“Coup De Grâce” – “Twist in the Tail” – Why My Stories Have “Abrupt Endings”

“Coup De Grâce” – WHY MY FICTION SHORT STORIES HAVE “ABRUPT” ENDINGS

If you are a creative writer – you will have your own individual writing style. 

I too have my own signature style. 

One aspect about my writing style is that my stories always have “abrupt endings”.

I agree. 

One of the ramifications of “abrupt endings” is that most of my stories don’t leave behind the quintessential – “and they lived happily ever after” – happy ending “aftertaste” in the mind of the reader. 

So – many of my “abrupt ending” stories are not liked by many of my women readers who like happy endings – especially to love stories and romances. 

(This category of “and they lived happily ever after” lovey-dovey happy ending readers includes my “Better Half” – who has stopped reading my stories because of their “abrupt endings”)

I am trying to make a conscious effort to correct this aspect.

Dear Reader – Let me tell you how I developed this writing style of having “abrupt endings”. 

“TWIST IN THE TAIL”

WHY MY FICTION SHORT STORIES HAVE “ABRUPT ENDINGS” 

Reminiscences of a Creative Writer

By

VIKRAM KARVE

A recent “fan” of my creative writing commented: “I like the way you end your stories suddenly with a “twist in the tail”...”

The young lady was being polite. 

A “not-so-polite” reader said: “I don’t like the way you suddenly end your stories...” 

Another more forthright reader commented on my blogs: “Your stories seem incomplete – as if you are thinking of writing a Part 2 or a sequel to the story...”

What all my 3 readers wanted to know is: 

“Why do my stories have “abrupt endings”...?”

Here is the answer:

“Coup De Grâce” – WHY MY FICTION SHORT STORIES HAVE “ABRUPT” ENDINGS

If you are a writer – you will have your own individual writing style. 

I too have my own signature style. 

Many readers have commented that one aspect they do not like about my writing style is that my stories always have abrupt endings.

I agree.

I will make a conscious effort to correct this aspect.

Dear Reader – let me tell you how I developed this writing style of having abrupt endings. 

MY EARLY WRITING DAYS

I started writing fiction short stories more than 27 years ago in the early 1990’s – when I lived on the beautiful natural environment of IAT Pune in the hills of Girinagar – a beautiful verdant green forest in the back of beyond below the mighty Sinhagad Fort and overlooking the placid blue waters of the Khadakwasla lake near Pune. 

From Monday to Friday – during the daytime – I would be busy with my work. 

But even on those working days – every morning and evening – I took long walks in the hills of Girinagar – thinking interesting thoughts – and by Friday – the plot for my next story would be ready in my mind.  

Then – on Saturday morning – I would start writing the story.

Yes – I did all my creative writing on weekends. 

I would write a short story every weekend in “long hand” – which my darling wife would then type on her portable typewriter during the week.

(Yes – those were the days of the pen and paper – when you actually wrote with your pen on paper – and later your story had to be typed on a typewriter in the prescribed format) 

Then I would then send my “double-spaced neatly typed story” by snail-mail (by registered post) to magazines which published short fiction like Citadel – a magazine published monthly from Pune for which I was a regular fiction writer – or to the Indian Express for its Thursday literary magazine called Citizen – or to other magazines like Femina, Savvy, Debonair, Caravan, Women’s Era etc that carried fiction.  

I preferred to have an atmosphere of solitude to write on weekends.

So – on every Saturday morning – I would drop my wife and children at the Khadakwasla bus stop – and – my wife and kids would be off to spend the weekend in Pune City with their grannies. 

Then – in my glorious solitude – I would to start writing. 

WEEKEND WRITING

Yes – the moment my weekend began – on Saturday morning – in my glorious solitude – I would to start writing my story – which was germinating, evolving and perambulating in my mind during the week. 

I love writing – so once I start writing – I transcend into a state of timelessness.

I would write the entire Saturday and Sunday.

Time would pass off in a jiffy – as I would be lost to the world – in a state of blissful timelessness.

Suddenly – I would hear the shrill ring of the phone.

And suddenly – I would realize that my two days of “creative bliss” were over.

It was already Sunday evening – and my wife was calling to tell me she was starting from Pune – and they all would be reaching Khadakwasla bus stop in an hour. 

(The Bus Journey from Pune to Khadakwasla took one hour)

The moment this dreaded phone call came, for me – panic would set in. 

Now – I had just one hour left to finish my story. 

(I had to complete the story I was writing otherwise it would spill over to the next weekend – and I did not want to breach my self-imposed target of “one story per week”). 

