Showing posts with label Short stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short stories. Show all posts

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Escape -- by KittyCat



I stayed so close to Mom yesterday, I'll bet it looked like she wore unmatched slippers--a little white one and a big black one shaped like a cat.

See, Saturday I think I lost half my nine lives--maybe eight of them. Who has time to count when you're barely holding onto whichever one you got?

The day started good with Dad and me sitting on the porch while he had coffee. When my buddy Chris joined him, I took a long drink so I could overspray where a tomcat left his logo around my place. By the time I reached the backyard, I was lost in deep thinking about how I was gonna kill the nervy tom. Two posts and the gate itself, and I'm out of pee.

Holy @#*@!! I took one leap to the fence and another over it. A dog looking a whole lot like laughing hyenas you see on TV was after me. She was bone lean, hungry, and for sure not laughing.

I felt the sting, and figured my tail got shortened, but I didn't have time to check it. By the time I jumped on top of a dumpster, she'd left my yard and caught up. Using furniture garbage piled beside the dumpster for a spring, she was on me again--almost. I made it to a tall wooden fence, took a few shaky steps along the top rail, and fell into rose bushes that stabbed me all over. At least I'd got away. Uh oh... Hello pit bull.

Whew! I was saved by the yellow-eyed bitch that wanted me for breakfast. She growled. The pit bull turned and threw its weight against the gate, snarling at the bitch. While the dogs growled at each other, I used the bushes for a shield and limped behind them to a space between a shed and the fence. Safe, but barely. I had to escape from that yard. 

I crept along the side of the shed, then eyed the distance to the fence that divided the lot between the dog's half and street side. With luck I could make it--dash to the doghouse, ("Killer" printed over its door) from its roof, to a planter on the fence, and over it. I just hoped if I fell again, it would be to the other side.

A car's brakes screeched as I ran across the street, through another yard to an alley. I spied a small water dish on a patio. No dog in sight, but the chain link fence, just like ours, looked fifty feet high. Somehow I climbed over it.

At the dish I drank and drank. A high-pitched bark interrupted my looking over the yard for a place to rest. I hissed at a terrier poised for a game of chase.

"Get outta here Cat," A man who appeared at the gate to the front yard, opened it. "Sit, Snuggles."

"Snuggles?" Any other time I'd have laughed. But this time, there was no time. Tired, and not paying attention, I walked into the path of a man with two chows on leads. One lunged at me, but its owner yanked it back. Across the street a homeowner had opened a garage door just enough to let in cool morning air--and one tired cat.
--to be continued
(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

A Sense of Place


In her introduction to a collection of short stories, you can almost feel Geraldine Brooks retch at the word kitchen when connected to a story's setting. Shortly after reading Ms. Brooks’ essay, I picked up a novel that began with a conversation at a kitchen table. But vicariously looking over a map with the characters, I knew the scene would change momentarily, and it did.

Readers need settings they can identify with, to feel anchored. How can you, the reader, share a character’s shoes when in a setting so vague you can’t feel your feet? Conversely, how do you, the writer, insert setting details—especially in settings unfamiliar to your readers?

You know what not to do: plop specifics on the page almost as an FYI, or provide details akin to an amateur play’s badly painted cardboard backdrop. But how do you get it right? If a formula exists please let me know, but until you find it, you’ll profit by following the old standard: observe, study, practice.

How to Study Settings

Read. Mark scenes you encounter. Go back later and copy them. Your analysis of a hundred or so by a variety of authors will be like lotion on dry skin. Smooth.

To help you start, here are scenes from my collection. Selected randomly, it includes one scene set in the kitchen.

