One of my favorite posts is the one when I asked you to write a 140-character Twitter story—and you did!
But this month something shocking happened: Twitter expanded its limit to 280!
The Benefits of Limitations
Last I heard, the official reason was so that users speaking English, Spanish and most other languages could express as much as those speaking Japanese, Korean, and Chinese (you can say a lot more with one character in those languages). Who knows?
At first I was resistant to the change, but now I’m ok with it. The expansion may encourage proper grammar. Also, as we writers know, it takes a lot of time to write something short—more characters will be a time saver!
The 140-character limit did encourage this amazing global practice in concision, but so will the 280 limit. And maybe now people will feel less inclined to post photos of paragraphs or series of tweets.
A Twitter Story in 280 Characters
In honor of Twitter’s change, today’s practice is to write a Twitter story in 280 characters. Here’s one I told my parents yesterday:
A friend of mine posted a shocking experience on Facebook. He cracked an egg and a chick was inside! After gagging, I texted all of my friends. Their response was “fake news!” So I went back to the original friend to confirm that his story it was true. He sent pictures.
What curious Twitter stories will you write?
What do you think about the new character limit? Let us know in the comments.
PRACTICE
Take fifteen minutes to do one of the following:
- Write a story in 280 characters or less.
- Take the Twitter story you wrote for the 140-character challenge and expand it to 280 characters.
- Take one of the 280-character stories in the comments and edit it down to 140 characters.
Or . . . why not do all three?
When you're done, share your tweet-sized stories in the comments. And be sure to leave feedback for your fellow writers!
She stood there as she watched two waiters approaching them with the giant blue fake cake. There they were, her brother and his now wife, hand on hand, holding a giant sword to “cut” the cake. Her brother looked wonderfully handsome and happy. She felt nauseated.
She was supposed to feel happy for them. This is a -happy- occasion. She was supposed to feel proud, excited, rejoiced, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. She felt like a bad sister. She hated herself for these feelings. But her own self was not the only person she hated. She tried not to. She made so much effort to love -her-. She told herself that these feelings were just a figment of her imagination. She told herself that she was just overprotective of her brother. She told herself that no matter how great the girl was, no one was ever going to be good enough for her brother. Simply because he was -her- little brother. How could anyone live up to him? But she knew that was not it. She knew that wasn’t even part of it. It wasn’t the normal anxious feeling around new people. It was more of an intuition. A gut feeling. Discomfort. Worry. Unease. Restlessness. Mistrust.
But she couldn’t do anything about it.
She had no tangible proof.
Only a gut feeling.
Not that her brother would believe her if she did.
She would loose him if she told him.
She would loose him if she didn’t.
She had already lost him.
I thought it said 280 words instead of characters! Sorry!
Haha, I almost did the same thing.The story was amazing, by the way! I really enjoyed reading it.
I tried to make it 280 characters, but I had to drop a lot of the context and mostly focused on the emotion.
Waiters approached with a cake. Her brother looked wonderfully happy.
She felt sick.
She pretended this dread was normal; she was just overprotective–but no. This was intuition.
Not that he’d believe her.
She’d lose him if she told him.
She’d lose him if she didn’t.
She’d lost him.
I’ve got questions about prayer. Guess God’s been too busy to listen to me down here ‘cause prayin’ didn’t stop the judge from sentencing me or the hangman’s noose from fitting over my head. Hope he’s got some free time since I’m about to meet him. I’ve got a lot of questions…
Yesterday I was invited to a session, but I saw the invitation late so I didn’t go. Today I found out that nobody did and bringing the money was enough, but I didn’t, so my friend gave as of mine. Tomorrow I have to pay my debt to him. My dad isn’t home yet to give me the money.
It was the smallest coffin they have ever held, but it was still the heaviest.
It was such a simple sentence to write, and yet it felt like her fingers refused to type it: “Baby close for sale. Never been worn.”
(Hope I got it right this time!)
