I’ve had this idea in my head for a while, but I didn’t know where I’d actually go with it. I was thinking of writing up some kind of army story, but I don’t know enough about the military to write something that hasn’t already been done. Instead, I decided to work on my long, David Foster Wallace-like sentences. I noticed in many of my stories that I tend to write the same kinds of sentences over and over again. I never push the boundaries. I want to change that. Does this one-sentence story work? Would you rather it be broken up into many sentences? Do you want to try and write a sentence with at least 100 words?
I was only following orders, said the young private, who stood before the emotionless judge, while the jury, who couldn’t remove the images of the small, burned bodies from their minds, thought it was ironic that the jury was going to determine his fate; he knew it was sealed when he signed up to go fight; he thought, as he stood, unaware his legs were trembling, he was born to fight, which meant long before he decided to pull the pin on his grenade, before he heard the screams of the women and children, before the silence set in, his fate was already set in stone, which also meant that there was a God, and if there was a God, he could be forgiven; however, he wasn’t looking for God’s forgiveness; he wanted the children he murdered to forgive him, knowing damn well he wouldn’t get one; he decided when he was given his guilty verdict he would not apologize for his actions.
I was originally going to post these stories as a three-part series, but they aren’t all that suspenseful; my intentions were for the reader to read them all together. I think it works better like this. Write your own three short stories like these! Make them all connected to each other. If you want, give yourself a word-limit to make the prompt tougher.
He walked happily in the little pen on the farm down the road. There was a small mud pit to roll around in, a nice hay bed to sleep in, and a fresh supply of food and water. The old farmer acted as if it were an honor to be taken out of the woods. He had lost his mother and father in the process at an early age, but he knew that one day, he would find someone just like her, and be the pig his father would be proud of. He fanaticized about playing with the other pigs in the woods as he listened to them rattling their cages from across the room.
No one saw the bullet coming; it was a perfect shot. Their heads exploded like water balloons. The old farmer used his old M1 religiously. He said a prayer before and after every shot, asking for forgiveness, thanking the Lord for a quick and easy death for the animal. In this case: animals. The shot went clean through the mother’s ears and into the father’s heart. It reminded the old farmer of JFK’s assassination. Their baby, covered in blood and gore, tried to run away, but he was already cut off by the howling dogs.
The pig, now grown up, who’s old enough to understand what really happened to his parents, seems to have finally been given his wish. He assumes the farmer is giving him mercy as he unlocks the gate. For the first time since being captured, the pig is allowed to walk on the grass outside the pen. The young farmer ties the pig to a fence post across the property and stops inside the house to grab something. When he comes out his face looks more grave. His body is more slouched over. The pig, who hadn’t realized before, saw the old farmer’s face in the young man’s. Most pigs don’t realize what’s about to happen, but this one recognizes the M1. The young farmer did a great job maintaining it. He ties the rope tighter, then pulls the trigger.
Hey everyone. This is the follow up (it was part of the same assignment given in class) to the previous post. Again, the title is the prompt. The idea with this and the last post was to write short pieces with only one sentence paragraphs.
A Place You Once Lived
I lived in an upstairs apartment on 28th Street in Astoria, Queens.
I hesitate to use the word lived because I moved when I was four, and I didn’t have enough time to remember it.
I’m only twenty-four now and I still feel like I have only just begun to live.
One day, I’m going to go back to my roots, and I’m going to bring my girlfriend with me.
Hopefully, it will never be a place I once lived in again.
This is another small flash fiction piece that I did in class. The title is the prompt. Write your own stories in the comments below or email me. I would love to start showcasing all my followers’ work here! Make it as long or as short as you want! Here’s mine:
A Place You Are Just Passing Through
A small town is filled with a million different things going on.
It seems uneventful, because I’m only passing through, but it is its own universe for some.
Everything they will ever know and love is there.
They could be coming Home.
It deserves to be looked at more closely.
This is a quick, little piece based on an object we were given in class. I was given a small coin purse and came up with this.
If you stare long enough at the purse, you get lost in all the colors, the shapes. They’re round like eyeballs; they stare back at you; they draw you in like a black hole, except they’re bright and full of color. What have I done? What does it know, or have to offer me? Money, Stupid—if you’re lucky. It’s a purse, not a portal. But what about the space between and within? It’s your world. Everything you know, love, and desire is all held within. And it does draw you in; its beyond you.
Another small hint fiction and a slightly larger story for you. I feel bad for not posting another story yesterday, so I’ll catch up today.
On My Father
He loves peanut butter,
He loves chocolate,
But he hates Reese’s.
When you ache
From all the times you thought you’d fail
And you were sure it was over;
When you thought you were stuck,
And that someone pulls you up.
Hi everyone, I liked how my story came out yesterday so I did something similar tonight. I used another picture as inspiration for this short flash fiction piece, and I think this is pretty good too. Enjoy!
Here’s the picture:
In the Fog
The fog looked as soft as the moss we were stepping on as we attempted to walk through the forest. It was fall, and cold, and rainy, and the leaves on the trees were all dead. The wind must have blown all the leaves away, we thought, as we stepped carefully over the fallen rocks realizing the ground was bare. There were no chipmunks or squirrels flying through the trees or looking on the ground for nuts and acorns. We were alone with no sense of where we were going. No initial plan, no GPS, no food. No sun, no moon. With night creeping in fast, and no tent, the trees too small to climb up, we found a small cave to huddle in for warmth. We had a lighter, but the branches were wet from the rain. After violently shivering for nearly the entire night, we finally managed to close our eyes. Soon after, we don’t know what—something large—made its presence known.