From the Luna Review, 2017

Q & A with Nicholas Deitch, Interviewer, Max Talley

Luna Review: When you wrote these four pieces, did you start small and build to a hundred words, or write longer pieces, then chisel them down? Please explain.

Nicholas: The goal was to write a story of 101 words or less. Each piece began closer to four or five hundred words, which I did not realize until I counted them. I wrote a draft, and thought, ‘Wow, this is easy.’ Then I counted the words, and thought, ‘Oh, crap. This is gonna be difficult.’ But what I discovered was quite astonishing – that so many of the words I had longingly written were not necessary.

I recommend this process to anyone. Write a short piece, or take something you have already written, and edit it down to half. What emerges is what I think of as an elixir, a distillation of the essential oil of the story. I find the process to be enlightening, and my writing has benefitted tremendously.

Four short stories of 101 words each:

Stephen’s Park

“You in charge here?” That whacko lady in Stephen's Park wags a boney finger.

Hell no. I walk here on break, and mind my own business.

“They wouldn’t let this happen in the Magic Kingdom!” she shouts, pointing at the dead roses the city can no longer care for.

A cart full of crap at her side, she’s been tending one gnarled bush, tilling and watering the thing for days, muttering crazy shit at everyone.

Cops are coming. I keep walking. They take her away.

Later, walking back, I see it: a single budding rose on that miserable little bush.

The Feast

Mother and little ones at the table by the tree, chicken nuggets and ranch sauce, all smiles and dangling legs.

God, I’m so hungry. I miss my mom. I miss our kitchen talks. Before the meth. Before daddy ran off with that skank.

“Time to go.” She wipes their mouths and gathers them up, and tosses their trash as they leave. I don’t care who’s watching. I reach in and grab the bag. Some nuggets and sauce.

Food never tasted so good. No, that’s a lie.

Mom made the best spaghetti. Before the meth. Before daddy ran off with that skank.

Exodus

Damned El Nino. Cops and city shirts come down, with vouchers and bullshit, telling everybody to get out. River’s gonna flood–wash us away.

“It’s a lie.” Bobby pulls me back. We hide in the thicket, wet and shivering.

They search our camps. Tilda is screaming. She don’t wanna go.

They take her and leave.

Bobby snarls. “Just wanna get rid of us. We’re trouble. Make ‘em feel bad.”

Wet, hungry and pissed, we try to make a fire in the rain.

I hear a rumble, look up. A hellish torrent rising.

“Christ almighty.” I reach for Bobby’s trembling hand.

Moo

Not far from our apartment Tilly and I walk along the pasture. Beyond the fence, cows linger, content to chew the grass. I can't help myself. I go to the fence and let loose a deep resonant bellying "Moo!”

Several cows stop and turn.

Tilly is not pleased. "Chet, leave the cows alone."

I ignore her. "Moo!"

To my surprise the cows come trouncing toward us.

"Chet, you idiot!"

I turn, laughing, to grab her hand and run.

In the morning, an odd rustling outside. I draw the curtain.

"Chet, you idiot!"

Cows in the parking lot, eyes wide, waiting.