Deconstruction Notes 2022. Flash Fiction.

By David Rice
I think story deconstruction builds better writers, readers, and teachers.

Introduction.

In 1971, I was 7 years old, and my grandfather noticed I had reading challenges. I grew up in a bilingual family and had ADHD and dyslexia. Grandfather knew I was having a tough time in reading and writing, and it was impacting my self-esteem and confidence. Other kids in my classroom at Edcouch-Elsa Elementary read too fast and I couldn’t keep up. If we read a little slower maybe keep up, meaning I wouldn’t fall behind.

Grandfather hired a tutor who helped read the same book over and over. It was a picture book about a farmer who had a barn filled with corn and one day it got so hot, all the corn turned into popcorn. The farmer invited all his neighbors for a popcorn party. The tutor had me read every word slowly and we talked about the generosity of the farmer and his kind neighbors. It was my favorite book. It was a life-learning skill and I still re-read stories.

This is my journey to story deconstruction.

In 2009 I was able to convince Bilingual Press at Arizona State University to publish Heart Shaped Cookies and Other Stories. My pitch was Heart Shaped Cookies would be used as a textbook for students. The flash fiction stories would help the reader move to longer short stories and a one-act play.

It took more conversations and letters, but Bilingual Press agreed. Heart Shaped Cookies was released in 2011. The reviews were mixed, but I didn’t mind because my goal was not literary prizes, it was getting students to read.

In 2013 I applied to the MFA creative writing program at UTRVG. While in the MFA program I took a mandatory class on how to become a college professor and we had to design a course curriculum. I decided to create Deconstructing the Short Story Fall of 2014. I think every college English student, every MFA student, every college of Education student and students 4th-12th should take a deconstruction class. Learning the principles of how a story works are crucial to understanding the true meanings of a story.

I do my best to write stories with levels and subtle meanings. As a young writer I spent a lot of time at the Texas State University library. Reading dissertation abstracts about my favorite short stories. It’s where I learned the foundations of short stories. And I was a T.A. for Dr. Jaime Mejia and got to watch him deconstruct novels for college students. These notes are everything I know about my own stories and it’s my hope you can use them to help your students.

My personal notes are on the four Flash Fiction stories from Heart Shaped Cookies and Other Stories, Bilingual Press 2011. A collection of short stories, flash fiction and a play. I think students can build from flash fiction to the longer stories and the play, She Flies. She Flies is a short story from Crazy Loco, 2001.

The four stories we will cover are: Death of a Writer, Dove Lesson, Humming Forever and Me, The Good kid.

I think teachers can take these four flash fiction stories and help students read longer stories and novels. Deconstruction build skills and confidence and they’ll learn ethics and morality from the stories. Students like me, who struggled in English classes, will learn most stories and novels can be deconstructed, and in the process become better readers and writers.

Teachers, bilingual teachers, and Spanish teachers of all grades can use the stories and the videos so students can learn either language. Side by side stories, with videos, and using the deconstruction method will help students learn much faster with greater comprehension. You can find the videos by Leonel Garza on Youtube.

These notes are how I teach the stories. Breaking down words, sentences, paragraphs and looking for the overall meaning. I have taught these stories to middle school students, high school students, college students, graduate students, and teachers of all grade levels. You may have your own strategies because stories have lots of possibilities based on your viewpoint, culture, and experiences.

Before I start teaching a story, I tell the students how long it will take. People like to know how long a movie is, how long a road trip is or flight to anywhere, how long do we have to stay at a party, the list goes on. Giving students a time expectation has worked well for me. Sometimes I tell them we’re not in a hurry.

I’ve gone back and forth on reading to students or having them read on their own, but what works best for me is putting the story up on a screen/wall and having them follow along with their own copy and encourage them to make notes on the copy they have. To make it easy I tell them whatever I write on the board they too should write.

I always start with the title. I think the title is the first line of most stories/novels. If you start to read a story with the title and add the title to the last night in the story; it should flow. The title is the Alpha and Omega. The story is full circle.

I like to study each word in the title and punctuation. The title sets the tone and is often the first fore shadow in the story.

Finally, these notes are intended to be a guide and subject to change with every reading. I ask for the teachers to slow down and allow time to apply critical thinking to stories and everything else they read. Words matter.

Flash Fiction from Heart Shaped Cookies and other Stories. Bilingual Press. Arizona State University. 2011.
By David Rice

Death of a Writer

In fourth grade our English teacher, Ms. Ayala, wanted us to write a short story. She said

the best story would win a bag of pan dulce. When she said that, every kid in the class smiled. with wide eyes. It had to be a story like Robinson Crusoe. We had to pretend we were shipwrecked on a deserted island and describe what we would do.

It was hard for us to imagine, because none of us had ever been on a ship and the
only island we had been on was Padre Island. But Ms. Ayala said, “That’s what imagination is for. You can write anything you want.”

“Anything?” we asked.

“Yes, anything,” she said with a warm, trusting smile.
I thought about it all morning and during lunch. On the playground, my friends and I were playing marbles, and all I could talk about was the story we had to write. Ramiro Ramos, who was burning ants with matches he had snuck into school, looked up from his favorite hobby.

“You heard her. She said we could write about anything we want. We can’t get in trouble for writing what we want to write,” he said as ants curled to a hot flame.
A few days later our teacher started inviting students to read their stories out loud in front
of the class. I can’t remember any of them, not even my own story, but I do remember
Ramiro’s.

When she called him, he got up and walked in front of the class and took out a folded

sheet of paper from his back pocket. He unfolded it several times and cleared his throat. “This is my story,” he said. “One day I was on a ship, and it crashed on an island. And

there were monsters, and they ate me. The end.”
I started laughing because I thought it was the funniest story ever, but the other students

looked confused. Ms. Ayala got mad and sent Ramiro to the principal’s office, and he was paddled three times.

FIN

Flash Fiction from Heart Shaped Cookies and other Stories. Bilingual Press. Arizona State University. 2011.
By David Rice

Humming Forever

Could I shoot a hummingbird? I had shot everything else in sight: dogs, cats, doves,

crows, sparrows, chicharras, dragonflies and even ants. But a hummingbird is no more than two inches long and flies in quick zigzag jolts. And they’re hard to find too.

