Short Shorts

[Froststar]

I was in a short short fiction class (which covered everything from microfiction to the conventional short story) and I wrote quite a few pieces there. I'm going to post one, and if you like it, I guess I'll post some more.
This one is a little unconventional. I tried it in a number of different formats, but a "how to" numbered format seemed to suit it best. If you have any questions, comments, etc, please don't hesitate. And please, BE AS BRUTAL AS POSSIBLE. I want you to critique me. If you see anything that is confusing or needs to be improved, please please PLEASE say so. Thanks. Enjoy.


How to Be Noticed: Word Count 547

1) Look through your old albums and ancient Myspace pictures. Look closely at the bunch of giggling teenagers striking poses in the DMV, neighborhood parks, smoky basements, graffitied walls in drugstore parking lots, throwing peace signs, wearing sunglasses, making wide-eyed kissy faces, and holding those generic red SOLO cups. Realize that you are seldom the center of the pictures but are more often in the background or not featured at all. Realize how much you really want attention. Realize that you cannot attain it in your lowly condition.

2) Buy a human hair wig that looks like your hair. It must be soft, fluid, believable.

3) Join a sorority. Stay in the sorority house as much as possible while interacting with other girls as little as possible. Do not speak.

4) Go shopping, not for things in a store but for a store itself. Look only in chique places: Gucci and Aerie, Urban and Macy’s, Victoria’s and Dolce’s, Juicy and Anne’s, somewhere new-age, somewhere fashionable. Look for a large window with only one center-piece mannequin. Look for the perfect display case for the perfect person.

5) Bribe a store clerk to give you the security code to the employee entrance. Look as sweet and naïve as possible. Practice in front of a mirror: blink seductively, pout your lips, make a puppy face, cry if you can. Make up an excuse: you want to try on the clothes, you wish you worked there, you need somewhere to sleep, anything.

6) Once he falls for it, sneak in at night and kidnap the mannequin. She may require some disassembly to fit in your car. Drive her to the sorority house. Do not let anyone see her.

7) Dress her in your clothes and shoes. Staple on the wig you bought in step 2. Do not let the staples show through. Apply makeup, nail polish, eyeliner, and heels. Make her your surrogate. Leave her on the sorority couch with a laptop in her lap and a Starbucks cup in her hand.

8) Shave your head. Whiten your skin with foundation and wax your arms, legs, and face. Put on light makeup and dress in the mannequin’s clothes.

9) Hurry back to the shop before sunrise. Your stage awaits. Pose in the window as the mannequin had been. Smile, but do not show teeth. Spread your legs for balance. Maybe pose against a wall for support. Know that this is your window, a window that showcases only you. Be confident. The crowds will come and admire you for hours.

10) At night, pick out new designer labels for your body. Practice posing in front of the dressing room mirrors. Keep up your shaved head and waxed skin. Pick out props from the store to decorate the scene inside your window. Switch up poses to please the crowd.

11) Each night, drive to the sorority house. Move the mannequin around so she seems more life-like. Put her in front of the TV, in the kitchen with a jar of dried fruit in her hand, lying in bed with a “sick, do not enter” sign on the door. Know that she is as quiet and unpopular as you ever were, and that you have stolen her spotlight. You are finally being noticed.

[Greywhisper]

Jul 3, 2011 18:36:20 GMT -5 Froststar said:

I was in a short short fiction class (which covered everything from microfiction to the conventional short story) and I wrote quite a few pieces there. I'm going to post one, and if you like it, I guess I'll post some more.
This one is a little unconventional. I tried it in a number of different formats, but a "how to" numbered format seemed to suit it best. If you have any questions, comments, etc, please don't hesitate. And please, BE AS BRUTAL AS POSSIBLE. I want you to critique me. If you see anything that is confusing or needs to be improved, please please PLEASE say so. Thanks. Enjoy.


