I write short stories. It’s just how my brain works. I like the slap in the face, the jolt, and confusion of few words with high impact.
But sometimes, no matter what the start and intentions – a story doesn’t pan out that way. This the first paragraph of a story I started a few days ago:
The exact circumstance of their meeting shall forever be lost in a drunken haze of dancing and laughter, but one Sunday morning the group began sobering up in the company of a diminutive stranger called Alex. As they collectively hung their heads, their hands shielding them from the invasive reality of daylight, he furnished them with coffee and crisps. Through a combination of reduced inhibitions and bribery, they’d ended up at his flat, all gathered in his tiny sitting room listening to a never-ending stream of chill out music.
Should have been around 500 words, but it hasn’t turned out that way. The characters and story just wouldn’t allow it.
It’s got me thinking about just how much of these stories are within your conscious mind and how much is below that visible line – the part of your mind that roams and wonders without you knowing.
This story is longer than I’d hoped, longer than I’d planned, but by the end the story will be told. I just hope you enjoy it once it’s done.
Thank you all for reading. It means a lot to know you’re out there.