ficlet

Beginning, Middle, End

Seth, , , , 2 Comments

How do you write an entire story in only three sentences? If you think that’s a tall order (or maybe even an impossible question to answer) you should re-calibrate your expectations and try writing a story in only six words. Both can be done but it takes a little planning, effort and creativity.

I’m game enough now that I’ve got a 25 day streak going on my daily writing that this week’s challenge from Chuck Wendig seemed like a great test of my skills both in writing and in editing.

Last time out I had to cull down almost 800 words to meet the 500 word requirement. This time I’m only writing down what is necessary. I’m going to try and say my peace (and write my piece) without any wasted words or extra punctuation.

Here goes:

There was a look across the room that sparked the romance, though neither of us could ever seem to recall exactly who had looked first and who had returned the gaze, but it was more or less mutual from the word go.

The first winter was cold and yet we both managed to stay warm enough, basking in the glow of each others’ mutual admiration and near-constant physical attention.

By the next summer you’d have thought it was winter by how chilly we treated each other, we were barren and frozen out of even the barest conversation.

Maybe not literature but it’s writing.

Once more:

“I love you,” she said before we’d even gone out three times and it scared me to hear it but I kept on seeing her despite my fears.

“I love you,” I said as we welcomed our first child, a daughter, into our family, into the world.

“I love you,” she said at my bedside that morning and I’m glad it’s the last thing I heard her say.

Better, perhaps, but pretty sappy.

Last try:

The command codes were given; passive voice hides process, avoids prosecution and persecution or so I was told.

The verdict was rendered; swift and decisive justice, even if I never faced my accuser or got to call witnesses in my own defense.

The blade was dropped; the death blow delivered and yet, somehow, no one was ever to blame.

My own little allegory/lament on the use of passive voice. I had an English teacher in the 11th grade who HATED it, but it does have its uses.

Anyhow, Happy Friday! Hope you enjoyed what I wrote.

Flash Fiction: Irregular Creatures

Seth, , , , 8 Comments

Here’s my entry in Chuck Wendig’s Irregular Creatures flash fiction challenge. I’m used to 1,024 character (1kb) fiction (read my Ficly stories that meet this constraint) so I didn’t quite fill 1,000 words, but I’m happy with what I wrote.

I call it “Three”. Enjoy!

Warning! Warning! Warning!

The mechanical voice didn’t sound all that concerned so why should I stop my work? Progress marches on; Down the hallway and to the left.

In between the triune and untroubled transmissions a siren sounded, whirring an alarm like a lost ambulance ambling and echoing down each corridor.

Didn’t stop me, wouldn’t stop me, couldn’t stop me.

I round the bend and there are lab coat rats – regular science folks – rushing in the exact same direction as me.

Passing me.
Lapping me.
Paying me little to no attention.

They don’t know me and I don’t know them. We’ve only ever seen the backs of each others heads bent over rows upon rows of microscopes or glowing terminal access screens or, heaven help me, grading papers. We might as well all be numbered samples, vials of this or that, locked away in a storage freezer waiting to be viewed in close-up detail, sliced into pieces or presented before a throng of jubilant onlookers.

But that allusion is too literal, too cold, too much like a craven killer collecting bodies; counting coup.

A guard or three now race past me, in what would appear to be full-on riot gear, going the opposite direction. They’re joining the fray and I’m just trying to get out of the way, get away (getaway).

It’s a stark contrast between the uniforms of the regular janes and joes in our long, white coats and the dark black body suits of the guards. I’d say they were military but there are no patches or insignias, no identifying marks or chevrons, save for a simple, rectangular text box over each left breast: NuMove Research.

That’s our unifying characteristic, us and the guards, we all have that same phrase on our personage. I’m headed for the parsonage to pay the patronage.

Will the people even notice me?
Will the people ever notice me?
Will the people never notice me?

I kinda hope not.

There’s screaming up ahead, sheer terror, and for what? There isn’t smoke streaming or rubble rabbled to rouse us from our work. There isn’t even any blood or gore or horror anymore. It’s all just a fake thriller to disguise the real surprise.

People stop to stare or pointedly point at some part of the structure, unseen, where something (anything) must be happening. But it isn’t. Not now anyhow.

I turn back to shake my head, make it seem as though I care as well. Share the shock, feel the pain.

I manage to avoid the gazes as most folks are too busy ogling nothing to bother with me. I maintain my momentum, working my way toward the back of the crowd. I feel the fringes and take a turn one last time to make sure I remember my home, my birthplace, and fix it in my mind’s eye.

My mind’s third eye. The one that winks at the little boy who has seen me for who and what I am.

