A trip down memory lane...

The other day, I bumped into an old professor of mine in the college cafeteria. Back in the spring of 2010 I took a creative writing class at the local community college. It was a ten week term, so long stories were out of the question. Using this to his advantage, my professor had us attempt to master the craft of the microfiction. Microfiction is a sub-category of flash fiction which is even shorter. How short? Generally around 750 words. But for our class it was 350. 

350 words. Less than half a page on a Microsoft Word document. A full story: beginning, middle, and end. I think I've made it rather obvious that I was not happy about that 350 word cap. I thought it was absolutely ludicrous. 

But, I'd been dying for a creative writing class, and I couldn't let my GPA suffer, so I tried. I agonized for weeks to come up with a plot. But the word cap kept me beating my head against a wall of writer's block. So, not quite willing to admit defeat, I decided to take a break and do some reading. I hoped that following the words of a favorite author might inspire something. Thankfully, my ploy worked. As I was in the midst of Orson Scott Card's Shadow of the Hegemon, an idea hit me. I immediately saved my page and darted to my computer before the story left my head. Within a few short minutes, the full story, under 350 words, was written. I rejoiced in my triumph, sent the story off to a friend for a quick proofread, and printed it out. The next week I turned the story in on Monday, and was very surprised to hear it was one of five pieces to be read aloud to the class for critiques the following Wednesday. 

My professor made sure that all of the stories read were anonymous so that critiques could be more honest. So I got to hear the class discuss my story. I got to hear advice from my peers, things they liked, things they disliked. I heard different opinions and perspectives. It was the most inspirational thing I've ever heard as a writer. 

That class not only taught me to make sure every word in a story counts, but it also gave me some of the best feedback on my writing I've ever gotten. So, even though the conversation was short, I was happy to bump into my professor.

And, because I was talking about it, here's the first micro-fiction I ever wrote: 

His Gift to Her

            After work, Susie dropped by the department store to pick up a few gifts for her husband. This was not common for the middle aged woman, but the two had had quite an argument the night before, and only one of them seemed interested in putting in the effort to keep the relationship strong. Taking in a deep breath, she browsed through the store until she found just the right gift for her man, something that would leave him shocked; something he would just die for.

            Smiling at her success, she kept her lover’s gift at her side and continued to browse through the store, only stopping once to stock up on some household cleaners that she knew she would need.

Walking out to her car with only two shopping bags in hand, Susie opened the driver’s door of her beat up sedan, tossed the bags onto the passenger seat, revved the engine, and headed home in a hurry.

            Once she arrived at her house, a cute little suburban home, she grabbed the bags from her passenger seat and briskly headed for the front door.

            Inside, she dropped the bag of cleaners on the table and carefully carried her husband’s gift into the guest room where she opened all of the packaging and prepared the gift for her beloved.

            When the gift was finally ready, Susie walked out of the guest room, crossed the hall, and quietly made her way into their bedroom. There, she saw her husband hanging by a noose, a fallen chair beneath his toes.

            For a moment, she stared at him, unable to believe that her husband had hanged himself. Then, when she came to terms with what had happened, she gave a hearty laugh, straightened up the chair, and stood on top of it. Smiling seductively, she gave her husband one last kiss on the lips as she carefully pressed the gift against his temple. Then, she whispered in a voice almost too soft to be heard, “Thanks for saving me the bullet.”