Fifty-word stories: an experiment

Photo by David W. Shaw

I think I was likely born with scientific inclinations. I’ve always loved to devise experiments and hypotheses. Whether it was how long I could keep the grasshoppers and horned toads alive in Maxwell coffee cans in the garage (sorry, Mom); or observing the behavior of other kids and strangers, while jotting everything down in my handy notebook. It’s only natural that to some degree, I apply this process to my creative work as well. In February, to kick start myself out of the spring doldrums, I decided that I would begin each day by writing a fifty-word story (after caffeine and Wordle, of course). Rules were established for this practice: less than ten minutes would be spent on each story; only one pass of editing was allowed; stories must be posted to my social media for accountability; and I would commit to this practice for one month.

And the results? I’m not sure whether it helped my creativity on my current novel in progress. I wasn’t more productive, but I wasn’t less productive. One thing it did help me realize was how the process of writing and editing a book, changes how you write. I am not new to this writing gig; I’ve been writing since I was kid. I’ve taken craft workshops, writing intensives, critique groups and I’m freelance editor. I didn’t expect that I would be a different writer by the end of The Voyage of the Pleiades, but I am. My approach and writing in this second novel is very different.

I collect words like a poet magpie, shiny baubles waiting to be lobbed into sentences. But also like a magpie, in my early drafts, I got carried away with piling them into one small space/sentence. Editing my book taught me how to be even more brutal in whittling my sentences. A fifty-word story is perfect for this, everything extraneous must be peeled away. You have only a short space to tell your story, so every word counts.

Will I continue to write fifty-word stories? Probably. I enjoy the form and the challenge, and the contrast to the effort involved in writing a novel. I present to you below, twenty-nine tiny, compressed stories. Perhaps some of you will be tempted to experiment with this form, I hope so! Let me know which of these is your favorite, I’ve submitted a few for publication, but would be curious to know which stories resonant with you.

Postscript: I want to make a few shout-outs to my inspiration for this experiment. I was fortunate to be a student of Pat Labine’s at The Evergreen State College and she had a lasting impact on my professional writing and editing. Pat made us write micro essays for her class and when I find myself overwriting, I can still see her bold comments at the top of my essays admonishing me to “say it better, say it shorter.” Also, to my fellow Writer’s Room attendee and expert wrangler of the fifty-word story, Judy Shapiro. Thank you, Judy for encouraging and listening to me!

21 February 2022

The wolves have arrived at the door.

I feed them bits of shortbread and drips of honey. They lick my fingers clean. We curl into a pile of fur and human on the doorstep. Our exhalations float above, thick clouds dissolving into the night. On the horizon, the moon sets.  

22 February 2022

“Adagio” she sighed, “molto adagio.”

Talia always rushed her fences, giving away the emotion, the apex before the ascent. She depressed the key with the pad of her ring finger. Her foot engaged the pedal to extend the diminuendo. There was a click and a cataclysmic snap of the wire.

23 February 2022

Nobody called me, “deadeye”. But my quarry was in my sights. With the grace of a trapeze swinger the thieving bastard lit from the tree to its treasure. I rolled the orange ammo in my fingers, situating it in the leather cradle of the slingshot. I drew back and released.

24 February 2022

Charles Darwin was tired and hungry. The life of a traveling naturalist was far from non-stop excitement. Despite the beauty of the Chilean harbor, Charles was plagued with ennui. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a sleek fox approaching. With a thud, Charles’ weariness came to an end.

25 February 2022

A fingernail moon magnifies the glow of a coating of snow. Naked cottonwood branches don’t provide shelter from the biting wind, but the skeleton of sage does, and she huddles there. Nose twitching, ears rotating. An owl swoops. A bomb falls. Spring is far away and yet also swirling around.  

26 February 2022

Toes curl around the stem of a cattail, swaying. The blackbird’s beak is stretched wide, so wide that the song emerges as frosty circles in the air. The weight of the binoculars around my neck are a comfort, like the birdcall, like the sun rising and turning the grass golden.

27 February 2022

The ropes of the bare bed squeaked beneath him as turned over in his sleep again. He was restless tonight, as were the ghosts. Winds whipping across the San Luis valley made the house moan and creak. He fumbled to light the lantern. The weak light provided only cold comfort.

28 February 2022

“Planting bulbs is evidence of a kind of hope”. Demeter scratched at the frigid soil to carve a depression. She contemplated whether this planting was a sign of optimism or an act of desperation. But she kept digging and planting, a promise to the earth of a glorious spring bloom.

01 March 2022

The mare does not only see the sprawling steppe. She sees the new shoots of grass. She sees the buzzard looping on air currents that signal an approaching storm. None-the-less, she puts one hoof in front of the other. She is resolute and she has the heart of a dragon.

02 March 2022

Neal tossed glinting mica into the river.

“Skunk, maybe we should’ve gone to California or Alaska.”

Skunk replied with a canine grin and lolling tongue. Neal surveyed the forbidding peaks ringing the valley.

“At least it is finally spring.”

