Each day I stand before my personal creative writing tree, wondering whether I should make the climb again.
But, in the distance, where the sea meets the moors, I imagine a reader is waiting.
And lurking in the undergrowth nearby, the giant search monster whispers promises of fame and fortune.
However, my creative writing tree is old. It has many branches that threaten to snap as I reach up to lever myself once more into it's grasp.
Soon, far above in the higher reaches of the tree, I see the beginnings of some action beckoning me on and upwards.
With each new handhold, blinding leaves brush against my face and twigs scratch my arms saying "Turn back. It's not worth the effort."
As I climb higher, my excitement grows. I see there are new characters in the upper branches. I struggle to hear what they say, to listen to their arguments and fights, wondering about their backgrounds and trying to understand the meaning of their stories.
Finally, I have it and I burst once more through the branches out of the top of the tree with the characters and plot clutched firmly to my heart.
Triumphantly, I turn to face my waiting reader and the giant search monster.
Only to find they are already gone ...
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
Tag Archive for 'short story'
Once upon a time there was a beautiful Queen who was loved by the King but feared by all his subjects.
Unknown to the King, the beautiful Queen was wicked to her step daughter, Snow White.
Snow White was also beautiful but, unlike her Wicked Step Mum, was liked by all the Kings subjects because she was so sweet, kind and considerate.
"You'll never get anywhere with your soft liberal attitudes," snarled the Wicked Step Mum. "You need to toughen up and learn to be nasty!"
"Yes Step Mother dearest," was all Snow White would say, which irritated the heck out of the Wicked Step Mum who was hoping to provoke Snow White into a fight so she could discredit her with the King.
As Snow White grew up, she showed signs of becoming a talented writer and became popular, not only with the local Writing Circle, but also with the King's subjects on the Internet, where she would put her short stories on-line for all to read.
The Wicked Step Mum started to put short stories on the Internet too. She even forced members of the local Writer's Circle to vote for them on the Top List Web Sites to make her stories look more popular than Snow White's. But, as time passed, the Wicked Step Mum grew more and more worried that Snow White was outshining her.
It was the Wicked Step Mum's habit to peek and poke in Snow White's mail. One day, a package arrived for Snow White containing a desktop search bot program.
the cover proudly boasted.
It was the opportunity the Wicked Step Mum had been waiting for and she immediately decided to do a web search to see whether she or Snow White was the most popular writer amongst the King's subjects.
The instructions explained that the search bot was activated by the first line of an old fairy tale. So the Wicked Step Mum typed into her computer:
"Mirror Mirror on the wall who is the best free online short story writer of them all?"
There was a brief pause and the search bot replied:
This threw the Wicked Step Mum into a great rage so she kicked the cat and locked Snow White in her room for three days with nothing but bread and water and a computer dictionary to read.
Again and again, the Wicked Step Mum typed in search phrases in an attempt to find a story genre where the search bot would admit she was more popular than Snow White.
"Mirror mirror on the wall who writes short stories that are the funniest, the saddest, the most thrilling and the most romantic of them all."
The answer came back "Snow White".
"Mirror mirror on the wall who writes the best on-line fiction, sudden fiction, micro fiction, micro-stories, postcard fiction, very short stories and short short stories."
The answer still came back "Snow White".
"Mirror mirror on the wall, who writes the best on-line romance, thrillers, science fiction, mystery and crime short stories ?"
Each time, the search bot came back saying it was Snow White's stories which were the best, the funniest, the saddest and the most romantic in the world.
Finally, in desperation, the Queen commanded all her subjects in the Kingdom to vote for her stories on the Top Sites.
Afterwards, when The Queen questioned the search bot and got the same reply that Snow White was the better writer, the Wicked Step Mum flew into the greatest rage of all, frothed at the mouth and lay on the floor screaming.
So the King was forced to send the Queen to a far off part of his Kingdom, where the Queen could be prevented from doing any harm to herself or frightening the King's subjects.
When the King let Snow White out of her bedroom, she was very happy because reading the computer dictionary day after day was getting very boring.
She spotted the CD containing the search bot software lying besides the Queen's computer.
In her rage, the Queen had cut the CD into many pieces with the sharpest of scissors and battered the fragments with a heavy hammer.
However, Snow White still made sure she paid for the software by return and enclosed the sweetest of letters.
Can you guess what she wrote in her letter?