I knew of a bright blue hummingbird two blocks from my house. One Friday, walking home after school, I decided to take a different road and saw Mrs. Flores staring at something in her flower bush. She was the oldest woman in town and lived by herself, and always gave out the best Halloween candy. Her lawn was covered with every plant that had flowers. When you walked by her house, it was like walking by the women’s perfume department in a big store, but the scents didn’t sting your nose; they made you dizzy.

I stopped to watch her, and she caught my eye and waved me over, but gestured for me to be quiet. I wasn’t sure what she was looking at and as I walked up to her very slowly, she pointed at the bush. I followed the imaginary line from her crooked bony finger to a hovering hummingbird.

We watched it dart from flower to flower, and then dash away with a blur. Mrs. Flores smiled, “Isn’t that bird beautiful?”
I nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Flores. Does it live in that bush?”

“I’m not sure where he lives, but I always see him in the morning when I’m watering the flowers. I think he likes flowers with dew flavor.” She smiled and brought her hands together in thanks.

I went home and practiced shooting wooden clothespins off the clothesline. They were about the size of a hummingbird, but they were still. Hummingbirds never are. When I’d shoot, I noticed the BB coming out of the barrel would have a slight curve and I kept missing the clothespin. This called for my pelt rifle. The soft lead pelts were more expensive, but I needed complete accuracy.

I went inside the house and mom was cooking in the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a suspicious tone.
“Nothing, I’m just going to shoot some cans with my pelt gun.” She narrowed her eyes and nodded, “Huerco, you better be shooting cans.”
My pelt rifle was a straight shooter, and I broke every clothespin on the clothesline. My mother came outside, saw what I had done, and shook her head, “Huerco sonso.”

I borrowed my father’s travel alarm clock and set it for sunrise. When I left the house, everyone was still asleep and outside it was cool and peaceful, and there was still dew on the plants. A good sign, I thought.

I strolled the quiet streets with my pelt gun and hoped that Mrs. Flores was not watering her plants. I walked by her house slowly and when I didn’t see her, I walked into her yard and went straight to the bush.

I kept one eye on the front of her house and one eye on the bush, searching for the blue bird. I stood very still and then I saw it float and weave between the thin twigs. I took aim at the chest, followed the fast wings for a minute, and then fired. The wings stopped and the hummingbird fell like a feather.

I picked up the little body and felt the warmth in my palm, and then an overwhelming sense of guilt. I needed someone to yell at me. I needed someone to tell me what I did was wrong. I sat on Mrs. Flores’s concrete porch, so when she stepped out and saw I had killed her little flower bird, she could wring my neck.

FIN

Flash Fiction from Heart Shaped Cookies and other Stories. Bilingual Press. Arizona State University. 2011.
By David Rice

Dove Lesson

When I was twelve years old, I was awakened one morning by a dove outside my bedroom window. It wouldn’t stop singing and I wanted to get back to sleep. After a few minutes, I got up, grabbed my faithful BB gun, walked to the back door, took steady aim. I shot. Easy. It dropped like a rock.

Going back to my bedroom, I heard my grandfather call out to me. I opened his door but made sure he didn’t see my BB gun. He lit his pipe and asked me what I had done. I wanted to lie, but it was too difficult.
“Well, I . . . I was asleep and this stupid bird started making all this racket. So I took my BB gun and shot it.”

My grandfather was an emotional man. His eyes began to fill. “David, do you know what that dove was doing? It was singing a beautiful song no other animal can sing. A song you or me could never sing. A song God taught it to sing. And you went and killed it.”

I tried to say something but couldn’t find the words. He told me to close his door, and I did. I leaned against the wall and stared at my BB gun, then put it in my room and went outside.

I looked at the dove, picked it up and held its still-warm body. I got a shovel and dug a small hole and placed the bird in it. I took two twigs from the tree the bird had been singing in

and made a cross to put at the head of the grave. I cried for a bit and told God I was sorry and promised I would never again kill any living animal as long as I lived.

FIN

Flash Fiction from Heart Shaped Cookies and other Stories. Bilingual Press. Arizona State University. 2011.
By David Rice

Me, the Good Kid

In fourth grade I started a fight between Flaco Flores and Nacho Negrete, two kids who were always fighting each other. It was during Mrs. De la Garza’s class. She was my mother’s bowling partner and I saw her every Wednesday night at the bowling alley, so I had to be extra nice in her class.

One afternoon the whole class was quiet, doing their assigned work. I sat in the row against the wall and finished my work pretty fast and was waiting for everyone else. I got bored

and noticed Flaco and Nacho were actually doing their work. They sat in the row next to mine: Flaco in the front seat, Sulema behind him (she sat across from me, but she was absent), and then Nacho.

Flaco had his face down and I could see his pencil scribbling away and every now and then he’d scratch his head like he was thinking or feeling for lice. Nacho had his face down too, all scrunched up with his tongue sticking out and his fingers deep red from pressing the pencil down too hard.

I took two pieces of paper and made two tight paper balls. I threw one at Flaco, hitting him on the back of his head, and quickly threw one at Nacho, hitting him in the face. Flaco spun around and Nacho looked, slamming his pencil down.

Flaco shot up and they exchanged several bad words in Spanish and then Flaco grabbed Nacho’s desk and flipped it over. Nacho wrestled himself out of his desk and sprang up like a cat on Flaco. Mrs. De la Garza shouted for them to stop, and then yelled at the top of her lungs for coach Villalobos.

The door flew open and coach Villalobos, a soldier who had fought in the war and was as big as a gorilla, charged in like a hurricane, grabbed Flaco and Nacho by their collars, shook them like rag dolls, and dragged them out of the classroom to the principal’s office, where they were paddled.

Mrs. De la Garza regained her composure and adjusted her hair and told us to complete our assignment. After twenty minutes, Flaco and Nacho came in and took their seats gingerly. I thought it was pretty funny, but I also felt pretty guilty. I walked up to Mrs. De la Garza’s desk.

“Mrs. De la Garza, I have a confession to make,” I said. She smiled pleasantly at me. “Yes?”

