Shorter Stories in Shorter Lived Snow

We had one short day of snow fall. The next day we wrote shorter stories out in the melting snow. All times were good. What do you think of these?

7/06/12

Outside sitting in the snow edition

Location: School

Last Sentence: “The world is not always a forgiving place, but sometimes it is.”

Object: Fish

Authors: Scott Allan, Damien Taylor and Regan Stokes

Scott

The kids swarm to their classes, a mad rush under the drone of the bell. It pierces their thoughts and all turns to mayhem. They swarm, slide and squish past each other like fish escaping fishermen nets. The chaos feeds the puffer fish, he watches through his office window in great delight. “A bunch of fools”, he thinks, and he glides back to his desk. A mountain of paperwork, but the puffer fish accepts this; it is worth it. Now he is 

the puppet master, he has the control and he has the respect.

A small child knocks nervously at the door. His eyes weep, his parents will be furious, he has never been in trouble and he stands waiting at the principal’s office. The door creaks open and the puffer fish waits grinning. His hair sleeked back greasily and his eyes were wider than golf balls. The kid, a mere tadpole, starts to cry. He didn’t deserve this. Outside, the other kids sweat, dreading their time in the puffer fish’s cove. Screams followed by whimpering, they can only imagine.

The puffer fish loves this moment, he now has the power. He ponders how he shall punish the tadpole. His spikes protrude out sharply. He strolls over to his cane, still grinning like a madman. Gripping the cane firmly he makes his way to the pathetic whimpering tadpole. Its eyes look up towards the glorious fish in mercy, the moment awaits. As the puffer fish raises his cane he stops. Their eyes lock in the duel, the tadpole does not back down. A moment of realisation, clear and beautiful thought, the puffer fish knows he is wrong. The tadpole shows all the features of his younger self. The cane descends as the puffer fish deflates to his true self. His greasy smile turns warm, genuine and true, and a sole tear is shed. The tadpole sighs in relief. The world is not always a forgiving place, but sometimes it is.

Regan

Seven years ago exactly, I would have been eating lunch with my friends at Cashmere High School. By then we would have claimed the back of W Block as our social territory, or at least part of it as a group of Year 12s had already established the space as their own. They played hacky and sometimes smoked behind the bushes. Since we were only Year 10s they were the tangata whenua so as their guests we respected the area and our two groups co-existed peacefully.

Behind W Block we had our own concrete ramp (complete with eaves to huddle under in the rain), a sprawling tree to lean our bags against in the summer, the external part of a sawdust machine to sit and rip our shorts and skirts on, a grass area large enough to play a small game of football, and a row of trees that lined this grass. It was these trees that inspired the game of High Stakes Football.

High Stakes Football involved taking turns kicking the ball as high as possible up into tall trees. It was a perfect game because you cannot lose; the ball either tumbles back to earth or lodges itself in the branches, with both of these results usually producing a round of cheers from all participants. If the ball was stuck, the general sequence of events that followed was:

      

      1.       Throw another object up at the tree to dislodge the ball. This was usually another ball (upping the ante further) or someone’s schoolbag.

      2.       If approach #1 failed, send someone (usually Tom) up the tree to collect the ball.

Year 10 (2005) was a significant year because I:

       ·         Discovered The Pixies, thus opening up my musical appreciation to a new and great variety of bands

       ·         Watched Fight Club for the first time

       ·         Had several interesting relationships

       ·         Made many close friends

In our Y10 maths class there was a goldfish kept at the front of the classroom. One day the goldfish was gone. Our teacher was upset and told us that a student had flushed it down a toilet. I think I was shocked at the time, but a dull kind of shocked like it didn’t affect me as much as it should have. This is why I write this story. I am sorry, poor goldfish, for your fate at the hands of humanity.

I went to a school of fish from 2004-2008. The world is not always a forgiving place, but sometimes it is.