This is what she said.
Dear Sir
I enclose $100 in payment for your excellent practical joke wind up search bot software, with optimised artificial intelligence algorithms for maximum irritation.
Your wonderful software worked perfectly.
Regards
Snow White
After which, Snow White and the King, who, like his subjects, found he didn't miss the Queen at all, lived together happily in the Palace for ever after.
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this modern fairy tale and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
Unknown to the King, the beautiful Queen was wicked to her step daughter, Snow White.
Snow White was also beautiful but, unlike her Wicked Step Mum, was liked by all the Kings subjects because she was so sweet, kind and considerate.
"You'll never get anywhere with your soft liberal attitudes," snarled the Wicked Step Mum. "You need to toughen up and learn to be nasty!"
"Yes Step Mother dearest," was all Snow White would say, which irritated the heck out of the Wicked Step Mum who was hoping to provoke Snow White into a fight so she could discredit her with the King.
As Snow White grew up, she showed signs of becoming a talented writer and became popular, not only with the local Writing Circle, but also with the King's subjects on the Internet, where she would put her short stories on-line for all to read.
The Wicked Step Mum started to put short stories on the Internet too. She even forced members of the local Writer's Circle to vote for them on the Top List Web Sites to make her stories look more popular than Snow White's. But, as time passed, the Wicked Step Mum grew more and more worried that Snow White was outshining her.
It was the Wicked Step Mum's habit to peek and poke in Snow White's mail. One day, a package arrived for Snow White containing a desktop search bot program.
"Search for everything you desire and anything you want using the world's latest cutting edge artificial intelligence search algorithms!"
the cover proudly boasted.
It was the opportunity the Wicked Step Mum had been waiting for and she immediately decided to do a web search to see whether she or Snow White was the most popular writer amongst the King's subjects.
The instructions explained that the search bot was activated by the first line of an old fairy tale. So the Wicked Step Mum typed into her computer:
"Mirror Mirror on the wall who is the best free online short story writer of them all?"
There was a brief pause and the search bot replied:
"Though thou art clever, fine and fair,
Snow White's short stories are the best anywhere!"
This threw the Wicked Step Mum into a great rage so she kicked the cat and locked Snow White in her room for three days with nothing but bread and water and a computer dictionary to read.
Again and again, the Wicked Step Mum typed in search phrases in an attempt to find a story genre where the search bot would admit she was more popular than Snow White.
"Mirror mirror on the wall who writes short stories that are the funniest, the saddest, the most thrilling and the most romantic of them all."
The answer came back "Snow White".
"Mirror mirror on the wall who writes the best on-line fiction, sudden fiction, micro fiction, micro-stories, postcard fiction, very short stories and short short stories."
The answer still came back "Snow White".
"Mirror mirror on the wall, who writes the best on-line romance, thrillers, science fiction, mystery and crime short stories ?"
Each time, the search bot came back saying it was Snow White's stories which were the best, the funniest, the saddest and the most romantic in the world.
Finally, in desperation, the Queen commanded all her subjects in the Kingdom to vote for her stories on the Top Sites.
Afterwards, when The Queen questioned the search bot and got the same reply that Snow White was the better writer, the Wicked Step Mum flew into the greatest rage of all, frothed at the mouth and lay on the floor screaming.
So the King was forced to send the Queen to a far off part of his Kingdom, where the Queen could be prevented from doing any harm to herself or frightening the King's subjects.
When the King let Snow White out of her bedroom, she was very happy because reading the computer dictionary day after day was getting very boring.
She spotted the CD containing the search bot software lying besides the Queen's computer.
In her rage, the Queen had cut the CD into many pieces with the sharpest of scissors and battered the fragments with a heavy hammer.
However, Snow White still made sure she paid for the software by return and enclosed the sweetest of letters.
Can you guess what she wrote in her letter?
This is what she said.
Dear Sir
I enclose $100 in payment for your excellent practical joke wind up search bot software, with optimised artificial intelligence algorithms for maximum irritation.
Your wonderful software worked perfectly.
Regards
Snow White
After which, Snow White and the King, who, like his subjects, found he didn't miss the Queen at all, lived together happily in the Palace for ever after.
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this modern fairy tale and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
Tracy left her high heels on the flat asphalt roof and clambered onto the dark parapet that ran along the edge of the London multi-story car park.
