New Flash: Of uncertain title and parentage

[Charlie Allison]

So I'm going to take a page from Tianna's book and copy-paste my flash directly into the thread--if only to save on time, and based on the fact that this work in particular is under 500 words--and I want to make it shorter still--down to 300 words. I'm having trouble with the ending--the syntax and structure feels a little off, and I'm contemplating restructuring the work to start with: 'He did the natural thing: he tore himself in half length-wise. It seemed like a good idea.' and fill in the scenery on an as-needed-basis. At some point, I'll need a title--any ideas? What do you guys think?

As-of-yet-untitled.

The world was cold and he was lonely. He drummed his feet against the sea ice—clack clack clack— hoping the vibrations would stir up something. Perhaps fish, maybe a great whale, some strange glowing thing without a name on this mono-colored world, so new, so empty.
The only company he received were the echoes:
Clack-clack-clack.
He decided to stomp harder. He put all his weight down, as if to dare the blending of ocean and land and sky—all that heavy grey, without a touch of blue, to dare to try and swallow this riot of sound up. He tried to break the spine of the world with his kicks, to sunder ice and splinter clouds.
All he got was echoes.
The ice refused to crack. The wind refused to rise and the snow didn’t fall. The spine of the world remained unbroken and all he had was a rapidly bruising heel and a stable of sounds that might be a new pantheon of swearwords.
There was simply him, and an endless expanse of ice and sallow snow.
He howled and cried, swore and spat. Nothing changed.
He did the natural thing: he tore himself in half length-wise. It seemed like a good idea.
“About time,” said his other half through it’s partial jaw. It gave him a wink, left red footprints in a wide circle around him.
“I could say the same,” he rejoined. The pair fell into conversation, compared eyeballs and the red water that dripped from them across the ice. They scraped up snow and fashioned frigid halves for each other and wore them proudly.
They had to know what would happen if they did it again. So they split each other in half again—now there were four of him, diminished into quarters. They argued and flirted and came to blows—so it was inevitable that fourths became sixteenths, then thirty-seconds. The flesh diminished, the proportion of snow-to-flesh stretched further and further. He (who is really now more a we) became smaller and smaller, blood grew thick across the ice, it’s heat cracking the rime.
There is a bit of him in us all, the people made of malleable snow that became flesh. A near invisible, ever-curious part of him lives on inside us--a giant who thawed the ice to make the oceans with his blood, who broke the overcast sky with arterial inquiries and created men at the same time.

[justin1023]

Dec 21, 2017 17:41:52 GMT Charlie Allison said:

So I'm going to take a page from Tianna's book and copy-paste my flash directly into the thread--if only to save on time, and based on the fact that this work in particular is under 500 words--and I want to make it shorter still--down to 300 words. I'm having trouble with the ending--the syntax and structure feels a little off, and I'm contemplating restructuring the work to start with: 'He did the natural thing: he tore himself in half length-wise. It seemed like a good idea.' and fill in the scenery on an as-needed-basis. At some point, I'll need a title--any ideas? What do you guys think?

As-of-yet-untitled.

The world was cold and he was lonely. He drummed his feet against the sea ice—clack clack clack— hoping the vibrations would stir up something. Perhaps fish, maybe a great whale, some strange glowing thing without a name on this mono-colored world, so new, so empty.
The only company he received were the echoes:
Clack-clack-clack.
He decided to stomp harder. He put all his weight down, as if to dare the blending of ocean and land and sky—all that heavy grey, without a touch of blue, to dare to try and swallow this riot of sound up. He tried to break the spine of the world with his kicks, to sunder ice and splinter clouds.
All he got was echoes.
The ice refused to crack. The wind refused to rise and the snow didn’t fall. The spine of the world remained unbroken and all he had was a rapidly bruising heel and a stable of sounds that might be a new pantheon of swearwords.
There was simply him, and an endless expanse of ice and sallow snow.
He howled and cried, swore and spat. Nothing changed.
He did the natural thing: he tore himself in half length-wise. It seemed like a good idea.
“About time,” said his other half through it’s partial jaw. It gave him a wink, left red footprints in a wide circle around him.
“I could say the same,” he rejoined. The pair fell into conversation, compared eyeballs and the red water that dripped from them across the ice. They scraped up snow and fashioned frigid halves for each other and wore them proudly.
They had to know what would happen if they did it again. So they split each other in half again—now there were four of him, diminished into quarters. They argued and flirted and came to blows—so it was inevitable that fourths became sixteenths, then thirty-seconds. The flesh diminished, the proportion of snow-to-flesh stretched further and further. He (who is really now more a we) became smaller and smaller, blood grew thick across the ice, it’s heat cracking the rime.
There is a bit of him in us all, the people made of malleable snow that became flesh. A near invisible, ever-curious part of him lives on inside us--a giant who thawed the ice to make the oceans with his blood, who broke the overcast sky with arterial inquiries and created men at the same time.

