From an Editor's Desk: Short stories
I've been reading short stories lately that are short stories in name only. Some of them are character studies, or anecdotes, or rambles without a particular destination. A short story is first and foremost a
story. Which means it includes a beginning, middle and an end. The end resolves a situation, usually a conflict, that begins the story and the opening creates a threat in the protagonist's life. Short stories will always include a character who is changed, or better yet, profoundly changed by the events of the
story. No change, no story.
In potent short stories the voice is always authentic and memorable, conflict simmers throughout, and the first paragraph is so finely wrought that it's the literary equivalent of a
Fabergé egg. Here's are a few beginnings from
Amy Bloom's short story collection
Where the God of Love Hangs Out. I cannot recommend these stories too often.Notice how the voice in each opening is distinctive.
By-And-By
Every death is violent.
The iris, the rainbow of the eye, closes down. The pupil spreads out like black water. It seems natural, if you are there to push the lid down, to ease the pleated shade over the ball, down to the lower lashes. The light is out, close the door.
Sleepwalking
I was born smart and had been lucky my whole life, so I didn't even know that what I thought was careful planning was nothing more than being in the right place at the right time, missing an avalanche I didn't even hear.
After the funeral was over and the cold turkey and the glazed ham were demolished and some very good jazz was played and some very good musicians went home drunk on bourbon poured in my husband's honor, it just me, my mother-in-law Ruth, and out two boys Lionel junior from Lionel's second marriage and our little boy , Buster.
Compassion and Mercy
No power.
The roads were thick with pine branches and whole birch trees, the heavy boughs breaking off and landing on top of houses and cars and in front of driveways. The low, looping power lines coiled onto the road, and even from their bedroom window, Clare could see silver branches dangling in the icy wire. Highways were closed. Classes were canceled. The phone didn't work. The front steps were slipper as hell.
William kept a fire going in the living room and Clare toasted rye bread on the end of fondue forks for breakfast, and in the early afternoon they wrapped cheese sandwiches in tin foil and threw them into the embers for fifteen minutes. William was in charge of dinner and making hot water for Thai ginger soup-in-a-blow. They used the snow bank at the kitchen door to chill the Chardonnay.
Keep writing, keep dreaming, have heart