This Past Week at Extreme Writing Now

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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“….or maybe it’s the alternator.” The ‘butinski’ continued to ramble, spewing his expertise all over Rocko and Vinnie as they tried to fix their sedan.

After an hour of listening to the grating know-it-all, Rocko went to the trunk and returned with an aluminum bat.

“You guys play Softball?”

“Nah, just hardball.” Answered Rocko.

WHACK!

Read other great 55 word fiction and other tales as they are spun at EWN’s Author\’s Corner.

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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All good things must come to an end, and so it is for our series, Building A Short Story.

Eight weeks ago, we started with a 55 word fiction piece fully intending to  create a much larger work of fiction from the micro-fiction cornerstone. Our goal was to reach the requirements for a short story (1001 – 7500 words) by rewriting our piece with an exact word count doubling each time.

We reached short story status two installments ago when we hit 1760 words, doubled it once more to 3520, and are finishing up, without doubling, at 4548 words.

I honestly do not know what anyone else got out of this experiment, but I know I reaped great rewards. The least not being the fact that I actually helped finish something more than a flash fiction piece. Don’t get me wrong, I still think flash is ace, but writing a more substantial piece felt damn good.

Probably the most important thing I gleaned from this experience was the value of word economy at any level.  My freelance work often involves writing fluff to meet minimum word count requirements; whereas my love for writing flash, specifically the micros of 55 worders, constrains me to a maximum word count.

I like to think  the best prose written is where the author trusts the reader with the paint brush from time to time.  The trick is not the word count, but the impact that each word has on the  story; how well are we guiding our readers to their own imagination?

Without further prattling, here is the story in its entirety:

The Heart of the Hound

I was doing what I had been doing every night for the previous year when that call came in from the dispatcher; trying to choke back love by assaulting it with large doses of bourbon.

No matter how hard I tried to fight it off, love came at me with tear fueled memories that left gaping holes in my heart. Love tread on my soul with its horrific war hammer of depression. My essence screamed her name, but there was no answer.

Not since that fateful night, the year before, when my Shawna was ripped away from me by three .38 rounds while she was on her way to pick me up from the station. Damn that old truck, damn that carjacking asshole.

I swore I would never love again, yet every moment I live is torn by love.

The house was dark and cold. The phone rang and I choked back tears as I fumbled for the receiver, nearly dropping it.

Joanne,  the dispatcher on duty that night, had been with the department for as long as Denny and I had been friends. She loved us as family, often reminding one of an important calendar date for the other.  She knew exactly how men were.

Joanne called me to let me know that something terribly wrong had happened at Denny’s and I needed to sober up and get there immediately.

Joanne knew too much about me.

Stumbling to the bathroom to wipe away love’s abuse, I looked into the mirror and noticed that what were once graying temples had spread their influence all through my hair.

No time to lament on youth,  Denny was in trouble.

It is funny how an emergency can hold back the power of bourbon. Once in the city issue car and on the streets, I felt sober and my tactical thinking mind was coming into play. First I needed to go inside the scene and talk to Denny. Joanne did say that Denny was alive and, although Nora would be taken to the hospital, she would be fine. Joanne also said there was a death at the scene.

This could only mean one thing. Somehow, Nora’s life had been threatened and Denny took care of it. The love between Nora and Denny was legendary. Almost as legendary as mine and Shawna’s.

The drive took less than five minutes over the quiet streets, and I could see the aura of emergency vehicle lights well before I arrived. Pulling up to the scene, I popped two breath mints and got out.

Time to put on my work mask and suppress my own problems.

1 -2 -3-4-5- 6 >>>

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Related posts

• Building A Short Story ~ The Deep End (2)
• The Micro-Fiction Cornerstone (2)
• From 55 Words To 110, Our Fiction Sees Growth (3)
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• Building A Short Story ~ Jumping to 220 (3)

We announced yesterday that this was the 6th installment in our series, Building A Short Story. Well, we were wrong, because this is actually week 7.

We have come a long way since we started with our 55 word fiction piece as a cornerstone to build our short story upon. The story has grown by exactly double with each passing week as we continue this experiment in creating a larger piece from micro-fiction.

The process has been a real joy for me as I’ve watched the tale grow into something that you can sink your teeth into. The story became an official short fiction piece last week, which is allowing us to flesh out more details.

One of the things I love about micro-fiction is that we allow our readers to use their imagination. Writers of flash are limited to word count, so every word has weight and momentum, otherwise the story will fall flat.

Authors of micro-fiction shove the readers over the cliff, where writers of beefier tales act as a guide on the path to the bottom.

