We’ve had a few interesting challenges at our local creative writing society meetings, writing Mr Men stories, writing stories backwards and recently, writing a story of 50 words exactly.
So, I’d like to challenge those creative dopers out there. How well can you write given such a paltry amount of space to do it?
*Dust eddied around Sheriff Earp as he listened to the last echoes of the gunshot, fading into nothingness. He gave a quick sigh as he thought about the man he had killed. A cold blooded killer, like himself. One day someone would surprise him.
In the end, it was the photo that was their undoing. Blurred and over-exposed as it was, the snapshot was open to interpretation, but everyone who saw it (it leaked well beyond the courtroom) agreed the scene was unwholesome. Pornographic, or maybe politically subversive. The jury deliberated only 23 minutes.
Well, hell. I think this is fun, so I am going to throw out another one.
She invented a frantic series of lies, because it was singly and decisively her fault. The cats must’ve, no wait, how about, There was a power outage, or, The Windex somehow squirted… too late. The owners’ car arrived outside. She smashed the aquarium of dead fish, ready to feign dismay.
The dawn breeze rippled across the calm water. I looked down at Elaine, still sleeping on the beach. The breeze was making the same ripples through her hair. Elaine’s hair wasn’t at all like her sister’s flowing locks. 'Lainey kept her hair cut short, and the breeze rippled through it.
“Nope. We’ll eventually break up, and if we put it off, it’ll just be more painful. 'Bye.” I got out of bed and in five minutes was doing sixty on the freeway.
These are great. I’d been thinking about starting an almost identical thread just the other day, although I was going to challenge people see how few words they needed to write a good horror/thriller story. Here’s my fifty:
Carl fought the seatbelt as the getaway car quickly filled with water. The cops’ sirens were faint in the distance - they would have to struggle to arrive in time to save him, but the lead car slowed almost a mile from the bridge. They would let Carl struggle instead.
Not quite what the OP wanted, but…
I once heard this little joke, in a literature class the assignment was to make a story which included the following elements: religion, royalty, betrayal, romance, scandal and mistery. One work was:
Half a pack of smokes later he stood motionless, just as he had been when it happened. Disbelief. Horror. Two men had approached. One man departed. A man lies still now above his pooled fluids. This was meant for him. His friend had insisted on going to the meet instead.
His death was unnoticed by his co-workers, or by his friends who never liked him. After twenty months the maid came to clean. She found the body. Noone was allowed in heaven and was promptly forgotten.
A tap on the vein followed by the sharp sting as the needle penetrated her arm like an impatient lover. She jerked involuntarily. Slowly she pushed the plunger, no longer feeling anticipation, eagerness, or desire for it. Just need. She pulled it out, slid down the wall and forgot again.
His face was one of desperation, though I’m sure mine looked incredibly awkward. As I felt the sharp stings, one after another, I began to form the word “Why” with my mouth. I gave up on that and slipped into darkness with my flooding thoughts of hate and despair.
Droplets of sweat making their way down my face were cooled by the breeze that carried with itself a message for my story. “Fifty words,” I thought, pounding my head and staring at the screen as it began to blur in the lens of my persperation. It ended this way.
He was really hungry now, and the last of the stew was gone. He had no vegetables to make more, and even if he’d had vegetables, where would he get meat? Hikers weren’t likely to wander near his shack this time of year, and hunters were dangerous prey.
