Flatland released

Video Code:

Flash Fiction for Halloween

Mr. Moon, Shine on Me

flash fiction

by 

Max Griffin

Mr. Moon is full tonight. I can just see him if I stand on the table by my bed, on my tippy-toes. When you stand like that, you can look out of the basement window and see our backyard. I pull on my chains so I can see Mr. Moon better. He's just sneaking over Mr. Wolfson's roof next door, just like he's playing peek-a-boo. I don't play peek-a-boo anymore. That's for babies. Mr. Wolfson used to let me play with his puppy, though. He's nice to me. His puppy gave me kisses sometimes.

My swing set is in the backyard. It's all shiny in the moonlight. It looks real pretty when Mr. Moon shines on it. I wish Mr. Moon would shine on me.

I wish I could play on my swing set. But not tonight. Mr. Moon is full tonight.

It's real scary when Mr. Moon is full. They scare me when there's a full moon. They always chain me in the basement on those nights. Sometimes they hit me, too. They're real scary when Mr.Moon is full.

My legs hurt where they hit me. Standing on tippy-toe makes my legs hurt the worst. My chains clank when I lay back down on my bed. I hug Mr. Bear. It's cold in the basement tonight. The wind is blowing outside, like my whistle that Daddy threw away because I blew on it too much and it hurt his ears. It's cold and I can't reach my covers. They're far away, on the floor across the basement. I tried to get them but the chains bit my leg and choked me so bad I couldn't reach them.

I wish they didn't make me stay here, but they said I was bad. They hit me and put the chains on me and said I was a very, very bad little boy. They must be right. They're my mommy and daddy. I try to be good. Cross my heart!

When they hit me, I cried and cried. I screamed when they carried me down here. I even hit Daddy. But they didn't care. I don't know why Mommy and Daddy hate me. I hug Mr. Bear tighter. Mr. Bear loves me.

The floor creaks from Mommy and Daddy walking around upstairs. They're yelling again. Sometimes I think Mommy and Daddy hate each other, too. I'm afraid Daddy might leave again. He left once for days and days but then he came back. Mommy cried when he left. She hugged me when she cried. That was nice; she gives good hugs.

But then she chained me in the basement and told me I was bad and hit me.

Daddy was gone for the longest time when he left. I was scared. Mommy said we didn't have enough to eat. Then Daddy came back. He didn't have any food, but Mommy hugged him and kissed him anyway. He was all hairy and Mommy made him shave. She said he looked like an animal. I don't know why she said that. Daddy didn't look at all like Mr. Wolfson's puppy. He put the shaving cream on my face and shaved me, too. We both giggled. That was fun, to giggle with Daddy.

They're yelling again. I don't understand what they're saying. It's all my fault. They must be fighting about me. There's a growling sound, too. It can't be Mr. Wolfson's puppy. He made growly sounds sometimes, but he doesn't come in our back yard any more.

It's so cold and my legs ache. My side hurts, too. Why did they hit me? Why are they yelling at each other? Now Mommy is screaming at Daddy. Daddy screams back. I think they maybe broke some dishes. I hope they aren't the ones that Grandma gave us. Grandma is nice to me. She loves me. She never hits me or locks me in the basement.

Mr. Moon's face is in the window now. He's shining right on me, here in the basement. I don't need to climb on my table anymore to see him. I don't like it when Mr. Moon is full. They scare me and hit me when Mr. Moon is full.

They shout some more. Then a door slams real loud, and a car starts and drives away. Mommy is crying. Her sobs sound all echo-y in the register above my head. I'm scared that Daddy has left again. Maybe if I go upstairs and kiss her, she'll love me and hug me. I think I can slip the chains off, now that Mr. Moon has shined on me. Maybe if I trot to the top of the stairs and scratch at the door, Mommy will open it and let me kiss her.

I'm nearly done changing now. I almost always change when Mr. Moon is full. He has to shine on me, though, or I don't change. I look just like Mr. Wolfson's puppy now. Poor puppy! Last month, when Mr. Moon was full, I got out and ate him.