Therefore – I had no choice but to finish off the story with an abrupt ending – coup de grace...!!!  

That is why my stories always have “abrupt endings”.

BLOGGING – DO MY BLOG POSTS HAVE “ABRUPT ENDINGS”

Maybe this style of writing “abrupt endings” developed into a habit – and old habits die hard.

I will have to change my writing style.

I will try my best to see that my stories have more unhurried, relaxed, satisfying, happy endings that leave a pleasant smooth aftertaste. 

But how can I do this...? 

Nowadays – after retirement – I blog. 

And – I try to write at least a blog a day.

Yes – I write one blog post per day.

I get up early and go for a long morning walk which ends in the park on the banks of the Mula River in Wakad near Pune.

During my morning walk I think interesting thoughts – about what I am going to write on that day.

Then – I start writing around 9 AM in the morning (an hour after my wife goes to work).

I love writing so much that I lose all sense of time – and sometimes – I do not even have lunch.

Suddenly – I realise that it is 4 PM – and – I know that my wife would be arriving in a half an hour. 

Since I am a dedicated “Househusband” – I am required to welcome my “Breadwinner” Wife with a cup of Tea – the moment she arrives home from work. 

My “Writing Time” is over – and – my “Quality Time” (with “Better Half”) will soon begin.

So – I have to quickly finish off whatever I am writing – and – I have to post it on my blog immediately.

That is why – like my stories – even my blog posts have “abrupt endings”.

It seems that I just cannot escape from “Abrupt Endings” Trap.

Or – maybe – I will be able to change my “Abrupt Endings” Writing Style if I keep trying...

I will try my best – but till then – Dear Reader – you will have no choice but to “suffer” my “twist in the tail” “abrupt ending” stories and blog posts...

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 
1. If you share this post, please give due credit to the author Vikram Karve
2. Please DO NOT PLAGIARIZE. Please DO NOT Cut/Copy/Paste this post
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Disclaimer:

All stories in this blog are a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the story are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright Notice:

No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.

Copyright © Vikram Karve (All Rights Reserved)

     

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

 

Revised Version of Article Written by me Vikram Karve in the year 2011 and Posted Online Earlier many times, including at urls: http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2011/04/why-my-stories-have-abrupt-endings.html  and  http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2012/05/abrupt-endings.html  and  http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2013/01/my-writing-style-abrupt-endings.html and  http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2015/06/twist-in-tail-why-my-fiction-short.html and http://karvediat.blogspot.com/2016/09/coup-de-grace-why-my-stories-have.html and https://karve.wordpress.com/2016/09/21/creative-writing-style-why-my-stories-have-abrupt-endings/ etc

Killing Isn’t Easy

This morning – I had a haircut and beard-trim. 

After my haircut and beard-trim – the barber was shaping my beard. 

First – he shaved off the portions on my cheeks. 

Then – he began shaving the skin on the front part of my neck. 

I was under the razor – with the barber holding the sharp blade of the razor on my throat. 

It was at this precise moment – that I remembered this story...

JUST LATHER, THAT’S ALL

My Favourite Short Stories Revisited 

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Here is one of the most powerfully written stories I have ever read: 

Just Lather, That’s All 

A Short Story by Columbian writer Hernando Téllez originally written in Spanish and translated by Donald A Yates.

The moment you start reading, the story mesmerizes you, from start to finish. 

This story is a gripping, tautly written unputdownable thriller. 

The riveting plot – and – the writing style in which the story is told in first person entirely from the barber’s point of view – this heightens the impact of the story. 

Notice the fascinating swings of emotional conflict from one extreme to the other – and the inner struggle in the barber’s mind. 

As you read the climax builds up steadily – and then there is a dramatic ending which leaves such a lasting impact – that you will never forget this story.

This story is freely available on the internet (just google it or try any search engine or literary site). I am giving a link to the story and, for your convenience – I am also pasting the story below (from the url link mentioned below): 

http://www2.ups.edu/faculty/velez/LAS100/tellez.htm

Just Lather, That's All

By

HERNANDO TÉLLEZ

Translated by Donald A. Yates

He said nothing when he entered. I was passing the best of my razors back and forth on a strop. When I recognized him I started to tremble. But he didn't notice. Hoping to conceal my emotion, I continued sharpening the razor. I tested it on the meat of my thumb, and then held it up to the light. At that moment be took off the bullet-studded belt that his gun holster dangled from. He hung it up on a wall hook and placed his military cap over it. Then be turned to me, loosening the knot of his tie, and said, "It's hot as bell. Give me a shave." He sat in the chair.

