Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

NPR used to host a series of contests soliciting original works of fiction by amateur writers. Called "3-Minute Fiction", the stories had to contain no more than 600 words (to be read on-air in 3 minutes or less), and sometimes contained an additional constraint. For example, the 1st one I submitted had to begin with "Some people swore the house was haunted" and end with "Nothing was ever the same after that". (I didn't place, but the challenge was still fun.)

So, Fellow Writers, here's a challenge for you: Post Reply with a 600-or-fewer word story, containing a character who laughs, and one who cries. (It can be the same character - or not.) If there's enough interest to meet the challenge, I'll post the one I submitted later.

Sounds interesting.......

finally a little spark! wireman, can you take it away with your writers' night opportunity?

minor correction: the round 6 challenge was to have a character who tells a joke, and one who cries. Again, it could be the same character or not.

Writers night next week, I'll see, everything usually comes out of me as poetry

A 600-word (or less) narrative poem on the theme would be fine indeed! Not sure if it would pass NPR's muster, but then it doesn't need to. Write on, Sir, write on! I'll show you mine if you show me yours...... Anyone else want to play the game?

 
 
(595 words, not including the title)

In Memoriam

My mother sat stiffly in the folding chair squeezed between me and her sister, clutching her gloves in her lap, her face expressionless. I knew what that impassivity concealed.

"Well, Mom," I offered. "At least he's found his peace."

She looked away. "He never had any trouble finding peace. Not with friends like Jack Daniels and Jim Beam. No steady job to worry about, no responsibilities. Certainly no family to be concerned for." She twisted the gloves the way she'd so often twisted a half-empty whisky glass out of his hand after he'd passed out. "Now maybe it's our turn."

"Maybe so," I allowed. "But he was still my Dad. He tried to be good. Never beat us, or anything. Life just defeated him, is all. He did his best."

"His best," she dully replied. "Now there's a sorry admission."

Confronted again by the futility of undermining her contempt for him, I just shrugged and rose to join my brother Paul, standing with his wife near the casket.

"Hey Ben," he greeted me. "How's Mom doing?"

I sighed. "She's as insulated from her feelings as Dad was."

Paul shook his head. "No," he said slowly. "Dad drank because he didn't have any insulation. Mom didn't because she does."

I was considering this when the funeral director arrived. He pulled us aside and suggested inviting anecdotes about "the departed" from those in attendance. Paul and I glanced knowingly at one another. The funeral directory clearly had not known my father. But I thought, what the hell.

"Alright," I said, "I have a few. Should I go first?"

The director nodded and gestured towards the lectern, so I took my place behind it and cleared my throat. The assembled mourners looked expectantly towards me.

"It's been suggested that we share any stories we may have about my father," I began. "All of you knew Dad, and know... you know what kind of man he was." The assembly fell silent. My mother blushed and lowered her eyes.

"He was certainly fond of his drink," I continued, "but he wanted to be a good man. He tried to do right by us. We never wanted for presents at Christmas, though we could always tell which ones he'd wrapped." Several heads nodded and smiled in recognition. "He always marked them 'From Santa.' By the time I was six I had a pretty good idea who Santa really was."

A collective chuckle murmured quietly through the room, so I went on. "His pals at the VFW tell the one about the night the lock on his car door froze. They offered to take him home, but he knew Mom needed the car the next day and didn't want to make her mad. So right there in the parking lot he unzips, and pees on the lock. He said the liquor had served him so well going in, it might just serve him on the way out!"

Before the laughter had died down, Paul had risen to share his own reminiscences, and I could see my cousins seemed eager to share as well, so I stepped aside and returned to my seat. Mom hadn't moved, and didn't when I settled down beside her. Even when the room warmed with laughter at Paul's revelations, she seemed to focus her gaze upon the gloves in her lap. Not until my cousin Sean recounted an ice-fishing tale did she look up. Her eyes shimmered with tears. It was the first time I could remember seeing her cry. "Damn you, Benji" she chokingly whispered. "Damn you."

excellent piece sasha, good writing for a compelling short tale...somehow you captured many years of engagement in a snapshot...well done !

Appreciate that, saw, thanks - but I was up against some really strong writers. Check out the front runners: https://www.npr.org/series/133439682/th ... -6-stories

(No takers...?)