Relevant Magazine recently held a short-story contest as a promotion for A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. It was a great idea, and the stories that came in were terrific. And when they asked for short stories, they really meant it. Each story had to be under 140 characters. I thought I’d reprint the ten winners. Great stuff.
Cosette: The plane touches down and my seven years with out a sister are over. The little piece of China fits perfectly in my arms. Our family, complete
Vagabond: Peering through the skeleton mask and picking up my tricycle, I turned to see the police squad car pulled over behind me.
FirstnameL: When he woke up, the dinosaur was still there.
Architeuthistic: As the Decentville populace grew more demanding, Justice Jane secretly wondered if Sir Kilzalot was still hiring. Oh! He was.
cabbagemilk: When Feldman woke up in a tub full of Stove Top stuffing he thought to himself “I knew I shouldn’t have shaved my chest”
Kevin Stinehart: As the cashier gave a knowing look scanning the prenatal vitamins, I realized she is the first person on earth to know we are having a baby.
Craig Patrick: A true companion thru many a tale descended to me in a ship w/ a sail. His fury unmatched, his roar full of grace: grizzly bear from space.
Dave Jennings: Jennie leaned across the front seat for our first kiss. The back of my head hit the driver’s side window in retreat. I couldn’t reciprocate.
Gordon: Seeing the church marquee was a guillotine to the last ray of hope left in the pastor and father of three: God hates fags! It spoke of him.
trikelow: He thought she could be The One. Thanksgiving was Tofurkey. God closes a door.
Think you can do better. Feel free to leave some more in the comments. Remember, a story involves a character that wants something and goes through conflict to get it.
A father tries desperately to cling to what is left of the fifteen minutes. Alas, tragedy averted and truth revealed. The boy in the attic and not in the balloon.
They sat on the hill, enjoying the sunset, their life and each other. Then he fell, to the end of the world. She didn’t push him. That hard.
For the first time in eleven years some light appeared in this space she had called home for such a long time. She wasn’t sure what to think
At the border, the Tigers met the Jayhawks.
He decoded the puzzle, something about bunny ears or tee-pees. He waited for the ninja attack. They would not steal his lunch money today.
Starlight kissed the dusk away as wings of angels brushed your face. Eyes close, sweet embrace. Here’s the place where still time moved too fast.
He kicked the seat and slapped the tray table up then down, up then down, my heart aching because the child in my arms never would.
I saw the tiretread as it rolled toward my face. My last thought, “Its was worth…”
But we–we are going to space, and Grandmother’s room smells of grape and raspberry and is the biggest compartment of it all. I am nine years old and I am an artist and a designer and an engineer and an astronaut. But I am Grandmother’s baby first.
He said, “I know you because I know me.” And with that statement, I knew how it felt to be understood without ever having to explain.
Upon entering I realized they didn’t own chairs yet their hospitality was so warm. Missionaries get much more than they give.
“A golden turd!” she yelled. But was it gold? They drank more seawater, pondering the ramifications of such a find.
On a walk one night, there was a sound. In the forest, there she found the source of the cacophony… A tiny baby laid by a tree! Who would do such dreadful woe? Doesn’t matter now, he’s hers to hold!
Almost died in accident. Hellish trauma & recovery. Darn lifelong effects make death look inviting. Step by step hope wins! Run/bike again!
Spent from begging, he opened his eyes and gasped. His bright blood had smeared over the white tiles. He knew he had to find a way back.
“It wasn’t the way she smelled,” he thought. “Next time, I must remember not to use the horncobbler.”
[...] Anyhow, I have an idea. I’ve been toying around with the idea of being able to tell stories via Twitter for a while now, and when Peter Rollins released a fantastic parable via his Twitter I was very excited, as well as when Relevant Magazine held a 140-character short story contest via their Twitter account. Donald Miller recorded his favorites from the Relevant contest here. [...]
You shake my hand, then open your arms for a hug. Home. Whole for the first time in my life. Will I ever see you again? Will you ever know?
