Once Upon a Time ...

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

I'd say it is a lot harder.
The short story should, in theory, be easier. Yet it isn't - the novel alllows greater scope, the shorty story demands concision.
John O'Hara discoruaged other writers from attempting short stories on the grounds that 'they use up too many characters.'

Isn't that a basic misunderstanding of the essential differences between the two genres - a Short Story is no more a short novel, than a novel is a long short story. Each requires completely different writing skills. It's as misdirected to say that it's easier to write a play than it is a sonnet - or to design a Town Hall than it is to make a diamond ring. Wagner didn't write any decent piano miniatures, nor did Chopin write any five-hour Music Dramas - not because either genre is inherently "easier" than the other.

My favourite Short Story writers - D H Lawrence, Katherine Mansfield, Borges, Dubliners (or is that a novel?) Ray Bradbury.

[antongould]

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... Poe, Stevenson, Conrad, James, Kipling, Saki, Borges, Maupassant, Chekhov, Mann, Schnitzler.


.

To fulfill my role as a pest vints could you please give a good 'un from some or all of these masters ......

[Hornspieler]

Authors sometimes say how difficult it is to write a short story...harder than a novel. Is there any truth in this?

In 1974, I wrote a short story at the bequest of BBC Bristol's Talks producer, Brian Miller. I had told him of my reaction to Frederick Forsyth's "The Shepherd" and he suggested that I should write a similar type of piece that he could submit to London for inclusion in their "Morning Story" slot from 1045 to 1100 each weekday on the (then) BBC Home Service.

%There were however, certain constraints, and I can remember most of them but, after all those years probably not all.

1. Must contain no more than 2,000 words. (to allow for continuity announcements top and bottom)
2. No difficult words to pronounce (eg. "meteorological")
3. No oaths or obscenities.

So I produced 3 short stories about the Royal Air Force and one of them in particular was inspired by Frederick Forsyth's "The Shepherd".

The following week, the BBC Home service dropped "The Morning Story" and so my three and others awaiting transmission, were abandoned. Just like that - no apologies, no explanation and, as far as our loyal listeners were concerned, a great disappointment.

So, with the permission of our genial hosts, I am going to reproduce "The Airman who loved the sea" as a tribute to all of our favourite short story writers and believe me, writing a short story is far more diffucult than writing a Novel - and I have done both!

Hornspieler

BTW It's my 85th Birthday tomorrow , but think of the more significant anniversary of that date:

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart Died.

[vinteuil]

To fulfill my role as a pest vints could you please give a good 'un from some or all of these masters ......

... here goes (in part). And I shd also have included Simenon - one of the great 20th century short-story writers.

Poe : The Facts in the Case of M Valdemar; The Fall of the House of Usher; The Murders in the Rue Morgue; The Purloined Letter.
Stevenson : The Beach of Falesá; The Ebb Tide; Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde.
Conrad : The Idiots; The Duel; il Conde.
James : The Turn of the Screw; The Beast in the Jungle; The Pupil; The Aspern Papers.
Kipling : The Man Who Would Be King; Mrs Bathurst; Mary Postgate.
Saki : Gabriel-Ernest; Tobermory; Sredni Vashtar; The Open Window; The Schartz-Metterklume Method; The Reticence of Lady Anne.
Borges : Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius; The Garden of Forking Paths; The Theme of Traitor and Hero [the source of that marvellous Bertolucci film, "The Spider's Stratagem"]; Funes the Memorious.

... more suggestions to follow - I have to go and do some book-sorting in the loft; I may be some time...




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[un barbu]

Scott: Wandering Willie's Tale, a short story contained within 'Redgauntlet.' And in addition to Vinteuil's RLS list, 'Thrawn Janet.' I first came across them over fifty years ago in my Higher English class at school and recall the effect upon me of the powerfully sinister atmosphere of the RLS in particular.

[Stanfordian]

In 1974, I wrote a short story at the bequest of BBC Bristol's Talks producer, Brian Miller. I had told him of my reaction to Frederick Forsyth's "The Shepherd" and he suggested that I should write a similar type of piece that he could submit to London for inclusion in their "Morning Story" slot from 1045 to 1100 each weekday on the (then) BBC Home Service.

%There were however, certain constraints, and I can remember most of them but, after all those years probably not all.

1. Must contain no more than 2,000 words. (to allow for continuity announcements top and bottom)
2. No difficult words to pronounce (eg. "meteorological")
3. No oaths or obscenities.

So I produced 3 short stories about the Royal Air Force and one of them in particular was inspired by Frederick Forsyth's "The Shepherd".

The following week, the BBC Home service dropped "The Morning Story" and so my three and others awaiting transmission, were abandoned. Just like that - no apologies, no explanation and, as far as our loyal listeners were concerned, a great disappointment.

