BREATH AND SHADOW: Charles Rammelkamp enjoys a collection of short-short stories by Robert Scotellaro and Meg Pokrass
Breath and Shadow
Robert Scotellaro and Meg Pokrass
Madhat Press, 2024
ISBN: 978-1952335846
$21.95, 140 pages
The six-sentence story is an abbreviated version of microfiction, which itself is an abbreviation of flash fiction, though all of them have more or less the same relation to narrative, telling a story more through image than by plot. Character is more of a suggestion than a development, and narrative voice is always optional (who is speaking and to whom). Needless to say, these are just my observations and not a rule I read somewhere. Sometimes six-sentence stories are used by writers to stimulate ideas, get the creative juices flowing. The best are entertaining and enlightening.
Breath and Shadow is not an instruction manual, though if I were teaching a class in six-sentence stories (are there such courses?), I’d be sure to assign it. Robert Scotellaro and Meg Pokrass have collaborated on an enchanting collection of one hundred six-sentence stories, fifty apiece, in alternating 10-story sections. Despite the brevity of the form, each has a distinctive voice. This is itself an instructive contrast, how versatile the form can be despite its restrictions. Each writer makes it his or her own.
Both writers have a flair for the comic. Scotellaro’s stories tend to be a bit more lighthearted while Pokrass’s often have a wistful tone. Both are “funny,” which is a real sledgehammer catch-all of a description, but despite the occasional poignant tone, especially in Pokrass’s stories, there’s never really any “tragedy,” though the form doesn’t necessarily preclude it.
It’s always dangerous to generalize, but in the spirit of compare and contrast, take Pokrass’s story “Coral Reef Hotel.” It starts with a picture of ‘Dad in the suite, eyelids droopy, unforgiving; TV on, wine not as chilled as he likes.’ Already we have an idea of this father as a taciturn asshole. His daughter, meanwhile, has other plans than to play Scrabble with her father. They involve ‘the man in the lobby, with electric eyes like an eel.’ She’s on the prowl. The story ends: ‘I’ll dream about taking everything from my father.’ It feels ominous, threatening, on the edge of a Greek tragedy.
One of Scotellaro’s parent stories, “Interpreter of Dreams,” while highlighting an equally sketchy mom, begins more humorously, ‘My mother was the self-appointed interpreter of dreams, coughing out her verdicts with an early morning smoke.’ The narrator details his mother’s eccentric and even alarming prognostications, but the story ends on a no less unforgiving image of the woman that’s still affectionate: ‘She, in her robe, with her coffee and her cigarettes, and the fate of the world in her hands.’
But both stories deliver a gut punch, and that’s a testament to their skill and to the beauty of their collaboration. Both writers wield those crucial first and final sentences like matadors waving the cape. Both know just the right titles to encapsulate their tales. Take Scotellaro’s story, “Count on It.” It’s told by a man who is in a Fat Elvis band whose girlfriend has broken up with him to date a guy in a skinny Johnny Cash band. ‘You want something you can count on, get an abacus!’ she tells him when she leaves. But the protagonist hooks up with ‘a cutie from a Lit-up Lady Gaga band,’ and he’s glad he did. The story ends: ‘Sometimes when it’s real quiet late at night, when she’s asleep, I use the abacus just to hear the beads tap together.’ (But who’s counting, eh?)
Or take Pokrass’s story, “Man Made of Hours.” It takes place in The Museum of Time. There’s a grandfather clock with the face of ‘a man you used to believe in.’ Fathers and husbands, both are disappointments. The protagonist (“you” to the narrator), an older woman, as we gather from certain clues in the text, starts to break down under the weight of all that duration, but the curator comes along and takes her hand. ‘The two of you and your wrinkly hands, staring at the museum of everything you have ever wanted.’
