Session 6 Class B - 3rd November 2020

 YOU CAN CHOOSE YOUR FIVE FAVOURITE STORIES

• This week's task is about writing microfiction. 

• I want you to write a (very) short story which is only 100 words long. 
• It must be EXACTLY 100 words, not including the title and your name. THIS IS A VERY STRICT RULE.
• Do not submit 98 or 99 or 101 or 102 words!
• Use WORD Counter.net to check the word count HERE.
• The title can add some nuance or extra meaning. 
• The story must have an Indonesian dimension: setting, character, perspective.
• Have your Session 6 teammates check your grammar and punctuation before you submit it to me. 
• The "best" SIXTEEN from EWS 2020 will be featured in a radio programme that will be broadcast in the UK in December but distributed to you next week.
• I will issue a letter acknowledging your contribution to the show that you can stick in your portfolio.

Here are four examples:

TEXTS

The Photographic Record by Ian Hornett

Ellie didn't reach the spartan apartment until after the council had taken away the body of her mother's uncle. She'd never met him. She knew nothing about him but was nevertheless the only relative he had left, those in America for generations notwithstanding. He'd had no books. No paper, pens, no television, no creature comforts. Prim. Proper. Joyless. He had only three photos. One with siblings in 1940. A bleak one of him posing stiffly alone in 1959. And a 1972 picture, surveillance-like, him crossing a street, seen from an upstairs window. Was it taken by a lover? Elie wondered.

Ambushed by Jo Coldwell

I fell to the ground like a sack of sweet potatoes. The blood in my mouth tasted metallic and wicked. The pain was dull and everywhere. My vertical eyes peered through horizontal grass blades, tall, teeming greens, nostrils itched by their oniony scent, swaying slightly, dappling me with needles of blinding sun. I glimpsed the horror of a soldier's boots passing. My breathing stopped. Motionless and damp. Chest burning. Roaring silence. I wanted to sleep. Just surrender to the sleep. But I knew it'd be the end. However, as I have been able to describe all this, I obviously survived.

Snubbed by Yvonne Pini

The two geese spent all day shrieking as they reigned over the t-junction they’d commandeered in the middle of the otherwise quiet neighbourhood. Car drivers didn’t want to get out on that corner. Only if motorcyclists were speeding would they be left alone. Cyclists had to gird themselves and aim straight at the birds before escaping hell for leather. Pedestrians had to take a different route. Children didn’t play on that corner any more. The geese’s sullen owner had bought them having lost the election for head of the neighbourhood committee. He tossed goose feed onto the tarmac every morning.

New Promenade Hotel by Bill Lawrance

“There were millions of cockroaches”. No. Delete. Be more level-headed. “There were so many cockroaches.” No. Say “countless” instead. I typed. “There were countless cockroaches in my room.” The PC was on our reception desk. I read the whole thing back to myself. Almost ready to click on submit. I peered through the lobby window at the hotel across the road. Those Johnny-come-latelies thought they were so clever, taking our name, so tirelessly built-up and buffed, and putting the word New in front of it. Our occupancy fell by 20%. Wait till tourists read this, my latest anonymous online review.

More examples...

Cookbooks by Pamela Ennis

Patti was a voracious collector of cookbooks. At last count, there were 2,200 of them. Although she considered herself a self-taught gourmet, she had not yet cooked one recipe. Most nights she stood in the middle of her kitchen; cookbooks opened to dog-eared pages of dishes she yearned to try; cupboards opened, revealing their curious contents; and the expectant refrigerator door gaping too long for efficiency until she acknowledged that she lacked the ingredients for any of them. In the end, she always settled herself in, alone in front of the television, with her cheese sandwich and bowl of soup.

The Moderator by Louise Wolsey

The headstone would’ve been a chance to answer back without reprisal. A chance for revenge. A signal to a world that had been kept in the dark. Sharon, single, twice divorced, wanted “Here lies a capricious, malignant man”. Julia, mother of three, raising them alone, wanted “There were some happy moments but too few”. Elsie, hiding from her wifebeater ex, who was hiding from her tempestuous son, wanted “He taught me how a parent shouldn’t be”. The stonemason’s lethargic expressions had absorbed the siblings’ inclinations. They stood graveside, grim, motionless, dry-eyed. “Here lies John James, survived by three beautiful daughters”.

A Troubling Day by Paula Larcher

Something was troubling Malcolm. He had awoken to a letter from his wife, telling him that she was leaving him, and on the way to work his car was written off in a multiple pileup on the motorway. At lunchtime, Kylie from credit – control informed him that she was pregnant with his child after the works Christmas party, and on the way home, he was set upon by robbers and his wallet and credit cards were stolen. Then, in the evening it finally dawned upon him what had been bothering him; all day long he’d been thinking it was Thursday.   

Shameless by Yvonne Pini

The family had to face it: she was a thief. She felt no guilt about it.  Wasn’t it just opportunism? If something was there to be taken, someone else didn’t want it. If she did, she took it. No equivocation or compunction. Of course, she was sometimes caught, and punished, but remained undeterred. Devoid of conscience or empathy, impervious to opprobrium, she had neither life goals nor morality to guide her. Yet those who knew her did not judge her harshly. That’s just how she is, they’d say indulgently.  What do you expect? Unapologetic, She yawned, stretched languorously and purred.