A short story writer friend recently asked me a most interesting question.

“How did you get into short stories?”

How indeed!

I grew up in a house filled with classical music. My mother was a classical pianist, performer and teacher. Classical music can really gift a child, if one listens to all the experts, and if the massive sales of the “Baby Einstein” products are any indication of how much creativity impacts young children. Some mothers even believe that their unborn children can benefit from it in the womb, for heaven’s sake! Who really knows?

All my life, I have been interested in creative writing (there’s that word “creative” again).

All my life I have been an observer of humanity. A listener. An internalizer of ideas and visual images.

Once I met my wife (an English major) in college, we started going out to independent and foreign films in our college town and also to some of the best art film houses in Chicago.

One afternoon a few years later I played hooky from my job while out attending a trade show for my employer. I went to a matinee at an art film theater I had come to love.

Showing was a John Cassavetes film called “Faces.”

That powerful, character-driven little indie film transformed my way of looking at the world … forever.

It was ALL about the story! No Hollywood special effects. No big box office stars. The story. The story. The ….

But the pressures on a new husband and father (me) caused my  priorities to shift to the more mundane task of making a living and supporting my little family. But I still kept coming back to those indie films and their unique essence.

The reason I was magnetically drawn to these films that nobody had ever heard of, with actors that might not even be speaking English, was, again … the story. These miniature masterpieces  filled my imagination with dreams of one day becoming an indie film director or maybe an animator.

What could be better than to reinvent myself for a career in cinema? Then, reality came crashing down. Stay focussed on your day job, stupid!

As I was completing my third decade-and-change in the highly competitive world of sales, I abruptly pulled the plug on that career. I had been there, done that, more times than I cared to imagine. Something was impelling me to swing back to my core, my dream.

My writing.

And the challenge of working in what some experts say is the most difficult writing form of all–short stories. Little indie films of my own creation. Told directly to you, my appreciative LongShortStories audience.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Influencers, like the creative storyteller Rod Serling of “The Twilight Zone” fame, have had an impact on my short story writing.

Edgar Allen Poe was an influencer (“The Cask of Amontilado”).

Arthur Clarke (“2001: A Space Odyssey”).

Anthony Burgess (“A Clockwork Orange”).

Chaucer (“The Canterbury Tales”).

Sherman Alexie (“The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven”).

Military stories like “Dispatches” and “The Things They Carried.”

Annie Proulx, for her magnificient “The Shipping News” and “Brokeback Mountain.”

And most recently. the most powerful influencer and Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist, Cormac McCarthy, for “The Road.”

I would be remiss if I did not give loving credit to my wife, who is my best friend, my best critic, and my best supporter when it came to launching LongShortStories.

So, to my writer friend who asked this question “How did you get into short stories?”

I answer with a resounding SEE ABOVE!

                 

DEADMAN’S CURVE

 By David S Shaw. 

His heart was racing, pulse pounding in his ears. He was terrified. Bitter tasting panic filled his mouth. Vibrations from the car’s chassis signalled it had reached its limits and promised nothing more. 

He glanced in his mirror. The car behind flashed its headlights. 

Eighty miles per hour … and rising!  This was faster than he’d driven since rushing Miriam to hospital when she collapsed at home nine years ago. 

 Slow down.  

Chances of the car passing him? 

Vanished.  

Hands trembling, aching, gripping the steering wheel tightly.  

He wiped away a bead of sweat with his shoulder. Blinded by full beams, tilting his head and blinking rapidly, he squinted through the screen, trying desperately to see. 

Trees flashed past on either side, appearing to hem in the road, making it tunnel-like. All he could make out against the night sky were haunting branch shadows. Clouds obscured the moon. Pale light barely crept through, casting eeriness. Catching his breath, he sensed that trees were brushing against the car. 

Straining to see through the trees, there was nothing but fields beyond. No welcoming, twinkling lights.  

Daniel Morris feared he was at risk. Things were turning more sinister, like that film from the late night channel, with Dennis something-or-other being pursued from state to state by a crazed trucker. 