I estimated he had a four-day beard. The four days taken up by the latest expedition in search of our troops. His face seemed reddened, burned by the sun. Carefully, I began to prepare the soap. I cut off a few slices, dropped them into the cup, mixed in a bit of warm water, and began to stir with the brush. Immediately the foam began to rise. "The other boys in the group should have this much beard, too." I continued stirring the lather.

"But we did all right, you know. We got the main ones. We brought back some dead, and we've got some others still alive. But pretty soon they'll all be dead."

"How many did you catch?" I asked.

"Fourteen. We had to go pretty deep into the woods to find them. But we'll get even. Not one of them comes out of this alive, not one."

He leaned back on the chair when he saw me with the lather-covered brush in my hand. I still had to put the sheet on him. No doubt about it, I was upset. I took a sheet out of a drawer and knotted it around my customer's neck. He wouldn't stop talking. He probably thought I was in sympathy with his party.

"The town must have learned a lesson from what we did the other day," he said.

"Yes," I replied, securing the knot at the base of his dark, sweaty neck.

"That was a fine show, eh?"

"Very good," I answered, turning back for the brush. The man closed his eyes with a gesture of fatigue and sat waiting for the cool caress of the soap. I had never had him so close to me. The day he ordered the whole town to file into the patio of the school to see the four rebels hanging there, I came face to face with him for an instant. But the sight of the mutilated bodies kept me from noticing the face of the man who had directed it all, the face I was now about to take into my hands. It was not an unpleasant face, certainly. And the beard, which made him seem a bit older than he was, didn't suit him badly at all. His name was Torres. Captain Torres. A man of imagination, because who else would have thought of hanging the naked rebels and then holding target practice on certain parts of their bodies? I began to apply the first layer of soap. With his eyes closed, be continued.  "Without any effort I could go straight to sleep," he said, "but there's plenty to do this afternoon." I stopped the lathering and asked with a feigned lack of interest: "A firing squad?" "Something like that, but a little slower." I got on with the job of lathering his beard. My bands started trembling again. The man could not possibly realize it, and this was in my favor. But I would have preferred that he hadn't come. It was likely that many of our faction had seen him enter. And an enemy under one's roof imposes certain conditions. I would be obliged to shave that beard like any other one, carefully, gently, like that of any customer, taking pains to see that no single pore emitted a drop of blood. Being careful to see that the little tufts of hair did not lead the blade astray. Seeing that his skin ended up clean, soft, and healthy, so that passing the back of my hand over it I couldn't feel a hair. Yes, I was secretly a rebel, but I was also a conscientious barber, and proud of the preciseness of my profession. And this four-days' growth of beard was a fitting challenge.

I took the razor, opened up the two protective arms, exposed the blade and began the job, from one of the sideburns downward. The razor responded beautifully. His beard was inflexible and hard, not too long, but thick. Bit by bit the skin emerged. The razor rasped along, making its customary sound as fluffs of lather mixed with bits of hair gathered along the blade. I paused a moment to clean it, then took up the strop again to sharpen the razor, because I'm a barber who does things properly. The man, who had kept his eyes closed, opened them now, removed one of his hands from under the sheet, felt the spot on his face where the soap had been cleared off, and said, "Come to the school today at six o'clock." "The same thing as the other day?" I asked horrified. "It could be better," he replied. "What do you plan to do?" "I don't know yet. But we'll amuse ourselves." Once more he leaned back and closed his eyes. I approached him with the razor poised. "Do you plan to punish them all?" I ventured timidly. "All." The soap was drying on his face. I had to hurry. In the mirror I looked toward the street. It was the same as ever: the grocery store with two or three customers in it. Then I glanced at the clock: two-twenty in the afternoon. The razor continued on its downward stroke. Now from the other sideburn down. A thick, blue beard. He should have let it grow like some poets or priests do. It would suit him well. A lot of people wouldn't recognize him. Much to his benefit, I thought, as I attempted to cover the neck area smoothly. There, for sure, the razor had to be handled masterfully, since the hair, although softer, grew into little swirls. A curly beard. One of the tiny pores could be opened up and issue forth its pearl of blood. A good barber such as I prides himself on never allowing this to happen to a client.  And this was a first-class client. How many of us had he ordered shot? How many of us had he ordered mutilated? It was better not to think about it. Torres did not know that I was his enemy. He did not know it nor did the rest. It was a secret shared by very few, precisely so that I could inform the revolutionaries of what Torres was doing in the town and of what he was planning each time he undertook a rebel-hunting excursion. So it was going to be very difficult to explain that I had him right in my hands and let him go peacefully -alive and shaved.