How to Be Noticed: Word Count 547

1) Look through your old albums and ancient Myspace pictures. Look closely at the bunch of giggling teenagers striking poses in the DMV, neighborhood parks, smoky basements, graffitied walls in drugstore parking lots, throwing peace signs, wearing sunglasses, making wide-eyed kissy faces, and holding those generic red SOLO cups. Realize that you are seldom the center of the pictures but are more often in the background or not featured at all. Realize how much you really want attention. Realize that you cannot attain it in your lowly condition.

2) Buy a human hair wig that looks like your hair. It must be soft, fluid, believable.

3) Join a sorority. Stay in the sorority house as much as possible while interacting with other girls as little as possible. Do not speak.

4) Go shopping, not for things in a store but for a store itself. Look only in chique places: Gucci and Aerie, Urban and Macy’s, Victoria’s and Dolce’s, Juicy and Anne’s, somewhere new-age, somewhere fashionable. Look for a large window with only one center-piece mannequin. Look for the perfect display case for the perfect person.

5) Bribe a store clerk to give you the security code to the employee entrance. Look as sweet and naïve as possible. Practice in front of a mirror: blink seductively, pout your lips, make a puppy face, cry if you can. Make up an excuse: you want to try on the clothes, you wish you worked there, you need somewhere to sleep, anything.

6) Once he falls for it, sneak in at night and kidnap the mannequin. She may require some disassembly to fit in your car. Drive her to the sorority house. Do not let anyone see her.

7) Dress her in your clothes and shoes. Staple on the wig you bought in step 2. Do not let the staples show through. Apply makeup, nail polish, eyeliner, and heels. Make her your surrogate. Leave her on the sorority couch with a laptop in her lap and a Starbucks cup in her hand.

8) Shave your head. Whiten your skin with foundation and wax your arms, legs, and face. Put on light makeup and dress in the mannequin’s clothes.

9) Hurry back to the shop before sunrise. Your stage awaits. Pose in the window as the mannequin had been. Smile, but do not show teeth. Spread your legs for balance. Maybe pose against a wall for support. Know that this is your window, a window that showcases only you. Be confident. The crowds will come and admire you for hours.

10) At night, pick out new designer labels for your body. Practice posing in front of the dressing room mirrors. Keep up your shaved head and waxed skin. Pick out props from the store to decorate the scene inside your window. Switch up poses to please the crowd.

11) Each night, drive to the sorority house. Move the mannequin around so she seems more life-like. Put her in front of the TV, in the kitchen with a jar of dried fruit in her hand, lying in bed with a “sick, do not enter” sign on the door. Know that she is as quiet and unpopular as you ever were, and that you have stolen her spotlight. You are finally being noticed.

I will NEVER shave my head. That's just.. mad.

[Dreamthief]

I want to shave my head, but my girlfriend says she'll shave her head if I shave mine. Not going to happen.
Nice story, Fro.

[Slippaw.]

I really liked it. Would love to see more of your work!

[Dovekit]

meh! I will NEVER shave my head! But thats realy creative and funny. (:

[Swiftstar]

Epic win.

[Froststar]

Thank you. ;D

This one is sort of PG-13. Not really, but close enough where I want to let you know before you read it. Hope you like it. Again, please post criticism as well as compliments. Thanks!