He’s pointing to the place I used to be when he finally has his father’s full frontal attention. Neither of them really want to believe that I was ever there at all.

I’ve made my escape unscathed and now I get to see.

See what all the fuss was about.
See what I was missing.
See the sea and beyond.

See, as three, as I was meant to be, when and where they can’t hold me.

I hope you liked it. If you want to contribute your own “Irregular Creatures” Flash Fiction story, you have until tomorrow, March 11, 2011.

For good measure, here are some eBook, internet fiction & general writing links I’ve been saving up for a post. Draw your own conclusions.

Snap Judgement on some Flash Fiction

Seth, Leave a comment

I’m thinking I should take this story somewhere, but I have very little time to develop any of my original writing. Let me know if you think it’s worth continuing.

I don’t like reading.
I don’t read.

This isn’t odd for a writer, especially a journalist.

I’m busy. I read my Blackberry and my bank statement and my travel itinerary.

I’m busy.
I don’t read.

Of course, the version of the truth I’m telling here – the version of myself I’m showing you – is an edited document, not the raw logs. If this were all there was of me, it’d be fraught with chicken scratches and coffee stains and the faint taint of nicotine and sweat.

Oh, and the regular smudge of newsprint.

See, I lied. I still read the paper. Every morning. Front page to Obits and even the lingering glances at the Personals.

Habit is a powerful magnet. That and I love the smell of paper like other people enjoy Scotch or Cigar Smoke of New Car (or New Baby).

Scent being the sense with the strongest linkage to our memory, maybe I’m just trying to remember what it’s like to be home. Have a real life and a real job.

It’s my Grandfather’s study and all those aromas are there. The scotch and smoke and new car scent (even my baby brother’s dirty diaper – not so fresh or new baby) all coalesce into that newsprint. Those pages. That heap of captured words and captioned pictures and comics and coupons.

That’s me now.

A heap.
Captured.
Captioned.
Comical.
Handing a drink coupon to a stewardess on a flight to nowhere.

I haven’t read the ticket. Don’t know my itinerary. Don’t know my assignment or the assignment editor.

Shut off the berry. Shut down. See you on the ground.

Comments appreciated.

Ficly Friday: I Was Promised A Flying Car

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For a long time I’ve been turning around the phrase, the exhortation, “I Was Promised A Flying Car“, in my mind.

I always saw it as the beginning of a post-apocalyptic movie or novel or maybe even a long-form magazine piece on all the crushed dreams of kids like me who never went to Space Camp but got Epcot instead. Whatever.

I’ve finally (or potentially for the second time, but no more than third) put the line down as the beginning, middle and end to a Ficly Friday story.

Please enjoy “I Was Promised A Flying Car” and leave me comments here or there.

If you’re participating in Ficly Fridays – either regularly or haphazardly – let me know and we’ll exchange links.

Happy Ficly Friday!

Poetweeting

Seth, , , , , , 2 Comments

I’ve been needing a push recently.

Needing to go outside to run and play.
Wanting to start something new but not knowing what to start or where to start it.
Wishing the stars would just align and get the ascension of damnation over with already, thank you very much.

The push has arrived, mid-back and with an overabundance of force, in the form of Hugh MacLeod’s new book, Ignore Everybody. His crazy deranged fools mailing list and twitter feed are culprits as well.

I’d charge them with assault if I didn’t like the jolt it gave me, popping me right back into the reality of following my creative urge. [Particularly pertinent cartoon to this effect today.]

Last Summer I wrote flash fiction in the form of Ficlet Friday. [Archives]
Last November I crossed the finish line of NaNoWriMo 2008.
Last year is over and this year is half done and what have I done?

So, thanks to Hugh and the always helpful/supportive/creative Will Hindmarch, I’m getting back on the writing train.

Finding an easy outlet (for me) to let my creative juices pool in places online.
Taking care of myself by doing instead of putting off until later (which never comes) when I’m “ready” or I have the “right” tools.
Lowering the barrier to my entry into the things that give me joy and vibrancy and meaning.

For the remainder of the Summer, Ficlet Friday is becoming Ficly Friday (due to the closing of the former/replacement of the latter).

I’m also going to start doing some random 140-characters-or-less poetry on Twitter using the hashtag #poetweet. I think this is practical, clever and productive.

Feel free to join me in either endeavor, if you’d like. We had a ton of fun last year doing flash fiction on Fridays and poetry on Twitter is (theoretically) easy. It makes a great canvas for haiku (nudge/wink).

Anyhow, I think this will be good for me. After a hiatus (too long for me) I’m ready to get back on the horse and start being creative again. Stop taking my inner voice for granted.

Cheers and thanks to both Hugh & Will!