Especially in such a condensed form, first lines are crucial for setting up the mini-drama, the tension in the story, and snaring the reader’s interest. Both Scotellaro and Pokrass are masters. Scotellaro’s very first story, “Misfits,” begins ‘She didn’t wear makeup, said it was for clowns and dead people.’ You can just see this adorable rebel, blue jeans ripped at the knees, and understand her attitude. Or take his story, “Adjustments.” It begins: ‘My ex sends me a risqué e-card again for my birthday, and it’s actually good for a laugh.’ Pokrass is just as adroit. The story “Gifts” starts with: ‘Why wouldn’t he want to make love to her, for God’s sake?’ “Heron Sighting,” about a man whose desperate ex clings to him like Saran wrap, told by his current girlfriend, begins, ‘At the airport you met up with his Great Blue Heron.’ Try not to read on after that opening line!
Final sentences are important, too, succinctly bringing the short tale to a close, crisply drawing the images together. Scotellaro’s story “Spectacles” is about a man who keeps brushing off his wife when she brings up having a baby, concentrating instead on the book he’s reading – until one day her frustration boils over and she tosses his glasses into the toilet bowl. It ends with a strange moment of insight. He retrieves the glasses and rinses them off in the sink. ‘Put them on streaked and dripping and allowed himself to see the world that way.’
Pokrass is no less nimble. “Cat Proposal,” is an amusing story about a man who decides to marry his cat. Snowball is just the one for him. The story ends: ‘Just the sound of her name is a wedding gown.’ Her story “Girls” is especially powerful. Two women drive off to the coast, ‘running away like kids,’ carefree, young at heart. The narrator gleefully shouts at the undulant hills, ‘Put a bra on those mountains!’ And the last sentence: ‘Laughing about mountains that looked like breasts, even though both of mine were gone.’ A shocking revelation. Double mastectomy? You get a sense of just how precious that carefree car ride feels.
The epigraph to this book, by Sophocles, from which the collection’s title is taken, expresses the brevity and wholeness of the six-sentence story, in summing up the life of man. ‘A human being is only breath and shadow.’ Amen. Meg Pokrass and Robert Scotellaro have put together a collection that fleshes out the form but also shines a light on the human comedy.
Feb 20 2025
Breath and Shadow
BREATH AND SHADOW: Charles Rammelkamp enjoys a collection of short-short stories by Robert Scotellaro and Meg Pokrass
The six-sentence story is an abbreviated version of microfiction, which itself is an abbreviation of flash fiction, though all of them have more or less the same relation to narrative, telling a story more through image than by plot. Character is more of a suggestion than a development, and narrative voice is always optional (who is speaking and to whom). Needless to say, these are just my observations and not a rule I read somewhere. Sometimes six-sentence stories are used by writers to stimulate ideas, get the creative juices flowing. The best are entertaining and enlightening.
Breath and Shadow is not an instruction manual, though if I were teaching a class in six-sentence stories (are there such courses?), I’d be sure to assign it. Robert Scotellaro and Meg Pokrass have collaborated on an enchanting collection of one hundred six-sentence stories, fifty apiece, in alternating 10-story sections. Despite the brevity of the form, each has a distinctive voice. This is itself an instructive contrast, how versatile the form can be despite its restrictions. Each writer makes it his or her own.
Both writers have a flair for the comic. Scotellaro’s stories tend to be a bit more lighthearted while Pokrass’s often have a wistful tone. Both are “funny,” which is a real sledgehammer catch-all of a description, but despite the occasional poignant tone, especially in Pokrass’s stories, there’s never really any “tragedy,” though the form doesn’t necessarily preclude it.
It’s always dangerous to generalize, but in the spirit of compare and contrast, take Pokrass’s story “Coral Reef Hotel.” It starts with a picture of ‘Dad in the suite, eyelids droopy, unforgiving; TV on, wine not as chilled as he likes.’ Already we have an idea of this father as a taciturn asshole. His daughter, meanwhile, has other plans than to play Scrabble with her father. They involve ‘the man in the lobby, with electric eyes like an eel.’ She’s on the prowl. The story ends: ‘I’ll dream about taking everything from my father.’ It feels ominous, threatening, on the edge of a Greek tragedy.