“Well, you know that fight Flaco and Nacho got into?” “Of course, I was right here when it happened.”

“Well, I started it.”
She smiled kindly, “I know they’re your friends and you’re trying to help them. Now go sit down.”

“But Ms, it’s my fault. See, I took two paper wads and threw one at the back of Flaco’s head and then I threw one at Nacho and they thought they did it, so they got into a mistake fight.”

She smiled, “I believe you. But those two need to be paddled every day.”

FIN

Flash Fiction from Heart Shaped Cookies and other Stories. Bilingual Press. Arizona State University. 2011.
By David Rice

It’s What You Sew

My father didn’t like it when my grandmother, Mamá Locha, taught me how to sew.

Because before long, I was laying down patterns and learning how to make dresses. Often I was a human doll for dresses Mamá Locha was making. I’d stand still as she made final measurements with safety pins. It drove my father nuts.

One afternoon as I modeled a dress for Mamá Locha, dad walked in with a long narrow box wrapped in brown butcher paper and handed it to me.

“What is it?” I asked.
“Something every eight-year-old boy should have. Open it,” he said proudly.

I quickly took off the wrapper and there it was, a brand-new Daisy BB rifle. My grandmother gasped. “Esa cosa es peligrosa.”

My father nodded. “Yes, but you know what’s more dangerous? A boy walking around in a girl’s dress.”

My BB gun needed no reloading for fifty shots and every telephone pole, tree, can, bottle, street sign, streetlight, bird, dog, and cat knew it. I was a fast shooter and couldn’t carry enough BBs. That’s when my sewing talent came to the rescue. I called Mamá Locha and asked if the sewing machine was available, she said yes. Dad overheard my brief conversation.

“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to Mamá Locha’s house,” I said.

I grabbed my BB gun and a big box of BBs and bounced out the door. I showed

Mamá Locha a sketch of what I wanted to make and she frowned but didn’t say no. “As long as you’re sewing.”

I walked into her sewing room and went through the box of scraps and began sewing. I was halfway done when dad walked in the room.

He leaned over and our eyes met for a moment through the stabbing needle of the Singer.

“Mijo, what are you sewing?”
Without looking up I answered, “You know how in the old days soldiers carried a pouch of gunpowder across their chest?”

Dad nodded, “Yeah.”

“Well, I’m going to make a pouch for my BBs. This way I can carry twice as many.” Dad smiled, stood up and patted my shoulder. “That’s my boy.”

FIN

Flash Fiction from Heart Shaped Cookies and other Stories. Bilingual Press. Arizona State University. 2011.
By David Rice

Bombs Away

For show and tell I took a bomb to school. My fourth-grade teacher said we could bring

anything we wanted and it was lying around in the garage doing nothing but rusting. My father had brought it home after a weekend of playing soldier. He was in the National Guard and always brought home cool things, like army food, army makeup, blank bullets, flares and bombs.

It was a dummy shell, so it was harmless but heavy. I picked it up and dropped it in the backyard and grabbed the water hose. I took some soap and a steel-wool pad and began brushing off the rust. My mother came outside and saw what I was doing. I told her what I was going to do and she raised her brow.

“You can’t take a bomb. Want to blow up the whole town?”
Dad spoke up as he walked through the back screen door. “It’s a dud, that thing can’t blow up anything.”

Mom shook her head. “Tas bien loco.”

Dad and I bought some red and silver spray paint and painted the bomb, a silver case with a bright red point. I carried it to school in a paper bag and in class I didn’t let anyone see it. I watched students take up really dumb stuff like a lava lamp, a magic wand that didn’t work, and a frog some kid had caught in his backyard. The kids in the class were mildly amused, but I knew my bomb would blow them away.

When the teacher called my name, I walked up as if I was carrying a little baby. I put the bag down on the floor and took out the bomb and all the kids started to get out of their seats to get a better look. Our teacher had lots of knickknacks on her desk like a wooden apple, paper clip containers, a little school bus, and her favorite, a snow globe of a tiny village surrounded by pine trees. She made some space on her desk and as I gently tried to put the bomb down, somehow, I lost my footing and banged against the desk. All her things fell off and I dropped the bomb on the desk. All the students gasped and a couple of girls even screamed.

I tried to calm the students, “Don’t worry. It’s safe; it’s a dud. It can’t do anything.”

The bomb fell on its side and began to roll and I froze in fear. In slow motion the bomb rolled off the desk and landed point first on the peaceful snow globe village.

FIN

Published by UIL. 2018. By David Rice

Nothing But Blue Skies

On my seventh birthday my grandmother, Mama Locha gave me a sky-blue shirt with fluffy clouds on it. She bought it in San Antonio at an art gallery and said it was hand painted. It was one of a kind. “Every day brings a different sky but your sky will always be bright blue with fluffy clouds,” she said. She gave me washing instructions. Wash in cold water and let hang dry so it would stay bright blue. She believed you should take care of your clothes and pass them to people you love.

I’d go with her to Goodwill, and she’d look at dresses and coats. “Where do you think these have been? Weddings, parties or chilly nights by a fire? They all tell stories.”

“You think clothes tell stories?” I asked.

“People tell stories and the clothes they wear hold memories. Your great grandmother made my wedding dress. Your mother wore my wedding dress at her wedding and maybe one day, your sister will wear my dress at her wedding. See, we pass on our clothes, and they carry love.”

I loved the sky-blue shirt, but I loved one thing more, my dog Crazy Loco. He was great and followed me everywhere. He’d sometimes walk in front, but always made sure I was following him. And other times, Crazy Loco walked behind, but I made sure he was following me. I guess you could say he was my best friend.

One of my other best friends lived a few blocks away and I’d walk to his house to play, and Crazy Loco tagged along like he always did. One day I stayed at my friend’s house past sundown and walked home in the dark. But I wasn’t afraid because it was my neighborhood and Crazy Loco was with me. He was a brave dog and though he never really barked and certainly never bit anyone, I think he’d do both, if he thought I was in danger.

I decided to walk through a different street and Crazy Loco was right behind, then I heard a whimper, a sound I never heard Crazy Loco make. He stopped, took a step and limped on his left front leg.

“Hey buddy, you oaky?” I asked.

