A Poem for Ned…
“If you had to tell me a poem without rehearsal, what would you say?” asked Ned to his grandfather, who said, “With the heart-felt cooled winds of fall comes the death of winter. Clean and silent, spring is on her annual way.” “Wow,” said Ned.
One time, there was a man who drove a van. In this van he hauled drums. He played many gigs. Times good and bad, the best were hardly meek.
His name? Mark Gibson. A common name, people thought it was cool that his last name was on a lot of guitars. Mark followed around with lots of different people and bands over the years. Before he was a drummer, he worked various jobs and did not finish college. He made up his mind. He thought, “I am a man. I make decisions, and I like to do things.” So, that is what he did. He found people who could sing and play the guitar, and he played the drums for their various bands.
Mark stayed with one band for four whole years, and decided to let them go. His reasoning was that the others in the band were pretty tight; they knew at least four people who would greatly appreciate being able to play the drums with them. Hence, he explained things to these guys, and left them. Their name was “The Flaming Lizards,” and they did rock pretty hard, according to their fans.
Mark decided to travel. Most of his gigs were in the southern part of Arizona, where bands are known prosper. He had some funds saved, howbeit, and decided to travel to Hollywood California. To meet people.
Everything was planned out nicely; he had his van gassed up all of the way, an extra tank, his: drums, clothes, money, personal belongings, goals. Mark was set, and he head out. He drove and drove down the open, peaceful highway. The scenery was breathtaking, the air pure, the temperature even surprisingly acceptable. He nearly fell asleep at the wheel, kept himself awake with cheep cola.
Something subtle occurred, though; his engine gurgled. The man could claim many a night in his well-kept and fine tuned van with a v-6. He knew that his engine, should not, gurgle. He was in a good mood and happy. He thought, “That was just a ‘gurgle,’ I will check the gas, maybe let Betsy here cool off for a moment before a good long haul.”
As he glanced down to the gas meter, it was on empty. He had driven just long enough to be way out in the middle of nowhere. “How can this be?” he wondered. He pulled over to figure this out and turned off the ignition. “My tank should not even have 10% of its gas gone, now,” he thought, and he gave his beloved Betsy a nonchalant, common-knowledge, physical visual inspection.
As soon as Mark got out of his van, with no traffic in sight, he smelled something he just did not want to smell at the time -gas. He checked to see if he forgot his gas cap. It was there. Where was the smell coming from? He looked underneath the van; found a disconnected fuel line; and reasoned that the line had not been loosened from foul play. The connection seal was rusted and worn. “Connection seal,” thought Mark, and thought, “This is not too big of a deal, I have my 5 gallon tank. I will fill her up and carry on.”
He opened the back doors of Betsy and saw his beloved, covered drum set. “What a vehicle he thought,” as he reached for his gas tank. It was not there. Mark distinctly remembered filling it up to go in and pay for the gas, did not recall putting it in the van. “What a start,” thought Mark. He crawled in his van, locked its doors, rolled down a window, said a small prayer, and took a nap.
Mark woke in the middle of the afternoon, his van baked over like a late afternoon brick oven in a sixty year old pizza parlor well established in some downtown Italian district of an historic metropolis, as he left his windows up. The sounds of traffic going by were of seeming familiarity – he was sure to be out of this fix, soon.
He got up and escaped the confines of his oven-house, and leaned up against Betsy to begin to ask for help. Sure enough, after four vehicles blew past him rapidly, a truck pulled over. It was an older farmer and his adopted daughter was with him. She was nineteen, shapely, precariously attractive. “Where you headed?” asked the man, “Problems?”
“I am out of gas,” said Mark to Mr. Summersby, “My fuel line fell out.” “We will see what we can do,” said the farmer, as his daughter was happy to see the drummer-man and said nothing. Mr. Summersby ran the farm his father ran. He and his wife adopted a young girl 17 years ago. She was born in the United States. Her parents were there illegally from Mexico, were taken back. Her name? Isabelle.
Mark saw Isabelle; she was pretty. Her long flowing hair black, her smooth skin a natural pale tan, her smile, tempting and gentle… her lip was haired. Mark did not really know what to think of this. She was pretty and well-endowed, no doubt, but she seemed partially manly. Not forgetting what was going on he said, “Good friend, my name is Mark, and I am headed to California as a percussionist.” “I think I have enough gas here in my spare tank to get you to the next station. You can call me Mr. Summersby.”
Mr. Summersby put gas in the van after Mark fixed the fuel line. The drummer followed the farmer to the nearest gas station. Mark offered the farmer money, and the farmer said it was not necessary, to have a safe trip. “But Daddy,” said Isabelle, “Cannot he come and have dinner on the way?” Mark was sure hungry, still did not know what he really thought about it. “I suppose he can,” said the farmer, “You said your name was Mark?” “Yes sir,” said Mark, “I must be headed out, though.” “Oh sure,” said Mr. Summersby, “You have to be getting on. You have your drumming waiting for you in California. Our farm is just up the way, though. You are more than welcome to come and eat with us, tonight, and to try and travel again in the morning. My wife can cook.”
