Alright, so I was going to write a short story in my usual style, you know, quick setup of a scenario or situation, two or three characters, then let the dialogue carry it through. As much as I love dialogue, I don’t want to get too rigid or worse, stale, so I’m trying this approach, since there’s something I’m trying to get at. I’ll write a short story about the short story I was going to write.
Title: What a Little Bit of Rain Can Do
Credit: written by
Author: Holly Verrit
Julie – Asian, late twenties, Jim’s wife
Jim – White, mid-thirties, Julie’s husband
Waiter – A waiter
Mario’s, a local Italian place.
This short one act play takes place closer to noon.
Right outside a public library, evening. Nancy standing by the entrance. Michael rushed out and bumped into Nancy.
“No, that was my bad.”
Michael started to leave.
“I just want my cup of coffee.”
Three steps out of the firm’s office–already he was interrupted.
“Harvey–I was just in the area and I wanted to hear your thoughts on the–”
“Bullshit you were in the area, Ronnie. I saw you jump the second you saw me. You were waiting for me.”
“Be that as it may–”
Harvey walked off. Ronnie chased after him.
a parody of advertisement, written by Amérique Nakamura
He looked out the window. He saw up to the horizon. He cursed under his breath.
Belmondo rushed out the room to the hall down the steps and into the kitchen and to Mrs. Franz.
She sat at the kitchen table. Legs crossed across the dusty surface. Feet up. Book in her hands.
Belmondo breathed heavy and said, “Mrs. Franz.”
The Fucking Consequences of Your Health and Salvation!
Anna Wang: A woman in her late thirties. Anarchist.
Marciel Karina: Her lawyer.
The following excerpt from ACT ONE takes place in an interrogation room.
–PREVUES OF COMING ATTRACTIONS–
The image fuzzy–warm and blurry with the edges bleeding. The sound warped. Cult-classic foreign flick Harajuku Blues on VHS. Subtitles provided.
–TAPE HICCUPS AND SKIP SKIP SKIPS–
The following is a translated, unpublished submission to the July 1977 edition of the French literary magazine La Crime. It’s author, Amérique Nakamura, is in hiding and wanted for crimes against the state, such as bombmaking and reading.
‘I was trying to write then and I found the greatest difficulty, aside from knowing truly what you really felt, rather than what you were supposed to feel, and had been taught to feel, was to put down what really happened in action; what the actual things were which produced the emotion that you experienced. In writing for a newspaper you told what happened and, with one trick and another, you communicated the emotion aided by the element of timeliness which gives a certain emotion to any account of something that has happened on that day; but the real thing, the sequence of motion and fact which made the emotion and which would be as valid in a year or in ten years or, with luck and if you stated it purely enough, always, was beyond me and I was working very hard to get it.’
Ernest Hemingway, 1932
It feels weird to write something like this when I haven’t really written anything substantial myself, but then again Jean-Luc Godard got his start in film criticism before making Breathless, so I guess I’ll go in real quick.
“No way, nuh uh. I’m not telling you a goddamn thing.”
Cafe Sharktooth, night. Booth in the back. Bustling. Becky and Sawyer. A banana split and a half-eaten pie and a cup of coffee between them. Rockabilly from a jukebox somewhere.
Sawyer popped out and lit yet another Gauloises and set it between her lips and then said, “Why the fuck not?”