A Friendly Layer of Dust: Word Count 500

What if dust bunnies were Playboy Bunnies? At first it would be fun, seeing them peek out from behind furniture legs, their little tails bobbing as they hopped across the carpet. As time went on, they would realize the attention I gave them was positive and become friendlier. They would begin using the chess board as a dance floor, pairing up with pawns and dirty dancing with them. They would go swimming in the bathroom sink: first in one-pieces, then bikinis, then topless, then skin, diving off of the faucet with arched backs and loose hair.
I would begin to take pictures of them. They would love this and pose for me, standing still in sexy ways, by themselves or in pairs, sometimes in groups, bending and strutting and leaning and crawling. I would snapsnapsnap the shots, reassuring them with photography talk (“work it baby, work it, that’s right, keep ‘em comin’, gorgeous!”), then print them and hang them up in my entertainment center. They would love it in there because they could always control what music is playing and what is on TV (America’s Next Top Model, The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, Meghan Wants a Millionaire). Plus, the entire cabinet is tinted glass, so they can pretend no one is watching when they know that I always am.
Over time, I will begin to realize that perhaps the circumstances are not as wonderful as I believed. First, they will run up my cable bill by ordering scandalous pay-per-view. Then they will find my credit card in the couch and order boxes of toys and accessories online. Then one will think it’s a good idea to tan in the microwave and I’ll spend hours scrubbing her body off the turntable. Eventually they’ll figure out how to open the Jack Daniels and get sick on my rug. My living room will be a game of Minesweeper until I get it all cleaned up. They will do nasty things with my toothbrush (and I will be afraid to use it or buy any new ones for weeks) and use my washcloths as towels after they take a dip in the ‘pool.’ At this point, I will not even look when they start humping my fingers while I sleep or strip teasing in front of the mirror while I shave. I will decide that this has gone on long enough. I will sweep, then vacuum, then mop, purging my house of all dust, smiling a little as they scream and try to run, their little tails bouncing. Then my house will be clean, and so will my thoughts.

[Slippaw.]

I like that one, too. You have a way with words.

[Froststar]

Thanks, love.

The War: Word Count 401
I was nine years old when the war began. I remember that day and how my parents fought long and hard, how my mother screamed because the handle on the refrigerator was sticky, how my father said she never had any fun. In a fit of vengeance, he swore to show her how miserable it is to live with such high standards and that she would regret this later.
It began in little things. My father watched her as she ate, declaring whenever she had dropped something (though a lot of the time I hadn’t seen anything fall) and making sure she knew she had to clean up after herself. He would inspect hand-washed dishes for water spots and tell her to do them again. He pointed out the cobweb in the living room and reminded mom to put away her clothes (since she had left a sock on the floor).
She countered. Cloth instead of paper napkins, which must be bleached, dried, and put away every night. The china must be dusted at least twice a week. The windows are spotty, Windex them again. The door’s scuffed and needs scrubbing and paint. Towels must be folded a certain way or they must be folded again. NEVER mop before dusting the counters and sweeping at least twice.
They banned chocolate and wine and fruit. They banned ketchup and mustard and pickles. They banned sports and friends and pets (except gold fish whose tank must be cleaned at least once a week). They covered the furniture with plastic and put away decorations to reduce dust buildup. They got rid of their books to prevent mildew and cut their hair so it couldn’t fall out. Everything smells of bleach and perfection.
The house is immaculate, but it is empty. I never come home because I hate changing into scrubs at the front door and carrying my clothes in a plastic bag to the laundry room. I dread the sound of vacuums and running water and hate the automatic air freshener that wakes me up at night. I want my toothbrush to stay on the sink and not in a plastic bag. I want a cluttered home with sticky floors and a busy smell. I want parents who speak to each other instead of posting notes that are thrown away before being read. I need something other than a fish to talk to.

[Dogstar]

Jul 3, 2011 18:36:20 GMT -5 Froststar said:

I was in a short short fiction class (which covered everything from microfiction to the conventional short story) and I wrote quite a few pieces there. I'm going to post one, and if you like it, I guess I'll post some more.
This one is a little unconventional. I tried it in a number of different formats, but a "how to" numbered format seemed to suit it best. If you have any questions, comments, etc, please don't hesitate. And please, BE AS BRUTAL AS POSSIBLE. I want you to critique me. If you see anything that is confusing or needs to be improved, please please PLEASE say so. Thanks. Enjoy.


How to Be Noticed: Word Count 547

1) Look through your old albums and ancient Myspace pictures. Look closely at the bunch of giggling teenagers striking poses in the DMV, neighborhood parks, smoky basements, graffitied walls in drugstore parking lots, throwing peace signs, wearing sunglasses, making wide-eyed kissy faces, and holding those generic red SOLO cups. Realize that you are seldom the center of the pictures but are more often in the background or not featured at all. Realize how much you really want attention. Realize that you cannot attain it in your lowly condition.