This was Daniel’s version on this God-forsaken country road in the middle of nowhere.  

How had he managed to get into this mess?  After all, it was supposed to be a simple trip to Alex Seacroft’s house. A quick signature, confirming the sale of a property in Spain. And half an hour later, he was supposed to be at home, vodka in hand, while Miriam made a hash of dinner.  Usually, a couple of stiff ones dulled the meal and made the company bearable. After twenty-seven years of marriage they were at that point where they couldn’t remember anything else. 

This deal had dragged on for eight months and, in all that time, Daniel had run himself ragged. Now, the seller insisted that the deal be done by midnight or it was off. After all that work and planning, for things to fall apart at the last minute was unthinkable. It meant that their plans for selling everything and moving to a little cottage in Spain would be shattered.  

With a quick eye to the mirror, he tried to place the car behind but couldn’t. When had it appeared on his bumper? Maybe at the traffic lights? He wasn’t sure. Now, eight miles later, doing over eighty, he found himself in almost total darkness in a car that had barely passed its last inspection. 

Panic rose from the pit of his stomach, slowly spreading throughout his core. Horn blaring from behind, then a prolonged beeping.  It made him flinch.  

He stomped on the accelerator, launching the Ford forward.  Couldn’t help but look in the mirror again, as that phantom car closed as if to ram him. Almost frozen in place, Daniel caught a white blur of the final corner marker as it flashed by. 

His speedometer–close to ninety-five.  That fucking car was pushing him beyond all reason.  

With the pavement curving gently to the left, he made every effort to follow that arc, as balding tires squealed in protest. The rear of the car started drifting. Somehow, he jerked the wheel in the opposite direction, counteracting its slide. A momentary cloud of dust hid the aggressor as Daniel careened off the pavement, striking the soft shoulder. It took every ounce of willpower left in his body to move his leg muscles and ease off the pedal. The car fishtailed. Somehow, he managed to keep it on the road.   Tires spinning, clawing for traction. 

Flashing headlights.  

Blaring horn.  

Eyes of the other driver, piercing the back of Daniel’s neck. 

Imagining that car ramming his bumper.  

Having seen enough of “Police, Camera, Action,” Daniel realized he could be shunted off the road at any minute. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. Leaning forward, he felt his shirt peel away from the cheap vinyl seat. Lights from behind dazzled his eyes and he jerked the mirror away in frustration. The mystery car shot forward as they both straightened out. He could see about two hundred yards of road.  

Just a sliver of soft shoulder keeping him from harm’s way. He had never driven this road before. He ran his trembling fingers through the greying hair plastered to his head.  

And then … dizziness. 

Again, horn blasts, making him jump.  

Staring down the unfamiliar roadway, the speedometer pinned, Daniel veered out of his lane, yanking violently on the wheel in the opposite direction. 

And then he lost it.  

His front wheel tore into the soft shoulder, dropping the car into a gaping rut. Bouncing up the other side, the big car lost its tentative grip on the road. He frantically fought for control as the rear of the car came around. The weight of the vehicle drove it forward, toeing the wheel inwards, rupturing the worn suspension.  Daniel slammed on the brakes … but it was too late. The airborne nose of the car raked downwards, carrying its momentum through the dirt and beyond to a drainage ditch.  

Daniel’s head crushed the dashboard as his car slammed into the opposite bank. He could taste something metallic. Blood? 

Before he blacked out, the last thing he felt was a searing pain as the steering wheel impaled his chest, pinning him to the seat. The last thing he saw was a blinding flash of light as the other car overtook him. 

As the ambulance pulled away, siren blaring, two police officers on the scene were consulting one another, their faces bathed in blue lights from the emergency vehicles. They pointed towards the curve. 

He must have taken it too fast.

This curve was notorious for causing accidents, its seemingly gentle line enticing people to drive too fast. 

A tow truck was positioned to extract the wreckage. Emergency personnel and the tow truck driver were oblivious to flowers tied to a large tree opposite the drainage ditch. By this time next week, this stretch of road would be designated an accident black spot.

