Short sto­ry wri­ters’ workshop

After stu­dy­ing and ana­ly­zing the cha­rac­te­ristics of short sto­ries, we wan­ted to app­ly this new­ly gai­ned know­ledge by wri­ting our own sto­ries.  We crea­ted sto­ry con­cepts (with 2 stu­dents col­la­bo­ra­ting on the same con­cept but then wri­ting indi­vi­du­al­ly) and then wro­te the sto­ries. It was inte­res­t­ing to see how very dif­fe­rent the end results were from one ano­ther, even if they share a com­mon concept.

Enjoy!

 

A fish – the last hope??

It had been months, years, may­be even deca­des sin­ce I began my jour­ney on fin­ding other human beings after the gre­at cata­stro­phe. Being trap­ped in this cave had­n’t hel­ped a lot com­ple­ting my quest, but I was deter­mi­ned. I felt thirsty and I hadn ‘t eaten in days, but hope was nut­ri­tious enough. Wal­king in this cave, despera­te­ly loo­king for an exit I found a pond with a fish insi­de. My sto­mach told me to eat it but my gut told me that I should keep it ali­ve und take it with me, so I put it in a pla­s­tic bag which I had found ear­lier and fil­led it with water. Glad that I found a com­pa­n­ion, I con­tin­ued my search. The time felt like an eter­ni­ty, alt­hough it’d only been a cou­ple of hours sin­ce I woke up in this damn cave and the­re was still no exit in sight. It was a fricking maze. “You know what litt­le fish, I’m giving up. “I said, and then sud­den­ly a voice: “Don’t you dare to give up. “Who was that? With no one in sight, it could’ve been only one. The fish. It was tal­king to me. “Wait, you can talk? “, l asked – No ans­wer. Hel­lo? Mis­ter Fish? “– still no answer.

Alt­hough it didn’t ans­wer the fact that a fish was tal­king to me bols­te­red my ener­gy, so I forced mys­elf to start moving again. The cave stret­ched end­less­ly in every direc­tion. A maze of suf­fo­ca­ting dark­ness, but then I noti­ced the glow. At first, I thought it was the reflec­tion of the water, but no. The fish its­elf was glo­wing. “Beautiful“I said to mys­elf and kept wal­king to the next inter­sec­tion, whe­re I rea­li­zed that the fish was brigh­tening when I held it into the right turn und was dim­ming when I held it into the left turn. „No way “-my heart was racing. Due to the lack of opti­ons, I deci­ded to fol­low the fish. The fish’s glow beca­me my gui­de, lea­ding me through the maze of tun­nels. As I pushed deeper into the cave, each step felt hea­vier than the last. But then I heard them – voices or some kind of tal­king. I star­ted run­ning, the fish glo­wing brigh­ter und brigh­ter. Then I saw them, hundreds of them.

 Ske­le­tons tan­gled tog­e­ther. Their jaws fro­zen in silent screams. My sto­mach tur­ned insi­de out. The whis­pers were coming from every direc­tion. They were all around me, no they were insi­de me. The fish’s glow fli­cke­ring wild­ly. The whis­pers tur­ned into a sin­gle voice:

You’ve found us “. The fish ‘s bag slip­ped out of my hands, fal­ling hundreds of meters. And then sud­den­ly, I was fal­ling too.

untit­led 1

I’ve lost track of time. Months, years, may­be even deca­des have pas­sed sin­ce I began my search for other human beings. The soli­tu­de is gna­wing at me, a relent­less suf­fe­ring, yet the memo­ry of the signal I once recei­ved keeps me moving. Someone else is out the­re. I know it. And as long as that pos­si­bi­li­ty exists, I can’t allow mys­elf to give up. This cave has beco­me both my home and my pri­son. Each pas­sing moment spent in its all-encompassing dark­ness tempts me to sur­ren­der, to sim­ply lie down and let mys­elf rot away. But to do so would mean that ever­y­thing I’ve endu­red, every step I took and every sacri­fice I made, would’ve been for not­hing. I can’t allow mys­elf to let that hap­pen. If the­re is even the fain­test chan­ce of sur­vi­val, I have to take it.