So, with the permission of our genial hosts, I am going to reproduce "The Airman who loved the sea" as a tribute to all of our favourite short story writers and believe me, writing a short story is far more diffucult than writing a Novel - and I have done both!

Hornspieler

BTW It's my 85th Birthday tomorrow , but think of the more significant anniversary of that date:

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart Died.

What an honour being born on such a significant date in music history.

[richardfinegold]

Hemingway: A Moveable Feast (no wasted words there)

I would call that a memoir

[richardfinegold]

Katherine Mansfield, R.K. Narayan, Anton Chekhov and W. Somerset Maugham are among my favourite short story writers.

John Updike would get my vote

[antongould]

... here goes (in part). And I shd also have included Simenon - one of the great 20th century short-story writers.

Poe : The Facts in the Case of M Valdemar; The Fall of the House of Usher; The Murders in the Rue Morgue; The Purloined Letter.
Stevenson : The Beach of Falesá; The Ebb Tide; Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde.
Conrad : The Idiots; The Duel; il Conde.
James : The Turn of the Screw; The Beast in the Jungle; The Pupil; The Aspern Papers.
Kipling : The Man Who Would Be King; Mrs Bathurst; Mary Postgate.
Saki : Gabriel-Ernest; Tobermory; Sredni Vashtar; The Open Window; The Schartz-Metterklume Method; The Reticence of Lady Anne.
Borges : Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius; The Garden of Forking Paths; The Theme of Traitor and Hero [the source of that marvellous Bertolucci film, "The Spider's Stratagem"]; Funes the Memorious.

... more suggestions to follow - I have to go and do some book-sorting in the loft; I may be some time...




.

Many, many thanks you are a scholar and a gentleman ........

[Pianorak]

John Updike would get my vote

Couldn't get on with his Rabbit novels - and gave up.

[Hornspieler]

THE AIRMAN WHO LOVED THE SEA
Part 1
Stephen Partridge was born in Shoreham, so it is not surprising that he spent most of his youth messing around in boats. He was the son of a local businessman and his family’s income was higher than average. His father owned a small cabin cruiser and, by the age of fifteen, Stephen was an accomplished sailor. Even the
outbreak of war in 1939 did little to curtail his activities. There was no fear of invasion, petrol could still be bought and the occasional sight of a German aircraft was no more than a matter of interest.
Then, on his sixteenth birthday, his father, along with many others, set out for Dunkirk. Stephen begged to go along, but his father would not hear of such a suggestion. “You’d be taking up much needed space in the boat,” he said, and his son couldn’t argue against that line of reasoning.

William Partridge did not return. His boat was blown clean out of the water, according to an eye witness, and life for Stephen had taken a very grim turn. A year later, his mother died, a sick and broken woman and Stephen went to live with his aunt in Worthing.

When the time came to register for military service he applied, naturally enough, to join the Royal Navy; but the War Ministry, in their usual illogical manner, called him up into the Royal Air Force.

As soon as he arrived at his training camp, the young man applied to be assigned to the air-sea rescue service. His request was ignored, so he volunteered for air crew and was posted to a school of air gunnery in North West England.

Six months later, he was sitting in the top turret of a Mitchell bomber; gazing longingly at the North Sea, below.

They were returning from a raid on Rotterdam and they must have caught the German defences napping, because there had been little flak and no sign of enemy fighters, so it was all the more surprising when the sound of a sharp crack was followed by a frightening vibration.

“The main spar’s gone,” the skipper told his crew. “Get out of it chaps—as quick as you can! Good luck everyone!”

Stephen jumped, for the first time in his life and he found the sensation really quite enjoyable. He was a strong swimmer and he had his Mae West, so he was not unduly worried. He was the first one out and he noted with relief the other five canopies swinging gently in the sky above him.

They were a long way off, but no doubt they would rendezvous at some mid point and wait to be picked up. `Sparks’ would have sent out a distress call before jumping and the air-sea rescue boys would be along in a couple of hours.

The shock of hitting the icy water knocked all the breath out of him and he could have died in the first half minute, but common sense and experience enabled him to recover his wits and he inflated his Mae West without difficulty. He felt strangely foolish. Five minutes before, he’d been yearning for the sea. Now that he was in it, he would have wished himself anywhere else. The waves were a lot higher than they’d appeared to be from ten thousand feet and he could see nothing of his companions. Might as well start swimming towards them, but which way was that? He had no idea, but he struck out anyway, to keep himself warm.

