How To Write A Short Story: What's Up, Gilroy?

Lima, Ohio is a small, industrial town of just around 40,000 people, located between Dayton and Toledo on I-75. If you were to go to Lima, Ohio and ask who the greatest basketball player ever was you would get one name, Greg Simpson. Greg Simpson's story was that of success and failure. There was nothin gstopping him from success, but himself. He was his own kryptonite during his college years. a feature about an eighth-grader at West Junior High who was scoring points at a phenomenal clip. Coverage of a young junior high player was simply unheard of in that era. That young man was Greg Simpson.

There she was for the third time today, just sitting in front of the wall waiting for it to come down. Everyday, for about 6 months now, Elena just sat in front of the wall asking herself: when will it come down? What’s it like on the other side? It has to be better than here, right? After running through those same questions, she went home to her family. The family she loved very much!

His multi colored eyes scanned around the room as if searching for something. I watched him as he crossed the hall walking towards me. He stopped mid stride, and cocked his head as if listening for the slightest

Her eyes lingered at the Venetian blinds as thet swooped against the open window. "Hey, it's pretty windy tonight."

And suddenly there came a sound from heaven, as of a rushing mighty wind, and it

The tickling sensation of heat bathing his face forced him to slowly open his eyes. The sun’s golden rays stunned him blurring his vision as he quickly turned away. As his eyes adjusted, he was surprised to find the absence of his father. His heart started to pound and all the confidence and security that he had built up melted in the space of a few seconds. He jumped up flinging his sleeping bag on to the ground and looked around taking note of his surroundings. To him, it felt as if the trees were suddenly sent out to attack him like stealthy assassins gaining on him as they moved side to side from the winds steady breeze. The faint noise of bugs and animals chattering sounded like the grunt of a predator before it hunts its prey. A colossal cloud

As I helped set up the tents, I noticed a gentle breeze pick up. We left the rain fly off so we could look at the stars as we slept. Shortly after I fell asleep, the gentle breeze had brought in dark clouds and turbulent winds began to arise. Our parents slowly woke up after the crickets stopped chirping, and the whistling of the winds made it absolutely

When it comes to writing I have a mental breakdown, I get nervous, overthink, and emotionally stressed. These three words describe me as a writer. In high school I would have a difficult time starting papers, often times my weaknesses was grammar and sentences fragments. How I feel about writing is how I feel when a love one dies. It's like as if I'm at a funeral and my paper is the one being funeralized. I think the reason why I am how I am about writing is because my college English teacher in high school was so harsh on my papers, and ever since then I've been traumatize to write papers.

“What do you want to do?” He held the spyglass up to his eye. “Hey. Hey, man. It looks like they are looking up here. I think they found out that our snowmobiles aren't any of theirs.”

Have you ever had a really difficult time in life and it turned out for the better? Learning to read and write was a process that with my mother, growing up in poverty and being bullied at school really shaped me into the person I am today. My mother had me at a young age and even though everyone told her she shouldn’t have, she went through with me and my brother's birth before the age of twenty. I remember very little about my brother’s birth since he was born sixteen months after me. You can imagine the stress and obstacles my single mother faced. Yet, somehow, she knew how to be the perfect mother to me and my brother and not only made sure we had everything we needed she made sure we used our minds from a young age making us literate before we went to school.

I rush to the locker room and check my makeup. I am flustered about my first performance. It is a big stage, lots to remember, and two whole lines. I know the leads have about 200 or so lines to remember, but this is my first show and I don’t want to look bad by not being able to remember one.

I step slowly out of my time machine the engines still whirring slightly. Pausing, I look down to dust myself off and subsequently hurry the huge library standing in front of me. Whisking past the librarian who looks at me slightly offended that I didn’t stop to chat. A brief feeling of remorse passes over me and I quickly shake it away, I don’t have time for talking i’m about to witness living history.

Bunting gives a full explanation on writing short stories in this article. Bunting provides good advice to any new writers looking to start their careers in writing. While giving out factors in starting a story, Bunting also explores the summarizing, proofreading and publishing components for short stories when finished. Bunting made a valid point in the first portion of the article; in order to write a short story, the reader will have to read a short story, just to get a better understanding. In the last portion of the article, he offers the reader to check out his guide he’s listed. Bunting’s article describes the important steps to writing short stories. While short stories are shorter than a novel, it is still counted as a piece of literature.

"Noisy things," she thought of the clouds, "and grumpy too. What have they to complain about? So dark they cannot see their silver lining. They're free to fly all across the sky while I am stuck here, not even close enough to take a long drink. Always having to sway this way and that just to get my fair share of the Sun, harumph," she belched.

Moments later, everything went silent and still. The birds are no longer singing their joyful song. The lake became wave less and serene. I could feel the pressure of the atmosphere weighing down on me like a heavy burden. This is what is called the calm before the storm. Like a whisper the wind gently blew across my face and rustled my hair filling it with static electricity. Then the wind started its fury-the hot blowing sand stung as it hit my skin. It burned my eyes and filled my nose. I could taste the grit in my mouth. The trees bent over without mercy and whiplashed back the other way. The lake turned a dark electric green and the waves rolled violently with caps of white. And not too far off in the distance, cells of rain kicked up the dust and made steam rise as the speeding rain reached the parched ground. The sky grew black as the imposing clouds illuminated a glowing white. They were filled with flashes of light that danced erratically