2) Buy a human hair wig that looks like your hair. It must be soft, fluid, believable.

3) Join a sorority. Stay in the sorority house as much as possible while interacting with other girls as little as possible. Do not speak.

4) Go shopping, not for things in a store but for a store itself. Look only in chique places: Gucci and Aerie, Urban and Macy’s, Victoria’s and Dolce’s, Juicy and Anne’s, somewhere new-age, somewhere fashionable. Look for a large window with only one center-piece mannequin. Look for the perfect display case for the perfect person.

5) Bribe a store clerk to give you the security code to the employee entrance. Look as sweet and naïve as possible. Practice in front of a mirror: blink seductively, pout your lips, make a puppy face, cry if you can. Make up an excuse: you want to try on the clothes, you wish you worked there, you need somewhere to sleep, anything.

6) Once he falls for it, sneak in at night and kidnap the mannequin. She may require some disassembly to fit in your car. Drive her to the sorority house. Do not let anyone see her.

7) Dress her in your clothes and shoes. Staple on the wig you bought in step 2. Do not let the staples show through. Apply makeup, nail polish, eyeliner, and heels. Make her your surrogate. Leave her on the sorority couch with a laptop in her lap and a Starbucks cup in her hand.

8) Shave your head. Whiten your skin with foundation and wax your arms, legs, and face. Put on light makeup and dress in the mannequin’s clothes.

9) Hurry back to the shop before sunrise. Your stage awaits. Pose in the window as the mannequin had been. Smile, but do not show teeth. Spread your legs for balance. Maybe pose against a wall for support. Know that this is your window, a window that showcases only you. Be confident. The crowds will come and admire you for hours.

10) At night, pick out new designer labels for your body. Practice posing in front of the dressing room mirrors. Keep up your shaved head and waxed skin. Pick out props from the store to decorate the scene inside your window. Switch up poses to please the crowd.

11) Each night, drive to the sorority house. Move the mannequin around so she seems more life-like. Put her in front of the TV, in the kitchen with a jar of dried fruit in her hand, lying in bed with a “sick, do not enter” sign on the door. Know that she is as quiet and unpopular as you ever were, and that you have stolen her spotlight. You are finally being noticed.

NOPE!!!!!!!!! I would look terribe with a shaved head. Bleh!

[Brightface]

I love all your short stories, Frosty <3
I is jealous of your skillz >_> lolz

[Dogstar]

Me too. Writing is definitly not my forte. I am best at math and science.

[Froststar]

I wish I was good at math and science. Never have been. Never will be. Stupid unit circle. *kicks*
But thank you. I apparently have a long way to go, though, to being a famous writer. Gotta practice a lot. I'm taking another fiction class this semester, this time with a well-known writer (at least he's well-known in the south) so maybe I can glean some useful tips from him.

This one is unrefined, because my last professor told me to completely throw away the other copy and rewrite it. This was rather difficult since the framework for the first way was imprinted on my brain, so this one is choppy and a little wavery. But I'll fix it eventually. If you have any suggestions, please please PLEASE let me know.
Some of you may recognize the story since I posted the original a while back.