“You talked me into it,” said Mark. He followed the old truck to their farm; Isabelle’s subtle grin stayed the same the whole way. Upon arrival, Isabelle asked her non-biological father, “So, what do you think Mom is cooking tonight.” “I think she mentioned fried chicken,” said Mr. Summersby, and they all went inside to clean up.
Mark was a tall and slender man; Mrs. Summersby was delighted to meet him. They exchanged pleasant conversation and had dinner and conversed, and Isabelle wanted to see Mark’s drum-set before turning in. He showed it to her at dusk and she was amazed. He explained how he only uses two small drums, a bass, and a symbol, because his rhythm and natural talent was what pleased the crowds -not big and costly extravagant drum-sets that would be harder to travel with. He sold a larger set of drums to someone for a good price a few years back. She was impressed, gave the man a hug, and went off to tidy up for bedtime.
Mr. Summersby showed Mark to the barn. “We have plenty of room inside,” said Mr. Summersby, “Out here you will probably like it nicer.” The farmer gave the drummer a bunch of blankets and a pillow. “The dinner was great, and I thank you for the bedding,” said Mark. He would have not minded staying in his van on the road, really, but the fried chicken dinner was great, and he did appreciate the bedding. The farmer and the drummer conversed for quite some time about the farm, its history, and Mr. Summersby’s thoughts on its future. Things would be modest. Things would be fine.
As he had taken a nap earlier, Mark made his bed and stayed up gazing to the stars from a barn window. The night was crisp; the air was clear; and the drummer dozed off. A creek popped in the night. Mark awoke without opening his eyes or changing his breathing. He eased a squint from one eye in the direction of the barn door. He saw it opening, entirely on its own.
A figure walked through it quietly and closed the door quickly and with no noise. He could see her. It was only Isabelle. She walked carefully toward the drummer and into the light of his small window. “I wanted to come see you,” she said. “Your dad is going to come out here, and he will kill us,” said Mark, thinking. “No he will not,” said Isabelle, “He and Ma are off sleeping soundly. They will not wake up. I just wanted to talk.” “Sure you do,” said Mark, as Isabelle lit a small candle and put it besides them. He sat up, and she sat down by him. He noticed that she had not removed the hair from her lip, that her nightgown was stunning with its soft laces, albeit, a probable form of costly Asian silk, its small decorative lace-flowers resembling cherry tree blossoms.
The two talked and talked about her school and plans and life and his career and all for some time. She leaned in to try to kiss him. He backed away, thinking she might be like a man. Of course, he knew better. It would not be proper ethically to let one thing lead to another, not with this young girl on someone else’s farm. “I am sorry,” said Mark, “You are very pretty, I just do not think it would be okay for us to do anything physically.”
She put her hand on his work-hardened shoulder and said, “Listen. I plan to live alone for most of my life. My career is not going to involve mindless boyfriends – I am going after my own bacon. We only live once, and I want to feel your body in mine.”
The drummer just did not know what to think about all of this. This pretty girl and her hairy mustache – it was awkward. She wanted it; he knew he did, too; and, as Mark looked into her eyes, he, again, saw the frail hairs of her upper lip. That was his dilemma. “If I wanted to get with something manly, I could just wait until California,” thought Mark, thinking, “I prefer women, do not understand being with something besides them.”
Nevertheless, the two gave into temptation. It was her first time. They embraced each other and made passionate love together, she was strong and got what she wanted. The two slept like a rock. They woke up before dawn; she wrote down her address so he could contact her. Mark promised he would, said to keep in touch, his new band would be traveling. He planned to send her a post card from California, gave her a twenty for some extra lunch money or whatever. She was happy. Isabelle kissed him on the cheek and snuck back inside to crawl into bed before her parents awoke. They were fast asleep. The sun’s morning glow was coming before it over the horizon.
Mark was ready to head out. He put all of the bedding on the back porch and checked out his van. It was fine; his fuel line was secure and fine. As he was going, he hollered to Mr. Summersby’s window. “I guess I am heading out,” said Mark. “Be safe and do not be a stranger now,” said both the farmer and his wife. “Okay,” said the drummer, “We thank you now.” That was all they said, and he made it to the van and drove away.
Mark drove all the way to California; sent Isabelle a postcard with a horse on it; met some guitarists and played often gigs with large crowds; and they all rocked on.
Sentence Constructs. The Emphatic, the Magnificent.
