The creative writing instructor challenged the class to write a 100-word story. Too easy I thought as I completed the assignment. On my own, I challenged myself further to write a story using 100 single syllable words.
Still easy for me because I’ve always enjoyed writing short stories. How could I make the challenge even harder? Could one hundred, non-repeating single syllable words tell a story? My story, “Stilled Voice,” answers that question.
Stilled Voice
When Bill Gray learned that Joan might die in less than three months, his heart sank. Tests dashed hope she’d see their girl’s new boy. He wished to hear her sing babe’s first song.
Each night they cried and prayed the staff was wrong. God’s dawn brought joy. Breast lumps grew but death closed its eyes.
June tenth, just past noon, cries were heard. Cheers filled Room Five.
“Big C, you did not win. I am Gram at last. Love kept me here this long.” She held him, rocked, sang, took one breath, looked up, then died with a smile.
Fellow writers, are you ready to try a 100-word writing challenge? See the tags.
Alice sat on a bench, against a wall, under the shade of the tree to her right, and the tree to her left, and the trees lining the wall behind her. She opened her lunch bag to pull out a tuna sandwich she had packed the night before. It was her routine action of her routine day of her routine life.
She took a bite of the sandwich then raised her head to watch people strolling on the wide, brick sidewalk. As she started to focus on a man dressed in khaki pants and a casual shirt, Alice found him looking at her. They both jerked their heads away and looked in different directions. Alice’s face flushed red in embarrassment. After daring to look back again, she saw the man had continued walking and was fading into the distance. Alice sighed. Cautiously resuming her people-watching, she finished lunch without further incident and went back to work.
Feeling confident that she would not see the man again, Alice sat on her usual bench the next day. She took a bite of her sandwich. The man did not appear. She glanced about as she chewed then swallowed. As she raised the sandwich for a second bite, the man came into view. Their eyes locked upon each other. Alice thought it would be foolish to turn away again, so she smiled politely. He smiled, nodded and continued his walk. She finished her lunch then returned to work.
Over the weekend, thoughts about the lunch encounters interrupted the normally methodical execution of her chores. The dreamy way she kept feeling, however, would quickly be displaced by self-reproach for getting distracted from the tasks at hand. So on Monday when Alice saw the man coming in the distance, her heart rate jumped and her palms felt wet. “Get ahold of yourself,” she chided. “Quit acting like a schoolgirl. You need only smile politely.” And that’s what she did. He smiled, nodded his head and kept walking.
For a month, weather permitting, this became part of the daily routine for Alice: lunch, smile, smile, nod. The complacent structure of her life fell back into balance, until the day the stranger did not show up. “Odd,” thought Alice. “Oh, he’s probably just taking the day off from work.”
One day turned into three and Alice found that she missed the man whose habits seemed as fastidious as her own. A week went by, then two, causing Alice to worry and hope he was okay.
On Wednesday of the third week, Alice sat on her bench and heard a strange sound. Clump then a footstep. Clump then step. Clump then step. Alice turned, looking for the sound, and saw the man walking much slower than his usual pace. A cast on his left foot made the reason clear. Alice’s emotions swirled as she felt both happy to see him and concerned over what happened to his foot. Fear quickly took over as the man left the brick walkway and made his way toward her.
“Hello,” he said after stopping a few feet in front of Alice. He looked more timid and shy than she imagined of him from afar.
“Hello,” she said as her mouth went dry.
“This is only my third day with this walking cast and I think this is as far as I should go.” He cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I share your bench for lunch?”
For centuries I’ve lain buried, engulfed in sand. Tricked by tribesmen and trapped so deeply I cannot move. At first, I survived by eating the bugs and crawlers that were able to dig that far down. Barely maintaining my massive bulk, across ages, with contemptible morsels, I crave a hearty meal. Human flesh to eat and blood to drink.
My heart leapt the day muffled sound came through the sand. Silence had reigned for so long I forgot I possessed the sense of hearing. I dared to think the noise signaled that I would soon be released from my prison. Instead, the sound teased me by growing louder then softer, over and over again for decades. Despair consumed me till I realized that even when the noise receded, the sound remained stronger than before. After that, the ebb and flow of the noise stoked my thirst for revenge. So I waited.
Eventually the sand around me began to change temperature. I no longer sat in constant cold. I imagined the sun rising when the sand warmed then setting as the sand cooled. Larger creatures, crabs and sand worms, made their way to me. Better meals to boost my strength. Still, I longed to suck on the corpse of one of the warriors who put me here.
More intense and more often than I remember, hurricanes have torn at the sand above me. Today, I sense another storm starting. The sound of the wind builds. I feel the pounding of the rain. The storm dredges the sand. I am near the surface now, but still too confined to move. I feel air upon one of the spines protruding from my back. Oh glorious! With a few more rushes of wind, the rain falls directly on my skin. The wind and rain stop. No! I weep in anguish.
