Speck

What's this? A post? I don't believe it. Yeah, sorry guys, it's just me again. I haven't got anything truly interesting to say, but that's okay. I'm pretty sure I'm talking to myself anyway. After all, I am just a little Farkas. So last week my friend gets me on AIM and tells me about this one-shot online literary journal that was accepting submissions. The cut off date was extended to April 3rd and she wanted me to submit since she had already been accepted. After two days of staring at my most recent story I finally got around to submitting three stories and a poem. Guess which one got accepted? The poem. If anyone of you has been paying attention to my random and rather awful rants you should know that I don't do poetry. Not well, at least. This poem was a fluke that I kind of liked so I sent it in. None of my short stories were accepted, it was just the poem. So this leaves me wondering, where did I go wrong as a fiction writer? What was wrong with my short stories that they weren't worthy of publication and yet my poem was? What sense does this make? The only things I can think of, in my infinite vanity, is that they either didn't fit the themes well enough, or they had too many short stories and not enough poems. I'm leaning towards the latter. Meh, whatever. The point of this solid block of text is that I'm being published in an online literary journal called Speck. So you should totally check it out.

That's it. Farkas out.

The Long and Short of It.

I’m a fiction writer. That’s what I identify myself as. My life’s ambition is to finish a book. Ending things is hard, by the way. When I was younger (younger being age fourteen) I wrote nothing but ‘novels intended.’ Stories I intended to make novels. But of course that failed miserably. I did manage to write a 100 page story by the end of my first year at LP but it died as soon as I reached the plot. Funny how that works.

One of the big things I had to learn at Lincoln Park was how to write short stories. We didn’t spend nearly as much time on it as I would have liked, but that’s how it worked out. I had to find an end point for a story I didn’t want to end. In work shop I had to find stopping points for a story that I wanted to make a full length book so that it could stand alone. I wasn’t allowed to do that in my second year, everything had to be self contained. This is when I really learned to write short stories.

It’s actually kind of surprising that I’ve managed to read for every reading possible during my years at LP. I never missed a chance to read. Not for the public readings and not for the department readings. What’s surprising about this is the fact that I could find something that didn’t take ten minutes to read out loud. I’ve found that something like a five page story double spaced is around ten minutes to read. That doesn’t seem all that long to some, I guess, but for a reading it’s forever, especially for the reader. There are a few pieces I cut up a little in order to shorten their reading time.

I still kind of suck at writing short stories. I always want to write the longer ones. It’s gotten to the point where if I really want to read something for a reading I have to write it specifically for that purpose. Some of these pieces turn out pretty well, actually, like Water Lilies and Masquerade. But even Masquerade needs expanding. My fans, (aka Courtney) pretty much demand it. And I would like to do more with it. I really would, but somehow I find myself stuck once more.

This is my problem with longer stories. How do you keep them going? I seem to be stuck in a sort of limbo of creative writing. Not enough story for a novel but too much story for a short story. I secretly hate short stories that go on for like twenty pages. To me that’s not really a short story. Though I will admit, I have written stories that long before. And actually the longest complete story I wrote, that was fit for human eyes at least, is probably my favorite. It’s called What Could Be and it’s fifteen pages single spaced.

I recently wrote a story called The Way She Walks for the Alumni reading next Friday and as usual, I think I want to do more with it. But of course I don’t know what. It feels like a short story, I’ll give it that. It’s at about six minutes and three pages right now so I can’t do anything with it until after the reading. It’s one of those stories that come out of the blue, you know? I was thinking about walking toe-heel one night. Don’t ask me why. I didn’t know people walked like that until I read ‘Princess Academy’ by Shannon Hale. Apparently that’s the proper way for Princesses to walk, but no one walks like that. It’s extremely weird to do so, I know I’ve tried. It feels weird and it looks weird and so I wrote a story about it.

Now I’m rambling. The long and short of it is, short stories are hard, and so are novels. Long stories are the way to go, unless you want to read them out loud. Then you’re pretty much screwed. I wanna know how my classmates managed it.

Masquerade

I thought I would give you all something original. Since there's poetry flying everywhere, here is a short story I wrote towards the end of my senior year.

She danced across the ball room, her red dress flowing out around her as she whirled from partner to partner. She flowed from masked man to masked man as seamlessly as the music that accompanied her, never once missing a beat. Her face was hidden behind a gold trimmed silver butterfly, its wings decorated with feathers that tickled her ears. She glided across the dance floor, white mask after white mask flashing before her eyes. She cared not who these men were, nor did they care who she was, tonight was all about the music, and the dancing, as it should be.

She felt him before she saw him. His presence was made known to her by the beating of her heart, suddenly wild and out of sync with the music. She stopped and the music stopped with her, as if they were connected. Her partner continued a step, letting her go as she turned to stare. Even the gold mask that covered his face could not hide him from her. The crowd seemed to part as he strode towards her, his swagger ever bit justified by his status. He offered her his hand and she took it, powerless to resist.

“Dance with me.”

His command was answered immediately with movement. Her feet followed his lead without her willing them to, gliding into the next dance as the music started up once more. She continued to stare as he moved her, hand pressed against the small of her back, fingers squeezing hers, eyes dancing along with their bodies.

“I told you,” he said. “You can’t hide forever.”

“I can try,” she replied. “I don’t want to go back.”

“You don’t have a choice.” he said, twirling her before pulling her into a dip. “I played your game, now we play mine.”

She noticed now that everyone was watching them. As he swung her back into the dance, they were alone on the floor, alone with the music.

“This was meant to be,” he told her. “We were destined for this.”

“Destiny is for mortals,” she replied. “We should be able to choose our fate.”

He laughed at her. “Fate is bigger than even us,” he told her. “You of all people should know that.”

The music slowed and their movements slowed with it. Soon they were standing in the center of the floor.

“It’s time to go,” he said. He leaned in and kissed her on the lips. “And this time, there is no running away.”

She blinked, her vision blurring. “You didn’t…” she said, her body quickly growing numb.

“I did.” he smiled as blackness closed in on her. Her mask fell from her face as she went limp in his arms. He didn’t bother to pick it up as he left with her.