Another idea, this one maybe for a series of short stories about the same group of characters:
A subway accident, where all the people die.
Start by introducing the characters, independent characters with their own lives, every now and then intertwining, then in the end, have them all come together on the subway cart that crashes, gets bombed, or something, and they all die together.
Just an idea.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Ideas
I have many ideas for short stories, but frequently when I sit down to write them, the ideas either fly out of my head and I stare blankly at the computer screen, or I begin writing them down and everything on the screen looks all wrong. To try to combat this very thing, I'm brainstorming a little bit on this, my personal blog, to come up with good short story ideas.
Wires: An IT professional, working on computers and the like, is attacked by the very wires he works with. Right now it's more of a general idea than a plot of a story, but it's a start.
The Forest: 5 boys are stranded in a forest, and must try to survive. At the end of the story they are found by a hiking group... less than a mile from civilization.
The Battleground: Another main topic for short stories, about going to the grocery store. Dressing for battle, dealing with difficult people at the store, etc.
The atmosphere of a ballgame: Just what it sounds like. Description of the sights, sounds, etc. of a baseball or football game. Because I like those things.
That's all for now... back to work!
Wires: An IT professional, working on computers and the like, is attacked by the very wires he works with. Right now it's more of a general idea than a plot of a story, but it's a start.
The Forest: 5 boys are stranded in a forest, and must try to survive. At the end of the story they are found by a hiking group... less than a mile from civilization.
The Battleground: Another main topic for short stories, about going to the grocery store. Dressing for battle, dealing with difficult people at the store, etc.
The atmosphere of a ballgame: Just what it sounds like. Description of the sights, sounds, etc. of a baseball or football game. Because I like those things.
That's all for now... back to work!
Monday, March 25, 2013
Elmwood Cemetery
Elmwood Cemetery was the kind of cemetery that everyone in the surrounding community of Grapevine wanted to be buried in. It had many large trees, beautiful ponds, and ornate tombstones, everything which made loved ones actually want to pay respects to the dearly departed.
The picaresque cemetery was surrounded by a large wrought-iron gate that was closed every evening at sundown, and was the only deterrent against the local teenagers that wound occasionally graffiti the larger tombs. In order to deface the graves, the ruffians would stay within the grounds, dodging the groundskeeper when he made his rounds at the end of each day.
One evening, some such group of teenagers camped within the grounds, waiting silently for the groundskeeper to depart. Hearing his car fade off into the distance, each of the three emerged from their different hiding places.
"I thought he would never leave," the tallest boy sighed, producing a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and pushing his sandy hair out of his eyes. After lighting the wilted cigarette, he passed the pack to the second boy, a small boy with a mousy face and jet black hair.
"Thanks, Griff," the smaller boy squeaked, igniting his own cigarette. "I don't know how longer I could stand laying next to that tomb. It's creepy."
"Don't be such a wuss, Dex," Griff guffawed. "You weren't down there half as long as Mark," Griff said, indicating the third boy, of middle height and brown hair. Dex tossed the pack of cigarettes to Mark, who took the last cigarette out, and crushed the pack.
"Waiting ain't that hard," Mark grunted back, throwing the empty pack onto the ground, walking to a nearby garbage can and removing a large duffle bag from within and setting the bag on the ground. All three puffed away at their cigarettes while they removed the contents of the bag.
The two shovels from within clinked onto the ground, their sound resonating across the deserted graveyard. The sound made Dex start, and his eyes began darting across the graveyard. "Sssshh, someone might hear," he hissed nervously.
"That's why we brought you along," Griff replied, "to keep an eye out, just in case."
"A lot of good I'd be if we wake up the whole neighborhood before we even get started," Dex retorted.
"Shut up, we need to git tew werk," Mark drawled.
Mark and Griff lit two flashlights as they began scouring the graveyard for a particular grave. "I know she's somewhere around here," Griff muttered.
"Why does it have to be her, anyway?" Dex asked, still cautiously examining the graveyard.
"When I was at the funeral last week, I saw that she was buried with a ton of jewelry. I know we'll get a lot from her. The other graves I'm not so sure about," Griff responded, "though looking at the place, I'm sure any old grave would do."
Finding the grave, they all stopped dead in their tracks. Mark and Griff started digging while Dex looked around the graveyard nervously. Nothing interrupted the boys as the pile of dirt next to the grave began piling up, but that didn't stop Dex from whispering, "hurry," and "come on," every few minutes.
Finally, the shovels hit the wooden casket, and the boys soon had it cleared and open.
"I didn't know she would stink so bad," Griff said, pinching his nose. "Dex, throw down the bag, and quick."
Dex threw down the bag for Griff and Mark to fill with the jewelry the corpse was still proudly displaying. Once the corpse had nothing more to benefit the boys, Griff threw the bag up, followed by the two shovels.