Knowing When To Quit

This is a rather long joke.I first heard this from a friend who was later to become my brother-in-law.I'm no longer married to his sister, and he's long deceased, but the memory his humor still brings a smile to my lips.I hope you enjoy. 

Knowing When To Quit

Once upon a time there was a couple who longed to have children. Over many years they waited for their first child to come but, alas, for many years they waited in vain. They prayed and gave offerings at church and finally were resigned that it was God's will that they not have a child.

Then a miracle happened and the woman became pregnant! Perseverance has its special reward, as the couple would come to learn.

The couple was ecstatic at their good fortune. They added a room to their cottage for their child and made list after list of baby names. Boy names, girl names, they didn't care. They just wanted their child.

At last the happy day came. The midwife arrived, the father boiled water, and before long a babe's happy cries filled their cottage.

"What do we have, a boy or a girl?" the father asked the midwife.

"Well, I'm not sure, my friend," said she.

"What! Is our baby not healthy?"

"Oh no, the babe's cries are as lusty as any child I have ever delivered." The midwife hesitated. "But, well, your child seems to be missing something. You see, there is only a head. No body, no arms, no legs. Just a head."

Naturally the couple was disappointed at this. But they reasoned that part of a child was better than none and determined to rejoice in their good fortune. After all, their child appeared healthy and happy.

They loved their child dearly. They named their child "Head" since none of those baby names seemed right. After all, it was impossible to say if Head was a little boy or a little girl.

So the years passed happily for the three of them in their little cottage. Eventually, as these things happen, Head turned eighteen and the father resolved that it was time to initiate the new adult to the ways of the world, and to alcohol in particular. So he put Head in his bowling ball bag and they set off for the local pub.

Once there, the proud father put Head on the bar and ordered a glass of wine. Head slurped at the wine while a huge grin twisted his lips. At the last gulp, there was a huge puff of smoke and a flash of lightning. When the smoke cleared, a miracle had occurred. Head had grown shoulders and two arms.

Head flexed his new fingers--or maybe they were her new fingers, for gender remained a matter for speculation. Eyes wide with wonder, Head exclaimed, "That's wonderful, Pop! I want more!"

So the father ordered a beer. Head chugged the brew like an expert. There was another huge puff of smoke and flash of lightning. Head had grown a body. Head ran his hands over his chest while a wry grin bent his lips. "I guess I'm a boy, Pop." His laughter turned to a hearty belch before he said, "That was even. Let's do it again. I want more."

This time, the father ordered a Harvey Wallbanger. Head drained the drink in one swallow. Once again there was an enormous puff of smoke and lightning, even bigger than the first two. But this time Head was gone! He was nowhere to be seen, as though that last drink was too much for him and he just disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

Of course the father was dismayed at his loss.

The bartender could only think of one thing to say.

"He should have quit while he was a head!"

The Monster

At rest in bed I dream a dream
of monsters who await
in darkness where they plot and scheme
With hearts that beat with hate.

My mind sees beasts with eyes agleam.
Their furry paws create
A whispered shuffle to make me scream,
And limbs with fear gyrate.

These creatures snarl and sound extreme,
Their yowls and howls so great
And mighty shake my room. They seem
So harsh and won't abate.

Yet monsters tremble when I scream!
They flee and hide and wait.
Perhaps they fear what humans deem
To be a normal state.

Could they be like me, I dream?
Perhaps we can create
Not fear but friendship. So I beam
A smile and risk my fate.

Henceforth in bed I can allow
My friend with me to cower.
The dark still scares us but we now
Bring comfort to each other.

--------------
I'm not very good at poems, but here's an attempt I'm willing to put out for the public to peruse.

To Be or Not

Every author has heard an editor, or perhaps a colleague in one of our writing groups, complain about "weak verbs." The easiest example of a weak verb is any form of "to be." For instance, this sentence uses a weak verb.

