For a variety of reasons, I’ve written several tiny stories in the last two months. Mostly they’re nothing I’m going to use, but a few are seeds from which I will (or have) revised into longer works. Here are a few of them:
From the poetry workshop at Readercon
(assignment, write a poem in 10 minutes)
Don’t dress me in a frock of finest lace
Don’t lock me in a tower far from here
Don’t cover me with veils to hide my face
Don’t burn me at the stake to quench your fear
Don’t wed me to the wizard from the East
Don’t wed me to the knight who makes the quest
Don’t feed to the monster like a feast.
Don’t think that you can write my story best.
This too is my land, now bleak and barren.
These too are my people, tired and sore.
Give me your leave to ride out with the men
I’m not your little princess any more.
(I like sonnets.)
From Codex, a two-line story
Each night she wrote out her fears, watching gruesome shapes coalesce into existence as she typed the words describing their attributes and evils. Then, that monster nearly flesh, she deleted the whole thing: story, words, letters, monster, fears… and finally felt safe enough to sleep.
From my writing workshop, samples to show my students
Valentine stole this day from the werewolves, so I stole it back. Ignore the pain and blood–February’s full moon will wash that bite away.
(140 character fiction)
She made it snow for a week, until her anger subsided. Guilt set in, and she retreated to bed, crawled under blankets, and cried as snow turned to rain. Ice melted slowly, dripping down houses into snow-crusted gutters. Tears dried on her cheeks as the clouds faded from black to grey. The town breathed again, and peaked outside. The sun, missing for weeks, gently brushed the clouds aside for a better look. The town glistened, flooded streets dried, and the people ventured out for food and fresh air.
Showered, dressed, she shook off her loss, went outside, and walked away.
(written at 150 words, cut 50 & revised slightly, to get a 100 word story)