"Gimme a boost, Griff," Mark said, reaching for the top of the grave. Once he was up, Dex helped him to his feet.
"Okay, now me!" Griff called up, but instead of words, he was met with a thunk, as Mark hit Dex over the head with one of the shovels. "What was that?" Griff asked, not able to see over the side of the grave, but he soon found out as Dex's limp body was thrown into the grave with him.
"What the hell, Mark?" Griff exclaimed, but the only response he got was the blade of a shovel coming down into the grave. Griff was lucky enough to evade the first thrust, but Mark soon hit him in the head as well.
With both other boys unconscious, Mark slowly filled the now over-occupied grave more slowly. Then he placed both shovels back in the duffel bag, hid the bag in the trash again, and waited patiently for dawn.
The picaresque cemetery was surrounded by a large wrought-iron gate that was closed every evening at sundown, and was the only deterrent against the local teenagers that wound occasionally graffiti the larger tombs. In order to deface the graves, the ruffians would stay within the grounds, dodging the groundskeeper when he made his rounds at the end of each day.
One evening, some such group of teenagers camped within the grounds, waiting silently for the groundskeeper to depart. Hearing his car fade off into the distance, each of the three emerged from their different hiding places.
"I thought he would never leave," the tallest boy sighed, producing a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and pushing his sandy hair out of his eyes. After lighting the wilted cigarette, he passed the pack to the second boy, a small boy with a mousy face and jet black hair.
"Thanks, Griff," the smaller boy squeaked, igniting his own cigarette. "I don't know how longer I could stand laying next to that tomb. It's creepy."
"Don't be such a wuss, Dex," Griff guffawed. "You weren't down there half as long as Mark," Griff said, indicating the third boy, of middle height and brown hair. Dex tossed the pack of cigarettes to Mark, who took the last cigarette out, and crushed the pack.
"Waiting ain't that hard," Mark grunted back, throwing the empty pack onto the ground, walking to a nearby garbage can and removing a large duffle bag from within and setting the bag on the ground. All three puffed away at their cigarettes while they removed the contents of the bag.
The two shovels from within clinked onto the ground, their sound resonating across the deserted graveyard. The sound made Dex start, and his eyes began darting across the graveyard. "Sssshh, someone might hear," he hissed nervously.
"That's why we brought you along," Griff replied, "to keep an eye out, just in case."
"A lot of good I'd be if we wake up the whole neighborhood before we even get started," Dex retorted.
"Shut up, we need to git tew werk," Mark drawled.
Mark and Griff lit two flashlights as they began scouring the graveyard for a particular grave. "I know she's somewhere around here," Griff muttered.
"Why does it have to be her, anyway?" Dex asked, still cautiously examining the graveyard.
"When I was at the funeral last week, I saw that she was buried with a ton of jewelry. I know we'll get a lot from her. The other graves I'm not so sure about," Griff responded, "though looking at the place, I'm sure any old grave would do."
Finding the grave, they all stopped dead in their tracks. Mark and Griff started digging while Dex looked around the graveyard nervously. Nothing interrupted the boys as the pile of dirt next to the grave began piling up, but that didn't stop Dex from whispering, "hurry," and "come on," every few minutes.
Finally, the shovels hit the wooden casket, and the boys soon had it cleared and open.
"I didn't know she would stink so bad," Griff said, pinching his nose. "Dex, throw down the bag, and quick."
Dex threw down the bag for Griff and Mark to fill with the jewelry the corpse was still proudly displaying. Once the corpse had nothing more to benefit the boys, Griff threw the bag up, followed by the two shovels.
"Gimme a boost, Griff," Mark said, reaching for the top of the grave. Once he was up, Dex helped him to his feet.
"Okay, now me!" Griff called up, but instead of words, he was met with a thunk, as Mark hit Dex over the head with one of the shovels. "What was that?" Griff asked, not able to see over the side of the grave, but he soon found out as Dex's limp body was thrown into the grave with him.
"What the hell, Mark?" Griff exclaimed, but the only response he got was the blade of a shovel coming down into the grave. Griff was lucky enough to evade the first thrust, but Mark soon hit him in the head as well.
With both other boys unconscious, Mark slowly filled the now over-occupied grave more slowly. Then he placed both shovels back in the duffel bag, hid the bag in the trash again, and waited patiently for dawn.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Birthday Weekend
This Friday was my birthday. It was an exciting day, filled with lots of events featuring George R. R. Martin.
One of the most interesting bits of the assorted lectures, interviews, and Q&As that I got to listen/participate in involving Mr. Martin was his advice to aspiring writers. While I sometimes consider myself an aspiring writer, I have been writing less and less, so I payed close attention to his advice, knowing full well that I may not use it while I don't have a product to peddle.
The bit of advice was the importance of networking in the writing world. When Mr. Martin was breaking ground as a writer, Science Fiction and Fantasy magazines were a big part of the cultural landscape. And there were a ton of those magazines.