One of Scotellaro’s parent stories, “Interpreter of Dreams,” while highlighting an equally sketchy mom, begins more humorously, ‘My mother was the self-appointed interpreter of dreams, coughing out her verdicts with an early morning smoke.’ The narrator details his mother’s eccentric and even alarming prognostications, but the story ends on a no less unforgiving image of the woman that’s still affectionate: ‘She, in her robe, with her coffee and her cigarettes, and the fate of the world in her hands.’
But both stories deliver a gut punch, and that’s a testament to their skill and to the beauty of their collaboration. Both writers wield those crucial first and final sentences like matadors waving the cape. Both know just the right titles to encapsulate their tales. Take Scotellaro’s story, “Count on It.” It’s told by a man who is in a Fat Elvis band whose girlfriend has broken up with him to date a guy in a skinny Johnny Cash band. ‘You want something you can count on, get an abacus!’ she tells him when she leaves. But the protagonist hooks up with ‘a cutie from a Lit-up Lady Gaga band,’ and he’s glad he did. The story ends: ‘Sometimes when it’s real quiet late at night, when she’s asleep, I use the abacus just to hear the beads tap together.’ (But who’s counting, eh?)
Or take Pokrass’s story, “Man Made of Hours.” It takes place in The Museum of Time. There’s a grandfather clock with the face of ‘a man you used to believe in.’ Fathers and husbands, both are disappointments. The protagonist (“you” to the narrator), an older woman, as we gather from certain clues in the text, starts to break down under the weight of all that duration, but the curator comes along and takes her hand. ‘The two of you and your wrinkly hands, staring at the museum of everything you have ever wanted.’
Especially in such a condensed form, first lines are crucial for setting up the mini-drama, the tension in the story, and snaring the reader’s interest. Both Scotellaro and Pokrass are masters. Scotellaro’s very first story, “Misfits,” begins ‘She didn’t wear makeup, said it was for clowns and dead people.’ You can just see this adorable rebel, blue jeans ripped at the knees, and understand her attitude. Or take his story, “Adjustments.” It begins: ‘My ex sends me a risqué e-card again for my birthday, and it’s actually good for a laugh.’ Pokrass is just as adroit. The story “Gifts” starts with: ‘Why wouldn’t he want to make love to her, for God’s sake?’ “Heron Sighting,” about a man whose desperate ex clings to him like Saran wrap, told by his current girlfriend, begins, ‘At the airport you met up with his Great Blue Heron.’ Try not to read on after that opening line!
Final sentences are important, too, succinctly bringing the short tale to a close, crisply drawing the images together. Scotellaro’s story “Spectacles” is about a man who keeps brushing off his wife when she brings up having a baby, concentrating instead on the book he’s reading – until one day her frustration boils over and she tosses his glasses into the toilet bowl. It ends with a strange moment of insight. He retrieves the glasses and rinses them off in the sink. ‘Put them on streaked and dripping and allowed himself to see the world that way.’
Pokrass is no less nimble. “Cat Proposal,” is an amusing story about a man who decides to marry his cat. Snowball is just the one for him. The story ends: ‘Just the sound of her name is a wedding gown.’ Her story “Girls” is especially powerful. Two women drive off to the coast, ‘running away like kids,’ carefree, young at heart. The narrator gleefully shouts at the undulant hills, ‘Put a bra on those mountains!’ And the last sentence: ‘Laughing about mountains that looked like breasts, even though both of mine were gone.’ A shocking revelation. Double mastectomy? You get a sense of just how precious that carefree car ride feels.
The epigraph to this book, by Sophocles, from which the collection’s title is taken, expresses the brevity and wholeness of the six-sentence story, in summing up the life of man. ‘A human being is only breath and shadow.’ Amen. Meg Pokrass and Robert Scotellaro have put together a collection that fleshes out the form but also shines a light on the human comedy.