ZappierVirus wrote:Chicken Little: "The Sky is Falling!!!!"
That reminds me of a joke I made up a while ago....
Chozon1 wrote:
When you've got to depend entirely on the characters to push the story along?
What do you mean? Character-driven stories tend to be the best ones out there. Much better than just having your characters go about their business, waiting for something to happen.
And yes, I've read some of those. Short stories that were so mundane, with uninteresting characters, that you're left feeling unsatisfied with the ending. There was no point to the story, so what was even the point in reading it?
Now mind you, sometimes this can be done very, very well. Consider this:
Sally woke up when the alarm went off. She stretched, got out of bed, and got dressed. She went to the kitchen and poured herself a bowl of cereal. She ate slowly, not really tasting the food. It was just automatic, her mind elsewhere. She took the bowl to the sink once she was done.
She went back to the bedroom and made the queen-sized bed. She gathered up her dirty laundry and took it to the laundry room. After a moment's hesitation, she decided to go ahead and wash her clothes. With the washing machine churning in the background, she wandered around the apartment, dusting.
She returned to the kitchen and washed the dishes from last night, along with her bowl and spoon. She went to the front door and brought in the mail (more bills and junk mail she had no intention of reading) and the newspaper. She moved the clothes from the washing machine to the dryer, careful to take out the pink shirt that he liked. She didn't want it to shrink. She hung it up, still damp, in the closet.
She mopped the kitchen floor. She opened the newspaper and flipped to the classifieds section. There were several jobs listed, but after a few minutes, she realized she wasn't actually reading anything. She folded the newspaper up. She looked at the phone and considered calling her sister. She stopped herself with her hand halfway towards the receiver. Not yet.
She tidied up the living room. She moved the armchair to a different spot. She moved it back.
She looked up and saw that it was growing dark. The clock said 7:30 p.m. Sally didn't know where the time had gone. She hadn't even eaten lunch. She looked in the refrigerator and pulled out some leftover spaghetti. She warmed it in the microwave. She ate it in the living room while watching some brainless sitcom that failed to bring a smile to her face. She put the bowl in the sink and opened the newspaper. She used a red pen to circle a couple interesting prospects. She'd call them tomorrow.
Nine o'clock. Time for bed. She returned to the bedroom, got into her nightgown, and got into bed. She looked at the picture standing on the nightstand next to her. A man in a red jacket, smiling as he displayed a large fish. She smiled, for the first time in several days.
It had been three weeks since his death, and the first day that she hadn't cried at the memory of him. It had been a good day.