Had some fun working on stories for the annual Boise Weekly Fiction 101 contest. Working with Rachell and Mark, we tossed drafts of stories back and forth, refining them to their core elements. Writing something so short is a nice exercise in discipline and really clarifies what the story is about; there’s no room for flowery language and unproductive prose that does not move the plot forward.
The first tale was based on a true story. A sheep in Australia was lost from its herd for an indeterminate time and grew 89 pounds of wool. Here’s his photo. You can read about him in a story in USA Today.
SHEEP DREAMS
The clouds drifting overhead reminded Icarus of his herd. He ran and jumped, making a fool of himself; the other sheep bleating in derision.
Icarus ran away, dodging the shepherd’s hook for three years. He looked like a bloated tick with a woolen crust. But all the while, he’d been running and jumping and trying.
The shepherd’s dogs finally found him, and chased Icarus back to the herd. At top speed, he charged his fellows, and launched parkour-style off the shepherd. His wool puffed to cover his hooves and head as he drifted up to join his herd in the sky.
So this next story was an experiment for me. I usually write stories that are funny, or have a twist, or might be a little dark. With this one, I wanted to go for the heart strings. I wanted to see if I could write a straight-up sad story that would maybe make people shed a tear. New ground for me. Not based on anything, it just sort came to me partially formed and I kept reworking it.
SAYID OF ALEPPO
Sayid peeked his nose from Maya’s pocket to receive a crumb, whiskers twitching, and quickly burrowed back into her coat’s thin lining. Maya had rescued Sayid while they both hid under the remains of her bomb-broken home. She pinched off a piece of her tiny meal, holding it patiently for the shivering mouse. Sayid’s hunger overcame his fear. He took the nibble of cracker, and moved into her pocket.
A blast woke them both. Maya tumbled through the air and crashed to the ground. Sayid laid as still as the girl, finally moving on once the warmth had left her body.
This story was based on a real incident, and I’ve been trying to write it for at least 15 years. The bit about the squeaky floor was real, and did happen on a daily basis. I don’t recall ever seeing the guy who lived upstairs, but I frequently heard him. I felt like that little kernel of fact had potential because it showed that two neighbors; one knowing a dirty secret about the other. But what to do with that information?
THE WEAK IMPULSE
Barry finished his morning sit-ups, feeling good about his six-pack.
In the apartment downstairs, Jill was relieved her neighbor’s workout had ended. Squeak, fart, squeak, fart; every damn morning. Was it the soy powder? Fitness bars? Broccoli? She always knew when he’d been in the elevator, and assumed his car must smell like an airline seat cushion.
“Excuse me, it’s Jill, right?”
“Yes.” Barry had stopped her at the mailboxes, clad in his neon active wear, looking as carved as Michelangelo’s David.
“Would you like to grab a cup of coffee?”
“Can we drink them outside?
“Why?”
Jill sighed, “No reason.”