Another short short
Just a small piece of homework to share from this week's class on "endings". The italicised first sentence was given as a starting point, and is taken from the writing of
Christopher Isherwood was born in England in 1904, came to the U.S. in 1939 and lived in Santa Monica from then until his death in 1986. He is probably best known for The Berlin Stories, stories that fictionalise his life in pre-World War II Berlin and that were adapted as the stage play I Am a Camera and the popular musical Cabaret. Isherwood’s notebooks contain a number of ideas, scenarios or beginnings for very short stories or what we would term now as flash fictions. Sometimes a story was sketched by Isherwood and then abandoned or forgotten. Take the Isherwood opening gambit below and complete the narrative in a page of A4.
(taken from the class handout)
So, I've included my submission for the task , entitled:
Needlework 1972
Hunched over, scissors clasped in her hands, the old lady passed like a shadow behind a screen of young birch and stepped possessively into her neighbour’s garden.
Hatty knew, deep in her conscience, how very wrong this was. Every fibre of her being screamed for a return to the safety of her garden, but it was too late, the call of retribution led her too strongly onwards. Turning back would be another defeat, something she couldn’t - wouldn’t bear. No more second places. Not again.
Thirty years of it, since the Seventeenth of August, 1973. The date was emblazoned in her mind; the first year in five that her Victoria Sponge hadn’t won the Blue Rosette at the Village Fete. A small, sad looking red ribbon its only reward - an insult she’d always thought. At every stand, she had looked for her entry, read and re-read the judge’s comments. 'In any other year…exceptionally high standard…but for the winner, this entry would surely have taken first place…' Everywhere she looked, blue rosettes. All in the name of Ms. Isobella Henbaines. Needlework. Jam. Napkin Folding. Chutney. Flower Arranging. Even Hatty’s prize Rebutia Muscula failed in the Formal Cactus, beaten into second by a lousy Lithops Julii. The dratted woman had managed to coerce a blood-red flower from it. Thirty years of it; enough to drive anyone potty.
She crept along the lawn, cool morning dew soaking into the fabric of her house shoes. The chill of it made her shiver as she bent forward with the scissors. Carefully, she extended the 1972 Needlework tropy, the half-waxed moon’s light glinting softly from the tarnished surface of the shears. Gently, cautiously, she snipped through the stem below a pale pink rosebud. Another, and another after it; falling like fat pink raindrops on the wet dark soil.
She began to hack at the bush, arthritis and thorns be damned. Finely beaded lines of blood etched themselves onto the backs of her hands. She couldn’t have cared less. Perhaps she wouldn’t win Best Kept Garden this year, but she was damned sure Mrs. Isabella Henbaines wasn’t going to either.
"Good lord, Hatty! Whatever are you doing?” Startled, Hatty wheeled around, the once-silver scissors gripped in a scratched hand.
Mrs. Henbaines took a step back with a look of horrified surprise. "Oh!" she said, breathlessly, tumbling gently backwards onto the clammy moistness of the grass, "Oh!"
"Bella!" Hatty exclaimed, "I’m so dreadfully, dreadfully sorry! It was an accident!" The scissors hung loose, the point glistening blackly in the moonlight.
.
_
Christopher Isherwood was born in England in 1904, came to the U.S. in 1939 and lived in Santa Monica from then until his death in 1986. He is probably best known for The Berlin Stories, stories that fictionalise his life in pre-World War II Berlin and that were adapted as the stage play I Am a Camera and the popular musical Cabaret. Isherwood’s notebooks contain a number of ideas, scenarios or beginnings for very short stories or what we would term now as flash fictions. Sometimes a story was sketched by Isherwood and then abandoned or forgotten. Take the Isherwood opening gambit below and complete the narrative in a page of A4.
(taken from the class handout)
So, I've included my submission for the task , entitled:
Needlework 1972
Hunched over, scissors clasped in her hands, the old lady passed like a shadow behind a screen of young birch and stepped possessively into her neighbour’s garden.
Hatty knew, deep in her conscience, how very wrong this was. Every fibre of her being screamed for a return to the safety of her garden, but it was too late, the call of retribution led her too strongly onwards. Turning back would be another defeat, something she couldn’t - wouldn’t bear. No more second places. Not again.
Thirty years of it, since the Seventeenth of August, 1973. The date was emblazoned in her mind; the first year in five that her Victoria Sponge hadn’t won the Blue Rosette at the Village Fete. A small, sad looking red ribbon its only reward - an insult she’d always thought. At every stand, she had looked for her entry, read and re-read the judge’s comments. 'In any other year…exceptionally high standard…but for the winner, this entry would surely have taken first place…' Everywhere she looked, blue rosettes. All in the name of Ms. Isobella Henbaines. Needlework. Jam. Napkin Folding. Chutney. Flower Arranging. Even Hatty’s prize Rebutia Muscula failed in the Formal Cactus, beaten into second by a lousy Lithops Julii. The dratted woman had managed to coerce a blood-red flower from it. Thirty years of it; enough to drive anyone potty.
She crept along the lawn, cool morning dew soaking into the fabric of her house shoes. The chill of it made her shiver as she bent forward with the scissors. Carefully, she extended the 1972 Needlework tropy, the half-waxed moon’s light glinting softly from the tarnished surface of the shears. Gently, cautiously, she snipped through the stem below a pale pink rosebud. Another, and another after it; falling like fat pink raindrops on the wet dark soil.
She began to hack at the bush, arthritis and thorns be damned. Finely beaded lines of blood etched themselves onto the backs of her hands. She couldn’t have cared less. Perhaps she wouldn’t win Best Kept Garden this year, but she was damned sure Mrs. Isabella Henbaines wasn’t going to either.
"Good lord, Hatty! Whatever are you doing?” Startled, Hatty wheeled around, the once-silver scissors gripped in a scratched hand.
Mrs. Henbaines took a step back with a look of horrified surprise. "Oh!" she said, breathlessly, tumbling gently backwards onto the clammy moistness of the grass, "Oh!"
"Bella!" Hatty exclaimed, "I’m so dreadfully, dreadfully sorry! It was an accident!" The scissors hung loose, the point glistening blackly in the moonlight.
.
_