She shivered as the cold night wind bit into her bare back unprotected by her low cut black dress.
A taxi roared by far below and there was the smell of stale curry coming from the dimly lit Indian restaurant, now closed for the night, at the end of the street.
The parapet was about a metre wide. Tracy had always been terrified of heights. With heart pounding, she edged forward.
Her whole being seethed with anger, not only with the British Government but also with herself.
The British Government had said gambling was just another entertainment industry, no different from enjoying a film or a concert. The Minister had appeared on UK National Television besides a roulette wheel with a big smile on her face that said "Look how safe this is!"
Tracy's mum, still in her care assistant uniform, had strongly disagreed and had banged the iron down on the ironing board to emphasise her point.
"Only fools gamble," she complained, "That woman's talking rubbish. You'd be better off putting your money away in a Bank and earning some interest."
Her father agreed with her mum. Newly retired, watching television was his main entertainment, apart from cups of tea and smoking his pipe. He spoke ponderously, cupping Tracy's hands in his own, watery blue eyes pleading. He knew his daughter was headstrong. His eyes betrayed his belief that she wouldn't listen. Nevertheless, he still slipped her £100 "For the children".
"You've got a good teaching job, a fine husband and a great couple of teenage kids. Isn't that enough excitement for you?"
But it wasn't and the picture of the Minister and the roulette wheel haunted Tracy. It was a world that was tempting and exciting. There was a sense of mystery and passion. It aroused her curiosity and the sophisticated advertising said "Try me, I'm fun. You can't get hurt."
She remembered bitterly her first intoxicating taste of the casino. The dark cocktail dress she'd so carefully purchased. The smart and sophisticated businessmen who cheered her on when she won. The clatter of the ball, the warmth and fellowship of the other gamblers, the sense of shared excitement and the joy of winning that kept her going until she had no chips left.
That was the first time but it was just the beginning. From the roulette wheel, she moved onto private poker parties which gave her a sense of being special, being in the exalted company of experts. When she'd lost her money again, she stayed on and shared the excitement as an onlooker. The male players liked her long black hair and slim figure and were happy to have her around.
Sometimes they would give her something to play with. After a while she found teasing the men would get her a bit more. Then it became a loan that she knew she could pay off before the end of the evening because she was feeling lucky.
But, inevitably, she wasn't. In the dimly lit kitchen of the flat where the private poker game had been held, with her face pressed against the bread bin and her hips against the hard work surface, she found a way of clearing her debts that was better than having to admit her losses to her husband.
Rick, Tracy's husband, didn't realise that she'd stopped working at the school until weeks after. He left early for the City of London dressed in his crumpled grey suit and harassed smile.
The poker schools were often held during the day so Tracy just started going to the poker school instead of going to work.
It was more fun and there was the chance she could make immensely more money as a professional gambler than ever she could as a teacher.
She had to learn and learn quickly so cultivated the friendship of the men who were high rollers, men who turned up with a wad of money and slammed it down on the table to show they were good for the game. Men who were happy to give Tracy some private tuition in the intricacies of the card games they played, as long as Tracy looked after them in return.
Tracy took another step towards the edge of the parapet. The smiling face of the British Minister for Gambling floated in the darkness in front of her, still reassuring that gambling was just another leisure industry. It had now been joined by the hard faces of the men who'd seen Tracy coming and relieved her of every last penny she'd been able to get her hands on.
When John, her husband, had found out about Tracy's gambling, he'd gone completely berserk.
"What? You are completely out of your mind. How on earth are we going to cope?"
Tracy's main thought was that it was only bad luck that he'd found out. Unknown to John, Tracy had taken out a temporary bridging loan with the Bank which was secured on their house. She'd lied that a relative had died leaving some money and claimed there was the opportunity of getting an extension for their house done cheaply, providing they didn't have to wait for the inheritance money to arrive.
The bank teller's eyebrows had raised when Tracy had wanted the money in cash but the loan had been agreed and the cash had been handed over with no questions.
Tracy remembered how important she'd felt when she sat down at the table with the high rollers, confident that she would now be a permanent feature, respected and revered by the other females who were only allowed to attend the game to brighten the place up with their low cut dresses and smiles.
But, at the end of the evening, a bad run on the cards had left her with nothing, except the knowledge that John was bound now to find out and would try to put an end to her gambling just as she getting established.