 “After a few years on the demonstration circuit (I have a clear, diorama-like memory of being teargassed on the steps of the Justice Department), I landed in Colorado to study with a Tibetan Buddhist lama.” – Marc Ian Barasch
“There’d be knots of people, talking and arguing, on street corners, and then, when you got closer to them, they’d kind of melt away.” –Steven Vincent Benet
“St. Pierre, a sheaf of white-and-pink plaster houses, was woven together on a hill, like a haycock.” - Stella Benson
“...and jalousied windows opened and closed their shutters like painted wings.” – Victoria Brooks
“They puttered by a village of sampans moored along the shore. These were true houseboats with flowers blooming in wooden crates on the decks.” – Victoria Brooks
“I came to where the mill hands lived in close-together little shotgun houses—three rooms in a row, like long boxes, with public wells and privies that served two or three houses each.” – Olive Ann Burns“
“Elizabeth put one foot down onto the checkerboard linoleum of the first-floor hall and hooked the heel of her other shoe on the loose rubber tread of the bottom step. Her hand grabbed the newel post at the end of the banister. The stairs were treacherous ...” Elizabeth Cullinan
“The area was lush with hemlock, fir, oak, maple, birch, and every imaginable kind of moss and fern. It was also rich in history, starting with gravestones so old that their markings were nearly indecipherable.” – Barbara Delinsky
“A spectral fog is lifting off the cemetery grass, and high up in the low atmosphere I hear the wings of geese pinging.” – Richard Ford
“The other world, however, began right in the midst of our own household, and was entirely different, had another odor, another manner of speech and made different promises and demands. In this second world were servant-girls and workmen, ghost stories and breath of scandal. There was a gaily colored flood of monstrous, tempting, terrible, enigmatical goings-on, things such as the slaughter house and prison, drunken men and scolding women, cows in birth-throes, plunging horses, tales of burglaries, murders, suicides. All these beautiful and dreadful, wild and cruel things were round about, in the next street, in the next house. Policemen and traps passed to and fro, drunken men beat their wives, crowds of young girls flowed out of factories in the evening, old women were able to bewitch you and make you ill, robbers dwelt in the wood, incendiaries were rounded up by mounted policemen—everywhere seethed and reeked this second, passionate world, everywhere, except in our rooms, where mother and father were.” – Hermann Hesse
“Anna inhaled the deep, cool mildewed smell of centuries and wondered what it would be like to live somewhere so ancient. To have a past of burnished oak refectory tables, tapestries and mullions...” – Wendy Holden
 “Behind them lay a little copse. Before them the turf, dotted with white flowers, sloped down to the brow of a cliff. Far below them, so that the sound of the breaking waves was very faint, lay the sea. Shasta had never seen it from such a height and never seen so much of it before, nor dreamed how many colors it had. On either hand the coast stretched away, headland after headland, and at the points, you could see the white foam running up the rocks but making no noise because it was so far off.” – C. S. Lewis
“Each room had a pair of narrow double doors that opened onto a miniature balcony—large enough for two small chairs and a Lilliputian table—on which guests could have black morning coffee. –Robert Ludlum“
“So he picks up the baby and leads us to his joint, and gets out some pretty fair beer, though it is needled a little, at that, and we sit around the kitchen chewing the fat in whispers. There is a crib in the kitchen, and Butch puts the baby in his crib, and it keeps on snoozing away first rate while we are talking. In fact, it is sleeping so sound that I am commencing to figure that Butch must give it some of the needled beer he is feeding us, because I am feeling a little dopey myself.” –Damon Runyon
“There was a high steady note of insects screaking. A rich odor of hay mixed with the heady smell of gasoline. Two or three times, a car rumbled by, shaking the ground.” –Mona Simpson
“Stockton, who had played a little football in high school, blocked Mrs. Barrows as she made for Mr. Martin. It took him and Fishbein together to force her out of the door and into the hall, crowded with stenographers and office boys. She was still screaming imprecations at Mr. Martin, tangled and contradictory imprecations. The hubbub finally died out down the corridor.” –James Thurber
“The vast hills in their snowy garments looked down upon the land, upon the house of Hazen Kinch. Still and silent and inscrutable.” –Ben Ames Williams
Once you’ve read the selections above, what will you do to study them? A starting point might be to examine word usage. For example, I thought traps in the selection by Hermann Hesse was a misprint for tramps. It’s not. As used by Hermann Hesse, it is a type of horse-pulled carriage. Ben Ames Williams could have written “still, and silent, and mysterious,” but inscrutable is a better word choice, isn’t it?

Certainly if you want to check on a few words, and you’re pressed for time, this blog is long enough. I’ll return to “settings” another day. In the meantime, start your collection. It’s educational, and is one collection that never needs dusting.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Short Stuff - A reprint

The following is an article first published in The Window, the Panhandle Professional Writers' newsletter:

“Smallness is the realm of elegance and grace. It’s also the realm of perfection. The short story … is inherently selective. By excluding almost everything, it can give perfect shape to what remains.” – Steven Milhauser, The New York Times October 5, 2008

Short stories are like a spread of hors d’oeuvres--spare, but deliciously varied. What a perfect combination for novice writers striving to improve their craft. They can taste a dozen or more masters at one sitting, and they need not leave the house to enjoy the buffet.

Offerings of meaty classics pepper the Internet. Not keen on the classics? Why not take another taste? After all, the sampling is free. Besides, instructors encourage budding authors to not only study the classics, but immerse themselves in works of previous centuries. Paul Saevig of Author Network says “Tolstoy will teach you more about writing than Dean Koontz.”

Mike Akins doesn’t necessarily agree. Which writer better exemplifies today’s publishing rule: “write tight?” He makes a good point. What a relief that we don’t need to read War and Peace to appreciate Tolstoy. The Russian also wrote short stories.

In fact, so many eminent authors, both past and present, have written short stories that after choosing a plateful, there’s little room for dessert. Read the greats of yesteryear—Sinclair Lewis, Ruth Suckow, William Faulkner, and hundreds more completely free. A list is online at www.americanliterature.com. Then, for a special treat, go to Random House’s Website and read The Ceiling by Kevin Brockmeier.

Look at Mr. Brockmeier’s use of language and then decide on the value of short stories. They’re not buckets of fried chicken, but delectable truffles.

 Read such literary nuggets for the simple pleasure of relaxing with a book. Then chew on them again, digesting more slowly. Despite their austerity, they have much to teach. Compare authors. Study their characters, plots and narration styles. Look up unfamiliar words.

Reading will teach you what to do, but only by actually writing will you learn how to write. You may not have the expertise to write a novel, but you must start somewhere. The short story “is a great way to develop ideas when you don’t have time to write a book,” said Diane Mowery, a member of Panhandle Professional Writers. She added, “The short story gets the idea down. It can stand on its own, and still be developed into a longer piece later. It can also help you discover how much you like the idea as you make a ‘trial run’ with the short story.”

Paul Saevig says to “swing into this with the enthusiasm that you had when you first learned to dance. You knew you weren’t Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers, but you were still having fun.”

You just might dance your way into the pages of Houghton Mifflin’s The Best American Short Stories. The 2008 collection included a story, “Man and Wife,” discovered in The Missouri Review. This perfectly shaped gem was Katie Chase’s first published story. 

          
 (c) 2011, Bernice Simpson