I think there's a certain art to writing short stories that can make them something of an enigma. I've always struggled with them. I seem to feel like I have much more to put down and flesh out than what just a few pages has to offer. They can be difficult, but at the same time... they can be quite beautiful. Anyone who has read any works by Philip K. Dick, or Ray Bradbury, you know what I'm talking about.
Sometimes a story can be told in just a few pages (or in the event of a short film, a few minutes) and being able to get something across in so short of time is pretty cool in and of itself. Below I've included one of my first short stories. This particular piece serves as a prologue of sorts to my novella, Short-Lived. Take a look.
Smoke
The flint made a subtle grating sound as it sparked the butane-soaked wick of Jay’s lighter. He brought the flame up to the cigarette between his lips, allowing it to dance in front of the paper before he inhaled and drew the thick smoke into his lungs.
Jay hated waiting.
What made it worse was that he stood in the bitter cold of Seattle’s sidewalks. Dark clouds shrouded the street in a dismal grey, threatening to spill their contents soon, and Jay suddenly wished he had worn his raincoat. He pulled his beanie down until it nearly brushed against his eyelashes and hugged his thick black jacket against himself. Taking another drag of the cigarette helped warm his insides for a few more moments while he watched the building across the street.
He did not have to be patient for long. A middle-aged man stepped out of the office and onto the sidewalk with a carefree stride. The stride, and the fact that there was literally no one else around for blocks, told Jay this was whom he was looking for. Inhaling a final drag, Jay threw the cigarette to the side of the street and stepped out with a smile to greet the gentleman.
*
Startled, William paused for a moment before returning the young stranger’s smile with an air of confusion. Once he saw the pistol in the stranger’s hand, though, his smile twisted with perplexity. He dug deep down into his trench coat pocket. His revolver was still there. His fingers fumbled at wrapping around the handle of his gun. William never imagined that the pistol would be needed in his hometown. He had only bought it for business drives that brought him south to Los Angeles and San Diego.
“Your wallet, sir,” the stranger demanded politely. He still wore the smile. It was not one of malice. Neither a grin nor a smirk, but rather a gentle smile. That look spoke more volumes of the thief’s youth than even the attempt at a beard on his face.
The shot surprised William more than the thief. He had never taken his gun from his pocket. It was still there, its hammer having fallen, with one less round to account for. William felt a knot in his stomach rise into his throat. He didn’t remember wrapping his finger around the trigger. Or pulling it tight.
Jay dropped his pistol and stumbled backwards; fumbling with his heavy jacket to get a glimpse of the damage he had just received. He clawed at the fabric where he found the hole and opened it just enough to shove his hand inside to feel for his wound. Jay barely noticed the hard surface on his back as he placed his fingers into the tear to find the warmth of sticky fluid flowing out of him.
It was a brick wall that he slumped against, and he was not aware of anything unusual happening to his legs until they had already buckled and he fell on his backside. The gentleman who had fired just stood there above him. William wore no expression to show what he felt. No remorse. No pride.
Jay said nothing.
Nothing was worth saying. He sat there, in the cold with a hand on his abdomen nursing a wound he never thought he would know.
*
William stood on the cold Seattle sidewalk. A light rain began to fall as he glanced from the mugger back to his own hand being washed by the dark sky. Moving to the mugger’s side, William’s brown eyes met the panicked young blue ones. The rain would never be strong enough to rid the growing feeling from William’s heart.
Grabbing his arms, William helped move the thief to a shaded area beside the doorway of that brick building. He could at least shield the thief from the freezing rain. Squatting, eyes on the dying man, William grabbed his cell phone from his left pocket. His fingers froze in rigidity when he saw the crimson flow leaking from the mugger’s back. Two rivulets of blood were flowing freely from the thief to join the rainwater at William’s shoes. He forced his stubborn fingers to dial.
Jay could tell from the look in the gentleman’s eyes he was going to die. He had not expected to be sheltered from the rain, so at least there was that. He thought of his life back in Phoenix and the friends he had made there. People that would never be considered true friends by anyone. He pondered on the time he had wasted and the schooling that he could have gone through, and yet, chose not to. An easier life appealed to him.
Jay groped at his pocket for a moment and saw the gentleman’s eyes grow wide. Despite the obvious fear on the man’s face, though, he made no move to run or shoot Jay, again.
Jay pulled the pack from his pocket and sighed. The paper carton was soaked in blood. Useless. When he needed them most, he had managed to ruin that too. Jay’s blood rendered each cigarette inside useless. He felt tired. He rested his head against the wall. Once his chin was up and his head was back, Jay felt an influx of phlegm. Coughing, he hawked up a glob and sent the red mass into the gutter. When it was gone, another built up in its place.
*
“9-1-1 Emergen–”
William closed the flip phone and dropped it into his coat pocket. He ran his hand through his thinning brown and grey hair. The sprinkle turned into a drizzle. Looking back at the desperate blue irises lined by a spider web of red, he fought back tears. William wondered where this situation placed him. Would he be branded a killer? He had a license to carry a concealed weapon so he supposed there would be no trouble with the law. The thief was so young, though. What would people say? William’s wife always warned him about carrying that pistol around and now it would seem she was right. This kid would not have shot him.
A hacked up ball of red phlegm splattered at his feet.
William shoved the ugly thoughts from his mind. They weren’t important. Reaching inside his pocket, he withdrew a pack of cigarettes. William gingerly squatted next to the thief and placed a cigarette in his mouth. Settling on his heels, he placed another between his lips. He winced. He had been out of matches since his last smoke break. He had squeezed in three cigarettes instead of his typical one. With his daughter looking at universities all over the country, and the costs of such places, smoking a pack a day was the least of William’s worries. Looking down, William saw the thief held a lighter in front of him. With a flick of the flint, it lit.
*
The smoke tasted exquisite as it rushed down Jay’s bloodied throat and filled his lungs. He didn’t bother knocking off the ash. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t last through the cigarette anyway. He only wanted to enjoy the soothing feeling of the smoke’s cradling embrace. That, at least, meant something.
Jay looked at the man squatting next to him. His killer. The gentleman took a long drag of his cigarette and pushed the smoke out into Seattle’s chilling air. Uneasiness set plainly in his features. He turned to Jay and attempted a wan smile.
Jay nodded back before turning forward to watch the rain wash the street. The calm of the cigarette enveloped his body wholly. Inhaling, he watched grey wisps rise and dance off the tip of the cigarette paper. Slowly, he blew the thick smoke from his lungs and watched the thicker swirls drown.
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