I wrote this flash fiction story a while ago. I can’t remember exactly when, but it’s been at least a year. It was for yet another writing competition that I once again did not place in. It had to be 250 words and had to have something to do with the dark or darkness.
Something writers need to get used to right away is rejection and learning how to be okay with mediocrity. Not everything you write will fail to get the recognition you think it deserves and not everything you write will be mediocre — some of it will be quite good, in fact — but it takes time to get to there. I’m still not there myself, but I’m working on it.
The things I post here on my blog are not my best pieces. They all could use some more work. Some could use a whole lot more work. For me, though, part of developing as a writer is being brave enough to put your stuff out there for others to read, even if it’s just ‘meh.’ A very practical reason I don’t put some of the better stuff I’m working on (at least it seems better to me) is because I want to be able to submit it for publication. Posting your writing on your blog disqualifies it from submission for most publications. Understandably, they want what they publish to be fresh stuff, never seen or read before anywhere else, not even on a blog.
So here you have another one of my clunkers. How do you think it could be improved while staying within the imposed 250-word limit? Feel free to comment with your constructive criticism below.RoadsideAssistance
Hide and Seek
Grace is seven years old. Hide and Seek is her favorite game. Her old Uncle Pete would play it with her almost every day. Then he started asking if she’d touch his secret spot and if he could touch hers. Grace told him, “No,” but Uncle Pete is hard of hearing. Now Grace stays in her hiding place for a long time. Uncle Pete can’t understand why. She still loves to play Hide and Seek, but only by herself.
Lita works nights at The Zoo. She likes working with animals. Animals don’t care about her looks. They don’t mind her scars or limp. They give her unconditional love because she appeals to their base instincts. She’s a warm body to nuzzle, lick, and paw during her breaks — until her boss tells her to knock it off and get back to work. She returns behind the bar, sets out her tip jar, and asks, “Ok fellas, what’ll you have?”
“Where were you last night?” was something Tina gave up asking many breakfasts ago. She heard Rich purposely clattering dishes in the kitchen, as if to say, “I’ve been home all along and have just gotten up.”
He popped his head out the screen door to see her in the Adirondack chair he’d grown to hate.
“Nope,” she replied without taking her eyes off her book. She took a sip of her tea as the door slammed closed.
The Big Log
“The Big Log” by Robert Plant was on the radio. We were parked deep in the woods across from Mr. Conway’s peach orchard. We left the engine running. It was the beginning of December. The Catholic school girl and the future felon in the back seat of a 1969 Oldsmobile Cutlass.
I wanted to be on top.
I glimpsed my reflection in the rear window as I straddled him. I knew then I wouldn’t come. He came right away.
Last time, he damn near shit his pants. This time he was ready. He gritted his teeth and steeled his will. He knew it would happen again any minute. He stifled a small whimper. Beads of sweat trickled into his eyes. The intensity of anticipation was enough to make his knees buckle.
Finally, the doorbell rang.
He nearly passed out.
“Ok, kid. Do it again.”
The Boy Scout walked away, then back up the steps, finger poised.
She wore the necklace he’d always told her matched her eyes. She grabbed the photo album that he’d made of her 30th birthday party. He would light up when he saw her. They would sit and talk about years past. She rehearsed what to say. When she arrived the nurse gave her his room number. She took a deep breath and entered.
“Hi, Dad,” she said.
His vacant eyes searched her face. “Who the hell are you?” he bellowed.
Back in 2012, Esquire magazine held a short short fiction contest in celebration of its 79th anniversary. The only two rules were that you had to compose a story that did not exceed 79 words in length (excluding the title) and you could only submit one story.
Piece of cake, right?
I worked on several stories that took me a couple of weeks to write, edit, re-write, re-edit, until I finally settled on the one I thought was the strongest and submitted it. Writing short, in this case very, very short, is much more challenging than one might think. The stories were judged on the following criteria: 25% plot, 25% characterization, 25% theme and 25% originality.
I didn’t win.
That’s okay, though. I’m of the belief that no writing effort is a waste of time. I had a lot of fun challenging myself to keep my writing tight and expressive in just 79 words. Not sure I succeeded, but the process is just as important as the end product.
Below is the (non-winning) entry I submitted to Esquire. It’s a bit dark, but that’s how I roll sometimes. It’s loosely inspired by an alleged real-life event that took place in my hometown when I was a kid.
I’ll post more of these 79-word stories over time and attempt to write some new ones.Off the Beaten Path