Reunited: Word Count 686
Jenna doesn’t live here anymore.
I have repeated these words again and again in my head since she died, but the words don’t change anything. They just hang loosely, making the August air feel even more stagnant, even more indifferent. My house is breaking under the pressure. The walls creak every so often, as though the house is gasping.
Jenna doesn’t live here anymore.
I must escape the house and I must escape the words. I walk with difficulty out into the backyard and shuffle to the table under the old oak tree. I dust pollen from one of the chairs, then lower myself down. I feel stiff and slow, like I’m dead too. But I’m not dead yet. I’m almost 83, but I’m not dead yet.
Jenna doesn’t live here anymore,” I finally say aloud for the first time since it happened. I want to feel relief, I want someone to acknowledge the skipping record in my head, to acknowledge its message, and its meaning. But there is no one. Even the damn rabbit that Jenna named “Benjamin” doesn’t look up, but keeps eating the feeble remains of a wilted lettuce head in the garden. The garden is dead too now.
“Just listen to me!” I yell, to the rabbit, to God, to Jenna, but nothing happens. I am still alone, and now I am crying.
No, no I’m not crying. Grown men don’t cry, not even for their dead wives. Grown men solve their problems and move on. So I’m looking for something, a sign maybe, and there it is. Something is there in the shadow of Jenna’s stone vase, the one at the edge of the fish pond. I hoist myself up and move to the vase. I bend down with a hand on my back to steady myself, and pull the thing up to my face. Adjusting my spectacles, I wipe away the grime. With each wipe of my hand, familiar features begin to surface: the red hat, now faded; the round cheeks, chipped and worn; the hoe, grasped by cracked knuckles; and the flawless blue eyes. More than the others, the last of these grabbed my memory. I remember Jenna holding it up for me at the estate sale so many years ago, making that pouty face and saying, “Aw, can I keep it, hon? Look into those little eyes and just try to say no.” For a moment, I feel a smile spread across my lips, but as I notice it, it is already gone.
I carry the garden gnome back to the shade of the tree and set it on the table. After settling myself and wiping sweat from my face with the back of my hand, I look at it. Perhaps it is the heat, or the grief, or my senile state, but it is looking back at me as though it is waiting for me to speak. Just try to say no…
“I’m Alfonsus Fletcher. You’d probably know me as Alfie if you knew me at all.” My voice is weak from non-use, and I suck in as much thick air as I can before continuing. “The moment my wife saw you, she had to have you. She was so fond of her knickknacks…” He exhaled slowly and then said quietly, “But Jenna doesn’t live here anymore. She’s with Jesus now.”
I feel the tears start again, but stop them with the butts of my hands. I can feel the gnome’s eyes on me, and I don’t want it to see me cry.
“You miss her too, I bet. She couldn’t tend to the garden when she got sick. She couldn’t tend to you either.” My words are wavering with suppressed tears, but I know I must choke them back and be strong, must set an example for the gnome so we can be strong together. “Let’s get you inside and clean you up better, eh?”
Hoisting myself up again, I pick up the figurine and cradle it in the underside of my elbow. Together, we enter the empty house.

[Dogstar]

Woah. Heavy stuff right there. Here is a haiku that I wrote.

The hummingbird lands.
Nectar is heaven on Earth.
Bird sips happily.

Tell me what you think!

[Froststar]

Not bad. There are a few things, though. I hope you don't mind suggestions.

1) hummingbirds don't land when they eat. It's weird, but they don't. Always tell the truth in your writing, whether it's a universal truth or a personal truth or the truths of the world of fiction.
2) One thing that I've found that really makes haikus work (since they are VERY tricky in English; they were meant for Japanese after all!!!) is to smooth them out so that it isn't three separate thoughts, but one. In other words, create a sentence or two inside the three lines.
Like this:
The hummingbird sips
On nectar, heaven on Earth.
He drinks like the gods.
3) Don't tell me. SHOW ME!!!! Instead of saying he is "happy" or "sips happily," tell me instead something that evokes the emotion in me so that the bird and I are one and share the same emotion, this joy of which you speak. That's why I revised the last line like a did. If I was drinking like a god, I'd be quite happy indeed.
4) create a chronology. That means, something that is ordered. That's another reason why I revised that last line. In the first line, it is hummingbird. Then he is eating heaven on earth. You must tie these together in the end (like an "if this, then this" kind of thing) which is what I tried to do with the revision.
But I really like the idea. The image of the hummingbird sipping is quaint and makes me feel happy too. And I liked how you used the word nectar but never mentioned a flower.
Good luck with haikus. Like I said, they're really tricky.