Loved your first sentence; powerful yet poignant at the same time. Good job! In your last sentence did you mean to quote Hemingway’s famous six-word story, “For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn?”
yeah its a good one
Every time it rains, Sam’s house floods. He waits out on the sidewalk until the sun comes to dry it out and warm him up. This time, Robin came out of no where and ate him up. It sucks being a worm.
I laughed out loud at your story – loved it.
Lol…. thats good
Rustlings in the dry autumn leaves. What’s there? Is it dangerous? Risk investigating. Will I find a snake, a scorpion or maybe a tarantula? No, it is only Mrs Tiggiewinkle.
Hi! This was fun to read. I thought shortening it to 140 characters would be interesting. 🙂
Rustling in the dry leaves. What’s there? Is it dangerous? I risk peeking. A snake, scorpion, or maybe tarantula? No, only Mrs Tiggiewinkle.
Hi Amber, Thanks. I was hoping that as I am writing from the UK other writers know who Mrs Tiggiewinkle is.
Lol
Hey, really nice. Suspense. And the wonderful statement that Mrs Tiggiewinkle is more common to find than other critters in the leaves. Excellent.
He leads me away from my house. “I’m glad you decided to come.”
I am too, but leaving feels impossible now. In the upstairs window, a light turns on. I freeze, heart pounding and throat burning.
“Wait,” I manage.
He grunts, impatient.
I take one last breath. “Let me say goodbye.”
“Can you feel it?”, she said while rocking the baby to sleep. “Feel what?”, Frank murmured half asleep. “Anticipation”, she whispered while looking longingly out the bedroom window at the silent night sky. No one will take this hope from me, she determined, especially not Frank.
A great opening hook.
The children ran down the bank and splashed in the water. In an hour Mom was back with a picnic lunch. “Where’s Danny,” she asked as they joined her.
They looked around, puzzled. “He was here,” someone said. Frank dived in the river to search. Mom anxiously scanned the dark water.
According to my computer counter, this is 280 characters. That’s enough for me to get a story started — but not finished. Readers will have to supply the ending. 🙂
Here we go, fellow writers . . .
Freedom
“Master,
when I leave your care today, which way should I go?”
“Go to the crossroads. Go South to red-hot
deserts, West to boundless blue horizons, North to icy-black peaks, or East to
a dazzling white new beginning. Choose wisely, Grasshopper.”
A tricky business it is writing a story in 280 characters, as Yoda would say.
Ooh, I loved this!
Amber —
I am sure that the reference to ‘Catapiller’ dates me. There was a very popular TV show called ‘Kung Fu’ back in the day. The Kung Fu Master called his young apprentice ‘Catapiller.’ The apprentice wandered around helping people – traveled all directions.
The color/direction combination comes from Native American culture.
Thanks so much for reading and commenting on my ‘Tweet Story.’
I gave your little story a ‘Like’ vote as well.
— Sherrie
The fountain pen arrived on the designated day. He carefully unwrapped the package and saw the stunning piece of Italian craftsmanship. The picture on the catalog hadn’t captured its essence. Putting pen to paper, he thought of the many stories that were yet to be written.
Love, love, love your 280 Claire!
Thank you, Antonia. I appreciate your comment.
Excellent!
Thanks for reading my little piece, Christine. I appreciate your comment.
Thought-provoking.
Thanks for your comment.
I slammed the door and jammed my finger. The yelps from deep within synced with the throbbing, hot searing pain-engorged fingertip. I could sense fainting….The blue oxygen deprived dead dried blood gathered. Eventually, a new nail. It was my birthday; the party hadn’t started.
There was once an alien named “Bub” who made his way to earth by mistake. He was learning to fly his UFO when he decided to sneak it out one night and try it out on his own. This is how he ended up on earth. Now he has to find his way back home. Teleportation is the only answer.
Scraps
Not woven into the fabric of anyone’s life, the dangling threads were snipped off as mere excess. At the end of the day they were swept away with various other scraps that had been cast aside. Bagged and tossed on the sidewalk next to the trash, they waited along the street in the winter night for the Collectors to take them away from Ora’s Fancy Fabrics to be burned. The rejected ones trembled at the thought of their Final Trip in the morning.