This is a post I have wanted to write out for some days, now. It is mostly a tribute to Thomas S. Kane, who is no longer alive. From what I understand, he wrote more than just one or two books, was a professor of English for over two decades. He is a very inspirational author – in my mind – because he shows us many things that we can do with our written grammar that are simple, fun, summarized, accurate. Not claiming to be all-knowing, I have been very impressed with his choice of quotes and explanations of certain concepts in writing – especially with such ideas as sentence construction. When do we use an emphatic sentence? When it is appropriate to draw attention with one, among other normal constructs?
The book I have been reading that I get a percentage of my writing inspiration from can be found here. It is encouraging and makes prose manufacture seem easier and more possible. Better. Anyone who reads/considers this text will at least find added confidence in their pursuit of writing; the book is hard to put down, much more fun and thought provocative than 98% of the grammar books I have encountered. It is my favorite, so far.
In this hopefully not-too-long post, I intend to present a few emphatic sentences. What they say may not be too important, but the kind of sentence made and how its meter or punctuation is chosen will may be. Some of the most impressive sentence constructions I have seen while reading Kane’s book so far are explained below. In order to refrain from this idea taking too long, I decided to include about five favorite forms of sentence construction.
The triadic sentence.
A triadic sentence is a kind of a freight-train style sentence; it is a popular choice among authors due to the idea that it is limited and confined. A common freight-train sentence can include any number of clauses/phrases; a triadic sentence’s secondary part is a 3-phrase combination. In my first example of a sentence construction for this post, I will describe hot-air balloons with a triadic sentence.
The balloons floated freely through the air, their passengers at awe with the farmland below; their rate of travel masked by their effortless existence in the lower atmosphere; their distinctions made by their varied brilliant hues of primary and secondary colors.
The convoluted sentence.
I am impressed with the construction of certain forms of sentences. This particular form of construction is nearly the most difficult and impressive that I have seen. I am sure constructs of this nature occur naturally – when manufactured on purpose, however, they endure the notion of additional skill or effort or even the chance of luck. It is a periodic structure that includes subordinate elements which split the main clause of the sentence. My example is below.
She drew attention, be her frail white sun suit in semblance to her skin, to those who witnessed the stretch of her purr.
Such sentences can be tasking on their readers and should be used sparingly, reminds Kane, as these next sentences are also rather emphatic. They draw emphasis, lose their mite when overused.
The Fragment.
What fragment? This one. And another? Oh, sure. Not quite the last.
Polysyndeton and asyndeton sentence constructs.
These formidable words were inspiring to me. They were ideas that I had not heard or or read about; I decided to include them in a post, here. These are easier to make than a purposely constructed convoluted sentence, are thought to be dangerous to use in the academic world and should be approved of prior to delivery if at all possible. Else, take no chance with them. Make the better grade, in other words.
To put it simply, a polysyndeton sentence presents to its audience a list, just as the asyndeton. Polysyndeton sentences do not use commas to separate the objects/phrases in the list, asyndeton sentences do. An asyndeton sentence needs no conjunctions – it does not use the words and, or, nor or yet. A conventional sentence uses commas and a conjunction, with or without a comma before it. I will write a sentence three ways, as was done in Kane’s book, with my own sentence.
Conventional.
The amazing and well-read author’s fantasy works commonly included wizards, magic, lands, elves, horses and fairies.
Polysyndeton.
The amazing and well-read author’s fantasy works commonly included wizards and magic and lands and elves and horses and fairies.
Asyndeton.
The amazing and well-read author’s fantasy works commonly included: wizards, magic, lands, elves, horses, fairies.
As stated in the text I got these ideas from, conventional sentences that present a list can draw attention to the last element written. Both polysyndeton and asyndeton sentences draw attention to the objects in the list equally. The items as a group usually have more attention with the polysyndeton style, and a group of things described with the asyndeton style exist with less emphasis. I liked those structures, personally.
Mimetic Rhythm.
Quite possibly the most impressive examples I have read in prose were mimetic rhythm constructs. They present to their readers poetic meter, proper construction, and secondary meaning. They are only done well by the masters. Mimetic means imitative; a mimetic sentence imitates the perception a sentence displays or its presentation of feeling. Its meter alludes to its emotional display, in other words, as best explained in Kane’s text. Here are a few examples.
x / x x x / x x / x x / x x x / x x / x x / x x
Her long pale drab hung loose from the height of her shoulders down in artichoke green, to the dull, flat floor.
The sentence above tries to use non-exciting adjectives to paint a monotonous picture of a dismal and non-important lady. While imperfect, the x‘s above attempt to mark the unstressed syllables and the /‘s attempt marking the stressed syllables. As it may be of no surprise, the example above was inspired by but not about the historical monarch figure, Plain Jane. The next sentence should be more exciting.
