2020 minus 35: lackadaisical and exalted

Posted: 27 November 2019 in 2020 minus, fast fiction, fiction, writing
Tags: , , , ,

Dealing with some stuff today, so I’m afraid you get another ‘fiction from the vaults’ post. Normal service will be resumed tomorrow, hopefully

A decade and a half ago, I threw out a challenge. and then repeated it thereafter whenever I felt like it. The challenge was the same in each case:

Give me a title of up to four words in length, together with a single word you want me to include in the tale, and I will write a story of exactly 200 words.

That’s it. The stories that resulted always included the word, they always fitted the title, but usually in ways the challenger hadn’t anticipated. And they were always exactly 200 words in length.

Two stories written for friends, today, in 2010.

Both darker than my usual fare, but both were immediately suggested by the titles given to me. Blame the titles, and the challengers, not me. You might recognise the name of the second challenger. We were introduced by a mutual friend with a talent for putting people he likes together with a “you should know each other…” I was very grateful he did, and wil was kind enough to provide an introduction for the second collection of fast fiction stories, in which he wrote:

“There are two hundred stories collected in this volume. They are funny, they are thoughtful, they are romantic, they are frightening. To me, though, they are more than entertaining. They are inspiring.”

Wasn’t that nice of him?

There are, as it happens, two volumes of The Fast Fiction Challenge are available in ebook (.epub or .mobi for Kindle) format from the author. Volume 1 (180 stories) is £4.00, or equivalent in local currency; volume 2 (200 stories) is £5.00 email for details. Print copies also available if required.

Anyway, on to the stories.

Title: Right On The Money
Word: lackadaisical
Challenger: Vix Allchurch
Length: 200 words exactly

He’d worked on the communication for some time, turning phrases back and forth in his head before committing them to paper… It took him twelve attempts until he was happy with the content, and a further six before he was satisfied with the look of it.

Appearances were so important, he truly believed, whether it was the clothing one wore, the style of haircut one showed to the world, or even as in this case, a written missive.

And yet, he lazily acknowledged, how this would be read would depend upon the words themselves, rather than how they lay on the page.

Thirty two words in total, yet they conveyed the message he wished to send to her, part plea, part demand, but wholly clear. She’d be in no doubt as to his resolve.

He stretched in what he thought of as a languid manner, his entire demeanour lackadaisical, then paused, arms outstretched, considering the sum he’d mentioned. Too large? Possibly, but he thought not.

He looked over at the baby, sleeping peacefully next to him.

He’d chosen well. Much better for the kidnap victim not to be able to talk.

He wasn’t about to make that mistake. Not again.

© Lee Barnett, 2010


Title: A Long Way Down
Word: exalted
Challenger: Wil Wheaton
Length: 200 words exactly

I beat my first woman to death at twenty-three. She was forty-two, full of hate and prejudice, but that wasn’t why I killed her.

My brother… now he thinks I kill for the money. That’s a contemptible view: I worked hard to learn how to kill and I feel exalted by my success.

The woman was my fourth killing. Since then, I’ve killed many more, learning efficiency and brutality go hand in hand.

My father… is ashamed of me. He discovered I kill people but curiosity gave way to disgust when I was honest and enthusiastic about it.

Sixty-eight people. You were wondering, I could tell.

They all deserved it, you understand. They deserved it by costing the state too much. They died because they were… inconvenient.

As I strap on thick leather gloves provided by the prisons department and hit the old man in front of me, I wonder what it was like, executing people back before the electricity ran out. When the next punch lands, I wonder when others ceased to be proud.

We stood on top of the world… then we fell. And as he dies, I know everyone else is still falling.

Everyone else, except me.

© Lee Barnett, 2010

Something else, tomorrow…

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