As sunlight began to pour through a tiny tear near the bag’s top, the scraps listened for the Trumpet call of the Collector’s chariot. They were surprised when they heard footsteps that slowed and stopped right by them.
There was a great shaking as the top of the bag opened wide to reveal a worn face with kind eyes, full of wisdom.
“Ah,” the old gentleman said, “I can use these!”
A Savior, unkempt and scarred, saw their hidden worth. The little threads, along with all the other rejected scraps, grabbed onto hope once more. The bag twirled shut, but the darkness no longer frightened them; their Savior’s joyful song reassured them with every step as they bounced along to its melody.
“Society’s scraps
Once hell-bound
Are now My
Royal treasure, heaven-bound!”
Condensed from my popcorn story “Helicopter”
A machine was named the same as a maple seed when it swirls down. One of the inventors warned about that when the name was first suggested. He was right, people have come to believe the seed was named after the helicopter. People will believe anything!
Will
It came in a box, nestled in cotton and with a note from my niece and her husband, Ron. It was just a simple ball point pen, but it was hand-turned by Ron from walnut from my Dad’s workshop.
Just a simple ball point pen? No. It is a pearl of great price.
gd mrng monica mam
nice articles
http://www.emetechnologies.com/industrial-training-in-chandigarh/6-months-php-training-in-chandigarh-&-mohali.php
He was obsessed with technology, to the point that it was
making him ill. He had a bad neck from looking at his phone, he knew it wasn’t
healthy to stare at screens all day and all evening, but he was addicted. He
was turning down invitations, he couldn’t find a way out…
The crook stole my safe. I tried to stop him, but he beat me.
Days later a newspaper article read: ‘Son of prominent parliamentarian rushed
to hospital with injuries sustained by an explosion of hand grenades in a safe.
It is not known how the safe came to be in his possession’.
Good story. Setup and result. with a clearly implied middle. Nice.
Thank you Will. I enjoyed your shortened story as well. I’m really impressed with every ones contributions on this site. Very interesting and some very amusing.
Nice story. Question is what for did you keep grenades in the safe? Did you let the crook beat you to it deliberately?
Hi Rathin. It is a little revenge story. I live in SA where violent crime is the order of the day. My 88 year old mother was held up at gunpoint, tied up and items of value along with a safe containing cash and important documents stolen. I wondered how apt it would be if hand grenades were stored there and blew up when the crook opened the safe. A part of the story indicates that the thief was the son of a parliamentarian – it is an unhappy truth that many of the criminals in SA are wealthy young men from previously disadvantaged families. These families are teaching their children by word and or deed that crime pays. This fact comes to light daily and it is always swept under the carpet – just as our case will be one day if they are ever caught. Wendy Scott Cell: 082 967 3686 email: gmettlepublications@yahoo.com
I’m just left speechless by your powerful words, Madam. I’ve been thinking quite highly of my written English of late, but now I know that I’ve miles to go. Sorry about your aged mother being held up at gun point. I have had a great opinion about SA. I like almost all the cricketers from your country. Your grim description of the country makes me feel like taking a restock of SA. Anyway, to come back to your narrative, I’d have liked it more if, like I felt initially, it was more of a detective story than a thriller or a revenge story. i am from the land of Gandhi and I don’t get along with violence and such stuff. Thanks for the trouble you have taken in replying to my comment. All the best wishes and regards.
Hi Rathin. This is a drop in the ocean of my truth. I live here and I love my country. The other side of the story is that I have many friends of all races and they are all wonderful loving people that i love very much. I’m sorry if I have put you off. My relationship with my country is very complex. I love that you are so peace oriented and I understand why you feel like you do. I have been very angry about my mother being accosted. She will never be the same now and will to the end of her days be fearful of a repeat of the attack. She lived through it – a fact I am daily grateful for. Thank you for your interest.
