Antsiness has kicked in.
As of the end of the day tomorrow, I will have exactly one week left. ONE. WEEK.
Tomorrow I will be sending off my manuscript to the school to pass along to our eminent fictioneer, Mr. Whitehead.
Today, I edited more of that crazy document at work and a short story of mine that I am seriously considering sending off to a contest. Editing < Writing. But, it's progress. It's moving forward. It's doing the work to get to where I want to be. How lucky am I for this opportunity?
My legs and feet and hips and whole body still feel like I've been sitting in this one position too long. I need to unfurl, stretch long, fill out the shape I am. I need to take a long, brisk fucking walk!
I'll be spending the weekend in Austin, and I might do the spiral notebook thing again and take pictures of my entries like I did back in November. I have this new fancy macbook, but I'm sort of afraid to take it. We'll see.
Showing posts with label Short Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Stories. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Sunday, October 17, 2010
365 days of being a writer: day 62
Today was spent hobbling around popping pain pills like an old lady, thanks to yesterday's capoeira class. Oh, and writing. And editing. I made the mistake of following through with both rough drafts from last night, until I had two workable, passable stories. Then I couldn't pick which one I liked better.
All day, I finessed one, then tweaked the other. They are night and day from each other, sharing nothing in common except the constraints of "Drama, Race Track, and Laser Pointer." I fell to begging writer friends for their advice. I considered flipping a coin. I read a ton of flash fiction online, trying to decide which one fit the genre better. Then I re-read a few stories from the competition forum, to try to determine which was the more winningest. In the end, I went for the "likeable" characters. I hope the judges are into uplifting as opposed to sarcasm and teen boy vernacular.
Speaking of. Here is the story I didn't send (after the jump):
All day, I finessed one, then tweaked the other. They are night and day from each other, sharing nothing in common except the constraints of "Drama, Race Track, and Laser Pointer." I fell to begging writer friends for their advice. I considered flipping a coin. I read a ton of flash fiction online, trying to decide which one fit the genre better. Then I re-read a few stories from the competition forum, to try to determine which was the more winningest. In the end, I went for the "likeable" characters. I hope the judges are into uplifting as opposed to sarcasm and teen boy vernacular.
Speaking of. Here is the story I didn't send (after the jump):
Friday, March 12, 2010
Which sounds better: "Third place" or "Second runner-up?"
This year I entered the NYC Midnight short story competition. The contest works like this: at midnight on January 13th everyone who signed up was assigned a heat number, and each heat was assigned a different genre / subject. Writers had 8 days to write and submit a story (2500 words or less) and synopsis in their genre / subject; mine was "Horror / Pawnshop." Here's my submission...
ZOYA'S RING
Synopsis:
A down-on-his-luck gambler commits a terrible crime to get back in the black, but instead of gaining a fortune he finds himself losing everything. Is he being tormented by guilt or something worse?
Elisa will save me. I just have to get to her. We are supposed to meet at the corner of Jefferson and 11th and she's bringing the money. For once, I'll do the right thing and get that damn ring out of hock. My steps become faster as I catch sight of Gino's Deli.
ZOYA'S RING
Synopsis:
A down-on-his-luck gambler commits a terrible crime to get back in the black, but instead of gaining a fortune he finds himself losing everything. Is he being tormented by guilt or something worse?
Elisa will save me. I just have to get to her. We are supposed to meet at the corner of Jefferson and 11th and she's bringing the money. For once, I'll do the right thing and get that damn ring out of hock. My steps become faster as I catch sight of Gino's Deli.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
The Boxer
(This short story was the first runner-up for Austin Monthly's first short story contest. It was originally featured on www.austinmonthly.com.)
She had just half of a second to re-think, to regret, to repent, before her left hand made contact with the white girl's jawbone. The cracked leather of her glove connected with the smooth skin of the gringa's face with a hard and unforgivable crack too fast to stop. A young cameraman on the side of the ring caught the moment: Sandra Cavelli's neck is thrown back, an arc of sweat and spit and blood is curving up from her head turning her into an exotic crested bird; her body, soft with release, is bent backwards in mid-fall—on tip-toe, she is an open parenthesis. And to the left, Maria Vargas—her killer hook still extended—is a hard backslash; every muscle of her small frame is tight in a concentration of force that had already managed to take down 17 other women from Laredo to Dallas. Maria's teeth are clenched on her mouth-guard seemingly in a snarl, while Sandra's mouth is slack, her moan so stark it is almost audible. What would earn the photographer his first check was not the timing of the shot, but the strangeness of Maria's expression as she won by a knockout: fear. The caption that ran with the photo in the Beaumont Enterprise said “Vargas afraid of own strength as Cavelli falls hard in the first round.”
Maria was not afraid of her own strength. She was afraid of spiders and of small, dark spaces and of getting lost in a corn field, the stalks to tall to see over. She was afraid of her father's discipline and she was afraid of God's wrath. She was especially afraid of drowning. But none of those fears were the reason for her wide eyes and pinched grimace in the prize-winning photograph.
She had just half of a second to re-think, to regret, to repent, before her left hand made contact with the white girl's jawbone. The cracked leather of her glove connected with the smooth skin of the gringa's face with a hard and unforgivable crack too fast to stop. A young cameraman on the side of the ring caught the moment: Sandra Cavelli's neck is thrown back, an arc of sweat and spit and blood is curving up from her head turning her into an exotic crested bird; her body, soft with release, is bent backwards in mid-fall—on tip-toe, she is an open parenthesis. And to the left, Maria Vargas—her killer hook still extended—is a hard backslash; every muscle of her small frame is tight in a concentration of force that had already managed to take down 17 other women from Laredo to Dallas. Maria's teeth are clenched on her mouth-guard seemingly in a snarl, while Sandra's mouth is slack, her moan so stark it is almost audible. What would earn the photographer his first check was not the timing of the shot, but the strangeness of Maria's expression as she won by a knockout: fear. The caption that ran with the photo in the Beaumont Enterprise said “Vargas afraid of own strength as Cavelli falls hard in the first round.”
Maria was not afraid of her own strength. She was afraid of spiders and of small, dark spaces and of getting lost in a corn field, the stalks to tall to see over. She was afraid of her father's discipline and she was afraid of God's wrath. She was especially afraid of drowning. But none of those fears were the reason for her wide eyes and pinched grimace in the prize-winning photograph.
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