One fat snowflake drifted down and landed on Skunk’s black fur.

03 March 2022

It was just another sleepless night, another night stumbling through the streets. I glanced over my shoulder. “Oh right, that is different.” My goosebumps weren’t solely from the shock of the pre-dawn air, but also from the monster on the horizon. A volcano erupting, shooting lava into the dark sky.

04 March 2022

“Do you have anything by medieval poets?”

The clerk wrinkled their brow. “Medieval poets?”

When they turned away to search, Angela slipped Agatha Christie’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd into her bag. She whispered a quote from the book, “it is completely unimportant. That is why it is so interesting.”

05 March 2022

We lingered in the eddy, river right or left? Inevitably there were submerged rocks, unexpected sweepers downstream, or maybe beyond that bend the river smoothed into gentle waves. I studied the surface of water, attempting to divine its intentions. Glancing over my shoulder, we dipped our paddles and continued forward.

06 March 2022

The wine was a deep red, berries at the height of ripeness. When I swirled the glass, the liquid appeared viscous. On the other side of the room a couple argued, a storm of Spanish with the occasional sharp Basque rebuttal. I savored the perfect combination of anchovy and olive.

07 March 2022

I fell to my knees next to the body. Pressing my shaking fingers to the clenched fist, I encountered cold flesh. Red dirt was ground into the wrinkles and folds of their skin. A bit of vegetation emerged from one end of the hand. A dried poisonous pod of wisteria.

08 March 2022

The boat was taking on water. Waves battered the wood, threatening to destroy his protection from the snarling ocean. Somewhere ahead he could barely discern the distant headlands. A faint ascension of music came from behind him. The wave dipped and there, on the horizon, the lights of the Caleuche.

09 March 2022

A spring gust blew a strand of hair across her face. In the darkness, her hands found the route up the red rock. She hoisted herself over the rock ledge and on to a depression cut into the surface. Here she was protected. Here she could watch the sun rise.

10 March 2022

Is it a fairy bower, or simply another place to hide from reality? What does it matter? Ducking into the beckoning shade, she gathers the whips of weeping willow in her fists.  She wraps them around her, swaddled and clothed with sticky strands. Devoured by vibrant greenery until she vanishes.

11 March 2022

Her wizened hand, browned to the shade of perfectly baked sourdough, turned another card. The figure’s wings were the same faded red as the chipped table beneath. The golden chalices and the blue water nearly colorless. The intense sun in this corner of Greece burned away everything but the essentials.

12 March 2022

It was hot, so hot. This is what it must be like to lay on the surface of the sun. Even the ground underneath sweltered, the occasional needle-like sensation pierced their exposed skin. The air hummed and vibrated. The rough, cool scales of a rattlesnake rasped against their bare stomach.

13 March 2022

I rolled in bed dragging the duvet over my head. It was still dark, what could’ve woken me from such a deep sleep? Near the end of the bed came an ominous sound. A sound one never wants to hear, especially in the middle of the night. Haaack, hwack, splat.

14 March 2022

“It is officially spring when the snow at the base of the mountain has melted.” She gestured at the white mound at our feet. I could hardly hear her over the sustained winds that howled down the canyon bending the rabbitbrush at right angles. I vehemently kicked at the snow.

15 March 2022

Skip, skip, skip, plonk.

I went on to my knees to look for another perfectly shaped stone. For another attempt. A kingfisher emphatically announced its presence from the tree limb bent over the river. The riffles bumped and sprayed, the flow navigating rocks made bare during the boney spring season.

16 March 2022

The creaking of the swing reminds him that he needs to oil that joint. The dog noses at the broken spot in the fence, searching for the invading wildlife. She laces her fingers through his, their skin rasps, no longer the supple texture of youth. The swing sways and squeaks.

17 March 2022

He dug the shovel in, slicing down through the layers of snow and ice. Was he making any progress? Glaring at the sky he mentally scolded it to not even think about producing any more precipitation. Another descent of the shovel, he rotated the blade. Wait, is that a hand?

18 March 2022

I gently brush the sole of my xtratuff over the tiniest green shoots emerging from the mud. Song Sparrows counter sing from the cottonwoods, the cattails sway in the breeze.

“I can think with poems, when no other path is open.” She said, and her words resonated in my bones.

19 March 2022

Even the wheel beneath her palms felt gritty. Billowing clouds of dust lingered on the horizon, assuming that was the horizon. Vermillion ground melded with the garnet sky. She rested her forehead on the steering wheel. Her eyes felt raw and tired. A kangaroo paused to stare through the windshield.

20 March 2022

His little fists were clenched in fury and tears streaked his face. The brother ran in circles, kicking the soccer ball. The man shouted at him. I wanted to tell him it was okay to just be himself, instead I lowered my head and went back to reading my book.

21 March 2022

I crumbled the bits of sage between my fingers, scattering it to the winds. Always another ending. Always another beginning. Bringing my hands up to cradle my face, I breathed in the smell of home, of plants, of me. I rotated on the balls of my feet, turned, and left.