/ x x / x x / x x / x x / x x / x x / x / x / x / / x x x / x x
Shimmering sparkling shining in glisten, her necklace’s crystals by one by one, the elf princess sported no additional
x
need.
While the above example was a rough and improvisational attempt, it was still somewhat exciting to construct. The very essence of rhythm is presented in meter similar to actual poetry. The line continues with its sharply repetitive sounds and concludes with less enthusiasm. In prose, rhyming, alliteration, and even musical meter must only be used when able to be done without drawing too much attention to a sentence. As an author, one wants to make a single sentence important from time to time, to draw emphasis. When the situation arises, we can resort to one of the many forms of emphatic construction.
Conclusion.
So there we have it – some example attempts of impressive prose construction. While I may be able to win no poetry contest without question, I cautiously remind others not to sell themselves short. We are all inspired by various concepts from time to time. I am a thankful man learning. So hats off to you, avid audience; I await your valued commentary.
🙂
“You going to Francis’s party?” asked Frince, as the four-inch tall Christmas ornament elf shook his partner in crime, Mince, a little. “Am I alive?” asked Mince, as he climbed to his feet. Silver, gold, blue, green and red glitter shimmered from the cracks of light seeping into their ornament box as it fell in the nostalgic air of the small fellow waking.
It was Christmas Eve, once again. It was duty time. Historically, in this house, Frince and Mince came to life on the 24th of December, at midnight. The woman of the house and her husband always erected a Christmas tree and decorated it with ornaments and lights of varied hue to shine in the late dark cold night. The woman, three years in a row, now, decided to go with a “theme” for the tree. While stunning to those who saw these Christmas trees, the older ornaments of past tradition were usually mostly left in their decorative, glittered and dusty, ornament box. This year she titled her Christmas tree’s theme “The Ice of Winter”, and their tree was adorned with mostly store-bought silver ornaments and blue and dark-blue lights and metallic silver stringed strands.
Frince and Mince made their way to see the tree; both found it to be baffling. “Back to business.” “Due course.” They scurried to the shadows of a near sofa and discussed hunting options. The two elves were connected magically. It was unnecessary for them to speak aloud, many times, because they shared natural extrasensory perception. They could hear each other think with minimal effort. This kept them safe from their one known danger other than living and walking-while-awake humans, their big fat lazy old nocturnal cat.
Their duty? To find the mouse, Streak. They caught Streak, one year, eating cookies left out for Santa, and the cat caught and ate the mouse right in front of the elves. How did the elves see the mouse again? Streak came back into physical form a few days later, as the elves lay down to rest for another 362 days. They usually only come to life once a year. Why were they on a hunt for Streak? For one, to prevent confusion. If Streak was to eat more cookies, it could upset the woman. If the cat was to eat the mouse, it could mean another costly trip to the vet. The mouse was sure to come to life anyway for most of the year. The elves commonly only lived three magical days, themselves. So, it was up to them to find this mouse, and that is what they sought to do.
“I seen him.” “No you did not, you are still waking.” “We will see.” Mince thought he saw the mouse streak around a corner to his normal creviceway hideout in the corner of a back room. The two elves, sure the humans were asleep, ran to the opening in the corner. The mouse was, as guessed, nowhere to be found. “If not be him here, as you were accurate, why not frequent the cookies?” “I want this to be quick and easy, this year. I think your idea is supreme.”
The two elves traversed the normal shadows of the house to finally find a plate of cookies on a small book-table with a moodlamp lit on dim. “That is not a Christmas tree.” “You are correct, Mr. Natural Eggnog. It is still stunning, though.” The two elves shared a short-lived moment together appreciating the aesthetic value of the green and red sugar cookies and white and brown fudge cubes on the large crystal platter with shimmering golden trim.
Then, as if they were not even visible, as if no small cookie crumb could be thrown to them from the short table, Streak climbed unknowingly onto the high-class platter. Frince and Mince both saw the small mouse and made their way to the table. The tiny creature was exceptionally fast and would be nearly impossible to catch if the two elves were to mess this chance up. They positioned themselves behind a large mug of warm milk, as Streak was sure to extract one good crushed nut from a large chunk of fudge and scurry off to some place of safety as soon as possible.
Frince noticed that the small scoundrel was not even paying attention. The mouse removed a large chunk of a walnut, and Frince motioned to Mince. Mince leaped a good four steps from the mouse and was on him, had him behind the ears by the neck. The tiny creature might have actually got away, however Frince was just behind Mince and hoisted the mouse into the air by his short hind legs. “We have him!” thought Frince, almost loud enough to wake the woman. “That we do” thought Mince, quietly enough to near the man into a supposed year-long length of slumber.
