Short Stories

http://www.brightlightmultimedia.com/blcafe/ShrtStrories100To1000Words.htm

http://spottsshortstories.wordpress.com/category/general/1000-word-limit/

http://www.mybookezzz.org/best-short-stories-under-500-words/ 

Worlds Worst Story

It was a dark, cold night. I was walking through and abandoned house. I came to a door, it was talk, and dark, the hinges were rusting. It creaked open, and I stepped through. I walked straight ahead to where a man was standing. His dark brown coat brushed the floor, his briefcase by his feet, he quickly answered a phone call while shooting me a glare. I lit a cigarette while I waited for him to finish. He hung up and strolled over to me. 

'The body is upstairs, two gunshots to the head, suspected drug war', he said to me whilst flicked through his notes. 

I dropped the end of my cigarette and kicked it into the floor. He led me up the crooked old stairs, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. We got to the doorway, it was already open, and as I stepped in the smell hit me. Her body had obviously been there for several days. The blood had pooled around her head and throat. Her face locked in a shocked expression. I coughed, smoking had never served me well, and Terry jumped, he was obviously on edge. We heard a creek behind us. We both turned to see but there was nothing, until I felt a sharp pain through my skull. It all went black.

Never Write About

- 'Straight ahead'
- Cars
- Darkness
- Tears
- Rush
- Thrills
- Men
- Council Estates
- Parks (and benches)
- Business
- Mud
- Suits
- Briefcase
- Tube
- London
- Metal
- Sadness
- Door
- Knife
- Blood
- Fear
- Suddenly
- Smoking
- Drinking
- 'I'
- Coats

Narrative Writing #2

The wall of cameras stood before me. He was free. I had missed his smell, his warmth, his voice. The camera shutters clicking all around us filled the air with noise, but it felt like just me and him. The media darted all around us, swarming like bees around a honey pot. But he put his arm around me and held me there, safe. I whispered to him that loved him, and that I missed him, and he smiled like he always did and slowly exhaled. His warm breath pricked my cold cheeks. A microphone was thrust in our direction and ruined our moment. "Sir do you have anything to say?"

Narrative Writing #1

Our breath rising like clouds above us into the cold morning air. Heavy footed through the oozing mud. All other routes had been barricaded by 'them'. It is hard to seem intimidating, or forceful when walking in single file, struggling to keep balance. But we trudged on, one foot in front of the other. None of us knew where we were going, or why we were going there other than to stop 'them', but we carried on walking, following the person in front like obedient sheep being herded through. I wanted to stop. My arms hurt. My head hurt. My feet hurt. No, keep going, you must, for her. 

Paragraph on Person

I felt ill one day, and couldn't get out of bed with out falling to the floor or covering the wall in chunks. She came upstairs to my room, in response to my rising groans, and took my temperature, and asked if I wanted anything. I replied with yet another groan. So she hurried downstairs and brought up a steaming mug of tea, a slab of warm buttered toast, a magazine and the dog for company. Despite not feeling any better she had lifted my spirits, and made me see the only possible light side to being ill. 

As a young girl of 4 or 5 I never wanted to go and use the bathroom before a long journey. This caused a lot of frustration for my parents and brother. So she solved this problem by racing me to the bathroom, and whoever got their first would be allowed a chocolate button. So of course I would bolt there on my young, supple legs, while she hobbled slowly, yet gracefully behind me, and I would win. 

J.G. Ballard Article

What do we learn about the character of the father? 

Ballard is presented as a caring father, who has his children's best interests at heart. He wanted his children to have a childhood that they would remember and cherish. For example when Bea speaks fondly of her photos, notes, pictures and momentos. Ballard had an unorthodox approach to raising his children, which has also supposedly affected the way one of his daughters raises her children, by the fact that he let them play, and watch a large amount of TV. Furthermore the children loved him for this, and Bea writes fondly about a fathers day with him, showing her appreciation for her father. In conclusion Ballard was a caring and loving father, who didn't adhere to the parental guidelines but was the best father he could be to his children.