I wrote a short-short story yesterday. As I understand it, flash fiction is a short story of less than 800 words, and a short-short is a story of about 800-2000 words. When I learned that, I realized I spent a good chunk of my teens and twenties writing both kinds. They often end with some kind of sudden change.
A story I’m really proud of that got lost was called “S.H. Puttgrass Decides to Vote.” I wrote this when I was 12, in the 8th grade. In it, a man named Carter ‘S.H.’ Puttgrass stares at his ballot information, reads all the voter pamphlets, then spends his time ranting about how there’s more variety of cereal in his cabinet than people to vote for. Then he can’t choose which cereal to eat, and gets angry. He drives in his car, determined to vote, but can’t choose. He screams, then drives his car into the post-office, smashing a row of mailboxes. Then he smiles and says he finally voted.
I got the name Carter Puttgrass from a Bloom County character named “Luther Henry L.H. Puttgrass.” In Bloom County, L.H. Puttgrass was always shouting about his opinions and was sure of himself and them. He always ended by saying, “This is L.H. Puttgrass signing off and heading for the tub.” Which at 12 was hilarious to me. But I imagined he had a brother, Carter Simon Horatio Puttgrass, who was the opposite. He wasn’t sure about his choices, he wasn’t sure what the right thing to do was, and instead of always ending up in a bathtub, I imagined he’d always do something disasterous. He’d complain, though, just like his brother L.H. Puttgrass. I didn’t put any of that into the story, I just imagined that as I wrote him. It was for a school assignment, and my teacher Mrs. VanOver liked it so much she gave it to other teachers to read. Including Mr. Raymond Provo, who wrote on the story, “political satire that captures a generation.” I felt amazing about that. I got red marks for some bad spelling.
I took that handwritten story and over a decade later typed it up. While typing it, I imagined a woman, Marlo Jones, a little bit like if my college best friend Kelly Marlo was combined with a girl I was dating named Georgia. Like Georgia, Marlo Jones was Black and kind of sweet. Kelly was sweet at heart, but was also really funny and solidly opinionated. I imagined Marlo as this really bigger-than-life woman, like Kelly, who was sometimes holding herself back, like Georgia. She became the protagonist for “Bowl of Crap” which was a novel I wrote in a single weekend as a first draft, and that by the third draft was now called “The Bowl Chime.” At the end of the book, Marlo moves to New York City.
Those two lost stories were just ways to write down an adventure those characters went on. I was surprised that they’re both still in my head. Their stories, the exact words, are gone. I can still remember the shapes, but I don’t want to try and redo those works. It’s never fun, and there’s always this sense that you’re chasing a perfect draft that vanished. I’d rather just make something new.
But those two people were nice to revisit. Carter was living in New York City, which surprised me but made sense. Still indecisive, even more so. And so old now. No longer capable of loud complaints or even big, disastrous actions. And then Marlo, humbler and wiser, but still bigger-than-life if she needs to be.
Seeing these two characters intersect, seeing them older, and changed, felt good. The story itself, dunno what I’m going to do with it. Finish the exercise for sure. DEFINITELY make sure it’s properly backed up.
But they were nice to see again.