Quote

“A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it.”-Edgar Allan Poe

What are your thoughts,  fellow short story writers?

 Is your philosophy at odds with Poe’s?

Let me know in the comments! 

Weekly Writing Challenge: Fifty – Dead Eyes

The following is my post for this week’s Weekly Writing Challenge, which you can find here.  The one rule:  Fifty words.  Take it away, me.

It’s those dead eyes that get me.

Her stuff is everywhere, and it’s free. Wildly festooned scenarios all. Someone put time and work into these. No one works harder than her.

But every time I see her, I see those lifeless, empty eyes. I don’t know how she does it.

[Weekly Writing Challenge: Fifty] Third-wave

Weekly Writing Challenge: Fifty

“No rules. Just stick to the word count-no more, no less than fifty words.”

Here is my entry.

Third-wave

Rosamund was born disliking two things: being ordered about, and the baffling human impulse to join social clubs. At five, she was horrified to discover that girls were expected to politely comply with those very requests. She thought, “To hell with that!”, and screamed so long that her throat soured.

[Intermezzo] It is Finally Autumn. Ecstatic Autumn!

It is finally autumn. Ecstatic autumn! Leaves are swirling and twirling and leaping about with Bacchanalian satisfaction. They are throwing a street party to end all street parties. Death is near, but until then it is a wicked celebration 24/7. Their orange, gold, and dark red forms flee rakes and tumble out of bags. They fall from trees to dance in the gutters and under the bodies of dirty cars. Leaves, so joyous, loll about in moments of repose, only to be bruised and trampled under dogs’ feet or sat upon by careless children. Death is near, and they know it: until then, they will dance on the wind.

*

It is finally autumn. Ecstatic autumn! In the late afternoon I take my place: curtains open, cup of tea in hand, elbow on windowsill.The sun sets early, beyond the white and dove grey apartment house across the street. The sky is relentlessly pale, diluted even in twilight to a bleak rose or chalky orange: bold colours are too busy dressing the leaves to have anything to spare. It’s their yearly dying wish, one cannot blame them. We have four seasons, they have less. As the masses of crisp leaves move and heave they give off a sound like the cawing of crows. Duncan barks and noses the pane, desperate to be loosed with apocalyptic fervor on these unknown fiends. Death is near, and they know it: until then, they will dance on the wind. The sights and smells are fleeting, of this and every other season. Dogs dream of chasing leaves, but will settle for a bone. As for me, I will drink down my tea and write some elegiac words instead.

*

It is finally autumn. Ecstatic autumn! Leaves are swirling and twirling and leaping about with Bacchanalian satisfaction. They are throwing a street party to end all street parties. Death is near, but until then it is a wicked celebration 24/7. Their orange, gold, and dark red forms flee rakes and tumble out of bags. They fall from trees to dance in the gutters and under the bodies of dirty cars. Leaves, so joyous, loll about in moments of repose, only to be bruised and trampled under dogs’ feet or sat upon by careless children. Death is near, and they know it: until then, they will dance on the wind.

Intermezzo: Today

Today, my return to shining good health is matched watt for watt by a hearty winter sun. Both incandescent, ready for change. Strong. The renewal of the New Year met a roadblock or two, was delayed, delayed again, the delay constantly looping. Today, creativity is back, and with it hope; they are both resplendent. I’ve re-imagined the way forward, a sturdy path with many forks. It’s beautiful.

Hope is like the light in an Impressionist painting.

Hope is like the light in an Impressionist painting.