Crazy Loco took another step and whimpered. I thought maybe he had a sticker or thorn in his paw? I walked to him and kneeled to look at his paw. It was dark so I couldn’t see too well, but there was a dim streetlight nearby, so I carried him to the light. I felt under his paw and couldn’t feel a sticker or a thorn, but I felt warm water covering my hand. I put my palm to the light and saw lots of red blood. I looked down at Crazy Loco and could only imagine the pain he was in. I looked for a rag or anything to stop the bleeding. All I had was my sky-blue shirt. I didn’t think twice. I took it off and wrapped his paw and did my best to carry him home.

When I got home and walked inside the first thing mom asked was why I didn’t have a shirt on? I led her outside and told her Crazy Loco had cut his paw and needed badges.

“I used my shirt to stop the bleeding.”

“Are you crazy? That was an expensive shirt your grandmother bought you. And now you’ve ruined it.”

“Crazy Loco was bleeding. I had to do something.” I said with my eyes tearing up. “Mom, please help him.”

Mom worked in a hospital and knew how to dress a wound, but she was right about the shirt. My sky-blue shirt was soaked in blood. I put it the wash with cold water and hung it on a chair to dry. The next day it had red blotches all over it.
Mom shook her head. “You better tell Mama Locha what you did.”

My grandmother lived across the street and when I showed her the shirt and explained what I did for Crazy Loco. She put her hands together.

“You gave Crazy Loco the shirt right off your back?”
“I had to do something. He’s my best friend.” I paused and took a deep breath. “Mama Locha, are you mad at me?”

She grinned and pointed to the sky, “Mira.”
I looked up and it was bright blue with fluffy clouds. “Mi’jito, that will always be your sky.”

FIN

 Death of a Writer

I start with the first word, “Death.” I ask students if death is a negative or positive tone? Death is a sensitive topic. Depending on grade level its best to approach the topic carefully. Losing a friend or family member is not easy.

Students will say death is negative, but some say it depends on age or maybe illness. Usually, they agree death has a lot of “Depends on.” Death can be cruel or merciful.

I ask the students if some artist deserve to die especially if we don't agree with the art they produce. Do artist, do we have the right to express ourselves through music, clothes or even hairstyles? What’s wrong with someone expressing themselves?

Then we talk about what’s a writer. A writer is an artist like a musician, painter, dancer, etc; trying to express themselves. Trying to communicate a view or idea. And we know, from the title, Death of a Writer, a writer is going to die. How does the writer die? Is this a murder story? Should we kill artists?

By this time the students are ready to move on with the story. “Why is this taking so long?” I always reply what’s the hurry? I just want to make sure we deconstruct the story. Let’s try to understand what the story is truly about.

The first line is about a 4th grade student. Our protagonist is 9 years old boy. I ask students if a 9-year-old is consider a kid? They say yes because he’s not yet a teenager. I ask them if writing a short is easy. Some say yes and others no. I ask the students if asking a 9-year-old to write a short story might be asking too much?

Again, students are divided. The next line, “Best story would win a bag of pan dulce.” I ask them, is making the students write a short story assignment into a competition a good idea? I use the example of dancing at a wedding or quinceañera. If the DJ or band says, “Let’s have a dance contest,” the floor clears out because sometimes a contest can take the fun out of the party. So, making the short story assignment a competition could put pressure on students.

Ms. Ayala, tells the students to use their imagination with a “Warm trusting smile.” The trusting smile doesn’t ease our protagonist's writing anxiety. He thinks about the assignment all morning, but at one point does thinking all morning become stressing all morning.

Our protagonist takes the writing assignment seriously whereas his friend, Ramiro is not worried because he believes the warm trusting smile. He believes the teacher. “You can’t get in trouble for writing what you want to write.” But Ramiro is also a smarty-pants. Ramiro is irreverent or maybe a bit too flippant? But maybe he’s just being a kid. He sneaks matches into school and burns ants. A foreshadow of what happens to him when he’s paddle.

When Ramiro reads his story in front of the class he does so with a nonchalant manner. His story is not in a folder, it’s in his back pocket folded several times. He clears his throat and says, “This is my story. One day I was on a ship, and it crashed on an island. There were monsters and they it ate me. The end.” The students are confused and only our hero thinks it’s funny. But it’s not funny when Ramiro is sent to the office and paddled three times.

Is Ramiro’s very short story a story? I think it is, but it needs more description and so on, but there is a story there. Ramiro starts by saying “This is my story.” It’s no one else’s, only his. Ramiro crashes on an island and is eaten by monsters. The question is, who are the monsters?

When I ask students, they say its Ms. Ayala. No hesitation. And it’s true. Ms. Ayala did betray Ramiro’s trust. But I counter, it says “Monsters,” there has to be more. Who hired Ms. Ayala? Students say the principal is to blame for the punishment too. Again, I counter with who hired the principal? The superintendent they say. I say, okay, so there are three monsters. Ms. Ayala, the principal, and superintendent and that’s it? No other monsters ate Ramiro? The students think and sometimes one will say. “You can blame the school board; they hired the superintendent.” I say, okay, Ms. Ayala, the principal, the superintendent and the school board, that’s it? No more monsters ate Ramiro on the island?

At this moment they realize the town voted for the school board and their parents are the voters. And someone will say, “But people voted for the school board, and they’re monsters too.”

I say, so we got Ms. Ayala, the principal, the superintendent, the school board and now the voters. What about the students in the classroom? They didn’t come to Ramiro’s defense either. Not even the protagonist came to his defense. Is the protagonist to blame too, even though they’re friends? And what kind of friend is he if doesn’t come to the aid of Ramiro?

Finally, one of them will say, “So everyone’s a monster?” I tell the students the only way you can protect the artists and thinkers is by voting or speaking up, but it takes courage.

I use this story to talk about a quote from Martin Niemöller. U-Boat Commander from World War I who later became a Lutheran Pastor in Germany. The dangers of being complicit.

“First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out because I was not a socialist. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out because I was not a trade unionist. Then they came for the Jew, and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak for me.”

