ShortbreadStories: The Blog

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ShortbreadStories Tall Tales: The Hatchet Job

Stories are everywhere. From gossiping at work about what the downstairs receptionist gets up to on her lunch break, to family history involving your long lost Uncle Reginald. These are the stories that fill our minds and make up our lives, and, more often than not, the stories aren’t completely true.
 
We embellish and add little flourishes to make the story a grander than it should be. We say that Uncle Reginald ran away and joined the circus, when in reality he works as a bartender at Circus, Circus, Circus in Vegas. A good story in itself, but a little embellishment makes Uncle Reginald’s life all that much better.
 
However, this fibbing is okay, because making a story slightly more interesting through our creative instincts is nothing less than human nature. In fact, without these embellishments, fabrications and creative touches, we would not have writers.
 
Starting today, ShortbreadStories is going to honour the big fish story with ‘ShortbreadStories’ Tall Tales’. We will present to you a very real, albeit strange, piece of information, and it is up to you to turn it into a short story. Pick up the story where we leave off. Write a prologue. Tell the tale from a different point of view. Whatever strikes your imagination.
 
Also, I should add, this is NOT a competition. This is merely a writing prompt. So if you take up the challenge, please post the story to your writing desk as you would normally, but use this formula for the title: ‘ShortbreadStories Tall Tales: [NAME OF YOUR STORY]’. It should be interesting to see what we all come up with.
 
The following excerpt comes from London’s The Weekly Register, or, Universal Journal, edited by Tim Birch, dated May 3, 1735. It recounts part of a murder confession.
 
On Monday night last, knowing she would return in the evening, I waited in the passage leading from the street-door to her own apartment, the house then being free from all persons but myself. About ten o’clock Mrs Robinson came home, and as she entered the street-door I struck her with a hatchet on the skull; the blow was not too fatal but she screamed out, upon which, I took some small cords out of my pocket, twisted them about her neck, and stopped her breath; then repeating my blows many times, and perceiving I had effectually done her bufinels, put her under the bed, and wiped up the blood with one of her old quilted petticoats, which she had given a little girl of ten years of age now here in custody.
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