During this week’s chats over the story line, Carrie and I finally decided where this thing was going to end up, which has been another great aspect about this project. We have trusted each other, although our styles and preferred genrés are vastly different.

I’d say the trust has worked in our favor.

The Heart of the Hound

I was doing what I had been doing every night for the previous year when that call came in from the dispatcher; trying to choke back love by assaulting it with large doses of bourbon.

No matter how hard I tried to fight it off, love came at me with tear fueled memories that left gaping holes in my heart. Love tread on my soul with its horrific war hammer of depression. My essence screamed her name, but there was no answer.

Not since that fateful night, the year before, when my Shawna was ripped away from me by three .38 rounds while she was on her way to pick me up from the station. Damn that old truck, damn that carjacking asshole.

I swore I would never love again, yet every moment I live is torn by love.

The house was dark and cold. The phone rang and I choked back tears as I fumbled for the receiver, nearly dropping it.

Joanne was the dispatcher on duty that night and she had been with the department for as long as Denny and I had been friends. She loved us as family, often reminding one of an important calendar date for the other. She knew exactly how men were.

Joanne called me to let me know that something terribly wrong had happened at Denny’s and I needed to sober up and get there immediately.

Joanne knew too much about me.

Stumbling to the bathroom to wipe away love’s abuse, I looked into the mirror and noticed that what were once graying temples had spread their influence all through my hair.

No time to lament on youth, Denny was in trouble.

It is funny how an emergency can hold back the power of bourbon. Once in the city issue car and on the streets, I felt sober and my tactical thinking mind was coming into play. First I needed to go inside the scene and talk to Denny. Joanne did say that Denny was alive and, although Nora would be taken to the hospital, she would be fine. Joanne also said there was a death at the scene.

This could only mean one thing. Somehow, Nora’s life had been threatened and Denny took care of it. The love between Nora and Denny was legendary. Almost as legendary as mine and Shawna’s.

The drive took less than five minutes over the quiet streets, and I could see the aura of emergency vehicle lights well before I arrived. Pulling up to the scene, I popped two breath mints and got out.

Time to put on my work mask and suppress my own problems.

1 -2 -3-4-5 >>>

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Related posts

• Building A Short Story ~ The End (3)
• The Micro-Fiction Cornerstone (2)
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• From 55 Words To 110, Our Fiction Sees Growth (3)
• Building a Short Story ~ The Series Continues (3)

Welcome to the third installment in our series, Building a Short Story. If you have been following along, then you know that we started to build a short story by writing a 55 word fiction piece in the post The Micro-Fiction Cornerstone, and are attempting to create a full fledged short story by rewriting the story every week and adhering to a word count that is double of the previous.

Let’s see…that makes this week’s installment 220 words! I’m so damn smart.

Word economy can be a bitch. Generally, with exception of writing 55 word fiction, I do not keep track of my word count. Letters, fiction, articles, blog posts, and updates get my full treatment of either extreme verbosity or extreme curtness.

Most especially at the micro-fiction 55 word level I will typically be over on my first draft 5 to 15 words. That’s where I start to stress, because I don’t want to miss a projection by not being allowed to keep all of my words.

However, in the end I  realize that I can say more with less, and it is not the words themselves, but how they are used that really tell the story. It’s the mood and tone they set forth.

The other day I wrote a line in a blog post that contained, “…the vanity of faith.” My usual practice would have been to write that as, “…the blind belief that no matter the outcome, we know we were doing the right thing.”

Not only does the line I used account for very good word economy, but it sets forth a better, more accurate tone to accompany what I wanted to project with the entire passage.

The Heart of the Hound

The night air was whisking away the sounds of an ambulance as I stood inside of Detective Denny Samson’s brick ranch. Getting inside the living room where Denny was sitting on the couch was made easier by the front door being torn from the hinges.

Broken furniture, memories and blood littered the pale blue carpet and off white walls.

Denny’s hands were covered with blood and shards of flesh.

“Did you see it?”

“Detective?”

“The Hound. Blazing eyes, heart shaped patch of deep red hair on its chest.”

Crazy, just like the Bentley chick. “Nora’s fine, but you killed the attacker.”

Denny replied with fear, “No. Not me. The beast,” and then he looked up shakily at me, “There’s more. I don’t think the hound was alone.”

Knowing that fear and adrenalin can combine for powerful hallucinations during moments of intense stress, and also knowing that my brother in arms and one of my best friends over the last decade needed some calming, I asked him,” Do you think you can recount what happened? Or would you rather wait until you’ve calmed down?”

“I don’t think I can,” cradling a now blood smeared face in his hands.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his rights would most likely be read to him before he told the whole story.