Parting clouds allowed the moon to cast a pale light on the emergency vehicles parked along the road. Yellow and blue strobes fought for attention as emergency crews wandered about in organised chaos, pointing and shouting.   A fire tender diagonally blocked the road. Two crew members sat on the back, sipping cups of weak tea from a thermos. A fireman joked. Someone laughed.  

It was the start of the night shift. Already, it promised to be a busy one. This was the second accident they had attended. The first, an elderly woman who had driven into a parked car and broken her leg. Then there would be the inevitable hoax calls to come.

Surveying the scene, a paramedic exclaimed that the victim had been fortunate. A broken tooth, split lip, and crush injuries to the chest from the steering wheel.  

Their last two accident victims hadn’t survived. One had suffered a heart attack and died on the way to Casualty. The second wasn’t wearing a seat belt and had gone through the windscreen, lodging him in a fence. A rotting post had punctured his neck. He bled to death before anyone had reached him. 

Both officers spun on their heels towards Daniel’s car.  Its front, crumpled. 

Hissing steam coming from under its bonnet. 

The acrid smell of hot oil and rubber. 

The driver’s door–pried open. 

The windscreen? Smashed into a thousand pieces scattered along the bank.  

At least he had been alone.  

Already, they were mentally writing their reports, wondering what time they would be clocking off.  

Another idiot rushing home.  Nobody seemed interested in a darkened car halfway down the road, pointing towards them. A black sports car, its windows heavily tinted. 

Suddenly, it turned on its headlights. 

And with a muffled growl from the big engine under its bonnet, the mystery car did a u-turn in the middle of the road. 

Tires squealing, Daniel’s tormentor left a track of rubber as he disappeared into the blackness. 

“Inspiration” is a great word!

 In the Late Latin, the word is inspiratio or “a breathing in.” A breathing in, you say? How’s that?

 Well, let’s take my Free Sample story “OBSIDIAN.” Where did the idea for this short story come from? What inspired me to write it?

A few years back we lost a good friend. Her name was Abby. She had lived with us for over 16 years. Black and beautiful. Friendly. Loving. Loyal. Our family dog. A long-haired Lab/Retriever mix.  A once-upon-a-time puppy found at a humane society.

When she lost the ability to lift herself we knew it would soon be time to make a decision about her future well-being.

I consulted with both of my adult children about Abby’s future. I spent many careful hours discussing our great love for Abby with my wife. I prayed to our Creator to guide me to the right path. I weighed all the input and all the options.

We loved this dog and didn’t want to see her struggle so. We suspected that she felt the same way about herself.

The decision to bring a very kind veterinarian to our home to end Abby’s experience on this earth was one of the most difficult things I have ever had to face. And yet, it seemed the right thing to do.

Fighting back our tears (alright, I bawled like a baby), we relinquished Abby to her Creator.

As she arose from this mortal experience, I had a great sense that she was communicating with me from a parallel universe. I distinctly heard in my mind a small voice. A voice reaching out to my heart. A voice of consolation for her left-behind family.

“It’s okay, Daddy … ”

 And so, when I went to my creative well for a way to memorialize Abby, the idea of “OBSIDIAN” was born. A dog possessing a great love and understanding of people. A dog of great wisdom. A dog ready to come back to bless yet another generation of human beings in need of her unique experience.

Native America is filled with myths and legends of dogs and their central role as companions and protectors of the very young and very old. I chose to paint Abby in the brushstrokes of a therapy dog.  A dog who gives of herself. A dog who understood way more than mere humans could ever know. A dog like ours.

And finally, I was a soldier once. During a war many choose to forget. A war from which many of its returning veterans bore unseen damage to their minds. On the outside they looked okay, but deep inside they struggled mightily with demons they could not shed in Vietnam. Such a fictional warrior was Clarence Kicking Horse, an indigenous American. A man born to the earth. A man like you and me.

This magnificient dog “OBSIDIAN” appeals to us on all these levels.

Just like Abby.