Damien

Tena Koe bro. My name is Matthew Gibson Kahurangi, but you can call me Tiu (short for Matt-chew). I’m getting up and going today. Gonna make it to school. It’s hard when I wake up, no one cares if I get ready or not. They’re just hung over from last night. Must be my day today; found five bucks on the ground, and got me a Osler’s pie on the way to school. Mean breakfast. I don’t like coming to school; none of it is important. But I like to see the people. Nothing would happen otherwise; I would just stay at home. I go from class to class when I’m here, but they want me to learn this confusing stuff that has no value to me. The white boy gets it though. He always knows what old Ball-head and White Witch are talking about. That would be mean; to know. I like that boy, he’s crack up. Kind of just funny. He aint like the other bros. Have some jokes with him. Some of the others don’t like him cause he’s smart and white and that. But he’s cool. He could be Maori if he wants. There’s another person I like too. Nan. She’s awesome. Always looks after us and the little fullas. She’s real smart too. Knows about all that stuff we don’t learn at school. But, she don’t want me to leave school. I could get heaps of money working at the docks. My uncle works there. Has to be there at 6 in the morning and work hard till 3pm, but he’s gotta mean Holden. Always shouting down at the pub too. I wanna do that. I think I will leave soon, but don’t wanna disappoint Nan. I know she knows what she’s on about but I’m sure she would want me to help with money and that. Yeah, that sounds right. I’m gonna do it. I’ll save heaps then buy a heatpump. Nan would never be cold at her house again.

...............................................splirchz.........................................piff........................................................

...............................................splirchz.........................................piff........................................................

...............................................splirchz.........................................piff........................................................

...............................................splir......

Fhark. I stop and think. That was an interesting day for me then. And now. These fish don’t have a say, ae. They just get scooped up and taken here. Then I take this knife and stab their guts, then throw it in the drum. May be life is easier that way; no choice. I look at the metal box with fans on the wall and think. The world is not always a forgiving place, but sometimes it is.

on submitting stories

Damien and I both submitted entries to the NZ Flash Fiction competition. Results should be out around mid-June. 

"So, what are you going to do with your winnings, Damien? I'm planning to fly to New York and establish myself as a world-renowned writer." - Regan

"Just go to Westfield aye." - Damien

is this it?

National Flash Fiction Day

So it turns out that June 22 is National Flash Fiction Day (flash fiction is very short fiction, e.g. Shorter Stories) . Catalyst is a group that organises monthly live poetry events and is organising a flash fiction performance event on the 22nd (the next poetry open mic night should be June 5 at the Pegasus Arms). Details for the upcoming Christchurch event are here.

Also, there is a national competition for flash fiction, which closes very soon! Here are the details:

Competition Rules for 2012

• competition open to all NZ citizens and residents
• open competition; no theme or prompt
• only previously unpublished* work may be submitted
• deadline for submissions: 1 June 2012
• word limit: 300 excluding title
• maximum three stories per person
• electronic submissions only
• submissions must be received  no later than midnight, 1 June 2012
• submissions must be sent as attachments to nationalflash@gmail.com
  
  *Published means anything that has already appeared anywhere in print or online, including personal websites or blogs.
  
  
  More details here
  
  
  
  I have emailed the organisers and confirmed that the deadline is 11.59pm June 1, meaning stories must be in by that time Friday night.
  
  Unfortunately none of the stories already published on this blog can be submitted but I would think that if the original authors wanted to edit them further that would be okay, or you could always just go for three rounds of Shorter Stories to get three sweet submissions. Good luck!

Shorter Stories #3

WHEN: Sunday 27th May
WHO: Damien and Regan
WHAT: Write a short story in under ten minutes that includes these things:

Setting: Bach at New Years (picked by Daaaaamo)
Character: The Strangler (picked by wig)
Object: Beach Ball (picked by Wee-Dey)
Action: Hiding (picked by lizard)

njoy the results:



The world is a large beach ball. People live on the inside of this beach ball. There is a curious reverse gravity effect where all physical matter is drawn towards the outside rather than the middle. It is a really cool place to live!
The people constantly debate on how their world came to be. Just who was the creator of the beach ball? Who gave breath to their world?
Ocean currents can be dangerous. If you get caught in a rip it is better to preserve your energy and let it take you rather than fight it if the rip is too strong. If you always swim between the flags you should theoretically never encounter a rip.
Back in Qozuilda (this is the name of the Beach Ball Planet), it was New Years Eve. The people were ready to welcome in 1424ABU (After Blow Up).
Johnny and Sarah were partying it up at a bach in Pass Arthur. The bach was in the woods and the team was playing spotlight. There were 14 people on the team. When I say “team” I mean high school friends celebrating the end of the year in style.
However, 15 people were playing spotlight; The Strangler had turned up unannounced. He had a face made of mildew and great dental hygiene. He was hiding.
The Strangler had picked an excellent spot, inside a log. He was so happy. His first time playing spotlight, and what success! Torchlights danced over his still body.
After years of marginalisation, The Strangler finally felt that he had a place in the world. That place was constricted within an airtight log.
Johnny and Sarah were “in”. Both “in” love (this was a high school romance after all) and “in” in spotlight. They held the torches and found their 12 friends. The team then retreated back to the bach and started consuming stupid amounts of alcohol. Johnny would later fall into an alcohol-induced coma, nearly dying of alcohol poisoning. If it wasn’t for Sarah’s diligence he probably would have died. Soulmates? Maybe.
Meanwhile, out in the forest, The Strangler waited to be found. He tried to move, only to find he was utterly paralyzed within the log. Four hours later, he was found by Death.
Regan


They were all really good friends. This is the first New Years they were all together and it was going to be perfect. The only thing was Howard. He was Jonny’s friend who had tagged along. Emma, Rachael and Steve didn’t know him very well and he had been a bit awkward to start with. Being at a lovely little bach at this time of the year was perfect: usually nothing would go wrong but Howard could find a way. The thing that started him off badly was the incident with Emma’s beach ball. She only got it out on special occasions and she was very particular about things like this.
The other three were playing a simple game of “keep it off the ground”. Howard had been hiding away all day it seemed and had only come out for the last half hour or so. He got brave enough to join in and began to hit it around. He hit the ball so hard it popped on impact. Flying like an empty sausage skin, it wrapped around Rachael’s neck. She fell to the ground gasping for breath.
Howard was never seen for the rest of the trip. Steve only referred to him as The Strangler from then on.
Damien









Other rounds here!!

Shorter Stories #2

On Saturday the 26th of May, Chris Matt and Myself played Shorter Stories for the first time. It was so invigorating that we immediately had a second round afterwards. These were the conditions:

Matt picked Pie(s), Chris picked The Moon, I picked Swimming.

Here are our stories, again copied straight from the notebooks with only tiny grammar alterations where necessary. NJOY




There was one thing that kept Ryan kicking, and one thing only: pies. The temptation to give up was paralysing. He had completely sapped himself of any strength. The arduous journey back and forth, and back and forth again underwater constricted every muscle in his body.
His enormous, greasy body wobbled with every painful stroke and kick. His ballooning stomach bounced back and forth, smacking against the lane ropes constantly. He wanted to give up and drown, and finally be relieved of the agony. But his mother’s promise of a chicken, cranberry and camembert pie after his swimming lesson somehow overpowered everything else. The pie’s delicious flaky texture and unspeakingly satisfying hot cheese consumed his mind and drove him onwards.
At the end of the hour the coach’s whistle blew and his body exploded like a gigantic moon constructed of camembert. He collapsed against the lane ropes, too tired to even force a smile. Everywhere he looked, his mind convinced him he was seeing the glory of freshly cooked pastry. He could almost smell the billows of steam erupting from the roaring bakery’s ovens.
“Pie time,” he managed to communicate with his numb lips to his mother, waiting with his towel.
Chris




The Moon was anxious. It had not been swimming for a long time. So long in fact, that the mere thought of backstroke sent its core into confused convulsions.
Today, however, was The Moon’s day. It was time to swim.
Swimming is a recreational/survival activity used to achieve fitness or escape from sharks. You should try it!
Gingerly, The Moon slipped on its bathing suit. The pastry glistened.
“I don’t know…” The Moon murmured.
Neptune pushed The Moon roughly.
“Way to go!” shouted Neptune. The Moon carefully removed the swimming pool cover. The pastry was hot, thick and pastry, the mince interior hot and dangerous.
“Should I really be swimming in this?” asked The Moon. “This pie is so big that it could be used for other things, for instance curing hunger on Earth, Mars and Pluto.”
“NO!” screamed Neptune. “You must swim, and swim you will!”
The Moon slipped into the dark substance, gulping loudly. Attempting a rudimentary doggy paddle, The Moon realised its mistake. It could not swim at all, especially in mince which is much harder to swim in than water. As The Moon slipped beneath the waves, drowning slowly, Neptune could be heard laughing.
“At last, I am The Moon, and I will not adhere to my duties at all! There will be no more tidal system for Planet Earth! Surfing begone!”
Regan