Wan­de­ring blind­ly, I stumb­le upon a pond. The sight of fish swim­ming in the water sends a growl to my sto­mach. I can’t remem­ber the last time I ate. But I have no tools, no wea­pons. Just a pla­s­tic bag. And I’ve never caught a fish befo­re. I’ve never swum eit­her. Then, some­thing stran­ge hap­pens. A fish rises to the sur­face and doesn’t flinch as I reach for it. It lets me pick it up effort­less­ly, as if it wants to be caught. I hesi­ta­te. It would be so easy to eat it. But some­thing stops me. Socie­ty once kept ani­mals as com­pa­n­ions, didn’t they? Per­haps I should do the same. The idea of having someone, or some­thing by my side out­weighs even my despe­ra­ti­on. Who knows? It could be poi­so­no­us any­way. I grab the fish tight­ly, fee­ling its small body rest on my palm. My visi­on blurs. Exhaus­ti­on hits me, pres­sing me onto the ground. I’m on the ver­ge of col­lapsing, but at least I’m not alo­ne. Then, a whisper, a thought, not my own. “The pond is con­nec­ted to the out­side, to civi­liza­ti­on.” Could it be true? Is this the way out? If there’s even the sligh­test chan­ce, I can’t afford to hesi­ta­te. I have to go. I have to. I plun­ge into the water. The moment my body hits the water; I rea­li­ze my mista­ke. How could I have for­got­ten? I don’t know how to swim.

untit­led 2

« Ami­ra, come and help me with the dis­hes when you have finis­hed your school­work » her mom shouts from next door. Ami­ra is a 13-year-old girl from Mos­ul in Iraq. Even though her par­ents are both working hard in sweat­shops she has to work the­re on weekends as well, other­wi­se they wouldn’t be able to feed the fami­ly of seven. But Ami­ra is full of hope, she’s working hard for school and loves going the­re becau­se she wants to beco­me a doc­tor one day. In her fami­ly ever­yo­ne is always in a hur­ry, her par­ents are working all day, so she has to take care of her four youn­ger siblings after coming home from school. But tomor­row isn’t a day like every other, tomor­row is her gre­at day. Her par­ents took the day off and her mom is still sewing on the dress Ami­ra will wear tomor­row. Ami­ra should be hap­py, becau­se this is her chan­ce for a bet­ter life but somehow, she’s not. She feels like there’s some­thing that makes her feel frightful. Her father has finis­hed coo­king, so ever­yo­ne is cal­led in the living room for their last din­ner together.

I don’t want Ami­ra to go why can’t she stay with us?” asks her litt­le sis­ter Nora while hol­ding back her tears. Her father sighs, he knows the con­se­quen­ces Ami­ra will face but he knows this is Stil the best opti­on for her. He tri­es to explain calm­ly that whe­re Ami­ra goes, she’ll have bet­ter chan­ces in life, more money and will be trea­ted kind­ly. « But I don’t get it, in the movies girls always mar­ry someone their age they love. Why does Ami­ra have to mar­ry Dads old dis­gus­ting fri­end? » « Thats enough, shut up Nora » her Dad shouts now, while his face turns com­ple­te­ly red. Ami­ra feels how her visi­on blurs from tears that are strea­ming down her face, while she stands up and runs to the room she shares with her four siblings. Her hands shake as she beg­ins to stuff her most important clo­thes and other valu­ables into a back­pack. Voices rise in the living room- her father is shou­ting and her mom plea­ding. After a while it’s quiet. Her mom deci­des to go and look after her oldest daugh­ter. But when she got the­re, she began to scream. The win­dow is wide open, and Ami­ra and her per­so­nal stuff are nowhe­re to be found.

The lost Son

Sin­ce Mr. Por­t­er­field was brought to the hos­pi­tal, he had been thin­king. Thin­king about his long, soon to be ending life. The main thought he thought about was his son Geor­ge. They had been arguing for years. In fear of dying with such a ter­ri­ble rela­ti­on to his only remai­ning fami­ly mem­ber, he wro­te a let­ter. Drops of tears drew wet dots onto the paper, while he was wri­ting about his situa­ti­on and asking Geor­ge to visit him one last time.

Despi­te seve­re dif­fe­ren­ces of opi­ni­on late­ly, it was a shock for Geor­ge to hear about his father in hos­pi­tal. Con­side­ring all the years they had hap­pi­ly lived tog­e­ther and the beau­tiful moments they had wit­nessed tog­e­ther in his child­hood, he felt sor­ry for what he had some­ti­mes said to his father recent­ly. And so he sat down to respond imme­dia­te­ly. “I’m sor­ry, Dad. I want to recon­ci­le with you. I’ll be with you befo­re this let­ter arrives.”

When Mr. Por­t­er­field read this, his son hadn’t arri­ved yet, but he felt a big reli­ef. The sun was shi­ning and beau­tiful like the thoughts in his head.

He apo­lo­gi­zed. And he wants to see me and get along with me…

And so he star­ted wai­ting for Geor­ge, who didn’t arri­ve that day.

He’s late, as usu­al, like me…

And he didn’t arri­ve the next day.