I have the students look at the sentence of monsters again. Ramiro says “They, it ate me.” I ask who is “They” and what is “It”? Students are quick to say “They” are people, and “It” is like a company or government. But I remind them people are behind companies and governments. By blaming “It” you can take the pressure off people who are the “They” are controlling the “It.”

After all, we are the ones who create monsters, and we must learn not to become a monster. This can lead to conversations about civic responsibility to communities, schools, and students.

Death of a writer.

Dove Lesson

Dove Lesson is a quicker read because the students know what to expect and know to start with the title. Is the title negative or positive?

What’s a dove and what does it represent? Peace, love, kindness, innocence, etc. What is a lesson and is it something you need to learn? Students figure out from the title there will be a lesson and the dove will be the teacher. Something learned, but at what cost?

The first line establishes the protagonist is 12 years old. A 12-year-old is not a 9-year-old (Death of a Writer) and there are expected behaviors from a 12-year old. Most students think a 12-year-old should know right from wrong, but you’re still learning.

The protagonist was awakened one morning by a singing dove and took his BB gun and killed it. It’s the first paragraph and it’s violent. A dove singing in a tree and a 12-year-old boy kills it with anger. Does he know what he did was wrong? Yes he does. When his grandfather calls him, he hides his BB gun. The grandfather living with the family is a good thing. It’s not uncommon to have a grandparent living with a family and the grandparent can contribute to the raising of a child.

In this example, the grandfather has strong comments on what his grandson did. “A song God taught it to sing. And you went and killed it.”

The grandfather is an “Emotional man.” I had a student once say the grandfather was weak because he was crying. I told the student the grandfather had empathy. The ability to feel someone’s pain and sympathize. They’re traits of a good leader. And the grandfather is a religious man. He says God taught the dove to sing a song no other animal can sing. This means the dove belongs to God and if you killed the dove, then you killed God’s creation. A direct attack on God. I tell students, what would your parents or grandparents do if someone tried to kill you for singing?

At the end of the story the 12-year-old boy buries the dove and makes a cross at the head of the grave and tells God he’s sorry and cries. Here the boy has become his grandfather by showing emotions. He doesn’t apologize to his grandfather nor to the dove, but to God directly. Confirming he knows the dove belongs to God and the boy promises not to kill any living thing as long as he lives.

The boy finds remorse and wants to make amends, but it won’t bring back the dove. I tell students as humans, the smartest species on the planet (so we say); we learn through mistakes. We learn not to fight or go to war by fighting and going to war. We learn the hard way and often the cost is too high.

Let’s go back to the beginning of the story, to a foreshadow. “I was awakened one morning by a dove . . .” This is a biblical reference. I was blind, but now I see. I once was lost, but now I’m found. The protagonist realizes what he’s done, but it’s too late. A dove sacrificed to save others and the boy.

I equate Jesus Christ to the dove. Just like the boy killed the dove for singing a song God taught it. We killed Christ and we learned our lesson, but did we learn?

Is this a God lesson or a dove lesson? A student told me the dove represents peace and maybe it’s a peace lesson? Learning peace through killing is the dove lesson? I hope not.

Dove Lesson.

Humming Forever

Again, we start with the title and students should be all over this after the last two flash fiction stories. Is humming a positive or negative sound? And how long is forever? I asked them if someone is humming are they in a good mood or a bad mood? I’ve never known someone to hum if they’re in a bad mood. If someone is in a good mood and they’re humming, how long will they hum? After a while, even a good time gets boring. Even vacations get tiring, and you just want to go home.

And how long is forever? It’s longer than you think and if you’re humming forever, that’s enough to drive anyone a crazy.

The first sentence is a phrased as a question, but it’s really a statement, “Could I shoot a hummingbird?” If I’m at a dance and someone asked me if I like dancing they’re not asking if I like dancing, they’re asking if I’d like to dance with them. In the first sentence, the protagonist is not asking if he could shoot a hummingbird, he’s telling the reader he wants to shoot a hummingbird.

And it’s confirmed by his boastful list of kills. Notice he goes from large animals to the smallest. “A hummingbird is no more than two inches long and flies in zigzag jolts.” The protagonist wants to kill a hummingbird but doesn’t know where to find them. “They’re hard to find too.” He knows because he’s been looking for them.

The Robert Frost poem, The Road Not Taken, “And that has made all the difference.” In Humming Forever the narrator says, “I decided to take a different road and saw Mrs. Flores staring at something in her flower bush.” He comes across Mrs. Flores and her flower garden. She’s known to give out the best Halloween candy and she is well liked. And she’s Mrs., meaning she was married and now lives alone. She’s watering her plants and waves over the protagonist. She gestures him to be quiet and points to the hummingbird.

Mrs. Flores says, “Isn’t that bird beautiful?” A statement, not a question, but the protagonist doesn’t care about beauty. He asks, “Does it live in the bush?” And though this is a question, it’s a statement, as in I’ve been looking for you and I’m coming back to kill you.

He doesn’t waste time and goes home, and shoots clothes pins off the clothesline. The BBs curve and he decides to use his pelt rifle. It seems he has a gun for all types of hunting. His mother is suspicious and calls him a crazy kid and tells him he better be shooting cans, but she knows better.

He sets his father’s travel alarm to get up early. The travel alarm clock might indicate an absent father. He walks through the neighbor streets with his rifle and the morning dew flavor gives him hope.

He gets to the bush and keeps on eye on the bush and one out for Mrs. Flores. The bird appears and he follows it with his barrel and shoots. The bird falls like a feather. A slow- motion fall giving him time to think about his actions.

In Dove Lesson the dove falls like a rock. Meaning the kid doesn't really care nor does he reflect on his actions. But in Humming Forever there is an immediate change.

He picks up the hummingbird and has an over whelming sense of guilt. A psychopath doesn’t feel guilt and up to this point he hasn’t felt guilt over any animal he’s killed.

He sits on Mrs. Flores porch and waits to show her; he killed her flower bird so she can wring his neck.

I ask students why doesn’t he just leave? Were there any witnesses? The students say no, but some say the bird was a witness, but it’s dead. Some students say God and I say okay, on judgment day he might have to answer for killing the hummingbird, but were there any other witnesses? Finally, one will say, “He saw what he did.”

