1. having little length; not long.
2. having little height; not tall: a short man.
3. extending or reaching only a little way: a short path.
4. brief in duration; not extensive in time: a short wait.
5. brief or concise, as writing.
In literary terms short means, having little length as in short story, or short excerpt. Smaller than the whole but still a whole in itself. Confused yet?
A short story generally has fewer than 7,500 words. Usually they may run a couple hundred at best. My latest release "The Author Business: A Practical Guide to the Business of Being a Self-Published Author." Stands a little over 3K words which if it were fiction it would be considered a short story.
Olin hadn’t heard her outside his oak paneled study while he yelled at Charlie. The commotion was god awful. She peered through the crack in the door.
Olin stood there with his hands on his hips. “So you think yer all big and growed up now, huh?”
Charlie’s forelock fell into his eyes and he brushed it away. “You got no right to treat us this way and you ain’t touching either of us again. ‘Specially not her ever ag’in! Ya hear?”
“Right. Right? I got every right in the book ta treat y’all any way I damn well please! Ya’ll live under my roof, eat my groceries, an’ everythin’ else. ‘Sides it’s none of yer damn business.”
Charlie took a step towards Olin. “She’s my kid sister. That gives me every right. Ya ain’t gonna do this no more!”
Olin reached his hand into the desk drawer. “Oh, no? Ain’t no little pip squeak like you gonna stop me, or tell me what ta do.”
She’d heard a muffled pop like someone deflating a balloon, and Charlie’s teenage body fell with a thud on the thick oriental carpet. He wasn’t getting up or making a sound…not even breathing.
Through the crack in the door, she saw the blue-black metal Glock in Olin’s hand. He’d spent many an hour cleaning, polishing, and just caressing it in the past. A small puff of smoke snaked its way towards the ceiling as he twisted something off the tip of it. The acrid smell of gunpowder drifted in the air, and Olin just stared at the body with a sanctimonious smile on his face. He used his foot to roll Charlie over. Charlie just lay there like a sack of taters. Olin put the revolver in his belt and then kicked poor Charlie’s body. Charlie was dead, he had to be.
Jacqueline bit down on her hand stifling her scream. Ya gotta move, before he finds you out here! Every nerve in her thin body jangled an alarm as she turned, and with silent footfalls ran down the hall.
She and Charlie had talked about running away, but had never managed to do it. Now, she had no choice. Jacqueline bolted into her bedroom, crammed her jeans, t-shirts, and letters her deceased mother had gotten from her father, into her into her backpack. She was leaving.
Her precious letters were not from Olin, but her real father. The man her momma had loved until the day she died. She knew her momma had only married Olin ‘cause of money and he’d be able to take care of them. Daddy hadn’t left any insurance, being only twenty-five he didn’t think cancer would catch him, but it did.
Interested in reading more? This novel is available in paperback at Amazon.com and e-versions at Smashwords.com look under the "mybooks" tab to grab the links.
Keep writing and loving the Lord.