Prompt #84
Running on and on
Hey, all.
Thanks for joining me here for another Monday prompt!
When I was a little girl and went to summer camp, my mom used to send me postcards. They always said the same thing:
“We are all fine and hope to hear the same from you.”
Ha! What an amazing one-sentence story that was! First of all, of COURSE things weren’t fine at home. Our house was chaos! But secondly, my mom really and truly hoped I wouldn’t be complaining about summer camp. She wanted to believe that everything was hunky-dory, and a-okay. (In fact, things were pretty good at summer camp, except that I never got Danny Farber to “like” me back.)
This week, we’ll be writing our own one-sentence stories, but of the “breathless” variety. Unlike my mother’s short and sweet story, we’ll be writing stories made up of a single sentence of paragraph length. (I learned the term “breathless paragraph” from Kathy Fish.)
Read on:
From the archives (edited):
Here's something to think about when writing this week’s stories:
Remember that most often when you read a story, it’s just you (the reader) communing with the text on the page. Because of this interaction, the way that text LOOKS on the page can make a difference in how a reader groks the story. A story made up of one long run-on sentence will “read” differently than your average story. It may look kind of… manic. It may feel manic to read. That’s because a (more or less) one-sentence story that stretches on for a paragraph (or more) often has a sense of urgency about it. As though the storyteller has something to say and they don’t want to be interrupted—just let me get this story out!
The lack of paragraph indents, the lack of periods—there is a vibe being created before you even begin to read! You can’t help but think something along the lines of “I’m about to enter something here.” You might even hesitate before launching in. You’re primed to feel something, even before you begin to feel. Pretty amazing, right?
Here are a few examples that I hope will give you an idea of what is possible:
The first is from the poet Diane Seuss. Her story, “I hoisted them, two drug dealers, I guess that’s what they were,” is told in one paragraph. It is gripping. Read it and ask yourself if there was another way she could have written this that would have been more effective. Personally, I don’t think so.
Here’s Julia Ruth Smith’s “Out of Breath,” written in three short sections, with one period at the very end. Here, Smith is purposely writing in an “out of breath” manner, letting her short sentences run together as she travels to the bedside of a dying person. NOTE: it seems this link is no longer working. I can’t find another link for this story…. sorry about that.
Also, you can take another look at one of the stories we read not too long ago: “Swerve,” by Brenda Miller. This story is told in two paragraphs. The first has a number of sentences, each concluding with a period, but the second paragraph is all one sentence. Look at the story again and see how the rhythm and the lack of periods in the second paragraph seeps into your emotions.
Lastly: “Still,” written by Casey Mullian Walsh and published at Split Lip. Be forewarned: it’s a heart-wrenching story.
THIS WEEK’S PROMPT
Write your own “one-sentence paragraph” story. If you need to, you can write several run-on sentences instead of only one. Whatever works for you to get your idea across.
Think about urgency when writing this week. Dive right in! Tell us a story that wants to be told without interruption.
Your story does not have to be sad! There are many stories told urgently about humorous things that have happened.
As always, 400 words max. in the Comments section.
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It looked easy-- just hoist her up on my back for a few leisurely laps around the track like a seasoned rider in her checkered shirt and jodhpurs and I guess some kind of riding boots all dressed up like she knew what she was doing which she didn’t and I knew instantly what she was thinking and it was not “I’ve got this” but “Oh shit this is not going to end well,” and we started a trot around the track and then I got a whiff of her anxiety and I couldn’t help it that anxiety was like the feeling when I walk into the winner’s circle and the crowd is going wild and I can feel they love me and they love the jockey, the dirt, the spattered mud, the horse sweat, the heaving of the jockey’s chest, the thrill of the race, throwing their losing tickets in the air and that’s when I decided I’m gonna show this little Missy what I can do and let her see what’s what with her pretensions that she can ride a racehorse when she’s only 12 and hasn’t a clue and besides there’s nothing to hold onto and pretty soon I’ve managed to dislodge her feet from the stirrups and yes, it’s true I can feel those stirrups bouncing against my sides kind of like a triangle in an orchestra, and I am making music also with the wind raking through her hair as I maneuver her into the branches on the other side of the track and I’m wondering how long it’s gonna be that she can hold on with just her knees when let’s face it her knees are knobby, her knees were not meant for riding because she has no strength she’s just a stupid kid and why don’t I feel sorry for her that’s what I’m wondering but then again it’s not really her fault. It’s her father’s fault, the man who put her up here on my back when he had no business asking her to ride a racehorse when he couldn’t even ride a horse himself and that’s when I got the idea to see what he’d do if I just dumped her in the dirt.