[Dogstar]

Woah...........you are like a writing MASTER!!!!!!!!!!! *bows down on four paws* Thanks for the advice! Also, thanks for the compliment. You give much more advice than regular teachers. They usually just say the poem is good then just walk away. Thants what they do to me anyway. Back to the point. You are really good! Thanks!

[Froststar]

Awww, thank you.
Yeah, teachers do that to me too. I hate it. Professors, however, are BRUTAL. They will read your story and then start telling you everything that's wrong with it in horrific detail, and how you will never be a good writer if you don't stop trying to be "poetic" and "show instead of tell" and "man up" and all this crazy stuff. They are cruel. But it's good for me. The harsher they are, the more I learn. And the more I want to kill them in their sleep. Teehee.

[Dogstar]

Teeheeheee. "Man up"? What? But yeah. Proffessors are brutal. However if they didn't criticize your poetry, you wouldn't amount to anything related to poetry. But you are so good already.....WOW! You could be a proffessor, too! If you wanted to, that is.

[Froststar]

Haha, I've thought about it. But it's a lot of work, and a lot of training, and a lot of paperwork, plus you get stepped on a lot and don't get anything good (pay wise, parking wise, material wise, etc) until you have seniority over half of the freaking campus. Younger professors are always the best, but they always struggle against the tide of their seniors. I would hate fighting that battle, especially if I lost.

[Dogstar]

Oh yeah. Right. Hmmmmmmmmmmm. You could be an author but most of the time people's books dont even get published. Hmmmmmmmmmmmm...what to do........

[Froststar]

Supposedly the way to writing and being famous is to go from short fiction to novels. Preferably a novel that is catchy and light, which is a lower reading level. It's sad, but true.

[Dogstar]

Yeah but that wouldn't be good. The writer would have a sad feeeling inside that she or he didn't write a good book. No one wants to feel that way. Right?

[Froststar]

Obviously quite a few authors don't mind it.

[Dogstar]

Well, yeah I suppose. But you seem to be the kind of author that takes pride in her work and wants to sell books. At least, I think you like to write real books and not that kiddie stuff.

[Froststar]

No, I would rather write genuine, soulful stuff. Hopefully, I'm well on my way.

Here's another short. It's a little personal, a reminiscence of my childhood based off of a poem I wrote a few years ago. I'll see if I can find the poem and post it here too. They make more sense together than apart, I think. Please let me know if everything about the piece is clear. My professor hated the way I wrote this one, but said it had real potential if I could shape it right. So please, harsh criticism.

Hiding
We didn’t know why, but we felt that something was wrong with our mother, something evil that no one else noticed, so we hid from her. That was when we lived on Moultrie Road in that rental, the one where my parents fought on the front porch, where Dad decided it wouldn’t work and moved out, where we began to blame him though even then we knew it was her fault despite the lies she seasoned dinner with every night.
The basement was forbidden. She always kept the entrance from the house locked to keep us from getting in, but she somehow forgot the door to the outside. So, in we’d go, the three of us, secretly, quietly, sneaking into our safe haven inside. It was carpeted, a pungent mossy green smelling of mothballs and old people which would linger on us for hours after. Maybe that’s how she knew, the smell. Whether for that reason or another, she found out. The peace was broken. Unexpectedly, the door would screech open, blinding us with the light from above, silhouetting her hunched figure as she stumbled down. We’d push ourselves into the racks of clothes the old woman who owned the house had left behind, the ones we had tried on a thousand times before, the mink shawls and costume dresses, the clothes that made us believe we were somewhere else, somewhere far away from this, from them, from her. She knew that’s where we’d hide, and she’d get down on all fours, smelling like smoke and strong medicine, pawing at the silk and cashmere, slurring our names playfully and then furiously. We knew not to come out.
One day she locked the door, and we could never hide again.

[Dogstar]

This post was a little late but... the story was pretty cool.