Dialog -- Flash Fiction

Image from Johns Hopkins University

Jacqueline Mitchard was the Guest of Honor at the 2014 Rose State Writing Short Course in Midwest City, Oklahoma. She wrote The Deep End of the Ocean, which was the first selection for Oprah's Book Club.

She's not only a good writer, but a good teacher, too. One of the exercises she gave us to do was to write twelve lines of dialogue. Dialogue only. We could not use attributions or other narrative. It was to be an argument between two people, one of whom has a secret. The secret could not be that they were pregnant or having an affair.

From the dialogue, the reader should be able to identify the relationship of the two people, their gender, their ages, and what the secret was. These people are not arguing but here goes....


"May I sit here?"

"Sure. It's pretty full."

"Are you all right? You seem nervous. A little harried."

"My first flight. Going to ask my high school sweetheart to marry me."

"First marriage?"

"God, no. My wife and I were married forty-three years. Mary passed away two years ago."

"I'm sorry about your wife. My Bill and I are coming up on fifty-one years next month. October third."

"It was hard at first. Living alone, I mean. Not the marriage. These seats are nice. A little tight, but .... Then in June was my high school's fifty-year reunion. The bathrooms in the airport are nice. They're clean. Mary would have liked that. Do you know where the bathroom on here is?"

"There's one in the very front and one in the very back. So do you think someone should say something to someone if her slip were showing? Or, say, she noticed that someone had spinach stuck between their teeth?"

"Sure."

"What about if she noticed that a man's fly was unzipped?"

"Oh, God."

#atozchallenge

Writing Contest

They're gone! My entries for the annual Rose State Writer's Short Course competition are in the mail.

No more editing. No more rewrites. No more thinking and rethinking. Questioning, doubting, second-guessing.

"Heroes," my entry for Flash Fiction is my absolute favorite. It is my way of honoring all those mothers out there who allowed their children to do dangerous things because those things needed to be done. Like my friend Allegra's grandmother who let Allegra's mother take part in the lunch counter sit-ins in Oklahoma City in the late 50's and early 60's.

Flash Fiction is almost poetry. It must tell a whole story in two or fewer pages. That means the writer must use the absolutely, most evocative, right word -- Hemingway's mot juste. The writer must engage the reader's experiences, their sensory memories, their fears, their dreams, and their hopes. And, most importantly, the writer must trust the reader to be willing and able to participate as an involved reader.

"Dead Birds and Broken Bottles," is creative nonfiction -- a new field for me. The trick to creative nonfiction is that it has to be true. Somehow my personal experiences have just never seemed exciting enough or well-plotted without embellishment. Or they were too personal and I was not comfortable being a character in my own story. Or somebody would get their feelings hurt and get mad at me. It wouldn't be safe to accidentally meet them at the local Walmart.

Everyone, no matter where they live, has a weather or natural disaster story. And being from Oklahoma, tornadoes lend a certain excitement to my own memories. Living in a small town offers all kinds of interesting characters. So I had the excitement and the familiar characters for a nonfiction piece. Then the creative part was to turn the factual time-line into a plot.

This particular tornado happened more than half a century ago so most of the characters are dead now and not likely to show up at Walmart. I'm feeling relatively safe in that respect.

Then there's "The Girl in the Reeds." Those of you who know me, know that I am particularly fond of mysteries. Murder mysteries.

Because I am currently working on a follow-up novel to Murder on Ceres, a Science Fiction/Murder Mystery, I didn't want to take time away from it to spend days and weeks on a murder mystery for this competition. I decided to write a murder mystery short story.

Keeping in mind that Murder on Ceres started out as a short story, this was a dangerous undertaking. I didn't know if I could write a mystery in short story form. Short stories are generally 7,500 or fewer words. I'd written short stories before, but not murder mysteries. The question was could I construct an interesting puzzle and solve it within that number of words.

And, you know what? I did. (Here insert a vision of a white-haired sexagenarian doing a happy dance, whilst humming the Theme from Rocky.)

I am excited. I am pumped. Look out, Oklahoma. I'm on my way!

Everything Matters

image from lynnaustin.org

When you write, everything matters.

I just finished – and that’s the wrong word – three pieces to submit to the RoseState Writing Short Course competition. Dead Birds and Broken Bottles for nonfiction. The Girl in the Reeds for short fiction, and Heroes for flash fiction.

What? No poetry? No. No poetry. My poetry days are past and gone, though I did love it. The flash-bang of the one perfect word. The staccato repetition of a sound. The flood of thought or feeling that can immerse you in a line.

But, like Hemmingway, I still labor over the mot juste. The perfect word.