Mary was a crybaby about Sam calling her lazy.

"Was" is the weak verb in this sentence; it carries the burden of linking Mary to her actions. In fact, the sentence is pretty awful all around since it tells the readers she's a crybaby as opposed to showing it. Many editors would ask the author to change it to a more active sentence. For example, we might re-write the above in the following way.

Mary's lower lip thrust out when Sam called her lazy. "I am NOT!" she whined.

Most of us would probably agree the second is better than the first. But why is it better? After all, it's still got that weak verb: Mary says, "I am not," and "am" is a form of "to be." Of course, what makes it different is that we are showing Mary acting like a crybaby as opposed to telling the readers. Her petulant speech denying it is part of the showing.

The point here is that when we talk about "weak verbs," it's usually shorthand for a more fundamental idea. In this case, that idea is "show, don't tell." The weak verb passively describes Mary, while the second example shows, through her words and deeds, that she's being a crybaby.

I recently read a long essay on an online writing site about this subject. The author had gathered together dozens of examples of published authors who used weak verbs in their prose. Some of the authors were famous, and many were current best-sellers. The essay used these examples to make the argument that "weak verbs," and forms of "to be" in particular, are just fine to use in our prose. After all, if they're good enough for Hemingway, or Capote, or Maugham, why can't beginning authors, use them?

Well, there's a good answer to that. We shouldn't use them because we want to get published.

Now, I could argue that there is a good reason having to do with craft for preferring active verbs. Like all preferences, it's probably not a good idea to apply this one with obsessive zeal. However, where weak verbs lead to weak writing, as in the example above, we should avoid them. But that's not the argument I want to make here. My argument is that if we want to get published, we should avoid weak verbs.

For the beginning author, the challenge is to get off of the editor's reject pile and into the consider-for-publication pile. Editors--and agents--are humans. By all accounts, submissions from would-be authors swamp their inboxes: they get far more stories and novels than they can possibly publish or even read.

Editors and agents have developed experience-based techniques for sorting manuscripts. Since they can't read everything that crosses their desks, they will scan for elements they can quickly and easily find, and they use those to sort into "read" and "reject" piles. Scientists do the same thing when confronted with reams of data; they call this technique heuristics. These become gatekeeper rules. 

Just like "weak verbs" in the example above is shorthand for "show, don't tell," these heuristics are shortcuts to help over-worked editors and publishers sort through their submissions.

So, what do editors use to sort manuscripts? Well, the first thing is whether or not the author has previously published any fiction. Nothing succeeds like success. Thus, one can find countless examples from published authors to show that they have used weak verbs, passive voice, adverbs, inserted info-dumps and even head-hopped and still been published. I could give you an example of a current NY Times best-selling author who does all of these things. Whether these are good or bad isn't my point. These authors sell their works to publishers--and readers buy their novels--based on their prior sales history.

What other heuristics do editors and agents use? Well, some will decide which pile your submission belongs in based only on your first sentence. That may not be fair, and may not even make sense, but it's a fact. That makes the first sentence critical for an unpublished author.

All of the other "don't-do's" that we learn about the craft of fiction fall into the same category. Passive voice? Editors will likely toss it in the "reject pile." Info-dumps? Same thing. Weak verbs, head-hopping, adverbs, omniscient narrators and many other things have the same outcome--for unpublished authors.

Some of these things are fashion. Again, one can find countless examples to illustrate this by looking at classics from decades ago. So what? We don't have time machines to go back to 1980 to submit our novels. Fashions change, and many of the things that result in rejection today were pervasive fifty years ago, or even twenty years ago. This doesn't mean the current fashion is right. It just is.


If you're an unpublished author who craves to be published, you should listen to what editors and agents say about their heuristics. Your goal is to get into the "read" pile, and avoid the "reject pile." Weak verbs are one of the things that land you in the wrong pile. Put them in your fiction at your peril.


Max