What hap­pen­ed to him?

And not the day after. Dark clouds star­ted appearing in the sky. And a ter­ro­ri­zing thought star­ted gro­wing in his mind.

What if he lied? Does he even want to see me? He’s not sor­ry at all. He lied.

When pou­ring rain was fal­ling the next day, he was told, that his son Geor­ge had died in an acci­dent on the way to the hos­pi­tal. Mr Por­t­er­field just sat the­re wat­ching the rain­drops fal­ling onto the ground for some time.

Geor­ge was dead. He died. My only remai­ning fami­ly mem­ber. And on top of that, it’s my fault. I told him to          come here. At least, he did want to come and see me. He wan­ted to recon­ci­le with me. And he was sor­ry. He was a good son.

A tiny bit of sun­light touch­ed his face.

And then he lay down and died with a smile.

The key to nowhere 

Not­hing. No sound, no smell, no soul in sight. Madi­son is alo­ne. She turns around, only to see ano­ther part of the emp­ty city. It looks like a ghost town. No one is out­side, not even the fri­end­ly grand­ma who always greets her on her way to school. Or the cat that usual­ly cha­ses her to the end of the block. Thin­king she overs­lept, Madi­son glan­ces up at the giant church clock. 7:30. The same time as yes­ter­day. And the day befo­re. Basi­cal­ly, every day for the past seven years. A stran­ge fee­ling sett­les deep in her sto­mach, but she con­ti­nues on her way to school. Yet still, not a sin­gle per­son in sight. The moment she steps into the buil­ding, she noti­ces the cold aura sur­roun­ding her. As if no one has been insi­de the school for years—maybe even cen­tu­ries. She strolls through the emp­ty hall­ways, sear­ching for someone. But deep down, she doesn’t even have hope. Just as she deci­des to go back home to check if her mother is still the­re, she spots an old, rus­ty key on the flo­or. Madi­son knows it doesn’t belong to any of the class­rooms sin­ce the locks were chan­ged at the begin­ning of the school year. She deci­des to take the key and starts her way back home. As she walks down the street, a cold wind moves some lea­ves. The first move­ment Madi­son has seen sin­ce lea­ving her house this mor­ning. To her sur­pri­se, her mom is not home. “That’s unu­su­al,” Madi­son thinks out loud. Her mom never lea­ves the house befo­re nine. On the kit­chen coun­ter, she finds a note writ­ten in her mother’s hand­wri­ting: “Use the key. „Not­hing more. Madi­son sear­ches for other clues or a lock that could fit. But the­re is not­hing. For what seems like hours, she sits at the kit­chen table, frus­tra­ted and con­fu­sed. What could her mother mean? And why didn’t she say more? Then, sud­den­ly, an idea strikes like light­ning. Her father owns an antique shop on the other side of town. Madi­son has been the­re a few times and remem­bers a lot of old items just sit­ting around. May­be one of them has a lock. With exci­te­ment, she jumps up to get her old bike from the gara­ge. If she had wal­ked, it would’ve been night­fall befo­re she arri­ved. Short­ly after, Madi­son is on the road, pedal­ling at an enorm­ous speed. But as she glan­ces at the big clock on the church, she sud­den­ly stops. Her bra­kes make a weird noi­se, but Madi­son doesn’t care. „How is it still 7:30?” she yells out. „Not only is ever­y­bo­dy gone—now even time is out of con­trol. What did I do to deser­ve this night­ma­re? „With much less enthu­si­asm, she con­ti­nues on her way to her dad’s shop. When she arri­ves, she pau­ses for a moment to catch her breath befo­re try­ing to get in. But the door won’t open. And no, Madi­son hadn’t thought of this befo­re. If her father was gone, who was sup­po­sed to open the shop door? That’s when Madi­son noti­ces the lock. It’s old and rus­ty, just like the key. She pulls it out, and to her sur­pri­se, it fits per­fect­ly. Insi­de, ever­y­thing seems normal—except for the lack of peo­p­le. She makes her way to the back, whe­re her dad keeps the spe­cial pie­ces. One imme­dia­te­ly cat­ches Madison’s eye. It’s not as glamo­rous as the other pie­ces. A simp­le woo­den jewel­ry box with hand-painted flo­ral motifs that are alre­a­dy fading away. But even if it’s not as fan­cy as the others, it is still the most beau­tiful thing. It even has a lock to pro­tect valuable jewel­ry. Madi­son fol­lows her instinct and tri­es to unlock it with the key. That’s when she hears a fami­li­ar voice: „Madi­son, get up now, you’re gon­na be late for school. And don’t fall asleep again!

Wal­traud Hartwich