The world was cold and he was lonely. He drummed his feet against the sea ice—clack clack clack— hoping the vibrations would stir up something. Perhaps fish, maybe a great whale, some strange glowing thing without a name on this mono-colored world, so new, so empty.
The only company he received were the echoes:
Clack-clack-clack.
He decided to stomp[stomped] harder. He put all his weight down, as if to dare the blending of ocean and land and sky—all that heavy grey, without a touch of blue, to dare to try and swallow this riot of sound up. He tried to break the spine of the world with his kicks, to sunder ice and splinter clouds.
All he got was[were] echoes.
The ice refused to crack. The wind refused to rise and the snow didn’t fall. The spine of the world remained unbroken and all he had was a rapidly bruising heel and a stable of sounds that might be a new pantheon of swearwords.
There was simply him, and an endless expanse of ice and sallow snow.
He howled and cried, swore and spat. Nothing changed.
He did the natural thing: he tore himself in half length-wise. It seemed like a good idea.
“About time,” said his other half through it’s[its] partial jaw. It gave him a wink, left red footprints in a wide circle around him.
“I could say the same,” he rejoined. The pair fell into conversation, compared eyeballs and the red water that dripped from them across the ice. They scraped up snow and fashioned frigid halves for each other and wore them proudly.
They had to know what would happen if they did it again. So they split each other in half again—now there were four of him, diminished into quarters. They argued and flirted and came to blows—so it was inevitable that fourths became sixteenths, then thirty-seconds. The flesh diminished, the proportion of snow-to-flesh stretched further and further. He (who is really now more a we) became smaller and smaller, blood grew thick across the ice, it’s[its] heat cracking the rime.
There is a bit of him in us all, the people made of malleable snow that became flesh. A near invisible, ever-curious part of him lives on inside us--a giant who thawed the ice to make the oceans with his blood, who broke the overcast sky with arterial inquiries and created men at the same time. (this is anti-climactic in written stories. Told orally, passed down from generation to generation, this works, but not in prose.)

Great work, Charlie! I love mythological god creation and destruction flash! This thing really picks up when he splits himself in two. Which I'll cover in my feedback below. Aside from my line notes above, here are my thoughts.

I think you should start this story with "He did the natural thing: he tore himself in half, length-wise." It's a good opening. It sets the stage. It creates questions. The current opening doesn't really create questions I care to have answered as a reader. He was cold and lonely. Lots of people are cold and lonely and their solutions do not make for good stories. So, starting with the initial solution generates new questions for me as a reader. Primarily, "What the fuck is he doing ripping himself in half?!!!"

Now, if you go this route, the question becomes: Is this a much shorter story, or do you weave in his reasoning (the beginning part of the story) as gentle bits of exposition along the way to him fractionally reducing himself (or increasing if we're talking pure numbers and not size). If you decide to include those gentle bits of exposition, you'll have to do it creatively because you can't just re-use what you have in this restructuring. Maybe you'll want him to have a bit more dialogue with his first half. That will give you an operotunity to explore his previous loneliness. 
Ex:

The left half looked the right up and down. "What'd you do that for?"

The right half shrugged, held back a smile. "You try sitting here alone day in and day out."

The left nodded and said, "Ah, but I did. I was there, you remember. Good thinking."

Use your words, of course. This can then lead to an argument which would transition nicely to the rest of the story which largely does not need to be altered...EXCEPT...the ending. 

So, you can see it in my notes above, but let's tlk about the ending. Is this an ending? Is it one that fits within prose? I don't think so. I think you already have your ending and it is "He (who is really now more a we) became smaller and smaller, blood grew thick across the ice, its heat cracking the rime." You could go so far as to make this a tragedy of sorts and say that he (they) fractionalized themselves until they were invisible, essentially non-existant once again. Even as the world grew around them, they became so may that they really became none. 

Again, you can use your words, but I think you get my point. 

Great work again, my friend! Hope this helps. 

