Write Your Way Out

Write Your Way Out

Mark A Davis

222

"I have decided upon a plan to publish one new prose offering on the Grandpa Anarchy Story web site each week," said the Princess of Purple Prose.  "I can certainly manage to write one single story each week, of that I am quite convinced.  These are, after all, what one calls short-short stories -- flash fiction is the more recent name.  I am talking about stories of around a thousand words, sometimes longer, sometimes shorter.  I can easily write several of those in a week if the inspiration strikes me.

"In fact I am hoping to finish several such stories this week so that I have a decent backlog -- a cushion of several weeks, just in case, I get sick, or I suffer writer's block, or for some reason laziness strikes me, or perhaps, for example, we are stuck for three weeks in the Orthoxx Beta 7 dimension battling space ganomes."

Grandpa Anarchy, world's oldest hero, dodged a laser spear, then grabbed the shaft and yanked.  As its wielder flew forward, Grandpa met the face with his gloved fist.  "Sounds like a plan!" he called out, as he tossed the warrior over the bridge and down into the gorge below.

"Many webcomics publish on a once-a-week schedule," she added, "so that seems a perfectly suitable proposal to me.  What we are doing is akin to a web comic after all -- except that there are no pictures, only a prose story.  But I feel that the same rules can apply to both.  Really, what I am proposing is quite similar to the pulp stories that Evron Lempel himself wrote -- and as you know, many of those were works of fiction, based on the true details of your life."

Grandpa dodged spear thrusts and laser fire.  His usual rumpled gray suit with the silver anarchy symbol stitched over the left breast was charred at the shoulder and arm and side.   Red-skinned creatures with bright red hair in blackened armor -- they looked a bit like toy troll dolls on steroids -- charged at him across a narrow stone arch.  Above the fray his sidekick floated inside an apparent lavender soap bubble.  Arrows and laser beams deflected from its surface.

"Of course, I placed the first story up on a Sunday night, so I think that will become my schedule going forward -- a new story every Sunday night or Monday morning, a new offering to begin each week.  How does that sound to you?"

"That... sounds great," Grandpa replied as he grappled with a particularly powerful ganome.  The creature produced a short-bladed laser knife that glowed bright green.  Grandpa gripped the creature's wrist, keeping the blade inches from his neck.

"I went back and rewrote the first story," she added.  "Do you think I should have done that?  I mean, it's only published on the web, so it was easy to do...."

"Princess," said Grandpa, "I don't mean to interrupt, but... a little help here?"  Red-haired ganome soldiers crowded the bridge, trying to reach him.  On the far side of the gorge several thousand warriors waited to cross.

The princess glanced down from her impregnable bubble.  "Well, it is certainly  true that my power of Dramatic Climax Pivot can turn the tide against immense odds.  To paraphrase Archimedes:  Give me a climax dramatic enough, and a means to script it, and I can shift the universe.  But that is, after all, the entire problem, is it not?  As I am certain I have explained to you several times, my powers are most effective when we have actually reached a point of climax -- the peak point of maximum dramatic tension.  It is difficult, nearly impossible, for me to do anything at the wrong point in the story.  Here, we have barely landed on this planet, we have not yet determined where the captives are being held, we have not met the villain, not even a hologram or video of him or her, and we are fighting a hoarde of what could charitably be called faceless minions.  Obviously we are nowhere near the dramatic climax...."

A space ganome shoved his laser spear through Grandpa's chest.  Grandpa screamed.  In moments several warriors were hoisting the lifeless body of Grandpa high overhead.  A cheer went up.

The princess frowned.  "By all that is holy, Grandfather Anarchy -- dying to a bunch of faceless mooks?  This is not how things are to be done!"  She crossed her arms, scowling.

One of the ganomes raised his hand.  "If I may, Miss," he said.  "Isn't the death of the hero by definition the bleakest moment in the tale?"

The princess brightened.  "Why, I do believe you are correct!" she said.  She raised her hands overhead and began to chant:  "By the ancient structures of literary drama, in accordance with the words of Aristotle and Horace, by the pyramid of Gustav Freytag, I call upon Calliliope and Melpomene to bring about the hero's epiphany and transform tragedy into triumph...."

One ganome said, "Way to go, Horace....."

FINI