Johny McNickle had always been a big fan of pies. He would down one daily. However, this fact is completely irrelevant as these days Johny had turned his life around and was now the one and only transgender astronaut.
The year is 2072 and man/woman is once again on a mission to the moon. The world has come a long way in its acceptance of race, gender and height but hasn’t made it much further into space. Johny or as her friends affectionately call her Johnina is all set for the big day, blast off day. This day to a normal person wouldn’t have been anything special, as space is now such a common destination that people often go to space Macca’s on their lunch breaks. But what makes Johnina even more special is that he is from an Armish family who don’t believe in the use of space as a worldwide fast food destination. Johnina is breaking out, going against her parent’s wish and tomorrow is heading to Moon Macca’s…They say the taste of space in your face no matter what your race is like swimming in a sea of blood pudding but without the pudding.
The future is fucked up.
Matt











Other rounds here!!

Shorter Stories #1

On the evening of Saturday the 26th of May, myself, Matt and Chris pioneered an idea for a new writing game. It involves everyone writing a short story in 8 - 10mins in one of my many 5c notebooks, with each story including a particular character/setting/object/action/line as decided before writing (each person selects one of these things beforehand). 

These were the conditions for the first round:

I picked Fisherman, Chris picked River, Matt picked Kite and Matt and Chris picked the last sentence while I was in the toilet.

Here are the resulting stories. I have copied them onto the computer with no alterations except for a few minor grammatical edits. NJOY!!


The river beckoned. If it was a person it would have been like Santa Claus but without the outfit. Large, warm, inviting. Naked.
Wilson stared. He could not remove his eyes from the rapids. But no! He had so much work to do. Screeds and screeds of work; a tower to the sky of work. However, it was a splendid afternoon so today the work would have to wait. Today, Wilson was determined to fish.
Casting his line out to the water, Wilson stared (again). His line would not arch like it usually did. Instead, gravity seemed to have abandoned the very object. It was soaring into the sky, an absurd hooked kite! Carrying Wilson with it. He had always dreamed to fly. Away from pesky phonecalls and the morning slog. No more work, only the stars and clouds. To fish from a distant galaxy. As he sped towards the sun and an inevitable lack of oxygen, Wilson was content. No more work.
It was a long journey. At last, he closed his eyes and whispered to himself “and so it was and forever will be.”
Regan


It’s not every day that you meet a fisherman and even less that he is a kite fisherman. Ok, so you might be thinking “kite fisherman? That sounds terribly impractical and at best just down right unhelpful” and you my friend would be bang on the money. Kite fishing is outlawed in 13 of 50 of the states as it is just such a huge waste of time.
Now back to the kite fisherman I met. He was 6’12” and had a face like a rack of lamb. You might think there would be something a bit fishy about him, I mean there has to be something not quite right up top to fish with a kite, but there isn’t he’s not fishy at all due to him not catching a single fish. He goes down to this old dried up sewer drain, which I guess you could call a river, attaches a worm to his kite and sets it free to chase after the illusive sky fish. Yep he is after birds. And one day you know what? He got one, the biggest sky fish you or I will have seen and at last he closed his eyes and whispered to himself, “and so it was and forever will be.”
Matt


Henry had a serious knack for finding the perfect spot. His expertise and unparalleled mastery made him a local legend.
He would lick his finger and lift it toward the wind. This was his first step for locating the hot spots. He would paddle his canoe in the direction of the winds with the taste of anticipation seeping into his saliva.
He ensured he was following the wind with his trusty brown and yellow striped kite which he proudly hoisted high above the towering willows, triumphantly reaching toward the heavens.
He knew how to have the fish at his mercy. He licked his lips and plunged the rod beneath the water’s surface.
Suddenly he was paralysed and overbalanced, his elderly frame splashing into the river.
His lungs filled with water and his vision clouded over with darkness. At last, he closed his eyes and whispered to himself, “and so it was and forever will be.”
Chris




Other rounds here!!