Just because there were no witnesses or evidence to a crime doesn’t mean you’re not guilty. You must hold yourself accountable. You’re always the first witness to your own actions.

I ask if the hunter is honorable? Of the animals he’s killed how many are a threat to humans? I ask what’s the worse crime you can commit when it comes to murder? The students know quite a bit about law. They watch a lot of cop shows.

They know manslaughter and murder, but I ask are there anymore? We discuss murder and manslaughter, and one student will say the dove was killed in anger, but the hummingbird is different. One will finally say, “Premeditated murder.” That’s where you do research and plan the killing. It’s no accident nor is it done in a moment of anger. It was planned. An assassination.

He knows time, place, and even knows it likes dew flavor flowers and practices with his pelt rifle. I go a bit further. What about deer blinds? You know where the deer live and what time of day. You put out dear corn and wait. Is this hunting or premeditated murder? This conversation gets students going because lots of them live in rural parts know about deer hunting.

I think a story is a long beam and there’s a fulcrum in the story. It can be anywhere in the story and that’s where we find the balance. The fulcrum in Death of a Writer is where Ramiro reads his story and foreshadows his outcome. The fulcrum in Dove Lesson is the apology, “. . .told God I was sorry. . .” Humming Forever is very similar to Dove Lesson, because in both stories a beautiful bird dies or should I say, is sacrificed, so a transformation can occur. And the wisdom in Dove Lesson and Humming Forever come from a grandfather and a grandmother figure.

The fulcrum is where we have a transformation of the character or the story. Humming Forever has the fulcrum at the very end, “I sat on Mrs. Flores’s concrete porch, so when she stepped out and saw I had killed her flower bird she could wring my neck.” He realizes what he’s done and willing to accept the consequences.

I ask students what does wring mean. Most say to choke. I ask if I have a wet dish towel do I choke the water out of it? I explain to wring a wet towel or shirt means to twist the water out of it. The killer of the hummingbird needs Mrs. Flores to wring his neck because he wants her to twist out all his sins, all his demons out of his body. To rid the voices before it's too late.

Humming forever.

Me, the Good Kid

By the fourth story, Me, the Good Kid, students know what to expect. They’ve learned to deconstruct and know there’s always more than it seems, and it begins with the title.

The title starts with “Me” followed by a comma. This is a first-person narrative story, but they’ve all been first person narrative stories. But this first-person narrative is direct and descriptive right from the get-go.

The narrator says I’m a good kid. But if you have to say you’re smart or a good person, are you really? Isn’t that something people say about you, not something you say about yourself? I ask students if someone says they’re good or smart, what does it truly say about them?

Good is used in the bible and it means holy, pure or righteousness. A good person has a good soul and is known for acts of kindness. The title is not the nice kid or the cool kid, it’s the Good kid. The title, Me, the Good Kid, can’t be true, because a good person wouldn’t say they’re a good person. The title is a false premise.

Even the first sentence goes against the title, “In fourth grade I started a fight. . ..” He justifies it by saying they were always fighting each other. As if making them fight is okay because it’s what they do. He can get away with it because who would believe kids who were known to fight a lot. Who would a teacher believe? A student who has the appearance of being good or a student with a bad reputation. It’s the perfect crime and happens too often.

We know the kids fight each other a lot because the teacher puts a student between them, Sulema. Sulema is the female version of King Solomon. Sulema means calm and peaceful, but she was absent and now there’s no balance between the two students. I would go further and say Sulema keeps everyone in the classroom at peace, even the teacher. Sulema represents the true good in the story and when she’s not there evil appears in the form of the protagonist, the good kid.

Nacho and Flaco are doing their work and behaving, the protagonist because he’s bored, decides to make them fight for his enjoyment. There’s a quote I like to tell students: Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. Meaning, if you’re not up to something good, you may be up to something bad.

When the fight breaks out, and it’s a violent, they’re dragged to the principal’s office where they’re paddle. Nacho and Flaco probably blamed each other, not knowing they were framed. Later the protagonist calls it a mistake fight, but there was no mistake. He started the fight.

The protagonist, after a while, walks up to the teacher, “I have a confession to make.” Yet another religious reference. We have good, Sulema/King Solomon, idle hands and now a confession, but the authority/leader, the teacher, does nothing upon hearing the confession. “I believe you, but those two need to be paddle every day.”

The teacher thinks Nacho and Flaco should be punished every day, but will this make them better students? I ask students if I hit a dog every day, what will the dog do? Students know a dog will grow to be mean and distrustful of everyone.

The only survivor in this story is Sulema, the peacekeeper, but she wasn’t there. No one survives in the story. No one is good and when there’s chance to correct the problem, the teacher does nothing. No consequences for the protagonist, meaning he might do it again. It’s how the rot sets in.

When he confesses the teacher says, “I know you’re trying to help them.” And he was trying to help them and possibly saving himself too. If the teacher did her job, the protagonist would be sent to the office and have to apologize to Nacho and Flaco and maybe for the first time, they’d be vindicated, and the good kid would have to feel the pressure of unwarranted suspicion.

She is authority and refuses to help. How does a student feel when a teacher/authority figure does nothing. If a student can’t trust a teacher with a short story (Death of a Writer) or can’t trust a teacher to do the right thing, as in Me, the Good Kid: what is the outcome. Who can they trust?

And for Nacho and Flaco what does it feels like to be judged every day. People get into “Mistake fights” a lot, but when there’s a chance to correct the bad or the good; we must do our best to bring calm and peace. Death of a Writer and Me, the Good the Kid the teachers fail the students and society.

Me, the Good Kid.

Last Words on the Stories.

Dove Lesson and Humming Forever are pretty much the same story. Each story has an elder trying to help someone see the beauty in the world and each story has a boy who doesn’t understand. A bird represents freedom and grace. One of my stories, She Flies, the central character is Pájaro. A bird caged too long. Once Pájaro is set free by tía Mana, Milagros is set free.

In the flash fiction stories each bird is sacrificed for the boy to learn, but the birds didn’t willing sacrifice themselves, they were killed. In a strange way the boys are set free too. Each boy feeling guilt, shame and wanting to correct themselves. Though these are murder stories, there’s hope for redemption.