It was soon obvious that a Mae West is not designed with swimming in mind and that the North Sea is a very different proposition from Shoreham Harbour, so he contented himself with floating on his back and using his hands as paddles. Where were all the others, he wondered? Ah well, they could be no more than fifty yards away and he wouldn’t see them in these waves. He tried calling out, but his voice was lost on the wind.

The important thing was not to panic. Stay calm and wait to be picked up. Seasickness was not a problem and he was reasonably warm.

As daylight faded, he became a little uneasy. The sea was much calmer now, but he’d been in the water for over four hours and he was beginning to feel cold. This time, when he called out, there was more anxiety in his voice and he strained his ears for a reply.

Then he heard it. A bell! Surely he couldn’t be that close to the shore? He paddled frantically towards the where the sound had come from.

A dark shape loomed up ahead of him. A boat? No, it was square, like a hut on a building site. Floating at anchor, by the looks of it. He could just discern the large black cross painted on the side and the word ‘FLIEGERRETTUNGS’.

That explained everything. It was one of those air-sea rescue cabins that the air forces of both sides had moored in the North Sea and the English Channel. At last he’d found a refuge, but what would he find inside? A German airman? Some of his own chaps? He realised how weakened he’d become -- it was essential to get aboard, whatever the consequences, and even that was to sap the last remaining ounce of strength. He pulled himself over the side onto the small deck and collapsed.
Consciousness returned with daybreak. He was cold, cramped and encrusted with salt spray. Inside the refuge, he found fresh water, a small paraffin stove and what appeared to be coffee. One taste was enough to dispel that belief.

Ugh! Ersatz coffee!. Probably made from acorns. Still, it was hot and refreshing. It was time to take a look round the place, but first, there were the other members of the crew to be considered. The grey expanse of sea revealed no sign of them. Had they been picked up, or had they perished? The skipper was wrong, he should have tried to ditch in the sea. They’d all have had a better chance then, with the aircraft to cling to. It’s nice not to have to make that sort of decision and
anyone can be wise after the event.

I’m starting to talk in platitudes! Get a grip on yourself, man! Your job is to survive. Hello, what’s that on the horizon?

A launch was approaching at a fast rate of knots. Better wave to attract their attention. No! Better not, it may be an enemy `E’ boat. He flattened himself on the deck and continued to follow the boat’s progress. No doubt about it, it was heading towards him and now he could see the German Ensign flying from the masthead.

Had they spotted him? He had no way of knowing, but he crawled into the cabin and looked around for somewhere to hide.

Not a chance! No, wait a minute, what’s that hatch for? Ah, a
cable locker, containing ropes and life-saving equipment.

It was the best—in fact, the only place to hide. He slipped inside and pulled the hatch to, behind him. The roar of the heavy diesels quietened to a murmur as the launch approached its mooring. Then there were voices, guttural and incomprehensible.

Oh God! The coffee pot!

He’d drained it and washed it, but would it still be warm? If anyone touched it he was done for.

What rotten luck! Why didn’t I think of ... well, there wasn’t
time, anyway.

From the sound of things, they were tidying the cabin and checking stores. Cupboard doors opened and shut. At any moment, he would be discovered. He shrugged his shoulders. Mentally, that is, there wasn’t room to do it physically. At least, a trip in an `E’ boat would be an interesting experience.

It was not to be. Suddenly, the door of the cable locker was slammed shut, plunging him into total darkness. Moments later, the launch started up and the sound of its engines receded, leaving the shelter pitching violently from the boat’s wake.

[Hornspieler]

THE AIRMAN WHO LOVED THE SEA
Part Two
Stephen Partridge was not a religious man, but he uttered a little prayer of thanks to his Maker and reached for the handle on the locker door.

There’s no handle!

For a moment he panicked, shouting and kicking at the hatch. Then common sense prevailed. Nobody could hear him—he was wasting precious energy, not to mention oxygen.

Sit back and think, old son. What’s the first thing? The hatch,
obviously.

He felt cautiously all the way round its perimeter. Nothing. Even the catch which secured it was morticed into the bulkhead.

Try to work it back, then.

He wriggled and twisted until he was able to extract the penknife from his back pocket.

Wasted some precious oxygen with that effort. Well, here goes—
yes, that’s it. The blade’s right on it now.

The blade snapped at the third attempt. It was obviously no use.

What now? Seek another way out? There isn’t one. It would be a
waste of effort to look. Right! Sit quietly and breathe slowly.
Listen carefully and at the sound of anyone approaching, yell the
place down. Someone’s bound to come along soon, these places are
in use all the time. The rescue boats probably call every day.
Of course, if the weather’s bad and nobody’s flying ... no,
mustn’t think like that. Must be optimistic. Anyway, the met
forecast was good for the next few days. How long ago was that,
though? What day is it? Stop it, man! You’re getting yourself
into a state. What would Dad think if he saw you panicking?
There is nothing to do but sit still and wait.