An hour passes. The wind picks up again with more ferocity than before. My snout escapes and my head breaks through the sand. The storm scrapes across my long front limbs. Though my hind limbs remain buried, I rejoice in the freedom I have gained.
I am weak from hunger, but that will change. My camouflage is exquisite. I look like nothing more than driftwood washed up on the shore. I will rest until someone comes to me. After all, the best meals are worth the wait.
I must have been five years old the first time Mama warned me about the river. I let go of her hand and ran into the cold water ‘til it covered my bare feet up to the ankles. Before I could go any further, Mama grabbed my wrist and yanked me back onto the shore.
Her gaze blazed through me. “Don’t you ever go trying to cross the river, girl! Even if you make it, the evil on the other side will do you in.” Though young as I was, I sensed that I ought not try to explain I only wanted to cool my feet.
In the thirteen years since, I’ve heard that warning from her hundreds of times. She varies the words some, but she always puts the same stress on the last three words, “do you in.” Every time she says it, the same fear that shook me at five years old comes back to sizzle through me from head to toe.
Sometimes, I sit on a boulder and watch the river and the forest on the other side. The dangers of the river are clear. Water plunges down a bunch of tall, steep drop-offs that line up one right after another. Lose your balance on the slippery rocks and the river will sweep you away, knock you unconscious, and make you helpless as water fills your lungs, bit by bit, ‘til you are dead.
I respect Mama’s warning about the river. What I don’t get is the part about the evil on the other side. I asked Papa about it once. He just pursed his lips and said, “Mind your mother, Jilly.” I never asked anyone else. ‘Cause if I spoke Mama’s business to anyone but her, she’d ground me for weeks and not let me talk to anyone ‘til she cooled off.
Now, I feel a bitter, deep loneliness. Papa died last year. High school graduation day has passed. Things are changing and Mama stays the same. She wants me to stay the same, too. But today, for the first time in thirteen years, I stand barefoot in the river with cool water up to my ankles. Staring, staring at the other side.
WARNING: May cause cravings for Spanish tapas and short stories.
A meal of Spanish tapas is similar to the reading of short stories. Imagine different flavorful dishes served one after another – combinations of vegetables, fish, cheeses and more. Dinner guests suffice with a few bites of each dish. Add dates, sherry and marinated olives to the next round of tapas. Still hungry? Order again from the menus – hot or cold – with different ingredients, seasonings and sauces. Want more? Then turn the page for the next short story in an anthology because reading these tasty bites are just as delicious.
Like tapas, short stories come in many different forms and structures. Longer stories might be structured as miniature novels. The reader travels at warp speed through the character arch or hero’s journey. A short story, however, might give a glimpse into only one aspect of a longer story. In The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Writing Flash Fiction, one of the contributing writers, Nathan Leslie, categorizes flash fiction into five basic types: the monologue, the tale, the scene, the snapshot story, and the experiment. Leslie states the individual scene is the most common. The scene format worked for my first short story which I entered and placed in a contest. Since a novelist already thinks in scenes, this style is an easy transition to short stories. Likewise, in a tapas restaurant, an order might begin with the more familiar food items and progress to the more experimental.
The waiter brings the tapas and proudly says the name of the dish. We have ordered several tapas. Perhaps if the restaurant were not so loud, or our Spanish were better, or less of the sangria had found its way to our glasses, we would know what was in front of us. Nevertheless, part of the fun is guessing the dish. We sniff for the garlic and look for the pimento. And then, someone sees the olives and knows it is definitely the beef. A novel prolongs the guessing of who “done it” or “will do it.” Guessing games frequent literature, television shows and even childhood playtime such as Hide and Go Seek; Animal, Vegetable, Mineral; and Hangman. Short stories are guessing games on steroids. The form compresses the timeframe and eliminates unnecessary details or facts. The reader must parse through subtle gestures and implications to arrive at the theme and decipher hidden clues, meanings and flavors.
When I mention tapas, I also speak of menus, waiters and restaurants because it is far easier to eat tapas at a restaurant with a bevy of chefs, cooks and busboys. Similarly, short stories are a treasure to read and analyze yet very difficult to write. The challenge is to determine the most concise presentation of the theme and then the best way to reveal the story.
Now I have to decide which theme I want to write next. Which one of these will it resemble?
QUESO DE CABRA CON NUECES – goat cheese rolled in caramelized pecans, served with poached pear in red wine, grapes and toast points
CAZUELA DE PULPO – marinated octopus with sweet peppers and sherry vinaigrette
CAZUELA DE POLLO SALTEADO – casserole of sautéed chicken with garlic, chorizo, mushrooms and amontillado sauce
PINCHO DE SOLOMILLO A LA PIMIENTA – grilled beef brochette rolled in cracked pepper, served with caramelized onions and horseradish sauce
If you’re tempted by these tapas, stop at Emilio’s Tapas in Chicago for any of the menu items above. Take along an anthology of short stories by Spanish authors. Or practice your Spanish and read Colombian short story writer, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