In Heroes the main character Charlotte has forbidden her daughter to go to a sit-in. The child argues, whines, and wheedles. As children are wont to do. At one point I said Charlotte ‘sighed.’ BUT – as I was getting into bed, I realized ‘sighed’ is the wrong word. It gives the impression, the feeling that she is capitulating to the child which is not what I meant at all. She is NOT capitulating. Indeed, she is actively making a choice to JOIN IN, to support, to participate. Rewrite!

I stopped writing The Girl in the Reeds when I got to the end of the story. This is the first murder mystery short story I’ve ever successfully written. There’ve been many short stories, but never a murder mystery short story. Short stories are by their nature, short. And I never thought I could build a puzzle and solve it in so short a space of time.

(Murder on Ceres was originally intended to be a short story but, like Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Topsy, it just “grow’d.” Until now it’s well on its way to being Dead and Gone, the second in a series of novels.)

Even so, with The Girl in the Reeds, I quit too soon. But it was truly a ‘short’ story. The action was over, the story told. All were safe and sound, at least from this mystery. But the ending did not satisfy. Like a wonderful meal. You’ve eaten. The food was good. The service, too. The ambiance pleasant. You could linger for hours, but you’ve got a life and you’ve got to go. Now you’re presented with the bill. And a chocolate covered mint.

I’d left out the after dinner mint. Rewrite!

And Dead Birds? It was the title. Originally I just called the piece Tornado. My editor didn’t like it. Too simple. Won’t catch the reader. Needs to be more.

The only thing bigger and scarier than a tornado would be a hurricane. Right? But my piece of nonfiction is about a tornado. So why would I call it Hurricane? Enough said. She, who wields a red pen as though it were a rapier. Nay! A broad sword. She said, “Think about it.” Rewrite!

And speaking of titles – this blog post is titled “Everything Matters.” Even I can plainly see it should be called “Rewrite!”

Click -- Short Fiction

image from chicagotribune.com

This is an excerpt from my short fiction Click published in this year's Progenitor, Arapahoe Community College's art and literary journal.

She missed them. All of them. Her fine, serious, hard-working father. He was a cowboy. A real cowboy. His hat sweat stained and misshapen from rain and snow and worse. All from work, not bought new looking like that. What did some singer know about hats like that? They might know about hard living, but what did they know about hard work?

She could still see him and her momma two-stepping around the VFW Hall.

She didn’t understand how she’d become who she was. They’d never had much, but it always seemed they’d had enough. They just knew how to make things come out right.

Click.

She muted the TV. The sports news and a rerun that wasn’t that funny the first time it aired came and went. She didn’t care about sitcoms with their nice houses and fine clothes and stupid problems. She was waiting for 9:59. She touched the ticket nestled in her pocket.  Six numbers – 6, 23, 27, 42, 54, and 9.

The woman with the machines that spat out five white balls and one red ball appeared on the screen.

Click.

She turned the sound back on. The announcer said, “23.” She had that number, but one match paid exactly nothing unless it was the power ball number. That would be $4.00. Not even enough to buy a cappuccino at Starbucks.

The announcer said, “27.” She didn’t look at the ticket. It didn’t mean anything yet. Once she’d won $7.00 with three matching numbers and no power ball number.

Click.

The door knob turned and he came in. Walking pretty steadily.

“I’m going to take a shower then go to bed,” he said.

She glanced at the TV screen and saw the numbers 6 and 54. Four matching numbers. That was $100. She’d never won that much before. One more would be a million dollars even without the power ball.

She heard him start the shower.

No “sorry, I’m late.” Or “how was your day?”

A good thing he was taking a shower. Did he think she couldn’t smell the alcohol on him? And sex? Never mind the perfume. Perfume that probably cost enough to pay the damn gas bill so he could have a hot shower.

Click.

She turned on the light in the bedroom and took a blue velvet bag down from the top closet shelf. It was heavier than she remembered. She removed the Smith and Wesson Model 10 from its bag. It was worth four or five hundred dollars. The only thing she had worth anything. Her insurance. Not enough to pay the rent, but worth more than anything else she had.

Her father left it to her. Not a big gun, but big enough to do the job he’d always said.

She went back into the front room. The pistol grip fit her hand perfectly. She held it, cradled it against her bare arm like a baby, its metal silky smooth and cool.

This story was also awarded Honorable Mention at the 2015 Rose State Writing Short Course. Click here for the whole story.

Twelve Lines of Dialogue -- Flash Fiction

from insight kellogg northwestern.edu

   Writing is like any other art form. Talent is nice for ideas, but execution requires skill. And skill is acquired through practice under the guidance of a master.

    Jacqueline Mitchard was the Guest of Honor at this year's Rose State Writing Short Course. 'Guest of Honor' just means she gets to speak at the opening ceremonies and she gets to teach in the auditorium which has more seats than the regular classrooms.