Wow, 220 words can paint a big picture, can’t they? Our original 55 words are still in tact and visible but a broader story is starting to come to life, as well as a new relationship revelation.

Two violent assaults, at least one death, a mysterious beast (maybe two), and one cop about to arrest his long time friend in connection with one of the assaults.

We sincerely hope you are enjoying this series on how to build a short story from a micro-fiction piece and would be more than pleased to place a link to your build alongs at the bottom of these posts if you wish.

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Related posts

• The Micro-Fiction Cornerstone (2)
• From 55 Words To 110, Our Fiction Sees Growth (3)
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“In national news today, federal officials investigating last week’s suicide Dr. Gerald Dean, prominent genetic researcher, say they may have a link between millions of embezzled grant dollars and Dean’s gambling addiction…”

“Comair flight 449 for the Bahamas now boarding at Gate C.”  The announcement rang throughout the terminal. A man with a clean shaven head and a full beard lingered at the television a little longer, while other travelers grabbed their carry ons and started for Gate C. The bald man was starting to feel confident and almost euphoric. It looked like his plan was working. His picture had been in the news a lot in the past week, but now he had shaved his head, applied a fake beard, and added some girth by ingeniously taping the money to his body. All the while, no one seemed to give him a second look.

He then picked up his shoulder tote and moved towards the gate himself. Feeling lifted by the success of his grand scheme, he began to whistle.

“Gerald Dean?” The question made him instinctively look to where it had come from and stopped him in his tracks. When he turned to see who had said his name his high mood plummeted. Two men, who looked to be identical twins, in dark suits stood not six feet from him, one showing him an open bi-fold that identified him as F.B.I., and the other stepping forward asking the bald man to come with them.

As the three men walked towards the airport security office, Doctor Dean couldn’t help asking, “What tipped you guys off?”

One of the twins answered, “ Outside of an anonymous tip, it was dental records. You see, Dr. Dean, your clone had perfect teeth, while you on the other hand, have fillings.”

Standing just outside the departure gate cue area, a man wearing a pony-tailed blonde wig, watched as the two bookends escorted the bald man away. He began to smile as he watched his plan unfold. Gerald Dean knew that the arrest of the bald man would buy him enough time to land in Persia, where the promise of unlimited funding, uninhibited research, and more wealth than he could imagine awaited him.



© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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Edgar exhausted himself on the truth, but the State saw a different truth.  So he found Jesus and accepted his fate.

He was served his last meal and made his final walk. He was determined not to shuffle, but to walk like a man.

Hooded, strapped in, and gathering the last remnants of courage, Edgar tapped his right foot, which signaled the priest. He could hear the recital of ‘The Lord’s Prayer’ and knew to brace himself when the father said the part about forgiveness of others. The warden knew that Edgar would be ready then and he could signal the executioner.

“Our Father who art in heaven…” teeth clenched, “…hallowed be thy name…thy kingdom come…” sweat glazing on forehead, “thy will be done…” fist clenched so hard that finger nails cut palms, “… on earth as it is in heaven…” eyes tightly shut, “…give us this day our daily bread…” uncontrollable trembling, “…and forgive…” a phone rang somewhere in the background.

The sounds of muffled chaos filtered through the black hood. The hood was removed and the priest bent to say, “Bless you son, you have been saved.”

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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Last week, we opened our series, Building a Short Story , by introducing a method of constructing a valid short piece from a micro-fiction, 55 word fiction to be exact, and rewriting by doubling the word count with each edit.

We had a choice to make in the expansion to 110 words, and that choice was between lengthening the scene set up in the initial 55 words, or broadening the scene. We chose to broaden the scene so that we could begin to give it some depth and feel.

This will most likely be the opening act of the tale,  so we want to set as much of the tone here, as well as set the hook for the readers. After all, once you get past the title, the opening words are where we begin to reel ‘em in.

Carrie says, “Although we’re getting closer to what I call my home turf (i.e short story length), we’re still very much in micro/flash fiction territory. However I am anticipating that as our story becomes longer in length and fleshed out more, I can finally get into my stride and contribute a lot more to the story with regards to the characters and storyline. “

There was one minor change to the original story, but the word count was maintained at 55. This change was made to keep the tense and POV correct.

The Heart of the Hound

The night air was whisking away the sounds of an ambulance as I stood inside of Detective Denny Samson’s brick ranch. Getting inside the living room where Denny was sitting on the couch was made easier by the front door being torn from the hinges.

Broken furniture, memories and blood littered the pale blue carpet and off white walls.

Denny’s hands were covered with blood and shards of flesh.

“Did you see it?”