The happy elves held onto the small mouse and bounced and danced to the fire. A small faggot was only burned on one end. Mince held the mouse to the log and Frince went and found a small thread of sorts to tie the mouse down. Upon his return, he and Mince tied down the mouse, and Mince drew his “long-sword” – the four-inch tall elve’s ritualistic version of a Katana. Frince almost fell asleep – it was almost too easy, this year.
Just then, however, both elves saw the cat. The old, overweight feline monster was creeping up to them, one paw per inch, one noiseless step at a time. He was spotted, able to pounce, howbeit, at any time. Mince near shaded himself a new hue of white and glanced to Frince for some attempt of request for authority. Frince looked to the cat, calculated their possible escape, and said, “Take him.” Mince quickly came down upon the small mouse, decapitating him, and the cat leaped into the air.
Both elves jumped away from the slain mouse to escape the deadly cat. The cat caught Frince, Mince stayed within dangerous reach, moving. Soon to bite the head off the magical little elf, the cat looked to Mince to see if there was any last reason for not pursuing his natural wishes. Mince had to think quick, his sword would do him no good; he remembered the warm buttermilk by the cookies. Mince aimed his sword in that direction and the cat knew there was warm milk over there. The large fluffy animal lifted his paw off the terrified elf and strolled toward the buttermilk. Halfway to the moodlamp, the cat lay on his side and slept. The two elves were exhausted, too, and sat for a moment.
Their annual deed was done. They walked to the Christmas tree and watched the fading lights glow bright blue and dim to darkness repeatedly, decided to turn in. They made their way up the stairway-ladder to their ornate ornament box to conclude the Christmas night. As Frince was closing their lid for slumber, he noticed a large, shiny black boot make the chimney floor’s ashes cloud into its surrounding air.
This was an amateur photo I took in order to present these bones and small flower as a form of art – the old juxtaposition of life and death. It is somewhat of a tribute to Georgia O’keeffe; I used it as a header for quite some time. The diamond below is a link, the others, too…
This candy cactus flower was originally created for my blog to be seen on the header. I am into confectionery art as a hobby, almost love it as much as creative writing. I eventually melted this cactus into small jolly-rancher sized pieces of candy for people I know. It was fun. 🙂
This is my beloved first book, “A Collection of Tales”. It is available as an e-book or by mail as a matte-finish paperback. This is the first edition, the second edition will be highly similar and is on the way. Here is my author page on amazon where you can buy and review Acoloftals, which is what I like to call this first book of mine. I am thankful to be able to present it to you…
Enjoy. 🙂
This is a picture of the cover of the book I published with amazon.com.
Topic 001 – A Method of Crafting an Effective Short Story
Introduction
“On Writing” is a mini-blog, currently in the form of a quick and easy post, within my larger small blog for fiction creation. It is meant for those who would enjoy discussing ideas such as creative writing, literary devices, and publishing. If you have any thoughts, commentary, suggestions, or other type of feedback, I will more than welcome your comments. I will research your questions and lessons, and usually approve them for others to learn and benefit from. Please enjoy what I have to present to you; I welcome inspiration as well as lessons on creating intriguing fiction. Thank you for your time; again, enjoy.
A Method of Crafting an Effective Short Story
Classical methods of creating a short story are constantly rehashed in what we read. A short story, by its very definition, is a story of about 2000 words. With at least 500 words, but not usually over 9000, many a synopsis is good enough for the common reader to enjoy before bedtime. And who are we trying to impress? Ourselves. Our audience. The more intelligible our audience and the more impressed they are with our work, the more we have to be proud of.
Without having ever written it down, verbatim, I do have my own method of writing down a decent story. I will share my easiest technique with you, will most probably be part of the crowd that refers to the post before crafting a new story.
First, I think about what actually happens in the story, or what could. I also compare a good notion with many other ideas; I give them the attention I can to compare these ideas. I think of journalists, how they document real life – what people pay to know about besides the weather and photos entities such as the Associated Press may compensate for. What of setting? What of characters, beings, and occurrences? Am I thinking of a love story? What is my reason for the story? Is it for a competition, a certain genre? Is it to remember a fond memory of childhood or some factional psychological venting? Usually, I like a good bedtime-story for any age, unless I want some action more suitable for adult readers. I seek to edit and revise my stories for quality, as if any one of them were to be submitted to the most ruthless of editors or the most competitive of large-volume competitions.
I will explain my technique, as I design a new story, even if it is not my very next one to author. Why let the word “series” come into place here? Because, once we setup some dialogue, a setting, original characters, incidences and a conclusion, we can use the same ideas for new stories over and over. Once we have a good setting and characters, we can use the same building blocks over and over for many exciting stories.
