I’ve been subscribed to @sfshorts on Twitter, which is not about short pants worn in San Fransisco. No, it’s a micro-fiction publication run by my friend ElizabethN and her friend (and someone I know online) preinheimer, wherein they publish a full science fiction story within the space of 1 or 2 tweets – that’s a full sci-fi story within 280 characters.
Micro-fiction seems like a great medium for people that aren’t as invested in the whole effort of writing, but it offers some challenges of its own. Stylistically, one of the rules seems to be no txt-speak; You can’t abbreviate every little thing to make your stories longer. And still, it has to make sense.
The stories I like best are the ones that feel complete or caress a trope. For example, if I can discern the components of a complete story from just the 140 characters, then that makes me happy. I also like it if, after all that, there’s also a subtle twist in the story, perhaps something that turns it from something mundane into something purposefully sci-fi.
Here’s just one example of the type of micro-story I like:
but why detective? Why save the spoon, with those cred chips and dpads around? Think Rook. A hand-made wooden spoon: An heirloom from earth
It’s a mystery. Sure, we don’t get the details of the case, but there’s only a tweet’s worth of text here. Still, you get the idea of a conversation between two investigators, one who can’t understand why the standard valuables would be left behind for a spoon. And then you realize that maybe Earth is gone. It packs a lot into the 140 characters, which is why I like it.
And that’s just one of many stories I’ve enjoyed daily from sfshorts.
Anyway, I became inclined recently to see what the effort was for creating a story in this format. It didn’t take much but imagination and some editing skill. Probably more of the latter than the former. Here are a handful of stories that I wrote under the 140 character limit. I’m not sure if any of them are sfshorts-quality, but I hope you enjoy them nonetheless.
It crept up behind him. Silent. Slow. And made a meal of him the same way. But such is the way with mistakes of genetic botany.Their old robot on the fritz, a new one was needed. 5 boxtops and $2 shipping later, it was fully assembled and ambling about the kitchen.
Chased about the galaxy for 700 years by the insectoid race, the refugees finally safely settled on world that looked like a giant larva.
Harold had rewired the microwave so it was only a matter of punching in a date and time to go back to before the messy spaghetti explosion.
The creatures requested only one thing in exchange for a binding peace. In the end, it was cheese that saved us all.
As he fled, rivulets of orange sweat dripped from his temples. The last one infected, all he could do now was settle in for the inevitable.
