Cut in half.

Question

Okay, this idea spawned from the discussion about needing to edit one's work.
I want you to take one of your own responses from this site and cut it in half. Make the same statement, but in half as many words, or half as many paragraphs, or half as many lines, doesn't really matter, as longs as it's considerably shorter.
Choose carefully, because if you take something that's already concise, you may end up ruining it. But, at the same time, challenge yourself and don't dismiss something just because it looks short enough.
And above all, have fun doing it.

Answer 1

I'll never forget my days in the closet.

I spent most of my childhood locked there, bound to a chair that was too small for me.

It went from innocent time-outs to harsher and harsher punishments. My mother couldn't handle being a single parent after my father left.

My life was spent in the dark closet, interspersed with beatings, pain, and constant insults thrown at me by the woman who was supposed to love me unconditionally. I grew to hate her.

One night, she forgot to bring me food in my closet. She had a man over. I heard them. By the time daylight shone through the crack under the door, my stomach was gnawing at my back bone. It's all pretty blurry after that. My last hours were spent in varying states of consciousness, barely aware of anything but the intense hunger.

Then I died, and the pain was finally gone. I floated above my body, waiting. It was a long time before she discovered my corpse.

She showed no remorse as she shoved that empty shell into a hefty bag and shoved me into the trunk of her car. There was still no sign of remorse two hours later when she dragged it out of the trunk of the car and dumped it in the river.

The rage carried me back into my already rotting body. With ragged, dirty nails, I clawed my way out of the bag and fought my way to the muddy bank of the river.

As I began to walk back in my rotting corpse with a gnawing hunger in my dead gut, I knew nothing would satisfy me but the flesh of the woman who had given birth to me.

I arrived on her doorstep and my lifeless hand rang the bell. When she answered, I saw her face go from confusion to recognition to terror in the space of a breath.

She tried begging. Pleading. Apologizing. It was too late. I had no sympathy for the woman who never had any for me.

And my hunger had to be satisfied.

She fell over as I walked towards her, closing the door behind us and leaning down to run my fingers over her soft, plump body. She would make a fine meal. Revenge was a dish best served body temperature with a still beating heart.

I started with a finger. The bone crunched loudly, but not loudly enough to drown out her anguished screams as blood gushed from the place the digit used to be. Swallowing, I moved onto her middle finger.

Ten fingers and ten toes were a wonderful appetizer, and my hunger for more was consuming me. I wiped her blood from my chin as I listened to her scream apologies and curses and pleas and regrets.

I sank my teeth into the soft flesh of her throat and felt the rush of arterial blood enter my mouth. The screams turned to gurgles and then silenced entirely.

Not wanting my meal to grow cold, I quickly began to rip off piece after piece of her flesh, chewing and swallowing hastily, covering myself in her gore.

Once I'd ravished her flesh, I grabbed a heavy lamp and used it to split her skull. A fresh wave of blood oozed out. I tore her cranium open and revealed the prize.

Her brain was the best meal I'd ever had, dead or alive.

Comments

This was incredibly hard. I wanted to use this one, because it was easily the longest story I'd written.

 The beginning was easy to rewrite...it was difficult for me the first time because I went into detail, trying to capture the "horror" for the challenge it was written for. Making it shorter and cutting out some of the detail was much easier to write.

The second half was tough. I tried to keep as much of the original in tact as I could because I was fairly attached to that (yes, I get attached to my stories and that's why it's tough for me to edit).

I wanted to cut it EXACTLY in half, word-wise...I like being exact. The original was 1138 words, so half would be 569. The original rewrite was 658 and I didn't think I could cut anymore. But I did. So here it is, 569 words.

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Good job midnight....

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Here's my 1st edit of someone else's work. Midnight's story with very minor "additions" and almost all deletions - down to 452 words.

I'll never forget the closet.

I spent most of my childhood there, bound to a chair.

It went from innocent time-outs to harsher punishments. My mother couldn't handle being a single parent.

My life was spent in the closet, interspersed with beatings, pain, and insults thrown by the woman who was supposed to love me unconditionally. I grew to hate her.

One night she forgot to bring me food. She had a man over. I heard them. When daylight shone under the door my stomach was gnawing at my back bone. It's blurry after that. My last hours were spent in varying states of consciousness, barely aware of anything but hunger.

Then I died.

The pain was finally gone. I floated above my body, waiting. It was some time before she discovered my corpse.

She showed no remorse shoving my spent shell into a Hefty bag and that into the trunk of her car, nor two hours later when she dragged it out and dumped it in the river.

My rage carried me back to my already rotting body. With ragged, dirty nails, I clawed my way out of the bag and fought my way to the muddy bank.

As walked back in my rotting corpse with the gnawing hunger in my gut, I knew nothing would satisfy me but the flesh of my mother.

My lifeless hand rang the bell. When she answered, I saw her face go from confusion to recognition to terror in the space of a breath.

She tried begging. Pleading. Apologizing. It was too late. I had no sympathy.