When he did find out, they had their first ever argument. John demanded that she never gamble again. Amid all the tears and the regret, never gambling again was the one thing she couldn't possibly accept.
So, in the early hours of the morning, telling herself she was doing it for the good of her family, she left for London where a gambling buddy with a small flat and a big passion for her had promised to put her in touch with the local gambling scene.
Tracy was convinced that John was wrong. Unless she kept gambling, there was no way she could win back the huge amounts of money she'd already lost.
She promised herself that she would send money back from her winnings to help John pay off the crippling mortgage they now owed to the Bank.
Tracy was almost half way to the edge of the parapet. She'd always been scared of heights.
She resolved not to pause. Better not to think. Better just to keep going.
The Minister's smiling face floated in the open air beyond the edge.
"Just another leisure industry."
Her gambling buddies with their cruel smiles floated in the dark besides the Minister.
It only took a week before her London gambler friend was threatening to kick her out.
"You're bringing me bad luck, Tracy. If you stay, you've got to pay."
His face hardened.
"There will be some drinks after the poker party with some girls and a few high rollers with money to throw around. Set your terms and you can make enough money in one night to keep you going for months," he said.
Tracy felt the wind blowing against the bruises on her face and remembered how it was she who had been thrown around and not the high roller's money.
Swaying in the strong wind, she was now at the edge of the parapet.
One more chance to get lucky, she thought. Tightly held in her hand, was her last pound coin.
Heads she would jump. Tails she would join a convent and become a nun.
She flipped the coin. It spun high in the air. She could hardly see it in the dark.
She reached out to catch the coin. Somewhere to her right was a smart suited Minister reassuring the gamblers, as they floating in the air, that gambling was just a bit of fun and no different from any other leisure industry.
In the cold night, Tracy had already overbalanced. The journey down took hardly any time. The pavement took away all her breath and broke her body.
But it was gambling that took away her life.
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Message from the author.
Please, if gambling is causing you or your loved ones problems, there are organisations that can and want to help eg. GAMCARE. Harming yourself will harm your loved ones. Seeking help for yourself will help your loved ones. In other words, don't jump but get help!
If you have never gambled and are contemplating taking up this dreadful form of entertainment, please don't. In the author's humble opinion, gambling is like playing with a loaded revolver. It may be entertaining for a while but can rapidly cause immense damage.
If you are a politician who has supported the expansion of gambling in the UK , please read why I believe you are so wrong.
Rob's quote of the day
Good fortune is more likely to happen when you don't leave it to mere chance, especially when the odds are stacked against you.
Bye for now
Rob
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
She shivered as the cold night wind bit into her bare back unprotected by her low cut black dress.
A taxi roared by far below and there was the smell of stale curry coming from the dimly lit Indian restaurant, now closed for the night, at the end of the street.
The parapet was about a metre wide. Tracy had always been terrified of heights. With heart pounding, she edged forward.
Her whole being seethed with anger, not only with the British Government but also with herself.
The British Government had said gambling was just another entertainment industry, no different from enjoying a film or a concert. The Minister had appeared on UK National Television besides a roulette wheel with a big smile on her face that said "Look how safe this is!"
Tracy's mum, still in her care assistant uniform, had strongly disagreed and had banged the iron down on the ironing board to emphasise her point.
"Only fools gamble," she complained, "That woman's talking rubbish. You'd be better off putting your money away in a Bank and earning some interest."
Her father agreed with her mum. Newly retired, watching television was his main entertainment, apart from cups of tea and smoking his pipe. He spoke ponderously, cupping Tracy's hands in his own, watery blue eyes pleading. He knew his daughter was headstrong. His eyes betrayed his belief that she wouldn't listen. Nevertheless, he still slipped her £100 "For the children".
"You've got a good teaching job, a fine husband and a great couple of teenage kids. Isn't that enough excitement for you?"
But it wasn't and the picture of the Minister and the roulette wheel haunted Tracy. It was a world that was tempting and exciting. There was a sense of mystery and passion. It aroused her curiosity and the sophisticated advertising said "Try me, I'm fun. You can't get hurt."
She remembered bitterly her first intoxicating taste of the casino. The dark cocktail dress she'd so carefully purchased. The smart and sophisticated businessmen who cheered her on when she won. The clatter of the ball, the warmth and fellowship of the other gamblers, the sense of shared excitement and the joy of winning that kept her going until she had no chips left.