[Charlie Allison]

Thanks Justin! I've made some cuts, based on your suggestions, and here's what I have:

SPLIT

He did the natural thing: he tore himself in half length-wise. It seemed like a good idea.
“About time,” said the other half through it’s whiskered jaw. He gave himself a wink, left red footprints in a half-moon on the ocean ice around him.
“I could say the same,” he rejoined. They compared eyeballs, red water that dripped from them across the ice. One half gestured to the ice.
“Two is better than one,” he said to himself, who nodded agreement.
They danced against the ice of the newborn world. No matter how they struck or swore, nothing changed. The sky remained overcast.
As he had done for days when he was whole, they kicked their heels. They drummed feet against the sea ice—clack clack clack— hoping the vibrations would stir something, any change would do.
The ice didn’t crack.
They decided to stomp harder. The two put all their weight down, as if to dare the blending of ocean and land and sky—all heavy grey, to dare to try and swallow this riot of sound. They tried to break the spine of the world with their hopping kicks, to sunder ice and splinter clouds.
The ice reddened. The sky stayed overcast.
“No use,” one noted, panting, breath misting the air.
“Two is not enough.”
They split each other in half again—now he was four-fold. They argued and flirted and came to blows—so it was inevitable that fourths became sixteenths, then thirty-seconds. He became smaller and smaller, blood grew thick across the ice, it’s heat cracking and crusting rime.
Soon, there was only an empty world again, as the trickster’s particles continued to tear at each other, ever dividing, certain that this time it would be enough to change the icy world.

[justin1023]

Dec 24, 2017 0:01:41 GMT Charlie Allison said:

Thanks Justin! I've made some cuts, based on your suggestions, and here's what I have:

SPLIT

He did the natural thing: he tore himself in half length-wise. It seemed like a good idea.
“About time,” said the other half through it’s whiskered jaw. He gave himself a wink, left red footprints in a half-moon on the ocean ice around him.
“I could say the same,” he rejoined. They compared eyeballs, red water that dripped from them across the ice. One half gestured to the ice.
“Two is better than one,” he said to himself, who nodded agreement.
They danced against the ice of the newborn world. No matter how they struck or swore, nothing changed. The sky remained overcast.
As he had done for days when he was whole, they kicked their heels. They drummed feet against the sea ice—clack clack clack— hoping the vibrations would stir something, any change would do.
The ice didn’t crack.
They decided to stomp harder. The two put all their weight down, as if to dare the blending of ocean and land and sky—all heavy grey, to dare to try and swallow this riot of sound. They tried to break the spine of the world with their hopping kicks, to sunder ice and splinter clouds.
The ice reddened. The sky stayed overcast.
“No use,” one noted, panting, breath misting the air.
“Two is not enough.”
They split each other in half again—now he was four-fold. They argued and flirted and came to blows—so it was inevitable that fourths became sixteenths, then thirty-seconds. He became smaller and smaller, blood grew thick across the ice, it’s heat cracking and crusting rime.
Soon, there was only an empty world again, as the trickster’s particles continued to tear at each other, ever dividing, certain that this time it would be enough to change the icy world.

Nice! This is so good man. I have some minor grammatical tweaks and a small tweak to ending to suggest below. 

Line Notes: 


SPLIT

He did the natural thing: he tore himself in half length-wise. It seemed like a good idea.
“About time,” said the other half through it’s[its] whiskered jaw. He gave himself a wink, left red footprints in a half-moon on the ocean ice around him.
“I could say the same,” he rejoined. They compared eyeballs, red water that dripped from them across the ice. One half gestured to the ice.
“Two is better than one,” he said to himself, who nodded agreement.
They danced against the ice of the newborn world. No matter how they struck or swore, nothing changed. The sky remained overcast.
As he had done for days when he was whole, they kicked their heels. They drummed feet against the sea ice—clack clack clack— hoping the vibrations would stir something, any change would do.
The ice didn’t crack.
They decided to stomp harder. The two put all their weight down, as if to dare the blending of ocean and land and sky—all heavy grey, to dare to try and swallow this riot of sound. They tried to break the spine of the world with their hopping kicks, to sunder ice and splinter clouds.
The ice reddened. The sky stayed overcast.
“No use,” one noted, panting, breath misting the air.
“Two is not enough.”
They split each other in half again—now he was four-fold. They argued and flirted and came to blows—so it was inevitable that fourths became sixteenths, then thirty-seconds. He became smaller and smaller, blood grew thick across the ice, it’s[its] heat cracking and crusting rime. 
Soon, [they were to plentiful, too small to see, and] there was only an empty world again, as the trickster’s particles continued to tear at each other, ever dividing, certain that this time it would be enough to change the icy world.