What are short stories?
Stocking filler—my two-word short story.
It’s Saturday, and I don’t have a short story ready. My bad. But, on repeat, I’m here, showing up again for post #131—not far short of Australia’s first-innings total!
I say short story, but then I’m not really sure what defines one, and equally, I’m not sure my previous efforts have done the genre due service.
The attempts so far have been varied. Bob, my friend, the tone-deaf cat one street down, who gave me a lift every morning until he didn’t. Deano, the quiet type at smoko who took his time before offering a Hahn low carb. Thursday Night—Jeff, ordering an unpasteurised Carlton Draught schooie at the end of a restless evening. Rosie and Kev, the perfectly mismatched couple commanding quiet reverence at the end of the bar. The Dun Cow in Durham, 1997—a sliding door, the smell of real ale, and Howay Man, you better get in there. Pat Donnelly in South Boston, somewhere between fact and fiction.
Whether any of them qualify as short stories in the literary sense—George Saunders would likely wince—is another question.
It’s a sampling. Actually, I’ve resisted giving them a proper home—we could add a short story section, fancy that—you know what, in Bob’s honour I will, a proper resting place for an ol’ mate—just need to figure it out now.
And the definition:
From what I can tell, the short story owes its origins to an older tradition, emerging from oral storytelling through the ages. In way-back times, short stories existed as parables, anecdotes, fairy tales and fables. Now, short stories continue to be written, as well as microfiction and flashfiction—and in my case, notverygoodfiction.
Decent players in this space include—my favourite, George Saunders. Then there’s old guys like Anton Chekhov and Ernest Hemingway, who wrote the shortest of short stories, “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Six words—sad words. But hey, there’s hope for us all. And more recently, Alice Munro, a Canadian who excelled in the space.
Nearly forgot, knew to me via Shunter and 8-Ball—Cormac McCarthy—a writer who used little or no punctuation because there was no reason “to blot the page up with weird little marks.” He avoided semicolons entirely, labelling their usage as “idiocy.” Ring a bell. Haha.
Anyway, I better be off, footy to watch, goat curry to make—over at Rosie and Kev’s tomoz—and I need to sort that stuff for Bob.
Stocking filler? That’s my two-word short story.
Happy Saturday.
Nick