Let us make a first and original story, though, for now. We will choose a setting, some main characters, come up with the dialogue as needed, and even begin the story with dialogue, as an audience-catching literary device. One story I never wrote had to do with Christmas and the name Francis. It is alluded to in a story in “A Collection of Tales”, my first book. I find it to be a quick and easy idea to give examples to classically defined devices. If you read this entire post, it should, at the minimum, be a fun reminder for any storycrafter’s technique. I was going to leave personification out of this lesson, however the brilliant hues of Christmas lights and little elves in my mind just seemed like too much fun to pass up. What were we going to endure for this reminder, anyway? A conversation between two people waiting for a bus ride with a camera? Two women having tea only to find their waiter faints at their table in the deadest, coldest time of winter? No, no; we are going with elves and can love each other and our art in the process.
We will not actually start the story, just yet; we will plan it out, however. I suppose I will go ahead and type it up, too. We, as I said, will start the story with dialogue. This involves the two main characters, a victim, an outstanding party, and shadow characters. In my book, there is a story about a young university student who analyzes water. It is titled “Forrest Hollow” and includes paranormal experiences in the woods. Before his travels, the main character reads a short story titled, “Francis’s Party”, because his name happened to be Francis and he came across it. I had yet to have composed the draft; we will do that within this post. I am happy to finally post to On Writing; the closest idea I ever had to starting a second blog. I love the study of literary devices. This post, alone, should suffice for our collective needs, for now.
“Francis’s Party” is set up to be a form of personification and some form of an approach to horror. Mostly like a cartoon, it attempts to use reality with characters that are fantastical beings. Is the idea completely original? Very close. It was inspired. While watching the Cartoon Network on New Years Eve of 1999, I saw the “Millunium” – a ten-hour showing of the most popular Warner Brother’s cartoons during the last 100 years. I was completely wired and enjoyed every cartoon. Between the old familiar classics, I saw these two Christmas ornaments speaking. They were elves who could talk with each other. One always asked, “You going to Francis’s Party?” That was close to all that occurred before the next show. So, we can now manufacture what these two elves were really up too – killing a mouse annually.
That is our premise of the story we are happily crafting. Once a year on Christmas Eve, two characters with original names carry on their tradition, skillfully. We will begin the story with one elf waking the other. This means we start with dialogue. Then they seek and attempt to find the mouse. A large cat creates a confusing situation, or conflict, because the old cat had never been aware of the elves’ wrongdoings, before. The shadow characters will remain sleeping; the presents have all been wrapped and the night will be dark and late. A series could easily be made of the story, because it involves an annual event, can re-occur much like a Road-Runner cartoon’s basic plot premise.
Before I type the story, I must include one last important notion. My way of writing a story is easy. Choose a good idea. Try to remember the main characters, what and where things happen, and write out the story. Make sure things that happen lead up to a main occurrence and then conclude with some form of a summary. This last part is not always necessary. A technique, of its own device, is to conclude completely with the main occurrence. I do not think we will incorporate that device, this time, however. Once you have written down or typed up the story, go back and revise it for diction and concision. This involves using carefully selected words for proper meanings while not writing in a verbose or wordy manner. While typos may cause you to do such a thing anyway, there are two more reasons. Peruse the first draft for once for typos and again for enjoyment; search for the use of purposely used devices and re-write the sentences as necessary; and re-write sentences for proper style in the world of masterful prose. Attempt including an emphatic construction somewhere, if at all seemingly possible.
Here are some questions to ask once you are done with your first draft and are ready to re-write it with competent intention. Where is your climax? What happened, series of events wise, to lead to it? What can you include around a fourth of the way into the story for foreshadowing? What devices are important to you, anyway, and will it change the story for the better or worse to include classic methods such as the utilization of symbols? If you have great symbols and reasons for using them and the time to do it well, do it. That is my advice. Symbols are great for teachers and people wanting to tell a story having little to do with what an unsuspecting reader may actually infer. If the reader identifies proper use of symbols without reading commentary of the author on the work, more power to the reader. I will type our story, and we can discuss some devices able to be used in other stories, afterwards, analyze what we will with our fun Christmas horror cartoon prose narrative. We can always learn together by your posting comments to this post; please, do. Remember, classic rules and techniques are great to know; they are not necessary always. Such is the art-form of a short story, to begin with. If we do not get back with your commentary, try again every two weeks or so. We do value commentary.
Francis’s Party
“You going to Francis’s party?” asked Frince, as the four-inch tall Christmas ornament elf shook his partner in crime, (1) Mince a little. “Am I alive?” asked Mince, as he jumped to his feet. Silver, gold, blue, green and red glitter shimmered from the cracks of light seeping into their ornament box as it fell from the small fellow waking.