The beard was now almost completely gone. He seemed younger, less burdened by years than when he had arrived. I suppose this always happens with men who visit barber shops. Under the stroke of my razor Torres was being rejuvenated-rejuvenated because I am a good barber, the best in the town, if I may say so. A little more lather here, under his chin, on his Adam's apple, on this big vein. How hot it is getting! Torres must be sweating as much as I. But he is not afraid. He is a calm man, who is not even thinking about what he is going to do with the prisoners this afternoon. On the other hand I, with this razor in my hands, stroking and re-stroking this skin, trying to keep blood from oozing from these pores, can't even think clearly. Damn him for coming, because I'm a revolutionary and not a murderer. And how easy it would be to kill him. And he deserves it. Does be? No! What the devil! No one deserves to have someone else make the sacrifice of becoming a murderer. What do you gain by it? Nothing. Others come along and still others, and the first ones kill the second ones and they the next ones and it goes on like this until everything is a sea of blood. I could cut this throat just so, zip! zip! I wouldn't give him time to complain and since he has his eyes closed he wouldn't see the glistening knife blade or my glistening eyes. But I'm trembling like a real murderer. Out of his neck a gush of blood would spout onto the sheet, on the chair, on my hands, on the floor. I would have to close the door. And the blood would keep inching along the floor, warm, ineradicable, uncontainable, until it reached the street, like a little scarlet stream. I'm sure that one solid stroke, one deep incision, would prevent any pain. He wouldn't suffer. But what would I do with the body? Where would I hide it? I would have to flee, leaving all I have behind, and take refuge far away, far, far away. But they would follow until they found me. "Captain Torres' murderer. He slit his throat while he was shaving him a coward." And then on the other side. "The avenger of us all. A name to remember. (And here they would mention my name.) He was the town barber. No one knew he was defending our cause."

And what of all this? Murderer or hero? My destiny depends on the edge of this blade. I can turn my hand a bit more, press a little harder on the razor, and sink it in. The skin would give way like silk, like rubber, like the strop. There is nothing more tender than human skin and the blood is always there, ready to pour forth. A blade like this doesn't fail. It is my best. But I don't want to be a murderer, no sir. You came to me for a shave. And I perform my work honorably. . . . I don't want blood on my hands. Just lather, that's all. You are an executioner and I am only a barber. Each person has his own place in the scheme of things. That's right. His own place.

Now his chin bad been stroked clean and smooth. The man sat up and looked into the mirror. He rubbed his hands over his skin and felt it fresh, like new.

"Thanks," he said. He went to the hanger for his belt, pistol and cap. I must have been very pale; my shirt felt soaked. Torres finished adjusting the buckle, straightened his pistol in the holster and after automatically smoothing down his hair, he put on the cap. From his pants pocket be took out several coins to pay me for my services. And he began to bead toward the door. In the doorway he paused for a moment, and turning to me he said:

"They told me that you'd kill me. I came to find out. But killing isn't easy. You can take my word for it." And he headed on down the street.

Tell me, Dear Reader – were you not spellbound as you read this story...? 

Notice the setting, the characters, the conflicting emotions and the build up of sheer terror in the mind of the barber – as the story progresses towards its climax, the epiphany. 

And – just look at the spectacular sting in the tail: 

“They told me that you’d kill me. I came to find out. But killing isn’t easy. You can take my word for it”.  

The moral conflict in the mind of the barber delivers a powerfully message: 

Is it justified to kill someone – even for vengeance...?

Dear Reader: 

I read this story many years ago – probably 25 years ago. 

But – this story had a lasting impact on me – and I will never forget it. 

I am sure you liked it too. 

Do tell me what you thought of this story – Just Lather, That’s All

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 
1. If you share this post, please give due credit to the author Vikram Karve
2. Please DO NOT PLAGIARIZE. Please DO NOT Cut/Copy/Paste this post
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Disclaimer:

This story is a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the stories are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright Notice:

No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.

Copyright © Vikram Karve (all rights reserved)

This blog post was written by me Vikram Karve around 25 years ago in the 1990s and posted online earlier in my various creative writing blogs including at urls: http://creative.sulekha.com/my-favourite-short-stories-part-4-just-lather-that-s-all_531396_blog and http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2012/01/just-lather-thats-all-my-favourite.html etc