   Mitchard is a New York Times Best Selling Author. Among her books is The Deep End of the Ocean, the first book featured on Oprah's Book Club. Maybe more importantly, she teaches Fiction and Creative Non-Fiction at Vermont College of Fine Arts. And teach is what she did at Rose State.

    One of the exercises she gave us to do was to write twelve lines of dialogue. Dialogue only. We could not use attributions or other narrative. It was to be an argument between two people, one of whom has a secret. The secret could not be that they were pregnant or having an affair.

    From the dialogue, the reader should be able to identify the relationship of the two people, their gender, their ages, and what the secret was. 

    Here's mine.

"Did something happen at school?"

"No."

"What happened to your glasses?"

"Nothing."

"How'd they get broken?"

"I dunno."

"Were the other boys at you again?"

"Sorta."

"What kind of mothers do they have?"

"I dunno."

"Do you want me to talk to the teacher?"

"No. Please don't."

Trapped on the Highway

This short piece of fiction received Honorable Mention in the Flash Fiction competition at Rose State Writing Short Course, September 27, 2013.

 

Two days. There’s no way.

I was supposed to be at Uncle Henry’s funeral Tuesday. Aunt Jenny’s going to get everything. He never liked her, but he said you had to be there to inherit. Can’t say I ever liked her much either.

I can’t just sit here.

Millions down the drain.

Listen to that ass. Why doesn’t he just shut up. What’s he got to complain about? He’s four cars and a stock truck ahead of me. Upwind of that damn farmer. He doesn’t have to smell those animals. Why are stock trucks even allowed on public highways?

And when they dropped food and water, didn’t he get as much as anybody? Probably more than I got. Two days. Guess I should be grateful it hasn’t been hot or I’d smell like that farmer’s dumb animals. “Dumb.” That’s a joke. Nothing silent about them. I’ve got something in the glove box for them and that guy up ahead of them, too.

Screaming? Now what? Where’s that coming from? The car behind me? No. Two cars back. Some woman. Looks like she’s pregnant. That’s all we need. Probably in labor. Why is she even out in this? Some people make no provisions for themselves.

What? A helicopter?

Taking someone out, you say? Probably the pregnant woman. Normal, healthy people get shunted aside. Told to be quiet. Take what we’re given and be satisfied.

That is the biggest damn cop I’ve ever seen. What’s he saying? Me? He’ll help me?

I tell him this is a dangerous situation.

“Yes, Ma’am. It is. May I have the gun, please?”

A Broken Bicycle

 





 

Grace and I are in Midwest City, Oklahoma, for the Rose State writing conference. So how do we pass the time before Opening Ceremonies?  We do a writing exercise. The prompt: You wake up by the side of the road lying next to a bicycle with no memory and no wallet. What happens in the next hour?   Page 52 from 642 Things to Write About.

 

   “Hey, mister.”

   The funny little man seems to be talking to me.

   “What’s your name?” he asks.

   My name. Odd, but I can’t think what my name is. I think it’s something common like Bill or John. I don’t know.

   “That’s my bicycle you know.”

   He’s glaring at me like I’ve done something wrong. Actually I didn’t know it was his bicycle. What do I care whose bicycle it is?

   He’s shaking the mangled bike at me. “Look at that.”

   I can see it’s broken. What has that got to do with me? My head hurts.

   “You’re responsible.” His face is as red as his hair.

   “Look. I’m really sorry.” What else can I say? I don’t know how I’m responsible. I’ll give him a few bucks to fix the damn thing. It looks old anyway. Well, shit. My wallet’s gone.

Maybe he’ll let me catch it tomorrow. “I’m sorry.”

   “You said that already. I want to know what you’re going to do about it.”

   He looks threatening. Like someone less than five feet tall can look threatening. And wearing bright green pants? I don’t think so.

   “Don’t laugh at me, mister,” he says.

   Maybe he is dangerous.

   “No. No, of course not.” I need to sit down. My head really hurts and I think I’m going to be sick. It doesn’t seem funny to me either.

   “Do you see that kettle?” He’s pointing at an old iron kettle. Not huge, but maybe a three-gallon size.

   “Yes,” I say. “It’s broken, too.”

   “I know it’s broken, too,” he says and clouds up like he’s going to cry.

   In fact, the sky has clouded up, too.

   He sits next to me and blubbers, “The gold’s all gone.”

   “I’m sorry,” I say. And I really am, but I don’t know what he’s talking about. I really don’t.

   And the next thing I know lights are flashing and this big guy in a uniform is bent over me asking, “What’s your name?”

 

Check out Graces take on this writing prompt at   http://bit.ly/19G1ySG