It was Christmas Eve, once again. It was duty time. Historically, in this house, Frince and Mince came to life on the 24th of December, at midnight. The woman of the house and her husband (2) always erected a Christmas tree and decorated it with ornaments and lights of varied hue to shine in the late dark cold night. The woman, three years in a row, now, decided to go with a “theme” for the tree. While stunning to those who saw these Christmas trees, the older ornaments of nostalgic tradition were usually mostly left in their decorative, glittered and dusty, ornament box. This year she titled her Christmas tree’s theme “The Ice of Winter”, and their tree was adorned with mostly store-bought silver ornaments and blue and dark-blue lights and metallic silver stringed strands.
Frince and Mince made their way to see the tree; both found it to be baffling. “Back to business.” “Due course.” They scurried to the shadows of a near sofa, and discussed hunting options. The two elves were connected magically. It was unnecessary for them to speak aloud, many times, because they shared natural extrasensory perception. They could hear each other think loud and clear. This kept them safe from their one known danger other than living and walking-while-awake humans, their big fat lazy old cat (3).
Their duty? To find the mouse, Streak. They caught Streak, one year, eating cookies left out for Santa, and the cat caught and ate the mouse right in front of the elves. How did the elves see him again? Streak came back into physical form three days later, as the elves lay down to rest for another 362 days. They only come to life once a year. Why were they on a hunt for Streak? For one, to prevent confusion. If Streak was to eat more cookies, it could upset the woman. If the cat was to eat the mouse, it could mean another costly (4) trip to the vet. As the mouse was sure to come to life anyway for most of the year, the elves commonly only lived three magical days, themselves. So, it was up to them to find this mouse, and that is what they sought to do.
“I seen him.” “No you did not, you are still waking.” “We will see.” Mince thought he saw the mouse streak around a corner to his normal creviceway hideout in the corner of a back room. The two elves, sure the humans were asleep, ran to the opening in the corner. The mouse was, as guessed, nowhere to be found. “If not be him here, as you were accurate, why not frequent the cookies?” “I want this to be quick and easy, this year. I think your idea is supreme.”
The two elves traversed the normal shadows of the house to finally find a plate of cookies on a small book-table with a moodlamp lit on dim. “That is not a Christmas tree.” “You are correct, Mr. Natural Eggnog. It is still stunning, though.” The two elves shared a short-lived moment together appreciating the aesthetic value of the green and red sugar cookies and white and brown fudge cubes on the large crystal platter with shimmering golden trim.
Then, as if they were not even visible, as if no small cookie crumb could be thrown to them from the short table, Streak climbed unknowingly onto the high-class platter. Frince and Mince both saw the small mouse and made their way to the table. The tiny creature was exceptionally fast and would be nearly impossible to catch if the two elves were to mess this chance up. They positioned themselves behind a large mug of warm milk (5), as Streak was sure to extract one good crushed nut from a large chunk of fudge and scurry to some place of safety as soon as possible.
Frince noticed that the small scoundrel was not even paying attention. The mouse removed a large chunk of a walnut, and Frince motioned to Mince. Mince leaped a good four steps from the mouse and was on him, had him behind the ears by the neck. The tiny creature might have actually got away, however Frince was just behind Mince and hoisted the mouse into the air by his short hind legs. “We have him!” thought Frince, almost loud enough to wake the woman. “That we do” thought Mince, quietly enough to near the man into a supposed year-long length of slumber.
The happy elves held onto the small mouse and bounced and danced to the fire. A small faggot was only burned on one end. Mince held the mouse to the log and Frince went and found a small thread of sorts to tie the mouse down. Upon his return, he and Mince tied down the mouse, and Mince drew his “long-sword” – the four-inch tall elves’ ritualistic version of a Katana. Frince almost fell asleep – it was almost too easy, this year.
Just then, however, both elves saw the cat (6). The old, overweight feline monster was creeping up to them, one paw per inch, one noiseless step at a time. He was spotted, able to pounce, howbeit, at any time. Mince near shaded himself a new hue of white and glanced to Frince for some attempt of request for authority. Frince looked to the cat, calculated their possible escape, and said “Take him.” Mince quickly came down upon the small mouse, decapitating him (7), and the cat leaped into the air.
Both elves (8) jumped away from the slain mouse to escape the deadly cat. The cat caught Frince (9), Mince stayed within dangerous reach, moving. Soon to bite the head off the magical little elf, the cat looked to Mince to see if there was any last reason for not pursuing his natural wishes. Mince had to think quick, his sword would do him no good; he remembered the warm buttermilk by the cookies. Mince aimed his sword in that direction and the cat knew there was warm milk over there. The large fluffy animal lifted his paw off the terrified elf and strolled toward the buttermilk. Halfway to the moodlamp, the cat lay on his side and slept. The two elves were exhausted, too, and sat for a moment (10).
Their annual deed was done (11). They walked to the Christmas tree and watched the fading lights glow bright blue and dim to darkness repeatedly, decided to turn in. They made their way up the stairway-latter to their ornate ornament (12) box to conclude the Christmas night. As Frince was closing their lid for slumber, he noticed a large, shiny black boot (13) make the chimney floor’s ashes cloud into its surrounding air.