It really was remarkable that a man as young as Stephen was able to act so rationally. It’s all to do with upbringing, of course. A settled, organised family background. The self-confidence that comes from never having to worry about money. The discipline and training of a good school.

School! Those were the days! That awful Latin master, with a
wart on the end of his nose, quoting Shakespeare whenever someone
turned up late. What was it, now? Ah yes -- `Where hast thou
been, sister?’ ...

...... The Headmaster, who always seemed to have one fly button
undone and who had this little dribble of spit that seemed to join
his upper lip to the lower ...

... Those buns you could get in the school tuck shop -- a penny
each, but the sixth-formers who ran it would sell you two for
threepence, otherwise you had to go back to the end of the queue.
Oh, to have one now! It must be about twenty four hours since I
last ate anything. Well, there’s no question of starving to
death. The oxygen will run out long before that.

You’re getting morbid again! What shall we think about to cheer
us up?

Girls! Hanging around at the bus stop outside the ladies’
college, waiting for them to come out. Always two of you, because
no-one had the courage to do it alone ...
... that Josie! What a figure she had, but her boy friend was
built like a tank. The trouble was, we were all too shy. The
girls were as keen as we were, but nobody dared to make the first
move ...
... and then there was that party, when we played `Postman’s
Knock’ and Max and Doreen were gone for over five minutes, so we
all went to look or them and the Mary grabbed me and led me
outside and ...
... Oh Mary! I wish you hadn’t moved to Reading. Of all the
girls I’ve ever met, you’re the only one who ever made me feel ...

... Well, it’s my fault. If I hadn’t been too proud to write to
you, we could have got ourselves engaged by now. You did like
me, didn’t you? I mean, you were crying when you went away. I’ve
lost everything, haven’t I? First Dad, then Mum—and now you.
What’s the point of even trying to get out of this place? I
haven’t got anyone to go back to ...
... look, if I do get out of here, would you mind if I ring you
up one weekend? Oh Mary, I’m so hungry. I’m feeling a bit
seasick too. I suppose it’s because I haven’t eaten. Maybe it’s
because the air’s getting so bad in here ...

... I’m talking a bit crazy now, aren’t I? I wish I could sleep.
I’d feel much better then, but I daren’t, in case someone comes
and I don’t hear them ...

Mary, please help me. If you ring the station, they’ll know
that I’m missing and then they’ll send someone out to rescue me
and we’ll be able to go on that picnic I promised you and Dad will
drop us out to that little island in the channel and come back to
pick us up before the tide turns and I’ve told the Captain that I
won’t be available to play on Thursday because I’ve got to finish
my Latin prep and he doesn’t know that Kemp minor did it for me in
exchange for a packet of wine gums but I’ve run out of sweet
coupons now so can you lend me some until next month?

I’m so hungry, you see? I don’t think I’ll be able to last out
if I don’t soon eat something .... I never did think the Mitchell
was a good bomber. They can’t make aircraft as good as ours for
all their vast resources and I bet even I could build a plane
which doesn’t fall apart like that and if I wasn’t so sleepy I’d
build one now just to show them and ...

He felt tired. So very, very tired ...

The throb of a boat’s engine brought him back to consciousness. It wasn’t a motor launch—it had a small petrol engine. The sort of engine you’d find in a cabin cruiser. He tried to cry out, but his mouth was too dry and only a croak escaped his lips. He tried to kick on the hatch, but his legs were too cramped to
move. He tried praying.

The sound of the boat’s fenders scuffing against the landing stage was followed by footsteps. Someone was coming aboard. Again he tried to cry out and again his voice failed him. Then the footsteps were coming towards him.

Oh God, please let them find me!

The hatch opened and the light flooding in nearly blinded him. All he could see was a pair of old sea boots, with the word `Dunlop’ printed on the toes. The courage and fortitude, which had sustained him throughout his ordeal, finally deserted him and he burst into tears, blubbering like a baby.

“No need to cry, son,” said his father’s voice gently “I’ve come to take you home.”

[vinteuil]

... I shd also have included Simenon - one of the great 20th century short-story writers.
.

... and in the enormous corpus of Simenon I wd give priority to -

Les Fiançailles de M. Hire; Les gens d'en face; l'homme qui regardait passer les trains; le Bourgmestre de Furnes; La Fenêtre des Rouet ; Au bout du rouleau; La neige était sale - with the 'Maigret' stories as light relief...



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[Serial_Apologist]

Reference ##26/27: Tremendous, Hornspieler - thanks for going to so much trouble.

[Joseph K]

I admire Will Self's short stories (as well as his novels) I recommend Liver.