But not in Death of a Writer or Me, the Good kid.

Death of a Writer and Me, the Good kid, are about the lack of leadership and trust. Each story has a student who believes the teacher and believes in the school system. They believe the school will do the right thing. But one is spanked for being creative and the other escapes justice because the teacher made up her mind about Nacho and Flaco. In both stories there are no positive outcomes. I think they’re terrifying.

I hope these notes help.

The last three flash fiction stories: It’s What You Sew, Bombs Away and Nothing But Blue Skies are up for classroom discussion. Have fun.

Flash Fiction Stories in Spanish.

Translated by Julieta Corpus. MFA/Poet.

La Muerte De Un Escritor

Por David Rice

         En el cuarto grado, nuestra maestra de Inglés, la Señorita Ayala, nos pidió que escribiéramos un cuento corto. Nos dijo que el mejor cuento ganaría una bolsa de pan dulce. Cuando lo dijo, cada niño de la clase sonrió con los ojos muy abiertos. Tenía que ser como uno de los cuentos de Robinson Crusoe. Tendríamos que pretender ser náufragos en una isla desierta, y luego describir qué haríamos.

              Era difícil imaginarlo porque ninguno de nosotros había viajado en un barco y la única isla que conocíamos era la Isla del Padre. Pero la Señorita Ayala dijo, "Para eso es la imaginación. Puedes escribir cualquier cosa que desees."

         "¿Cualquier cosa?” preguntamos.

         "Si, cualquier cosa,” lo dijo con una sonrisa cariñosa y llena de confianza.

          Lo pensé toda la mañana y durante el almuerzo. En el patio de recreo, mis amigos y yo jugábamos a las canicas, y de lo único que yo hablaba era sobre el cuento que debíamos escribir. Ramiro Ramos, quien se encontraba quemando hormigas con fósforos que había introducido a la escuela a escondidas, volteó a verme desde su pasatiempo favorito.   

         “Tú la escuchaste. Nos dijo que podíamos escribir sobre cualquier cosa. No nos podemos meter en problemas por escribir lo que queramos escribir," lo dijo mientras que las hormigas se enroscaban con la llama encendida.

         Unos días después la maestra invitó a los estudiantes a que leyeran sus cuentos en voz alta y enfrente de la clase. No recuerdo ninguno, ni siquiera mi propio cuento, pero sí el de Ramiro.

         Cuando lo llamó, él se levantó y se paró enfrente de la clase y sacó una hoja de papel doblada del bolsillo trasero. La desdobló varias veces y carraspeó. 

         “Este es mi cuento," dijo. "Un día yo iba en un barco y se estrelló en una isla. Había un monstruo y me tragó. Fin." 

 Yo me empecé a reír porque me pareció el cuento más chistoso que jamás había oído, pero los demás estudiantes se veían confundidos. La Señorita Ayala se enojó y mandó a Ramiro a la oficina del director, y le dieron tres tablazos.

FIN

Traducción de Julieta Corpus

La Lección de la Paloma

Por David Rice

            Cuando tenía doce años, una mañana me despertó una paloma afuera de mi ventana. No cesaba de cantar y yo quería volverme a dormir. Luego de unos minutos, me levanté, tomé mi fiel rifle de aire, caminé hacia la puerta trasera, y fijé mi puntería. Disparé. Fácil. La paloma cayó como una roca.

             Regresando a mi recamara, escuché a mi abuelo llamándome. Abrí su puerta, asegurándome de que no viera mi rifle de aire. Encendió su pipa y me preguntó que qué había hecho. Quise mentirle, pero era muy difícil. 

 “Pues, yo, yo . . . yo estaba dormido y una estúpida ave comenzó a armar un escándalo. Así que tomé mi rifle de aire y le disparé."

  Mi abuelo era un hombre emocional. Sus ojos empezaron a llenarse. “David, sabes lo que esa paloma hacía? Cantaba una bella canción que ningún otro animal puede cantar. Una canción que ni tú ni yo jamás podríamos cantar. Una canción que Dios le enseñó a cantar. Y tú fuiste y la mataste.”

            Intenté decir algo pero no podía encontrar las palabras. Me indicó que cerrara su puerta, y lo hice. Me recargué en la pared y miré fijamente a mi rifle de aire, luego lo dejé en mi cuarto y salí.

            Ví la paloma, la recogí y sentí su cuerpo aún tibio. Fui por una pala y cavé un hoyo y la puse dentro. Tomé dos ramitas del árbol donde la paloma había estado cantando e hice una cruz para colocarla sobre su tumba. Lloré por un rato, diciéndole a Dios que estaba arrepentido y prometiéndole que nunca más volvería a matar a ningún animal mientras yo viviera.

FIN

Traducido por Julieta Corpus

Zumbando Para Siempre

Por David Rice

         ¿Podría dispararle a un colibrí? Ya le había disparado a todo aquello que se encontraba a la vista: perros, gatos, palomas, urracas, gorriones, chicharras, libélulas y hasta hormigas. Pero un colibrí no mide más de dos pulgadas y vuela con cambios repentinos en zigzag. Y también son difíciles de encontrar.

             Sabía de un colibrí azul brillante a dos cuadras de mi casa. Un viernes, caminando hacia mi casa después de clases, decidí tomar una ruta diferente y vi a la señora Flores con la vista fija en su arbusto de flores. Ella era la persona más anciana del pueblo y vivía sola, y siempre repartía los mejores dulces de Halloween. Su patio estaba cubierto de todo tipo de plantas que dieran flores. Cuando pasabas por su casa, era como caminar por el departamento de perfumería para mujeres dentro de una tienda grande, pero su fragancia no hacía que te ardiera la nariz, te mareaba. 

              Me detuve a mirarla hasta que llamé su atención, agitando luego ella su mano en señal de que me acercara, pero a la vez, haciendo un gesto para que yo guardara silencio. No estaba seguro qué era lo que veía, y cuando me fui acercando a ella lentamente, apuntó con el dedo hacia el arbusto. Seguí la línea imaginaria desde su dedo huesudo y torcido hasta donde se encontraba un colibrí desplazándose.

