When I started writing in 1985, I wrote only short stories some of which were for publications that had punitive word limits. I would struggle to edit the stories to 600 words (for two weekly magazines) whilst still telling the story, for example from 1985:
"Off Beat"
John strode purposefully along
the darkened High Street, turning the corner into Mill Lane and into the glare
of the sodium street lamp. "If only I had my Oyster
card, I wouldn't have needed to walk through this neighbourhood." he
thought to himself.
His worn tan overcoat was
unbuttoned and revealed the uniform of a police constable beneath. As if to
confirm this fact a silver badged helmet was stuck tightly in the crook of his
arm. "Excuse me Young man." John stopped dead in his tracks.
This was not the sort of area to hang around on a dark night, especially in
police uniform.
"Hello there, Cooieee." An aged female voice interrupted
his thoughts.
"Well, she looks harmless
enough." he thought as he watched the old lady cross the deserted road. "Can
I help you, Madam?" His tone was polite but superior. You had to be like
that in his job."I can see that you are off duty young man," she said "but we have just found this wallet near the bus stop - haven't we, Alice?"
Alice, who had remained on the other
side of the road in case the bus came, smiled and nodded in agreement even
though she could not possibly have heard the question.
"There's over three hundred
pounds in it luv," the old lady continued, "not that we were being
nosy, you understand doesn't do in these parts, being nosy." John felt he had to stop the
barrage of chatter being directed at him.
"Yes, Madam, how exactly can
I help you?" he asked quickly. She thrust the Wallet into John's
reluctant hands and he examined it carefully. There was a driver’s licence, two
credit cards, a few sundry bits of paper and a sheaf of twenty pound notes,
pushing into insignificance the single ten pound note that preceded them.
The old lady interrupted his
concentration again.
"It belongs to a Mr. Amos of
Raintree Drive. It says so, there on the driving licence" She said pointing.
But our bus is due soon, you see, and we don't know our way around here, so we
thought perhaps you could deliver it for us."
The old lady looked trustingly up
into his face and John smiled. "Of course I will. Just you
make sure you catch your bus. Good night." The old lady hurried across the
road to meet the oncoming number nine bus. John watched as it pulled away and
waved to the old lady who returned the gesture. Her friend Alice just smiled
and nodded.
John looked at his watch and
decided that he had time to deliver the wallet on his way without being too
late and so he set off in the direction of Raintree Drive. The address inside
the wallet suggested a large, imposing Georgian style house with a long tarmac
driveway on which, he supposed, a Porsche or a BMW might stand. He wasn't
disappointed. He walked up to the front door
and rang the bell. There was no reply. As the house was in total darkness he
decided to drop the wallet through the letter box. Before doing so, he opened
the wallet and checked the address and the contents once more.
The deed done, he went on his way
and after ten minutes brisk walking he found himself standing outside a
brightly illuminated house, waiting for a reply to his knock. A shadow darkened
the half glazed door, and it clicked open to reveal a man wearing an eye patch
and a bandanna. The jovial fellow beckoned John inside taking his overcoat.
John spoke quietly, almost conspiratorially. The smiling creditor looked on in
disbelief as John took a solitary ten pound note from front of the large roll
of Twenty pound notes in his hand and repaid his debt.
"Good heavens, John. There
must be over three hundred quid there."
John pushed the wad of twenty
pound notes back into his pocket and his face cracked into a broad grin as he
said. "Yes I must admit I had a
stroke of luck today."
"Come and meet the
others" said Terry, and led John into a noisy lounge crowded with nuns,
French tarts, and others dressed in equally bizarre attire. "Look, everyone," Terry
shouted. "John's come dressed as a Policeman."The biggest short story challenge I faced was to write a thriller in fifty words for a radio programme. My effort was:
'Instant Justice
Ignoring the dying Chinese shopkeeper, Myron raced through the exit at speed dropping the mask and gun into the moneybag. Commuters ignored him, too concerned about keeping warm. The tall robber hit the icy pavement and slid uncontrollably into the road. The fast moving van braked too late.'
In literary circles I believe that the short story is much underrated, I could name long movies and entire series of TV programmes that were based on a single short story. There are also many beloved literary characters who only ever appeared either in a single short story or in numerous short stories.
I hope that it would be fair to say that short stories demand a lot from the author but not toomuch from the reader, which is probably the way it should be. I'm thinking of calling my short story compilation "Six Pairs of Shorts", let me know what you think at jjacksonbentley@london.com.
