it had cost him about ten kilograms of weight, not that he minded that part of the preparation. Emotionally it had been a roller coaster. Gradually the days of doubt were outweighed by the days of eager anticipation.

George stood on the edge of a rocky outcrop. He was trying to catch his breath. The crisp, cold air made that just a little harder. The air felt super chilled against the sweat from all that physical exertion. He lingered a little longer than the others in his party.

“Is it worth it?” he muttered softly. He stared at the peak in front of him. He took in all the crags and rocky outcrops, the brilliant snow-covered peak, the deep shadows in the gullies and the azure sky above.

“Yes,” he answered to himself. “Yes, all that effort has been worth it.”

Short Story: “Blue Skies”

No Comments »30th November, 2007; Category: Fiction, Short Stories

“Blue Skies”

Frank opened his eyes. He struggled to wake up fully. He heard a strident noise near his left ear. After about fifteen seconds he groaned and rolled over.

“Stupid alarm clock,” he muttered as he thumped the little monster into silence. His eyes felt as heavy as bricks. His parched throat screamed for moisture. His muscles ached and his legs seemed tied to his mattress.

Frank raised his head a few centimetres and then let it flop back into the softness of his pillow. It felt warm, comforting, inviting and had an alluring softness. He lay there looking at the ceiling. The small black spider mesmerised him for several minutes.

“I must get up and get ready for work,” he thought. His eyelids drooped and he felt himself drifting off into a light slumber. He was suddenly jolted awake again by his watch alarm. As he sat up he swung his legs around and sat on the edge of his bed. He raised his hands to his head. Dizziness washed over him with a surge of nausea. His temples felt as if a knife was piercing through to his brains. He sat there for another five painful minutes. He yawned loudly at least a dozen times, his eyes watering with the effort. His jaws ached as if he’d been chewing all night. One of his back teeth ached. Reluctantly he dragged himself to the bathroom.

The soothing warm shower helped him to wake up a little. Still the yawns come frequently, endangering his face as he shaved. Thankfully he endured no cuts or nicks from his razor. As he dried his face he noticed several patches where he had missed some whiskers. He didn’t care. It was too much effort to lather up again. “Must buy an electric shaver,” he thought. As he dressed he realised he had no ironed shirts. He felt too tired to bother about ironing another one, so he scrabbled through his shirts until he found one with only a few creases. “My jumper will cover them,” he muttered.

He had no energy to make himself anything for breakfast. He stared at the shelves in the fridge. He grabbed a cold sausage. He took only a few bites before throwing the remainder in the bin. He sipped slowly at his coffee. It tasted foul and he left half a mug to grow cold. He sat staring out the window at the back garden.

Weeds grew profusely everywhere. Frank had lacked the energy for so long now that his garden resembled a wilderness. Every time he thought he had the motivation to attack his backyard jungle, his energy lasted barely ten or at best thirty minutes. “That jungle needs a week of weeding, mowing, cutting, digging and a mountain load of energy.” He hadn’t had enough energy for even an hour of effort now for many months.

He turned his stare at the wall clock. He had to leave for work now or he would be late. Ten minutes later he was still staring as the second hand swept around repeatedly. “Just like my life,” Frank snapped. “Just going round and round and getting nowhere.” He felt glued to his seat. He tried the coffee again. It was stone cold. He knew he must move, but the muscles wouldn’t work. He sat for another ten minutes. Only the sudden urge to relieve himself gave him the impetus to move. He sat on the toilet seat staring at the large spider in the corner. It had trapped a fly and was beginning to eat its victim. “Just like me,” he thought. “Trapped in a web of no escape. Life is about to consume me. I might as well be dead. Nobody knows, nobody cares. Even I don’t really care any more.”

A few minutes later – it felt like hours – he found himself in the lounge room. He curled up in his favourite chair. He stared at the television screen. It was blank. His mind was blank. His headache was much worse. He couldn’t remember if he’d taken a painkiller. His jaws ached too. He tried to relax his jaws. It lasted fifteen seconds and the aching returned, the teeth grinding together creating a horrid crunching noise inside his head.

“I must leave for work now,” he thought. He tried to get up. Instantly he flopped back into the chair. He noticed that his legs were twitching. He looked at his hands; they were shaking violently. He tried to stop them but without success. Waves of nausea engulfed him as the knot of fear twisted in his stomach. “I can’t, I can’t I can’t,” he kept mumbling. “I can’t do it.” His whole body was now shaking violently with his silent sobbing, the crying inside of him trying to release all of his fears. He felt like screaming; no sound came forth. He curled up into a ball on the seat, rocking gently in his agony.

About an hour later the telephone rang.

This story was first published in “Studio” Issue #102 June 2007.

Readers’ comments and responses are invited. Use the comments section below.

Where does your story end?

No Comments »24th November, 2007; Category: Fiction, Short Stories, Writing Hints

In another life (an elementary school teacher for 35 years) I was frequently asked by my seven and eight year old students, “How much do I have to write?”

Good question.

In many cases I did not restrict the length of their writing and some were happy with this. Others, however, needed the security or reassurance of a set amount of lines or pages, that is, the length their piece of writing needed to be. They needed a goal to work towards. Fair enough – I have heard adults ask very similar questions (eg “When will this meeting be finished?”).

Stop when your story is finished

I remember that quite often my reply was, hopefully not sounding too flippant in doing so, “When your story is finished you can stop.” I must admit that it was tempting to leave the poor little things hanging right there. Usually I would follow up with some individual or small group help. I’d ask questions like:

What has happened so far?
What happens next?
Is there something you haven’t told the readers yet?
How are you going to resolve the problem facing the characters?

In many cases these simple questions – or others like them – can generate a new wave of thought and ideas for where the writing was heading. Of course there will always be the one or two individuals whose creativity will need a little more coaxing and coaching. These writers need more than a life line or life jacket; they need someone to haul them into the life boat and actually start rowing for them until their confidence grows.

Where does your story end?

During the week I recorded an episode of the old television series “The Avengers”. I eagerly looked forward to watching the episode a few days later when I had some time. Imagine my dismay when the recording ended some five minutes before the end of the episode. (I hadn’t considered the possibility that the programme would be running overtime. It’s a new DVD recorder and I’m still learning the tricks of successful recording.)

Did Emma Peel escape from the killers? Will Steed come to her rescue in time? I guess I’ll never know the ending. Not knowing the ending annoys me – but I’ll live.

Some short story writers love the technique of leaving the readers dangling at the end. “What happened next?” is what I would like to know. “How did it end?” and “Did they resolve the problem?” are questions left floating in the air. That’s just me – but I do like a satisfactory ending, happy or otherwise.

Where does your story end?

Good writing.