I have written about fifty or so short stories. I have a readership that numbers in the high single digits.
But now I am experiencing writer’s block so I thought I might as well learn how to write a story. What the hell.
I have a persistent image in my mind based on an old black-white photo of my great-grandmother swallowed up in black clothes and crossing a street. Do not ask me why. Maybe learning how to write a short story will get me going. I am encouraged to move forward with it by this poem from a First Grade Blog:
Seed Story
`There was a child who wanted to write
But didn’t know where to start
Begin with a seed! Begin with a seed!
So – a little old lady crosses a street.
Did you know that there are whole books about how to write a short story, far longer than any short story? I mean, what’s the point?
No, the much-preferred research methodology these days is to do a Google search. I know because I taught in a community college and that’s how students do it. I refuse, however, to copy and paste from the web page I’m on, something a few students are wont to do. I do have morals, you know. Sometimes, I even have ethics.
So, a Google search on Elements of a Short Story returned at least 18 pages of results. From this search I learned these are the precise number of elements in a short story:
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9
- 10
- 11
Therein lies the problem with Google. Any goober with the proper access can publish whatever and which goober is authoritative? What happens when authoritative sources contradict each other and sometimes even themselves? Why are there anywhere between three and eleven elements of a short story?
I myself have published Four Elements of Writing a Short Story. It is on my blog and therefore authoritative.
Modesty precludes me from using my own four elements, but since I have started this mess, I guess I should do something with it. The most common number of elements cited in the Google search is five, so we will use that and why not?
The following five elements are from a blog called Papertrue:
- Plot
- Characters
- Setting
- Conflict
- Theme
Here, then, are the elements for my short story:
- Plot: unfortunately, a direct conflict with my writing methodology – how do I know what the plot is until I have written it?
- Characters: a little old lady, an old man, a cub scout, a cheerleader, and a police officer.
- Setting: a street crossing in a small town.
- Conflict: who owns the street?
- Theme: generational power struggle.
And away we go.
Who Owns the Street?
Myrtle Martin passed the Tea-rific Teapot Museum, the pride and joy of Elloree, South Carolina, on Main Street on her way to the one intersection in town, where Elder Street crossed Main.
She had made this single solitary trip with the aid of her cane every Sunday when traffic was light to non-existent to the Elloree No-Nonsense Knick-Knack store for needles and thread since the death of her longtime roommate, Mable Olmaid, twenty years ago. Both had been teachers at Elloree High (Go Bobcats!) when they retired at the same time.
After Mable’s death, Myrtle started stitching together a quilt in her memory. Over the years, the quilt had gotten quite large, so much so that it overlaid the floor and the furniture in both the living and dining room and crept into the hallway and the bedroom where it also served as a bedspread for the queen-size bed. Mrytle padded her way throughout the house in her pink Minnie Mouse nightgown and soft yellow Minnie Mouse slippers so as to not muss up the quilt. She rarely had visitors.
Myrtle was indeed a creature of habit. As she tapped-tapped-tapped her cane down Main Street, she wore her customary outfit – lace-up black boots, long pleated black skirt, long sleeved pleated black blouse buttoned at the top, and a big floppy black hat with little plastic daisies in the headband.
By-the-by, she came upon the intersection of Elder and Main with the town’s solitary stop light. She started across the street with her usual deliberate speed, even though the light was green. Fortunately, hardly any traffic ever came into town and in the outbound lane, Mr. Dithers’ 1976 Chevrolet C10 step-side truck had stalled as usual, whereupon he started his routine to get it started again.
First, he got out, opened the hood and jiggled some wires and cables, closed the hood, got back in the cabin, and turned the key. No luck. Then he got out with a hammer, banged a few times on the alternator and starter, closed the hood, got back in the cabin, turned the key and again no luck. Then he got out with a spray can. took the top off the carburetor, sprayed ether into it, closed the hood, got back in the truck and bupkis again. This routine usually took at least three full light changes.
By this time, Myrtle had reached the middle of the intersection. Meanwhile, Bobby Jo, head cheerleader for the Elloree Bobcats, had pulled up behind the truck in her new turbo-charged purple Dodge Charger and waited patiently. A faithful churchgoer, she had been taught by the Baptists to respect her elders, however annoying it might be. Besides, she thought Miss Martin was SO-O-O-O cute swallowed up in her all-black clothes and the black hat with the little plastic daisies in it.
Meanwhile, little Timmy in his right-smart new all-blue Cub Scout uniform with several badges pinned on the shirt arrived on the opposite corner of Main and Elder. Somewhat confused by the scene in the middle of the street, he nevertheless knew from his Cub Scout Handbook that he had a solemn duty to help the little old lady complete her journey across the street.
He approached her and said, “Please, ma’am, allow me to assist you the rest of the way across the street.”
Myrtle glowered at him from underneath the brim of the hat and yelled, “Get out of my way, you nasty little motherfucker!”
Well, Timmy was quite taken aback! The Cub Scout Handbook had nothing to say about little old ladies yelling vicious expletives, so he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind, “Die, you old bitch!”
Myrtle raised her cane and slowly thwacked him thrice with a powerful force that betrayed the appearance of her frail body, whereupon Timmy crumpled to the ground, crying out in pain.
Across the street, Officer Woolard (“Wooly”) Whipsit stepped out from the museum where he stood guard for the teapots just in time to see over the top of the truck’s hood a big floppy black with daisies in it and a raised cane coming down followed by what sound like the howls of a whupped puppy. Aw geez, Myrtle is beating stray dogs again, he thought.
Wooly Whipsit huffed and puffed his way diagonally across Main to the scene where he found little Timmy whimpering on the ground with Myrtle standing over him poised to strike again and grabbed the cane midair.
“Now, Myrtle, we’ve talked about your cane whippings before, haven’t we? Start making your way across the street again, and I’ll catch up with you.”
“Sorry-ass little bastard,” Myrtle muttered and resumed her sojourn to the other side of the street.
Bobby Jo had finally run out of patience as the light turned green for a fourth time. She bowed her head and whispered, “Holy Jesus, forgive me for I know not what I do. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, amen” whereupon she put the pedal to the metal and roared past the truck.
“Bobby Jo,” Officer Whipsit sighed. He knew her daddy, the Police Chief, would just dismiss her ticket like all the others if he dared to write one. He helped Timmy up to his feet and brushed him off.
“You ok, son?”
“Yessir,”
“You know your home address?”
“Yessir, the Cub Scout Handbook says we should memorize our home address.”
“Good.” Officer Whipsit turned his attention to Mr. Dithers. “Dale, could you give this nice Cub Scout a ride home?”
“Sure, if I can ever get this goddamn truck started.”
Office Whipsit lifted the hood, saw that the positive battery cable had shaken loose, and clamped it back on.
“Ok, Dale, you should be good to go. And stop huffing that ether.”
“Thankee, yep, will do.”
Mr. Dithers and Timmy climbed into the cabin. Sure enough, the truck started right up, and Mr. Dithers took off – even though the light was red.
Officer Whipsit caught up with Myrtle who was by now about three-quarters of the way across the street.
“How’s that quilt coming, Myrtle”
“None of your goddamn business, mister. Now bugger off, asshole.”
THE END
We will now compare this short story against the five elements.
Plot 
Characters 
Setting 
Conflict 
Theme 
We see that all five elements have been satisfied.
And that’s how you write a short story.
Short Shorts 
Superb directions on writing a short story!
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