               Lo vimos lanzarse de flor en flor, para luego alejarse como un borrón. La señora Flores sonrió, "¿Acaso no es un hermoso pájaro?" 

         Yo asentí con la cabeza. “Sí, señora Flores. ¿Vive en ese arbusto?”

         “No estoy segura dónde vive, pero siempre lo veo por la mañana cuando riego las flores. Creo que le gustan las flores con sabor a rocío." Sonrió y unió sus manos en agradecimiento.

         Volví a casa y practiqué dispararle a las horquillas de madera en el tendedero de ropa. Eran aproximadamente del mismo tamaño de un colibrí, pero estaban quietas. Los colibríes jamás lo están. Al disparar, notaba que las postas saliendo del barril tenían una pequeña curva y no daban contra la horquilla. Sin duda, esto era un trabajo para mi rifle de balines. Los balines suaves de plomo eran más caros, pero se requería completa precisión.

         Entré a la casa y Mamá preparaba algo en la cocina.         

“¿Qué haces?” preguntó con tono de sospecha.

         “Nada, voy a dispararle a algunos botes con mi pistola de balines." Entrecerró los ojos, sospechosa, y asintió con la cabeza, “Huerco, más te vale que sólo le dispares a los botes." 

          Mi rifle de balines era un disparador directo y rompí cada una de las horquillas del tendedero. Mamá salió, miró lo que había hecho, y sacudió la cabeza. Me llamó huerco sonso.

          Tomé el despertador de alarma de mi papá y lo ajusté para que timbrara al amanecer. Cuando salí de la casa todos seguían durmiendo y afuera estaba fresco y en calma, y aún había rocío sobre las plantas. Una buena señal, pensé.

           Recorrí las calles silenciosas con mi pistola de balines, esperando que la señora Flores no estuviera regando las plantas. Pasé por su casa despacio y cuando no la ví, me adentré a su patio y fui directamente al arbusto. 

           Mantuve un ojo en la parte de enfrente de su casa y el otro ojo en el arbusto, buscando el ave azul. Me quedé quieto y luego lo vi flotar y zigzaguear entre las delgadas ramitas. Apunté a su pecho, seguí sus alas veloces por un instante, y luego disparé. Las alas se detuvieron y el colibrí cayó como una pluma. 

           Recogí el pequeño cuerpo y sentí su tibieza en la palma de mi mano, seguido por un enorme sentimiento de culpabilidad. Necesitaba que alguien me gritara. Necesitaba que alguien me dijera que lo que había hecho estaba mal. Me senté en el porche de concreto de la señora Flores para que cuando saliera y mirara que había matado a su pájaro de las flores, para que me torciera el cuello.

FIN

Traducido por Julieta Corpus

Yo, el Niño Bueno

Por David Rice

         En el cuarto grado, empecé una pelea entre Flaco Flores y Nacho Negrete, dos niños que siempre se peleaban entre sí. Sucedió durante la clase de la maestra De la Garza. Ella era la compañera de boliche de mi mamá y la veía cada miércoles por la noche en la pista de boliche, así que tenía que actuar más amable con ella en la clase.

         Una tarde todos en el salón guardaban silencio mientras trabajaban en sus tareas. Me senté en la fila junto a la pared y terminé mi trabajo bastante rápido y esperé a los demas. Esto me aburría y noté que Flaco y Nacho realmente trabajaban en sus tareas. Estaban sentados en la fila junto a la mía: Flaco en el asiento delantero, Sulema detrás de él (usualmente se sentaba frente a mí, pero ese día estaba ausente), y luego Nacho.

          Flaco tenía el rostro descansando sobre el pupitre y podía ver su lápiz escribiendo y de vez en cuando se rascaba la cabeza como si pensara o se buscara piojos. Nacho también tenía su cara s, completamente fruncido y con la lengua de fuera, con los dedos teñidos de un rojo intenso de tanto presionar el lápiz hacia abajo.

         Tomé dos hojas de papel y las convertí en dos pelotitas de papel. Le arrojé una a Flaco, golpeándolo en la nuca, y rápidamente le arrojé otra a Nacho, dándole en la cara. Flaco se volteó a ver a Nacho, y éste se le quedó mirando, golpeando el lápiz contra el pupitre.

          Flaco saltó de la silla e intercambiaron una serie de palabras groseras en español y luego Flaco agarró el pupitre de Nacho y lo volteó. Nacho forcejeó hasta salir de su pupitre y saltó como gato sobre Flaco. La maestra De la Garza les gritó que dejaran de pelear y luego a gritos llamó al entrenador Villalobos.

           La puerta se abrió de golpe y el entrenador Villalobos, un soldado que había luchado en la guerra y el cual medía el tamaño de un gorila, se precipitó dentro como un huracán, tomó a Flaco y a Nacho del cuello de sus camisas, los sacudió como muñecos de trapo, y los arrastró fuera del salón de clase hasta la oficina del director, donde los azotaron con un palo de madera.

La maestra De la Garza recuperó la compostura y se ajustó su cabello y nos indicó que termináramos nuestro trabajo. Luego de veinte minutos, Flaco y Nacho regresaron y tomaron sus asientos con extremo cuidado. A mí me pareció bastante gracioso, pero también me sentí culpable. Me encaminé hacia el escritorio de la maestra De la Garza.

“Maestra De la Garza, tengo que hacerle una confesión,” Le dije.

         Ella me sonrió agradablemente. “¿Sí?”

         “Pues,” Suspiré. “¿Sabe usted de la pelea entre Flaco y Nacho?"

         “Claro que lo sé, yo estaba aquí cuando sucedió.”

         “Pues, fui yo quien la empecé.”

         Ella sonrió con amabilidad, “Sé que son tus amigos y que estás tratando de ayudarlos. Ahora regresa a sentarte.”

         "Pero maestra, fué mi culpa. Mire, yo tomé dos pedazos de papel arrugados y se los arrojé a la nuca del Flaco y luego le arrojé uno a Nacho y ellos pensaron que ellos fueron, así que tuvieron una pelea de error.”

Sonrió,“Te creo. Pero esos dos deberían ser azotados con el palo de madera todos los días."

FIN 

Traducido por Julieta Corpus