Hi Madam,
Thanks for your prompt response. If like you have stated it ‘this (the story) is a drop in the ocean’. what would be the whole truth like? You’ve reminded me of a novel called ‘Prize’ written by Irving Wallace. There is a chapter where the noble laureate designate is told her life story by a prostitute, how she became one at the expense of letting her 13- year-old daughter be one instead at one of those concentration camps. Considering the way you feel about your mother’s traumatic experience, the best thing I’d request you to do is to start writing about it in the form of a novel or something. That will not only lessen the hurt and pain but also divert your mind from the harrowing incident. Please consider me a friend and let us keep in touch.
With all the best wishes,
Sincerely,
She takes half a breath and then another, but never more. An endless silence resonates into the room starting from within her. There are only half-breaths and silent tears. Her body doesn’t gasp, struggle or speak, her mind the opposite. How does one, small inaction hurt so much?
deep
“Betcha $5000 I can get a girl now,” said Mr. Bigshot into his phone. He looked at Nancy, who found a new use for her steaming hot tea. The man dropped the phone and grabbed
his crotch. “Hi,” said Nancy into the phone. “If I decline that job will you split your winnings with me?”
I just stood there watching the machine make its odd but familiar sounds as it emanated its hypnotizing aroma.
This process has already carved itself into my daily routine. I couldn’t start the day without it; or at least I wouldn’t properly function without it. It gives me the energy to go through the day with a more optimistic drive, it helps me get my work done and not fall asleep in the middle of the day, and it pushes me to socialize—helping me tolerate even the special snowflakes in my line of work. It truly is a bliss.
From what I’ve seen throughout my years of college, and of my daily job, I can tell you that I’m not alone in this passion of mine. I’m surprised at how many people share it, and the similarities (and differences) of how it affects each one of them: some talk more, some work harder, some become hyper and just look like they’re going to pull their hairs out by the end of the day. But all in all, we love sharing our days better with a little sip of the powerful yet soothing elixir.
All it takes to make is a little patience and a little love. Add in the scoops of grains to your preference and compress it until tight and flat. Pour in the necessary cups of water to complement the grains, then press the button to start the automated process in your little (or big) machine.
And voilà. Nothing like a good coffee to start the day.
Check the character count. It’s 280 CHARACTERS, not WORDS. And don’t feel bad. Others have made the same mistake. 🙂
That is so true! I’ll think of something else.
Thanks for correcting me.
Claws, sharp and feral, raked fleshy rows in skin so delicate. His scream cracked the air and he fell. Cold, winter hands grasped him to a warm, beating chest. His last thought? An apology to the brother holding him so firmly–salty grief raining down from above.
Love Awesome:
“Let me tell u de Story of Radha.”
De class looked askance, yawning, bored (to death).
She’d, by then, come up to my table, shook up.
“I won’t share u with anyone, keep u only to myself.”
There’s pin drop silence. De class’d become alert suddenly, on de prowl.
“Wat bout somethin awesum?
They eyed her to chime in unison, “Yea, Plz get goin’..”
The End.
I’ve had more than 8 of my stories published in the last couple of weeks. But none of them were this challenging.
With apologies to Ernest Hemmingway.
The ad in the newsagent’s window said,
FOR SALE
One pair of baby’s shoes
Pink
Never worn
Offers?
It was written on cheap, lined paper, Torn from a child’s notebook?
It was puckered and slightly stained.
Tears, perhaps?
I so hoped not.
I bought them.
My baby loves them.
They’re happy now.
278 characters.
Lyra sighed in relief, gazing at her newborn.
The maid wrapped the child in a blanket and moved to her lady’s side.
“Here.” The maid started at the command,
turning to Caedis, his arm reaching out. The girl hesitated, causing his face
to darken. “I shall not ask again.”
Fearful, the maid placed the infant in his
arms. Lyra tried to speak, but exhaustion held her. Caedis looked at his new
daughter. She stilled in his arms, her blue eyes (so much like his own) staring
curiously into his.
He turned his gaze to Lyra, yet to recover
her strength. He strode to her side. Her eyes were on the child cradled in his
arms, her arms outstretched, longing to hold it close. She did not notice the
horror displayed on her maid’s face.