That was the first time but it was just the beginning. From the roulette wheel, she moved onto private poker parties which gave her a sense of being special, being in the exalted company of experts. When she'd lost her money again, she stayed on and shared the excitement as an onlooker. The male players liked her long black hair and slim figure and were happy to have her around.
Sometimes they would give her something to play with. After a while she found teasing the men would get her a bit more. Then it became a loan that she knew she could pay off before the end of the evening because she was feeling lucky.
But, inevitably, she wasn't. In the dimly lit kitchen of the flat where the private poker game had been held, with her face pressed against the bread bin and her hips against the hard work surface, she found a way of clearing her debts that was better than having to admit her losses to her husband.
Rick, Tracy's husband, didn't realise that she'd stopped working at the school until weeks after. He left early for the City of London dressed in his crumpled grey suit and harassed smile.
The poker schools were often held during the day so Tracy just started going to the poker school instead of going to work.
It was more fun and there was the chance she could make immensely more money as a professional gambler than ever she could as a teacher.
She had to learn and learn quickly so cultivated the friendship of the men who were high rollers, men who turned up with a wad of money and slammed it down on the table to show they were good for the game. Men who were happy to give Tracy some private tuition in the intricacies of the card games they played, as long as Tracy looked after them in return.
Tracy took another step towards the edge of the parapet. The smiling face of the British Minister for Gambling floated in the darkness in front of her, still reassuring that gambling was just another leisure industry. It had now been joined by the hard faces of the men who'd seen Tracy coming and relieved her of every last penny she'd been able to get her hands on.
When John, her husband, had found out about Tracy's gambling, he'd gone completely berserk.
"What? You are completely out of your mind. How on earth are we going to cope?"
Tracy's main thought was that it was only bad luck that he'd found out. Unknown to John, Tracy had taken out a temporary bridging loan with the Bank which was secured on their house. She'd lied that a relative had died leaving some money and claimed there was the opportunity of getting an extension for their house done cheaply, providing they didn't have to wait for the inheritance money to arrive.
The bank teller's eyebrows had raised when Tracy had wanted the money in cash but the loan had been agreed and the cash had been handed over with no questions.
Tracy remembered how important she'd felt when she sat down at the table with the high rollers, confident that she would now be a permanent feature, respected and revered by the other females who were only allowed to attend the game to brighten the place up with their low cut dresses and smiles.
But, at the end of the evening, a bad run on the cards had left her with nothing, except the knowledge that John was bound now to find out and would try to put an end to her gambling just as she getting established.
When he did find out, they had their first ever argument. John demanded that she never gamble again. Amid all the tears and the regret, never gambling again was the one thing she couldn't possibly accept.
So, in the early hours of the morning, telling herself she was doing it for the good of her family, she left for London where a gambling buddy with a small flat and a big passion for her had promised to put her in touch with the local gambling scene.
Tracy was convinced that John was wrong. Unless she kept gambling, there was no way she could win back the huge amounts of money she'd already lost.
She promised herself that she would send money back from her winnings to help John pay off the crippling mortgage they now owed to the Bank.
Tracy was almost half way to the edge of the parapet. She'd always been scared of heights.
She resolved not to pause. Better not to think. Better just to keep going.
The Minister's smiling face floated in the open air beyond the edge.
"Just another leisure industry."
Her gambling buddies with their cruel smiles floated in the dark besides the Minister.
It only took a week before her London gambler friend was threatening to kick her out.
"You're bringing me bad luck, Tracy. If you stay, you've got to pay."
His face hardened.
"There will be some drinks after the poker party with some girls and a few high rollers with money to throw around. Set your terms and you can make enough money in one night to keep you going for months," he said.
Tracy felt the wind blowing against the bruises on her face and remembered how it was she who had been thrown around and not the high roller's money.
Swaying in the strong wind, she was now at the edge of the parapet.
One more chance to get lucky, she thought. Tightly held in her hand, was her last pound coin.
Heads she would jump. Tails she would join a convent and become a nun.
She flipped the coin. It spun high in the air. She could hardly see it in the dark.
She reached out to catch the coin. Somewhere to her right was a smart suited Minister reassuring the gamblers, as they floating in the air, that gambling was just a bit of fun and no different from any other leisure industry.
