How to write a short story for Substack.
(If you like this story there are tons more here. You can also find a whole bunch of different books I’ve written right here. So, you’ve got a whole lot to enjoy. Check them out please. Thank you.)
First of all, if you like this story, thank Parker Settecase @parkersponderings. If you don’t like it, oh well. God wants me to write a ton of stories to nudge people closer to him. And between you and me he already knows I am lame, can’t stay on task. I will be on fire, clacking away on my Mac like six men, every word right from heaven. Then a stray thought wanders into my brain, what is Mark Linsey from Paul Revere and the Raiders doing right now. So, I stop typing and go look him up. Wow, that wasn’t interesting at all. I’m gonna stay on task. Now where was I?
Oh yeah, I was at the crux of the story and boy howdy was it a good one. This is gonna drive em wild. I’m thinking Spielberg is gonna want this one. He, he, he. But he’s pretty slick. He might take advantage of me. I’d better prepare myself.
I stop writing. Go into the living room, dial up the movie, “The Maltese Falcon.” I get to the part where Humphrey Bogart is bitch-slapping the daylights out of Peter Lorrie. He grabs him by the tie, whacks him good and… wait for it…tells him…wait…”When you’re slapped you’ll take it and like it!” Bam! Ohh, that is soo good. In my mind I’ve got Spielberg by his tie and…
“Uhh, excuse me Stever. Would you mind putting this tie on?”
“Why is that, Francis? I don’t really wear a lot of ties.”
“It’s important.”
“Ok.”
So, I grab him by his tie and slap him around a little.
“Oww, Francis, I just wanted to buy your story. I’ll give you a fair price.”
“Fair for who you hack.”
“I think 1.5 million is more than fair for your short story.”
“It would be for James Patterson. But I’m not him. You made your first mistake offering me that cheeseball low bid. You see Stever. That one story you want is part of a series. There are fifteen stories in that book and they are interconnected. So, if you want that one, you gotta buy all fifteen.”
“Ok. Sounds good.”
“None of your guff producer boy. I know how you roll.”
“How do I roll? I just told you I’d give you 1.5 million for each of your 15 stories in your book.
Mmm. Yeah. Okay. How much is that?”
“Twenty-two and a half million dollars.”
“You scoundrel!”
“What? What’d I do?”
“Try to sneak up on me, would ya? Pull a knife on me, would ya?”’
“Are you stealing lines from the cowardly lion in the Wizard of Oz?”
“Not necessarily. But you… uhm, you forgot the sign on bonus.”
“The what? What are we negotiating for first round NBA Draft picks? How much do you want for a sign on bonus Francis. This is getting ridiculous.”
“Uhh, Five more.”
“Fiver more. Ok. Twenty seven. Five million dollars. No. Let's just round it up to an even thirty. Would that be fair?”
“I meant five dollars more, Stever.” I wanted to drive a hard bargain, you know.”
I was gonna whine about overseas rights but I can buy a lot of Snickers and Slim Jim’s for thirty million. But as I left that scene in my mind and came back to my computer, I couldn’t help feeling somehow, he’d taken advantage of me.
I still gotta finish this story. And I need an ending so snappy and unseen men and angels slap the dumbness outta their foreheads and say, “Holy Moley. Man, I did not see that one coming. Wow, is this cat slick.” You know, stuff like that. Now where is that snappy ending. Where is the big reveal?
Mm. I got nothin. But I know where I can get something. The Muse. She has inspired men and women for ages. All the great surprise ending in all the stories you’ve ever written or read. That’s her. And she is just the gal I need now.
Except she has a restraining order out on me. Some little misunderstanding about needing her twenty-four seven a few months ago when I was crafting that last volume of books. She had a breakdown. I went to see her. Brought her candy and flowers. I possibly should not have taken out that sixteen-hundred-page manuscript when she had her mouth full of covered creams and nougats. You know, just for a few insights and pointers how to sharpen things up a tad. But I was good enough to Heimlich her so that ought to count for something. Maybe next time salted caramels and dark chocolate enrobed fruit and nuts?
It was worth a try…
“Ding dong.”
“Who is it?” Came the Muse’s sweet voice through the massive oak door.
“Candygram.”
“Ohh goodie. I didn’t even know they were still in business.” She opened the door. I tackled her and maced her six rottweilers she’d got since our last encounter. I made sure the duct tape was not too tight and sat her upright in the chair she was tied to.
“Now, hear me out. I know I probably shouldn’t have tackled you, maced your dogs and tied
you up but I got this story that is sooo good you will laugh and really want to help me out. So, is it okay if I tell it to you or should I just get a frozen pizza outta your freezer and eat it while you cool down some more?
Little bolts of lightning flashed in her eyes but she finally calmed down. She had half chewed through the duct tape anyway so I took it off her mouth and gave her a drink of water. Cursing behind a wall of grey duct tape is thirsty work. When she got her voice back, she told me to read her the story.
I read it. In spite of herself she started to smile, then laugh out loud. I started to laugh.
“See. I told ya it was good. Now, how do I finish it? How do I come up with a killer ending that
pleases God and man?”
“Your story is complete as it is. You don’t finish it. You leave it dangling. Leave the reader wondering what actually happened at the end. They will come up with something so blindingly brilliant it will blow everyone away. A thousand people will send you ten thousand wonderful endings and each one will be better than that last. And each one will write to you and tell you, “Frankie, I figured it out. This is what happened isn’t it. And you pick out the one you like best and tell them, ‘Yeah, you got it.”
So, now dear reader this is your part to contribute to this amazing story. I want each of you to write me an amazing knock your socks off ending to this little story. Only send it your absolute best. And any chocolate you have laying around. But only the fresh new stuff, ok? None of that stuff older than the hills you were gonna foist off on the grandkids when they came over, okay? And the killer ending that rings the bell will be the ending. And you’ll be very happy with yourself that you figured things out. And everyone goes home happy. Send yours in right away. Operators are standing by. Oh, boy!
And that’s how I write a story. Not a good one mind you. But it’s sometimes hard to stay on track.
Your Frankie. The End.
Hahaha nothing like a little B&E to get the creative juices flowing, pops!!