She
suddenly felt her air cut off, as a strap was looped about her neck and
tightened. All she saw of her assailant was the cold stare of hazel eyes. She
looked at Caedis as if to plead for aid. The icy, unfeeling stare chilled her;
his gaze was that of one tossing aside unwanted filth. The last words she heard
from his lips as darkness took her were, “I don’t need you anymore.”
Caedis walked towards the maid, frozen with
fear at what she had witnessed. He took her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“My beloved wife died in childbirth. A great
tragedy for us all.” He said it as a matter of fact. “Do you understand?” She
nodded, too frightened to speak,.
“Get
out of my sight.” He said.
A young boy play along the shore he saw something strange his curiosity triggers him to go on the water he did not realize he doesn’t know how to swim under the sea he saw gigantic creatures starring at him the little boy got fascinated and he always believe that one day he will be one of them he saw the beauty of this monster for about an hour ago.
It was 1974. I hitchhiked from Little Rock to Memphis and a man gave me a lift off the I-40 on-ramp. We drove and talked. The ball cap he wore over his sandy blond hair was old, frayed and covered the most striking blue eyes. He smiled and unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock. He laughed and stroked it a few times. He asked, “Yours?” I showed him mine. He was impressed. We pulled over and made ferocious, steaming love in the backseat. He let me off a few miles from Memphis. I never asked his name, he did not ask mine.
“Santa is real. I saw him last Christmas,” I said, as I looked under the tiny tree again, then up at the nurse. “He told me to be good this year and I was. So why didn’t I get any presents?”
The nurse rolled her eyes. “Mr. Dent,” she said. “You said the same thing last year.”
At first I was resistant to the change, but now I’m ok with it. The expansion may encourage proper grammar. Also, as we writers know, it takes a lot of time to write something short—more characters will be a time saver!
http://www.emetechnologies.com/industrial-training-in-chandigarh/6-months-network-training-in-chandigarh-&-mohali.php
great articles
http://www.emetechnologies.com/industrial-training-in-chandigarh/6-months-network-training-in-chandigarh-&-mohali.php
The crook stole my safe. I tried to stop him, but he beat me.
Days later a newspaper article read: ‘Son of prominent parliamentarian rushed
to hospital with injuries sustained by an explosion of hand grenades in a safe.
It is not known how the safe came to be in his possession’.
http://www.emetechnologies.com/industrial-training-in-chandigarh/6-months-cse-training-in-chandigarh-&-mohali.php
[It was really heart-breaking to find my first essay at writing a 280-word-story go down the drain, with hardly anybody noticing it. So here is my second story. Please do not discard it outright like you did last time.]
The Betrayal
The King looked at the shaking story-writer.
“I’ve u brought here in appreciation of all your works. But u seem to write only about familiar things. Can u write about a King? His life?”
“I..I’ll try, Your Majesty,’ he stammered out.
The next day, the King’d the story read out to him with his Home Minister at his side as usual.
“Amazing! Seems like u know me inside out! U’ll be my new HM and the traitor exciled.”
The End (122 words)
“Once there existed a world where all beings were equal. No one was weak or strong or…”
“Dad will you stop?” shouted out Manu, “The world is not like that anymore.”
“Look around you,” he continued, “Haven’t you had enough?”
Bhumkesh stopped talking to his grandchildren and looked at his son. He blinked a few times. What did his son think of him that he couldn’t smell the decomposed burnt flesh, or see the fur matted with blood? That no matter how hard he tried he could not, unsee the body just beside them with his tongue lolling out and one side of the muzzle peeled off with bits of whites peeking out. He knew it was a man’s world. A hu-man’s world. But in the wake of death and destruction he still wanted to hold onto to the rays of sunshine when he experienced warmth, unconditional love and faithfulness. As he walked in a line, chained around the collar with his doomed brethren, he looked in to her eyes not wagging his tail this time. And, obedient as ever, he walked into the Room where gas filled and shrieks of pain escaped. But the sounds would gradually die down and men in masks would wheel out bags of what was to be disposed off in eco-friendly ways.
And, if you happen to look in you would see a melted muddle of fur, bones, tails and eyes you might even recognize.