Jason Makansi | Fiction

Many people have “always wanted to be a writer” and to write the great American Novel or screenplay. I’ve been a practicing writer since I was twelve years old and a professional writer since I was twenty five. Over the last ten years, I have turned my attention to short stories—not novels, not screen plays, but short stories. Why short stories? Obviously because there's a wealth of opportunity in the short story world...ha! ha! ha! Or maybe its because I enjoy reading the relentless stream of rejection letters. Or maybe because I'm just stubborn and deep down I believe that nothing is worth doing unless it involves angst, struggle, and a bit of sadomasochistic torture.

Or maybe I just like the short story form.

Anyway, I attended the Sewanee Writers Conference in 2009, which I’ve been led to believe uses a highly selective admissions process. I have to believe it because I was rejected several times before finally being admitted this year. (Refer to the first in my "Words to live by" at the left.) My workshop instructors were the incomparable Jill McCorkle and Randall Kenan.

Over the years, I've been lucky enough to have several stories published. One of my short stories was an early acceptance to the Amazon Shorts Program (stories, not underwear). You can purchase it here for the ridiculously low price of 49 cents. You can’t get a pack of gum for that price and there's not even any paper to recycle.

Everyone tells me I need to work on my novel again. That I'm a novelist in a short story writer's shorts...(or something like that). But, I can't give up the short story form. And so I keep on plugging along. Here's the first few paragraphs from a story I've been working on:

Acuity waits at the hot dog stand, fuming at what she left inside the Museum and reacting to the energy of the street. Nearby, a mime lays a tattered towel on the pavement. He looks up at the sky and bows, allowing his arms to uncross and unfold in front of him, as if presenting the cloth. He gestures to those resting on the grand concrete steps to the Metropolitan Museum.

The crowd seems to Acuity to be in slow motion, each person somehow defining space immediately around them. She forgets that she’s starving, and pins her attention on the mime.

“Here I am,” he seems to say. His makeup exaggerates his smile. One arm gently swims through the air towards the crowd, his other arm bends with his index finger pointed at himself.

Food in hand, Acuity sees a place to sit, and walks between the mime and his audience. His eyes follow her, then he gestures to the crowd, arms extended, palms up and out, as if to say, “Who does she think she is, blocking my audience’s view?” Acuity catches his eye. He pulls in, puts his arms to his side, and rolls his eyes upwards, flutters his eyelashes, feigns innocence. Once she resumes, he walks behind her with a scolding expression, then backs off as quickly. The crowd laughs. The crowd builds.

He returns to his towel. He walks around it, and stops to study every aspect of the cloth. Like a blinking eye, his expression changes from perplexed to animated, crushed to joyful. Finally, he comes around to one side, and solemnly faces his audience. He looks up at them, looks down at the towel, and pauses. He can’t help but continue to notice the woman who passed before him, the one now sitting at the top of the stairs.