Conflict. It’s part of life, that’s why we connect it so well in stories. But how do you give conflict meaning? The answer is pretty simple, actually.
Archive - September, 2009
The Price of the Sting
“Artists must be sacrificed to their art. Like bees, they must put their lives into the sting they give.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
I’ve had the privilege of knowing or working with talented artists–musicians, writers, and painters–and they are all living testaments to Emerson’s point. I am, too. Chances are, you feel it as well in the hours of obscurity when no one else sees the drops of blood and pain, all from the experiences you bring to the table, that mix with the ink on the page and then become something new.
Art that is not born of some sacrifice typically moves no one. And if that’s our aim, to move people, then a bit of ourselves must be chiseled off and allowed to fall into the mix. Like a bit of yeast that works through the entire batch that sliver of humanity, your experiences and your story, is what will resonate with others because it confirms their own experience.
Not everyone is willing to go that distance. Not everyone should or can. But for those who were made to create there is simply no other way.
Flash Fiction | The Gamble
* I’m a little late in posting this, but I’m sure you’ll forgive me. As you all know, I started a short story a couple weeks ago that I asked you to finish. I narrowed the field down to two finalists, Jake Chism and Cory Clubb, and you guys voted for the winner, which turned out to be Cory. Below is the complete story, which we put together. Not a lot of editing took place, so it’s still rough, but I wanted you to see how it turned out.
The Gamble
Kevin Kaiser & Cory Clubb
Lauren was in that thin place between waking and dying when her body heaved with a loud gasp. Her eyes snapped wide to a dark world that was cold and silent except for the tick of the engine. Brittle air, ice cold, filled her lungs and and awakened pain that sliced through every part of her body. But pain meant feeling, and feeling meant that she was alive.
She blinked, eyes drifted right then left. Smudges and blurred shadow just beyond reach filled the world, but her mind caught up quickly and forms and lines emerged then forced themselves into place. She was in a car. Her car. She hung from the driver’s seat, her weight held by a taut seatbelt that cut deep across the chest. Gravity beckoned, but the strap kept her from tumbling through the crackled skin that had once been the windshield. To her right, the glass had crumpled and given way to a wide hole on the passenger’s side.
The man. Continue Reading…