With the advent of the internet, many of those magazines have gone under, or switched to a purely online version. They just aren't as prevalent or important in the scene as they once were.
But part of this advice was important: many of the writers we now know and love started off writing short stories. Honing their story-telling writing short stories led to writing novel-length fiction and science fiction/fantasy, which we now all know and love.
I see this elsewhere as well. I've been reading the Barnes & Noble Leatherbound Classic of H. P. Lovecraft's The Complete Fiction for a while now. So far it's all been short stories, which I love but it takes much longer to get through because you don't carry momentum through the book. You get into a short story, and then it ends, and you have to get into a new one. But I digress. Lovecraft, a household name in the Horror genre of literature, made his name in short fiction, Edgar Allan Poe made his name in short fiction, and George R. R. Martin began his career in short fiction.
This leads me to believe that Short Fiction is a medium in which to hone the craft of storytelling, even if it's not a publishing endeavor. In the past it was a way to get your name out there via magazines and periodicals, many of which have gone under, and all of which are on the decline.
But what we have now are blogs, forums, and more. The short stories don't have to get your name out there in the writing world, but they do have to build a portfolio of stories, honing your craft and establishing your voice.
This is something I plan on honing on this blog in the foreseeable future. I hope you like reading stories, because I plan on posting an increasing amount of short stories in the short future. Whether anyone reads them is a moot point to me, because more than anything else I want to practice creating a story, and telling it over the medium of writing.
I appreciate any and all criticism, constructive and otherwise. Another take-away from the George R. R. Martin interview yesterday was that writers learn from rejections. At an early stage in his career, Ray Bradbury wallpapered his room with rejection slips --which are smaller than normal sheets of paper-- from submitting his writing to magazines and periodicals. Knowing that your writing isn't quite good enough makes you want to sharpen it to being much better. Constant praise raises nothing but entitlement and laziness. My writing has always been met with praise and little criticism, and I think this is one of the things that has made my writing stagnate into nothingness. And I want to write again, whether it ever gets published or not.
I don't want to be a household writing name, I just want to tell stories that I enjoy. And I hope you, my friends on the internet, enjoy these stories as well.
One of the most interesting bits of the assorted lectures, interviews, and Q&As that I got to listen/participate in involving Mr. Martin was his advice to aspiring writers. While I sometimes consider myself an aspiring writer, I have been writing less and less, so I payed close attention to his advice, knowing full well that I may not use it while I don't have a product to peddle.
The bit of advice was the importance of networking in the writing world. When Mr. Martin was breaking ground as a writer, Science Fiction and Fantasy magazines were a big part of the cultural landscape. And there were a ton of those magazines.
With the advent of the internet, many of those magazines have gone under, or switched to a purely online version. They just aren't as prevalent or important in the scene as they once were.
But part of this advice was important: many of the writers we now know and love started off writing short stories. Honing their story-telling writing short stories led to writing novel-length fiction and science fiction/fantasy, which we now all know and love.
I see this elsewhere as well. I've been reading the Barnes & Noble Leatherbound Classic of H. P. Lovecraft's The Complete Fiction for a while now. So far it's all been short stories, which I love but it takes much longer to get through because you don't carry momentum through the book. You get into a short story, and then it ends, and you have to get into a new one. But I digress. Lovecraft, a household name in the Horror genre of literature, made his name in short fiction, Edgar Allan Poe made his name in short fiction, and George R. R. Martin began his career in short fiction.
This leads me to believe that Short Fiction is a medium in which to hone the craft of storytelling, even if it's not a publishing endeavor. In the past it was a way to get your name out there via magazines and periodicals, many of which have gone under, and all of which are on the decline.
But what we have now are blogs, forums, and more. The short stories don't have to get your name out there in the writing world, but they do have to build a portfolio of stories, honing your craft and establishing your voice.
This is something I plan on honing on this blog in the foreseeable future. I hope you like reading stories, because I plan on posting an increasing amount of short stories in the short future. Whether anyone reads them is a moot point to me, because more than anything else I want to practice creating a story, and telling it over the medium of writing.
I appreciate any and all criticism, constructive and otherwise. Another take-away from the George R. R. Martin interview yesterday was that writers learn from rejections. At an early stage in his career, Ray Bradbury wallpapered his room with rejection slips --which are smaller than normal sheets of paper-- from submitting his writing to magazines and periodicals. Knowing that your writing isn't quite good enough makes you want to sharpen it to being much better. Constant praise raises nothing but entitlement and laziness. My writing has always been met with praise and little criticism, and I think this is one of the things that has made my writing stagnate into nothingness. And I want to write again, whether it ever gets published or not.
I don't want to be a household writing name, I just want to tell stories that I enjoy. And I hope you, my friends on the internet, enjoy these stories as well.
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