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Short stories

I would like to practice my writing, using short stories, but I am not sure if what I write is actually a short story or simply a page of writing that needs more to round it out.

I know a story has a beginning, middle and end and I think that is what I have, but. Maybe what I have is something considered as Flash Fiction. Can someone help me figure this out?

Thanks

Sandy

Okay here it is, I am wondering if it has all the elements of a story, the beginning, middle and end or is it only a beginning. Thanks in advance for comments, don't spare the rod, I am interested in learning to be better not feeling good about what I write, that can come later.

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The house sat quite update number 4.doc, 71 KB

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Permalink Reply by Kay Elizabeth on May 1, 2010 at 1:15am

It's amazing how much difference a tweak here and there can make. I think that's excellent, Sandra. It gives me a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye at the end, it really does. Bravo. :)

Sandra Hyatt Bausch said:

Here is the updated version for anyone to comment on.
The house sat quiet, awaiting the family to awaken. Outside birds conversed among themselves hours before the sunlight warmed the earth and shoved morning into the front yard.
Squirrels hop from ground to tree to underbrush foraging for seeds thrown off by greedy birds on a birdfeeder. Woodpeckers confiscate hunks of greasy suet from a metal trap eager to poke into the hungry mouths of their noisy fledglings.

A dark winged shadow drifts cross the landscape, birds’ scatter, squirrels pin frozen onto trees awaiting fate of life or death. A hawk, talons first, assaults the birdfeeder. He downs a bird, wings cloak the victim, but for a moment, before feather filled claws lift airborne again— food for his brood.

Tommy watched the performance unfold from his bedroom window. His paralyzed hand, a forever clenched fist, can do nothing. He forces himself up, lean out of his chair, props the window open. Fresh air sweep into the room, fragrances of beach roses tickle his nose with scent. He hears Grammie talking to her dog Ginger, unaware of the death at her doorstep.

Tommy thinks about the hawk’s raid. Prey crushed by talons, a victim of something larger than itself. He felt the same when that large dark shadow, a dump truck, drifted over the center line. Yet Tommy knows the next moment, second, minute and day. He sees it in his hand and chair, a chair with wheels that propels him yet hinders his right to walk.