I was hungry so I feasted. Got it wrong, now I am regretful.
Once upon a time, you said I was deeply loved. Have you forgotten? And have I the strength to craft a happily ever after?
While chopping onions my eyes felt the way lemons taste, sour and juicy.
She finally sold the ring he never got to wear. It’s not a glass slipper after all.
With 10 days to go, my baby girl and I wondered if we would make it. The pain was excruciating, but she had the puppies in our bed a few days later. Lots of snuggling ensued.
A fiercely whispered debate: Jane Doe is going to die, is dying by the inch. No way will she go home. The nurse thinks Jane deserves to be told. The doctor thinks it would be cruel to tell her. No one wins.
He knew he loved her, but she didn’t know it. The only thing he could do to stop her from walking out forever, was take a knee.
Two Junes ago they couldn’t find your heartbeats. This June, your sister came. Went to the sea; hearts thumping, waves crashing, gave thanks
This city with its tangles of rain-soaked streets is all I have left of him, and I can’t hold onto it. Like me, it’s too much and not enough.
You know, I listened to the first part of the interview that you did with Relevant and I was disappointed when I heard that you wouldn’t write anymore if someone handed you a cool $10,000,000.
I don’t understand and interperet life the way that everyone else does. We all comprehend things a little differently and sometimes one person’s perspective is more eye opening. I appreciate you picking things up after I’ve left them, showing them to me in a new way and allowing me to sit in on it. Please continue.
I love these. In my creative writing class a few years back we had to do ’55 word fiction.’ It’s terribly difficult, but brilliant. (Oh, and this was true, not intentioned to be a short story.)
I must be scared of paper.I was scared of love.I let it surround me and I love paper too.I love writing about life,love and God,but I’m always afraid
His index finger swipes sweat from his upper lip. Reaching to brush the wisp of hair off her face, he knows the touch will betray tenderness buried in his heart.
Fame. Pleasure. The redefinition of girth. It was going to be a long night for the new Mrs. William Howard Taft.
They were gay. They were robots. And they were gonna win this dance competition.
Help wanted. Really? Nine, ten applications? Who’s counting? Am I too old, irrelevant? I will starve before I lie.
He went to hear the author, but found singing kids instead.
In the dark I screamed out loud for God to help me. Please protect me from the wild animal that ran around my room. An earthquake?
The summer wind held nothing but memories of the greatest love of her life, and left her dreaming of his return.
Sitting atop a sunlit hill, he watched as the cow in the foreground knelt to eat of the grass swaying in the breeze. “It’ll be back soon,” he said to himself. “It’ll be back soon.”
What I wanted was to be healed. What Jesus wanted was me. When He called me “daughter”, I knew I had been made whole.
Pre-lit trees are great until they aren’t. All night was spent hacking at the dead strands, mulling twisted unmet expectations in my mind.
I used to be afraid to sing for others to hear, then I went to far off lands and saw a much bigger picture than just me on a stage.
“If the means of getting there ought to reflect my intention for being there,” he thought to himself, “then why am I driving?”
In a desperate attempt to evade his woman’s scorn, it seems a fire hydrant was the more savvy adversary.
The old man swallowed the bread dipped in wine but still felt nothing. He followed the ground back to his seat and sighed. Ashamed, he shook his head in agreement.
Charlene runs, with an effort and hope to lose weight, and yet her feet take her to the fridge instead of the the trail.
Two red wagons, one line. A PF Flyer foot brake was all that kept gravity from unleashing a championship trophy. He didn’t even know.
Nick drops the needle in fear. His father stands above him, weeping. “It’s time to come home, son.”
Sweat rolled down my face. Tears rolled down hers. I cannot believe I threw a glass across the room. Goodbye communication.
Heavy blanket, restrictive and burdensome. Tear-laced cry for freedom, heard. Beloved restored. Grace!
I drove to her house to pick her up for dinner and noticed – she’s wearing lipstick.