I used to like writing short stories, somewhere between two and five thousand words, but, in the end, it was too much hard work.
No chance of getting into stride with a location description, no real chance of giving a background to a character, it was simply a case of diving straight in.
I’ve been thinking about writing a short story, starting it with a short succinct sentence that will set the tone.
Something like: “Jack was staring down the barrel of a gun”
Should he start analyzing what sort of gun it was, did it have a light trigger, was the person holding it shaking, a man or a woman, or a child?
Location, in a house, a disused factory, a shop, a petrol station, the side of the road.
So, where was Jack?
Something like: “He had gone down to the corner shop to get a pack of cigarettes.”
For himself or someone else? Is it day, is it night, or somewhere in between?
Something like: “He had to hustle because he knew the shopkeeper, Alphonse, liked to close at 11:00 pm sharp, and came through the door, the sound of the bell ringing loudly and the door bashed into it.”
So, Jack’s state of mind, he is in a hurry, careless coming through the door, not expecting anything out of the ordinary.
How would you react when you saw a gun, pointed at Alphonse until the sound of the door warning bell attracted the gunman’s attention?
Is it a gunman?
Something like: “It took a second, perhaps three, to sum up the situation. Young girl, about 16 or 17, scared, looking sideways at a man on the ground, Alphonse, and then Jack. A Luger, German, a relic of WW2, perhaps her father’s souvenir, now pointing at him.”
The punch line: Cigarettes can kill in more ways than one.
The revelation: The corner store also supplied the local drug addicts.
The revised start is now:
Jack was staring down the barrel of a gun.
He had gone down to the corner shop to get a pack of cigarettes.
He had to hustle because he knew the shopkeeper, Alphonse, liked to close at 11:00 pm sharp. His momentum propelled him through the door, causing the customer warning bell to ring loudly as the door bashed into it, and before the sound had died away, he knew he was in trouble.
It took a second, perhaps three, to sum up the situation.
Young girl, about 16 or 17, scared, looking sideways at a man on the ground, then Alphonse, and then Jack. He recognized the gun, a Luger, German, relic of WW2, perhaps her father’s souvenir, now pointing at him then Alphonse, then back to him.
Jack to another second or two to consider if he could disarm her. No, the distance was too great. He put his hands out where she could see them. No sudden movements, try to remain calm, his heart rate up to the point of cardiac arrest.
Pointing with the gun, she said, “Come in, close the door, and move towards the counter.”
Everything but her hand steady as a rock. The only telltale sign of stress, the bead of perspiration on her brow. It was 40 degrees Fahrenheit in the shop.
Jack shivered and then did as he was told. She was in an unpredictable category.
“What’s wrong with your friend?” Jack tried the friendly approach, as he took several slow steps sideways towards the counter.
The shopkeeper, Alphonse, seemed calmer than usual, or the exact opposite spoke instead, “I suspect he’s an addict, looking for a score. At the end of his tether, my guess, and came to the wrong place.”
Wrong time, wrong place, in more ways than one Jack thought, now realizing he had walked into a very dangerous situation. She didn’t look like a user. The boy on the ground, he did, and he looked like he was going through the beginnings of withdrawal.
“Simmo said you sell shit. You wanna live, ante up.” She was glaring at Alphonse.
The language was not her own, she had been to a better class of school, a good girl going through a bad boy phase.
Nest time, point of view.
© Charles Heath 2016-2021