It doesn't look like there are many people around here, but I have written some flash fiction over the past couple of weeks, and am planning on getting some more done, I would appreciate reviews/crits!
Name: Driven to Witchcraft Word Count: 235 Notes: The only one of these three with potential for a larger story, my personal favorite! ;)
Name: First Kiss. Word Count: 276 WARNINGS: Slash (Homosexual relationship)... think of it as fan service. Notes: I am not particularly fond of the way this one turned out, the interactions don't feel like they fit...any advice?
Since I didn't have time to make good on my idea I think I will continue it this week and try to do at least seven stories by Sunday. Feel free to join in! (Just think this could change from being my writing journal to the founding of a thriving community any day now!)
Yesterday I thought it would be fun to drop down in a seat at Spot coffee, Buffalo's best coffee shop, on Elmwood and write a 100w story about every person in the room I could see. This week your challenge is to do something like that: a 100w story about a stranger you see.
The phone was ivory white. My hand was more a pinkish tone, but I still stared at the juxtaposition between the two and picked out colors to paint the walls some time. My fingers arched and flexed in the air above the phone. I studied my nails, the shape of my fingers, and the patterns that my skin had grown since birth. It was fascinating. "I should really have called you sooner, but I've been so busy!" I spoke to her for one minute, twenty-seven seconds. I looked at the timer as I hung up. I never called again. I leaned back in the chair and decided that I had too much to do.
And, we're back! I will put out a prompt roughly every Sunday, hopefully, some people will bite. So here's todays. Have you ever stared at your cell phone after floating someone's call wondering if they will leave a message, wondering if you will call them back? That's what we want to capture here. 1 Week.
She lets the top edge of the Lifestyle section fall limp so she can watch my reaction. "There's no more real tragedy." She pauses, waiting for my response.
I blink, and begin to replay the words she just said, realizing I had been studying the table, the old, efficient, faded silver spoon, and the chip on the edge of the empty coffee mug for the last fifteen minutes.
Caught, my eyes meet hers, the color of thick smoke, once beautiful; they used to remind me of my baby blanket. Now, they only remind me of her.
I try to sound interested; it’s what she wants, “No Tragedy,” I ask, “what do you mean?”
“Well, this article.” She begins. “It’s talking about this fire and a family who lost all their things – everything -- and how people can donate.” Her voice fades away, trying to coax a response.
I sigh, exasperated, and she almost catches it. I yawn to cover it up.
“It’s a good idea,” she continues, “but the article just gives the facts and it’s not like it’s never happened before, but… I don’t know, it’s just sad that the story doesn’t really make me sad, but the writing does. It’s just that there’s no life to it, no human interest, no anything,” she stumbles over the last part failing to emphasize it like she wants.
I stretch and yawn more words, “Ah, we could help?” almost a real yawn this time.
Silently, my mind pleads with her to end this, just shrug it off, and stop trying to stir something that’s already been stirred to ash. I don’t want to talk; it’s and I’m lost staring at the linoleum floor tiles trying to make a new pattern out of the black and white squares that I’ve lived with for fifteen years.
I relax; she already has the paper covering her face again.
“Yah, maybe,” I can hear the resignation smile in her voice.
We’ve interacted like she wanted. Later, when we argue, I will remind her of every detail of our breakfast conversation, because I do listen. I will make her feel guilty that I offered to help and she turned it down. She won’t tell me that she made up the story. She won’t tell me that she was hiding behind the Lifestyle section trying to remember what it felt like to cry.
Since, my last writing prompt was such an ironic success. I've decided that this weeks should really capitalize on that master stroke. Sarcasm can be difficult to convey properly. Attempting to bring all fangs down at once in a biting yet witty statement can sometimes come out weak and bland. So that's your challenge. Proper pith. I'll direct your attention to a post that I raved about in onehundredwordshere.
With calm irony and in honor of the present state of this community I offer the following prompt idea:
"Dead before it started."
Take a few hundred words out, stack them toghether and see what you can come up with. An additional challenge would be to reverse the story; make the morbid lively or change the humorous into the despondent. Just as I try to stir up a little more activity here! One, two, three, go.
In five days everything would be different. Rebecca sat with her back against the bare wall of her old apartment thinking through the final list of preparations. The boxes were ready; the letters to friends and relatives, the few who stood by her, were in a neat stack on the kitchen counter; the last book of photos and memories was ready to burn, that would happen tonight; and his last few pieces of clothing, those she still didn't know what to do with. She picked up a shirt and dropped it again, brought her knees up to her sore chest and hugged them in her loose and heavy arms. The weight gain had begun months ago, and she'd hoped then that it would also go away later. Everything was later. Exercise, clothes, a rich, understanding boyfriend, a hit script, a new life -- freedom -- all later. The words 'later and freedom' were married in her mind. Always then, never now. The only thing she could be sure of now was tears. She blamed her hormones, her family, herself, him, and anything else. She hated the echoes of her sniffling in the empty room. Even the tears would stop, later. Five days left, one last visit to the doctor, and a new life. She would start over, without him, without anyone but herself. The idea of getting to know herself settled the tears, she thought this was good, but it only made her feel as empty as the apartment she sat in. So empty that no tears would came. Five days left until the last surgery. Five days until freedom. Five days until he would be gone. Her heart echoed in the empty room. Freedom. Just five days left. This was the first time she realized she might miss him. Might miss being him. Later.
Here's how this is supposed to work. Every week I or someone else will offer a writing prompt. Typically it will be a small idea or an exerpt from another story that you will use to create your own microfiction piece. Again, there aren't too many people, but if we keep up a good level of discussion and quality of writing I'm sure anyone who wanders by will be interested in joining up. So this Monday's idea:
"Only five days left." - Assume someone has only five days left before some significant change will happen.
Did I just say "married"? my brain throbs "yes". Silence on the other end. Got to think--recover, steady, ok, try: "I'm sorry; I meant: 'would you like to go out with me some, time'." "See," comon think of something! Megan! "My friend, is getting married in a few weeks and I needed a date," I cringe, I'm not invited -- have to fix that, "And you were the first person I thought of, and..."
Redemption: "I thought we should go out some time to get to know one another and then you might be willing to go to the wedding, and... I'm sorry that just came out all wrong at first." I finally breath. "Wow, I bet you, phew! That was awkward. I'm sorry." I force a laugh.
Silence on the other end. Now what? "Sooo? Umm"
Her voice, finally answers. "Ah, ok, that, ya, that sounds more..." She sounds amused, that's good.
We share a good laugh over my mistake.
She politely says "No."
Just about the time I've convinced myself of the lie I've fabricated I think, Or, was that disappointment in her voice?
I have a tough time writing dialogue. So I thought I would begin with something light to force myself to try it. Did I illustrate a good character or did I distract from the idea?
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This community is designed to help writers develop a keener edge in editing, structure, artistry and imagination in short fiction work through the use of microfiction. Every member will be encouraged to critique the work of others as they submit their own writing. A weekly prompt will also be given as a challenge to those who wish to stretch their skills and/or desire a starting point.
Participation has been difficult to produce in most of the writing communities I'm involved in and while people often request critiques they rarely get more than a quick commendation. So I created this community to highlight the interaction of the writers and to produce debate and criticism of our work. Every member should offer two developed critiques before posting their own work. As we are just getting started this obviously wont work until we get around ten active members. (I figure that means around 30 people.) So for new members, please post a short work of fiction (50-500 words) and I will do my best to generate the buzz this community needs to get moving. Have fun, get involved and keep writing.