X - Short Story

"Dialogue's always a good way to start a short story," she
suggested, waving her Pentel Ultra Fine S570 over the blank paper like
a magic wand, "if you pair it with a corresponding action that helps to
ground it in some kind of context. That way your readers hit the ground
running, and spend the rest of the story trying to fill in the
blanks."

"Well, yeah," I conceded, "but it's a bit of a clich?."

"Not necessarily&;#8230; and, you know, it gives you a bit of an
insight into the main characters and how they interact."

I rocked back on my chair and made a show of looking confused. "But
where do you go from there?"

"But, but, but!" she mimicked, jabbing the pen at me in mock
chastisement. "This is supposed to be your story, Tom, not mine. I've
got my own shit to write."
I assumed a suitably plaintive expression and cupped my hands, the
better to convey my neediness.

"Pleeease&;#8230;" I whined, "just thirty seconds of your time.
Whenever I try to write something to a deadline it always ends up
coming out so&;#8230;" I hesitated, frantically rifling through my
internal filing cabinet for le mot juste. "&;#8230; wanky." She
arched her right eyebrow, a feat I had been trying to emulate for
months. "You look like Dr. Spock when you do that," I observed,
thinking this reference to be terrifically witty.

"You mean Mr. Spock. Dr. Spock was a child psychiatrist."

I was momentarily at a loss for words.

"Pedantic bitch," I offered.

"Storyless moron," she retorted. I began drumming my fingers against
the desk.

"So what do I do once the dialogue starts to break down?" I asked. "I
mean, eventually my two characters are going to run out of things to
say to each other. What then?"

She chewed distractedly on the lid of her pen as she spoke.
"Uhh&;#8230; I don't know. Maybe you could like&;#8230; well, I
guess you could describe the scene or something like that, you
know&;#8230; like some first person exposition or
something&;#8230;"

"Yeah, I guess&;#8230;" I could see swarms of snowflakes spiralling
through the taut March air outside. Occasionally, one would hit the
pane behind her head and melt to a damp smear as I watched. Some
Japanese students had made a snowman and they were taking it in turns
to have their picture taken next to it. It occurred to me that they
might not have experienced snow before, and I felt a sudden,
pleasurable surge of worldliness in knowing that I could afford to feel
blas? about it.

I glanced down at the wide-ruled A4 paper, untainted by my solipsistic
navel-gazing piffle, and contemplated the wisdom of writing a short
story in the first place. What could it possibly add to the already
overcrowded and underattended literary zoo? Surely I didn't have the
audacity (a word I couldn't even spell without the help of a
dictionary) to think that I was somehow better than all those who had
come before, that my contribution would be anything more than an
inaudible fart in the grand symphony of human creativity.

Still, rather an inaudible fart than meek silence. Even if my story did
stink and was heard by no one, I was at least trying to gain a voice of
sorts. If the world didn't want to know, fuck 'em. I'd just keep on
babbling to myself until someone was prepared to lend me an ear. I
might even sing out of key deliberately, just to spite the artless
bastards.

I looked down at the paper again, then up at Nicola. I was in desperate
need of outside intervention or my whole internal monologue was doomed
to a rapid descent into mindless drivel.

"What?" she said.

"I'm stuck," I told her contritely, shrugging for emphasis.

She let out a sigh. "Look, you can't just sit down and write a short
story without any idea of plot or characters or what you want to say or
how you're going to end it. It just won't work."

I frowned. "Why?"

"Because it won't! You can't have a short story where nothing happens.
You need to show some sort of progression. Some kind of event's got to
take place or there's just no point."

I could see Nicola was getting wound up so I continued to play
dumb.

"Why do you have to have a point? Why can't I just write a short story
about two people who sit there and have a conversation and that's
it?"

She screwed up her eyes and shook her head derisively. "Because that
would be shit."

"It would be post-modern."

"That's what I said." Outside, a football had just taken off the
snowman's head. The Japanese students looked disappointed. I hoped a
fight would ensue. "Colin Dexter said that the way he wrote plots for
Inspector Morse was he'd think of an everyday situation then try to
think of a way it could go wrong."

"Why does it have to go wrong?" I asked, only half-paying
attention.

"Because that's what makes it interesting!" Nicola said, rolling her
eyes with exasperation. "People read stories because they like to read
about conflicts."

The snow was becoming denser. It was like watching the world through
net curtains. Someone, non-Japanese, had just gone to collect the
football. Well, I thought, it least he can claim it was occidental. I
was unable to repress a sman at my hilarious pun, and unfortunately
Nicola took this to be scorn at her previous contention.

"Okay, fine! Write it on your own! You were the one who asked me for
advice!" She made as if she were about to get up and leave. I suspected
this was a bluff, but decided it would be wise to placate her
nonetheless. Her sulks could last for weeks if left unchecked.

"Oh, come on," I entreated her, unsheathing a disarming if slightly
yellow grin, "I'm sorry, I was just being cheeky. What were you
saying?"

She eyed me suspiciously. When at last she opened her mouth, she took
great pains to make it clear that she did so against her better
judgement.

"I was just suggesting that you take an everyday situation, and fuck it
up a bit."

"And then I'll have a story?" I said excitedly, feeling that I might be
on the verge of some life-changing intellectual epiphany.

"Well, yeah&;#8230; I guess so."

I tried to ignore the uncertainty in her voice. "So like, if I have two
people talking, and suddenly this massive fuck-off snowplough comes
crashing through the wall behind them and crushes them both to death,
then that would be a story?"

Nicola's countenance acquired a somewhat vexed aspect. "I suppose
so&;#8230;" she decided after a few moments thought, "&;#8230;
but they could both jump out the way, too. That'd be a better story
because they'd have triumphed over adversity."

"It all sounds a bit arbitrary to me," I said. "I don't see how adding
a snowplough makes it any more a story then having them chat and
leaving it there."

She puffed herself up like an adder at this. My repeated feigned
ignorance was more than she could stand.

"Look, Tom, it just does - trust me." She fixed me with a stern,
insistent glare. "You can do whatever you want with your story, but if
you want to make it good then do what I've told you."

"Okay," I said.

Just then a massive snowplough came crashing through the wall and
crushed us both to death.

THE END