“Detective?”

“The Hound. Blazing eyes, heart shaped patch of deep red hair on its chest.”

Crazy, just like the Bentley chick. “Nora’s fine, but you killed the attacker.”

Denny replied with fear, “No. Not me. The beast.”

At 110 words, we have set the beginning of our story in a single floor home at night. There has been a brutal attack which involved a policeman, a woman, a now dead attacker, and a mysterious beast. We also have a yet unnamed acquaintance of the policeman, and someone else who may have encountered the aforementioned mystery beast.

Not bad for such few words, that at this point could still pass as a valid flash fiction piece.

If you are following along and  trying this at home, don’t forget to send us a link to your creations so we can promo them at the bottom of each post.

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Related posts

• The Micro-Fiction Cornerstone (2)
• Building a Short Story ~ The Series Continues (3)
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• 55 Word Fiction ~ This Masochist Loves It (10)

Tomorrow, May 28th, we continue our series,  Building a Short Story, by starting with a micro-fiction piece and rewriting by doubling the word count until we have a bona fide short story.

Last time out, we opened with an intro to the series and presenting our cornerstone, a 55 word fiction tale called The Heart of the Hound, and tomorrow we continue with the story, only we’ll have a 110 word piece of working flash fiction.

Join us for the fun, and remember, if you are following along and are participating, throw us a link to your stories.  Carrie and I will be more than happy to post them at the bottom of each entry for this series.

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Related posts

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• From 55 Words To 110, Our Fiction Sees Growth (3)
• Building A Short Story ~ Jumping to 220 (3)
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• 55 Word Fiction ~ This Masochist Loves It (10)

This Flash Fiction piece is all about turning the table. Pursuing the pursuers.  Motives that began with revenge, but have transformed into a game of self-gratifying need.

In the end, we are left with the tough choice of whether or not to root for the Just.

The adrenalin reaction is waning quicker each time. This is the fifth, and already my excitement is just about spent. It’s been what, five or six minutes now and my breathing seems normal, my heart has quit beating against my breastbone, and my hands have quit sweating.

After the first one, I stayed awake all night. I suppose that it was due mostly to fear, but I remember that my body also felt electrified every time I recounted what I had done. Long after the fear subsided, I would tingle when I thought of how a life came to a sudden halt at my hands.

In fact, the original purpose of the killings is starting to become less of a priority than the excitement of the hunt. Alanis sang about hunting the hunter, but I don’t believe she knows how much fun it really can be. The lurking, laying in wait, setting the trap, and luring the supposed superior prey to its death. After all that work, the killing is like a grand prize, and I feel that I have earned each one of them. I mean, it isn’t like I am in complete safety when I play this game. There are those who are trying to snare me and put a stop to my fun, not to mention the fact that my prey is caught up in their own game filled with hidden motives.

Now the excitement is gone, even before my victim has quit bleeding. Look at the body, sprawled on the cheap carpet, next to the uncomfortable bed. In the stained curtain filtered neon light that body is so ugly, no will to flex muscles or suck the gut in to satisfy some lying self-image. The prize has withered away and already I feel the urge, no, the need, to hunt again.

What fun that would be, to do two in one night. Is it possible? There is a laptop set up on the desk, and it looks like it’s hooked-up and ready to surf. God, I can feel my pulse begin to rise again. I’m gonna try it.

This one will be purely for me. Something to totally satisfy my appetite. After this one though, I’ll get back to work for Maggie and Mom and Dad. Work to avenge my sister and my parents’ suicides when they saw what happened to Maggie in a hotel room like this.

“Welcome”, says the programmed voice. Yeah, welcome to my game.

Studly1 : Hi BrandyWine. Cum….er…..come here often?
BrandyWine : LOL….That’s a cheesy pick-up line
Studly1 : It wasn’t meant to be…..but…..
Studly1 : A/S/L
BrandyWine : 14/F/Xenia, Ohio
Studly1 : WOW! I’m in Bellbrook……I’m 19 and ALL male
BrandyWine : LOL……Really now….ALL male and that close…..hmmmmm….
Studly1 : I bet you gotta a boyfriend, as cute as you sound
BrandyWine: Actually, I just dumped my 5th guy in the last month and I could really use a hug.
Studly1 : awwwww……well…..your parents around?
BrandyWine : No….they’re away
Studly1 : How ‘bout we meet up somewhere?
BrandyWine : That’d be great. I know a guy who’d let us use his room……I don’t think he’d mind.

No, I don’t think he’d have anything to say about it at all.

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Related posts

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• Her Blue Ribbon and How It Happened (2)
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• The Truth Hurts (3)