So our story’s first draft is complete, and, without a single revision, we can discuss what I like to deem “natural device.” This is when we can consider the use of device as it occurs within the story without too much actual intention. I have included dialogue in color to show which elf is speaking or thinking, an idea I received from a fellow blogger with no current blog, maybe (Nonsense-and-Shenanigans on Word Press).
At any rate, I used numbers in parenthesis to denote the attempted use of literary device. I will include those; define some classic terms; include some words from Wikipedia; and we can engage into what commentary is possible for this mini-blog and a story that I have waited months and months to draft, “Francis’s Party”.
Numbered Device Reference Notes
(1) foreshadowing – the two elves may be up to a treacherous act of some sort with the inclusion of the word “criminal.”
(2) shadow-characters – the intentional use of therciary characters; they exist and do not speak.
(3) character, semi-personification – we intentionally introduce the third of five chars, the cat is nearly personified, does make a decision later in the story.
(4) reference-connection device – “costly” indicates some connection to familial economic reality, a dangerous tool to use in fiction.
(5) symbol – the milk symbolizes life for the cat, freedom for the elf, later on in the story; the idea that beings must do something to gain or consume something to exist can be loosely inferred in symbolic consideration.
(6) conflict and dilemma – the cat represents an antagonistic danger to the objective of the elves, as well as the well-being of the elves. Everything was fine; at this point, they are in danger.
(7) climax – the climax of the story is when Streak is slain.
(8) narrative hook – we, as readers, are encouraged to continue reading, because action in “up in the air.” We want to see what happens to the elves; for one small moment, the cat is in the air, and we do not know if the elves will be captured or eaten or both.
(9) protagonistic dilemma – one of the main character’s well-being is put into question, causing us to care for him.
(10) falling action – action is slowed as the characters are no longer in danger and the story’s conclusion is on the way.
(11) comprehensive denouement – a story’s summary of events, how the dilemmas of the characters are resolved, and their resolutions are explained during the story’s falling action is a story’s denouement. Not explaining much at this point, we at least know the two protagonists had a goal and found their success.
(12) (consonantal) alliteration – useful as poetic device, it is a favorite of mine in the rhythmic world of prose.
(13) symbolic conclusion – we know, indirectly, who is coming down the chimney. The conclusion leaves us to wonder if the elves heed to a conscious consideration of being good or bad, whether Santa can find them living or not. It would be largely up to the reader. One way or the other, it is fun to include a the visual image of a known and favored character without too much of a direct statement. What, on Earth, would he think of his missing cookie crumb walnut chunk?
Common Literary Device Terms for use in Short Stories
plot – the main scheme, plan or story-line of a story, play, or other composition
climax – a decisive moment during ongoing action in a story when plot changes; the most intense point in a story
setting – the surroundings or environment of where action takes place in a story, often briefly described
character development – description of main characteristics of a character, further explanations of a character’s persona, endurance shaping
personification – act of making something human-like that was not, i.e. a talking rock, tree, or animal
summary – explanation of basic incidences in a story, usually towards the end
denouement – post-climax explanation of what happened to the characters, normally including a story’s resolution during its falling action
conflict – opposing force of normal/natural action, many times, when a character is forced to choose
decision – a character’s time of choice or when they are presented with being forced to choose
character – person to be described in a story, being what the story is about
antagonist – main char’s opposing char in a story; adversary
rising action – events that lead to the climax
falling action/resolution – events occurring after the epiphany (climax) of a story
protagonist – main character in a story
dialogue – speech between characters in a story
scene – realm to be described that characters interact in
transition – literary device that changes from one sequence of events to another, usually by alluding to the change of incidences before they begin to happen
narrative hook – device used by writers to keep readers involved with an ongoing story
description – presenting details about a character, object, event, or scene
symbol – object, word, or concept within a story that represents a secondary idea
visualization – descriptions that can let us, the audience, visualize scene, setting, objects, or occurrences
clandestine visualization – device used to allow an audience to see a character, scene, object, or concept without describing said item/items in words/verbatim
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The following information was extracted from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Short_story –
More Short Story Terms:
exposition – the introduction of setting, situation and main characters
complication – the event that introduces the conflict
crisis – the decisive moment for the protagonist and his commitment to a course of action
climax – the point of highest interest in terms of the conflict and the point with the most action
resolution – the point when the conflict is resolved
in medias res – when short stories have an exposition beginning in the middle of the action
]
Thank you for enjoying these literary reminders and ideas; remember, I patiently await your every comment. This first draft of “Francis’s Party” was 1173 words long; the entire post currently contains, 3598 words. 🙂
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
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