Yesterday, I attended a writing workshop offered by poet, David Feela http://sites.google.com/site/feelasophy/, and he offered us this challenge:
Write a story using exactly 55 words. (Not including the title, although the title should lend depth to the story and be no longer than seven words.)
The story should open with a conflict
Contain metaphor
Have a resolution--hopefully with a twist or deeper insight
Here's one I wrote (not saying it's brilliant, but it will give you the idea):
Application
I didn’t get the job, you say. There’s no room for me in your organization. Maybe you can use an arm, a foot, a little toe. Perhaps my head. But definitely not my heart. You offer me part-time work, and advise me to move on—seek full-time employment elsewhere. Meanwhile, you moonlight in my dreams.
Please send your entries (one or two) to me here, as a comment, by October 5. (Of course, I'll need a way to contact you, if you're the winner!) Or email me at: Suzanne.Tyrpak@gmail.com
Three people will judge these, and I will send the winner Flash Fiction: 72 very short stories--or you can choose a book of equal value from Amazon or Kindle. Winner to be determined by October 31.
I will also post the top ten entries here on my blog and on Kindleboards.
Hope you take me up on this--it's fun.
A hint: this can be a great way to recycle poems.
Suzanne
11 comments:
What a neat competition. Thanks for the inspiration:
Autistic Child.
He sat very still on the floor and let her build towers, tall fragile twins, one on each hand. Everyone smiled. It was rare for this child to relax and be peaceful like this. Then the towers fell down and the whole world fell apart.
Outside the window, the grown-ups were as crazy as he.
Thanks for posting, Sheila. Powerful story!
An interesting idea for a contest. Here's my entry:
Incompatible
Stupid cow.
I hate her and I wish I never met her. She’s made my life miserable. She never listens, always upsets my routine and is the bane of my existence. I should get rid of her. Just get my gun and put a bullet in her head.
I bet she would make great hamburgers.
Slab
He calls me at 10:34, but that’s all wrong.
The space is dark, muted. Walls feeling like a dead man's skin, cold to the bone. I’m hungry, my toe hurts. Then I hear someone talk, getting closer. Fuzzy red light.
Let's go for a T-incision the man says.
I bleed.
So now I ask myself... why did I write a 50 word story?
Apologies Suzanne, that was pretty stupid. Here it is - the extended and uncut edition.
Slab
He calls me at 10:34, but that’s all wrong.
The space is dark, muted. Its walls feel like a dead man's skin, cold to the bone. I’m hungry and my toe hurts. Then I hear someone talk, getting closer. Fuzzy red light reaches my eyes.
Let's go for a T-incision the man says.
I bleed.
Fun reading these Suzanne. I almost made mine 50 words by accident too.
These are great! Thanks for entering (and pass the word!)
Here's my entry:
Homecoming
The plane is delayed, tardy with your arrival. I am dressed, patiently waiting. It is hard being left behind as the one you love most is sent half a world away, to dance with the enemy. The day you left was the hardest until now. When you return in a box, ready for the earth.
Sorry for the second entry, but I couldn't get to sleep. This one was screaming too loudly to get out:
Life of the Party
Tall, slim, almost sexy, she was passed willingly from guy to guy every night. She accepted any set of lips, gave herself over to every caress, soft or rough. She took on anyone who could fill the hole and feed the fire down below. Again? Yes. Again? Yes! Again? YES!
“Dude. Stop hogging the bong.”
Hilarious!
Post a Comment