In the cold night, Tracy had already overbalanced. The journey down took hardly any time. The pavement took away all her breath and broke her body.
But it was gambling that took away her life.
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Message from the author.
Please, if gambling is causing you or your loved ones problems, there are organisations that can and want to help eg. GAMCARE. Harming yourself will harm your loved ones. Seeking help for yourself will help your loved ones. In other words, don't jump but get help!
If you have never gambled and are contemplating taking up this dreadful form of entertainment, please don't. In the author's humble opinion, gambling is like playing with a loaded revolver. It may be entertaining for a while but can rapidly cause immense damage.
If you are a politician who has supported the expansion of gambling in the UK , please read why I believe you are so wrong.
Rob's quote of the day
Good fortune is more likely to happen when you don't leave it to mere chance, especially when the odds are stacked against you.
Bye for now
Rob
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
If you are an author, would you be brave enough to sell your short story, short stories or novels face to face? In this short story, this author was bold enough ... but he didn't live to tell the tale.
Writers are so often retiring flowers who prefer the tranquility of a small, hidden away personal room populated by their characters.
But story telling in the olden days was by travelling gypsies who would tell their tales around the camp fire in exchange for a meal or a place to lay their head for the night.
Even today, at summer camps around the world, small boys recount ghost stories designed to chill the bones of their fellow campers as they retire for the night into the dark shadows.
Why then should modern authors fear facing their public? Where's the harm in selling door to door? (I know somebody who used to sell origami door to door and made a modest living.) If it's a good story, why not feel proud and get out there, sell and say goodbye to middle men publishers.
The author who is the subject of this article sold his work at open air markets from an upturned wooden box.
Would you be brave enough to do that?
See what happened to him ...
Bye for now
Rob
(Rob Hopcott - online author and lover of a good story)
Writers are so often retiring flowers who prefer the tranquility of a small, hidden away personal room populated by their characters.
But story telling in the olden days was by travelling gypsies who would tell their tales around the camp fire in exchange for a meal or a place to lay their head for the night.
Even today, at summer camps around the world, small boys recount ghost stories designed to chill the bones of their fellow campers as they retire for the night into the dark shadows.
Why then should modern authors fear facing their public? Where's the harm in selling door to door? (I know somebody who used to sell origami door to door and made a modest living.) If it's a good story, why not feel proud and get out there, sell and say goodbye to middle men publishers.
The author who is the subject of this article sold his work at open air markets from an upturned wooden box.
Would you be brave enough to do that?
See what happened to him ...
Bye for now
Rob
(Rob Hopcott - online author and lover of a good story)
Engaging, delightful and ruminative. 'Four short crushes' is an excellent short story or series of short stories published in The New Yorker 30th April 2007 and written by Paul Simms.
Engaging because the lead character is like us. We look, we imagine, we are attracted but, then, that's it.
Delightful because the stories have an immediacy and a flow that makes them easy to read to the end.
Ruminative because the stories don't seek answers to great questions of life or the universe. They are about crushes, women, girlfriends, bars, Starbucks, restaurants and rain. What more do you want?
Four short crushes by Paul Simms is a good read and deserves checking out.
What do you think? Have you secret crushes? Comment and tell all!
Bye for now
Rob
(Rob Hopcott - online author who believes we should all enjoy our harmless little crushes and, sometimes, tell all)
Engaging because the lead character is like us. We look, we imagine, we are attracted but, then, that's it.
Delightful because the stories have an immediacy and a flow that makes them easy to read to the end.
Ruminative because the stories don't seek answers to great questions of life or the universe. They are about crushes, women, girlfriends, bars, Starbucks, restaurants and rain. What more do you want?
Four short crushes by Paul Simms is a good read and deserves checking out.
What do you think? Have you secret crushes? Comment and tell all!
Bye for now
Rob
(Rob Hopcott - online author who believes we should all enjoy our harmless little crushes and, sometimes, tell all)
Rivetting short story opening lines are hard to find available free to read on the Internet. A Grave Error by Cheryl Kaye Tardif is the exception.
Strong characterisation of the ex-husband left me feeling he only got what he deserved. Then I thought 'Oh my goodness, I'm condoning murder?'
So perhaps I'd better keep my reactions to the short story to myself ...
A good free read.
By for now
Rob
(Rob Hopcott - free online fiction author)
Myrtle Murphy had everything she wanted out of life?a dead husband, a grown son who’d moved to the opposite coast and neighbors who minded their own business. But what she didn’t have was money. She needed a job.Already, the reader gets the feeling that Myrtle Murphy will stop at nothing to get what she wants. Just the stuff for a good read. I was hooked!
Strong characterisation of the ex-husband left me feeling he only got what he deserved. Then I thought 'Oh my goodness, I'm condoning murder?'
So perhaps I'd better keep my reactions to the short story to myself ...
A good free read.
By for now
Rob
(Rob Hopcott - free online fiction author)
This blog aims to find and review collections of fiction short stories available online and free to read.
There are lots of fiction short stories online but sometimes they are difficult to find because they get lost in the 'noise' of people talking about writing short stories, reviewing short stories sold in books, short story contests and even non-fiction short stories on specific subjects.
Quite simple, this web log will link to short stories, short story collections and short short stories that I like. I confess that I prefer literature short stories, in other words, great short stories and inspirational short stories which have a bit more to them than just a random thought.
Hopefully, I will be able to identify some of the best short stories around, as I travel around the web.
I would very much welcome suggestions and if you have a short story you think is a short story people would want to read or even a collection of free short stories, add the url as a comment below and I will check it out.
Funny short stories, classic short stories, short love stories, science fiction short stories, very short stories, romance short stories, sad short stories, horror short stories, mystery short stories and more. All are welcome.
The short story is a wonderful medium and a lunch break or coffee break is an ideal time to read short stories. Why not book mark this page or use the RSS aggregator system to notify you of new short storys as they are discovered.
If you have a yen to write a short story, why not put it on your blog and let me know by a comment below and I will try to check it out for a special mention. If you are unsure about how to go about writing short stories, my short story writers hints and tips may help with short story ideas and the beginnings of some short story analysis.
So short story authors and short story writers, this is your opportunity for some publicity for your short story fiction and I look forward to hearing from you.
Bye for now
Rob
(Rob Hopcott - free online short story author and addicted to short stories and a good read)
There are lots of fiction short stories online but sometimes they are difficult to find because they get lost in the 'noise' of people talking about writing short stories, reviewing short stories sold in books, short story contests and even non-fiction short stories on specific subjects.
Quite simple, this web log will link to short stories, short story collections and short short stories that I like. I confess that I prefer literature short stories, in other words, great short stories and inspirational short stories which have a bit more to them than just a random thought.
Hopefully, I will be able to identify some of the best short stories around, as I travel around the web.
I would very much welcome suggestions and if you have a short story you think is a short story people would want to read or even a collection of free short stories, add the url as a comment below and I will check it out.
Funny short stories, classic short stories, short love stories, science fiction short stories, very short stories, romance short stories, sad short stories, horror short stories, mystery short stories and more. All are welcome.
The short story is a wonderful medium and a lunch break or coffee break is an ideal time to read short stories. Why not book mark this page or use the RSS aggregator system to notify you of new short storys as they are discovered.
If you have a yen to write a short story, why not put it on your blog and let me know by a comment below and I will try to check it out for a special mention. If you are unsure about how to go about writing short stories, my short story writers hints and tips may help with short story ideas and the beginnings of some short story analysis.
So short story authors and short story writers, this is your opportunity for some publicity for your short story fiction and I look forward to hearing from you.
Bye for now
Rob
(Rob Hopcott - free online short story author and addicted to short stories and a good read)
Todays google alert on the term 'short story' threw up a wonderful short story by Eric Wilder called 'Downthrown side of the fault'.
Eric Wilder has a fluid, easy to read writing style and the story pulls the reader in nicely.
I have to confess that I'm surprised that my short story google alert hasn't produced more actual short stories over the last few weeks of the alert. Most of the blog entries have seemed to be reviews of short stories in paper published books.
I've been toying with the idea of setting up a blog to replace my collected links to other author's online short stories and to complement my own personal list of short stories and online novels.
I was just on the verge of cancelling the alert when Eric Wilder's short story popped up.
Maybe I'll keep the alert going a little longer and see if there are any more good short stories that surface.
Bye for now
Rob
(Rob Hopcott - online author and lover of a well written short story)
Eric Wilder has a fluid, easy to read writing style and the story pulls the reader in nicely.
I have to confess that I'm surprised that my short story google alert hasn't produced more actual short stories over the last few weeks of the alert. Most of the blog entries have seemed to be reviews of short stories in paper published books.
I've been toying with the idea of setting up a blog to replace my collected links to other author's online short stories and to complement my own personal list of short stories and online novels.
I was just on the verge of cancelling the alert when Eric Wilder's short story popped up.
Maybe I'll keep the alert going a little longer and see if there are any more good short stories that surface.
Bye for now
Rob
(Rob Hopcott - online author and lover of a well written short story)
Creative fiction short stories are rather like colds or flu. They'll bug you until you have a good sneeze and let them out.
I've had a science fiction (SF) short story that's been nagging me to be written for something like three years now. You know the sort of thing. Somebody tells you about a story they've written and, ping, your mind conjures up a variation.
Like a cold that needs to break, this SF short story keeps niggling me and wanting to come out.
Problem is I don't write Sci Fi and don't particularly want to.
While this short Sci-Fi story has been nagging me, I've written lots of other fictional stories so it isn't a question of writer's block or anything like that.
Maybe I'm just a stubborn old *** that doesn't like to be pushed around.
Here's the real rub. It's now been joined by another short story that also want to get into print.
Aaaaeghhh! They're ganging up on me!
It's a romantic Thomas Crown Affair chess short horror story ... You know the sort of thing. Lots of sultry eye contact while chess pieces are moved about the chess board like the hero and heroine want to manipulate each other. It's got a twist that makes it a bit different and a touch of horror. But I'm not sure how different it would be so that's perhaps why I don't want to write it.
What about a short story about a short story writer driven mad by a plague of creative short story ideas that won't leave him alone.
Oh no! Not another!
Perhaps I should just sneeze, give in and go down with a really good dose of creative flu and get it over with ...
But how long would the respite last? There are so many creativity germs about.
Bye for now
Rob
(Rob Hopcott - online author all bunged up with creative writing flu)
I've had a science fiction (SF) short story that's been nagging me to be written for something like three years now. You know the sort of thing. Somebody tells you about a story they've written and, ping, your mind conjures up a variation.
Like a cold that needs to break, this SF short story keeps niggling me and wanting to come out.
Problem is I don't write Sci Fi and don't particularly want to.
While this short Sci-Fi story has been nagging me, I've written lots of other fictional stories so it isn't a question of writer's block or anything like that.
Maybe I'm just a stubborn old *** that doesn't like to be pushed around.
Here's the real rub. It's now been joined by another short story that also want to get into print.
Aaaaeghhh! They're ganging up on me!
It's a romantic Thomas Crown Affair chess short horror story ... You know the sort of thing. Lots of sultry eye contact while chess pieces are moved about the chess board like the hero and heroine want to manipulate each other. It's got a twist that makes it a bit different and a touch of horror. But I'm not sure how different it would be so that's perhaps why I don't want to write it.
What about a short story about a short story writer driven mad by a plague of creative short story ideas that won't leave him alone.
Oh no! Not another!
Perhaps I should just sneeze, give in and go down with a really good dose of creative flu and get it over with ...
But how long would the respite last? There are so many creativity germs about.
Bye for now
Rob
(Rob Hopcott - online author all bunged up with creative writing flu)
I was just reading a post by Betsy Dornbusch about authors trimming word count being the single most important thing to improve a short story.
For me, movement is the key.
'She lunged forward, eyes wide' asks questions immediately about why, purpose and her inner tension.
Smell and sound also precipitate action.
'The acrid smell of burned flesh ...'
'The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the window ... ' makes us look inside to see what else is happening in the kitchen.
Action moves story along in an environment populated by smells and sounds.
Smells and sounds stimulates characters reaction.
In many ways, sight is what the reader provides from their own personal library. We just have to tap into it.
Rob
(Rob Hopcott - online author and big on smelliness)
For me, movement is the key.
'She lunged forward, eyes wide' asks questions immediately about why, purpose and her inner tension.
Smell and sound also precipitate action.
'The acrid smell of burned flesh ...'
'The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the window ... ' makes us look inside to see what else is happening in the kitchen.
Action moves story along in an environment populated by smells and sounds.
Smells and sounds stimulates characters reaction.
In many ways, sight is what the reader provides from their own personal library. We just have to tap into it.
Rob
(Rob Hopcott - online author and big on smelliness)