My hunger had to be satisfied.

She fell over. Closing the door behind us I leaned down to run my fingers over her soft, plump body. She would make a fine meal. Revenge was a dish best served body temperature with a beating heart.

I started with her ring finger. The bone crunched loudly, but not loudly enough to drown out her screams as blood gushed. Swallowing, I moved to her middle finger.

Ten fingers and ten toes as appetizer, my hunger for more consuming me, I wiped her blood from my chin as I listened to her desperate apologies and curses and pleas and regrets.

I sank my teeth into her throat and felt the blood enter my mouth. Her screams turned to gurgles and then silence.

Not wanting my meal to grow cold, I quickly began to rip off piece after piece of her flesh, chewing and swallowing hastily, covering myself in her gore.

Then I grabbed a heavy lamp and split her skull. A fresh wave of blood oozed out. I tore open her cranium and revealed the prize.

Her brain was the best meal.

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I should edit better.

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I don't think you changed the timber of the story by "reducing it", but I know you could have done more and still brought out the same emotional charge.  Maybe I'll give it a whirl.  Have to sleep...

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Nice work. I have to say, in the original story I focused on the first part more. So much so that by the time I finished reading the edited version, I thought it was a different story and had to go read the original again. I assume that the second part of the story was more important to you, and I think it got more emphasis with the edit.

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Hey everyone and midnight too. I was not trying to "improve" this story. I liked the first version. I used this example as, well, an example. And I focused on nothing except each unique paragraph. I realize editing someone else's work actually involves reading their original submission many, many times and possibly in a couple different moods as well. Doug mentioned the "emotional charge" and I have to remind myself that a story is sometimes like a joke. Timing, timing, timing. And the slow parts are as important as the other. I cut my own story in half by chopping it up and lost a key point.

Hmmmm.... Maybe this editing stuff is harder than it looks.

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maybe it's just because it's my story...but I really think it lost a LOT with your edit, Ron. I see what you did. You made it much tighter. But editing isn't just about using less words, is it?

Answer 2

Okay. This is an attempt. I have no idea where it'll go.

My most recent submission:

"Mommy" by Ron

Mommy. Where are we going?

[Mommy. How long?] slash

[Mommy. Why are you sad?] slash

[Mommy. Are you crying?] slash

Mommy. Are you mad?

Mommy. The twins are awake.

Mommy. Is that a lake?

[Mommy. Are we going here?] slash

[Mommy. Can we swim?] slash

Mommy. Where are you going?

[Mommy. Let me out.] slash

Mommy. The car is moving.

Mommy. The twins are scared.

Mommy. I’ll be good.

[Mommy. Please.] slash

[Mommy.] slash

Mommy. The water is cold.

Mommy.

Bloop-bloop. Bloop.


End result:

"Mommy" by Ron

Mommy. Where are we going?

Mommy. Are you crying?

Mommy. The twins are awake.

Mommy. Is that a lake?

Mommy. Where are you going?

Mommy. The car is moving.

Mommy. The twins are scared.

Mommy. I’ll be good.

Mommy. The water is cold.

Mommy.

Bloop-bloop. Bloop.

Comments

ords. And I thought this was already tight. But now it's a knothole.

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I like the knothole.  I think it made it a powerful work even more so.  Not so much with midnight's story.  I think you took the heart out of it.  It's missing the whipgirl factor.  She puts the emotions into her story and unfortunately I think you edited it out.

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I think that's a very good edit. It gets the point through for sure. The only thing I would leave is "Mommy. Please." I think that was a powerful one.
(Btw, it looks like you also cut your comment in half.)

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You know Spots - you're absolutely correct. "Mommy. Please." is so, so important but I was using a machette and trying to reduce it by half. I failed and the story suffered. Good point and noted. Thanks.

Answer 3

Maybe not quite "cut in half", but I did do some editing without trying to change the "mood".  I'll let you decide.

Trapped in a cube…no larger than a thimble…imagine the horror of looking sideways at life through a shattered window making up the cube’s walls. The framing of it being solid granite polished to a high sheen. I may be small by your standards, but my mind is deep even behind this small space. What little air I get only feeds the central part of my system…the brain...eyes…and heart. The rest of me has atrophied to the point of putridness…sloshing along the slick glass floor which remains unbroken. Sharp razor like shards of glass keep shedding from the walls of the cube ripping at my molten flesh.

My mind is decaying too. Little flashes of brilliance followed by the shock of impending death. I can get out, but you wouldn’t want me to. I am already what comes in your dreams; when you wake up with a soaked bed sheet tears welling in the corner of your eyes.

I don’t mean to be hurtful. What harm can a putrid runny mess of a creature living inside a small cube be? There are more ways to skin a cat they say.

I prefer to act out in dreams. You think it is your wild imagination, but I can tell you that it is very real.
answered 1 week ago by me (417 points)

(edited)

Trapped in a cube…no larger than a thimble, looking sideways at life through shattered yet still intact cubed walls framed by polished granite.  I may be small, but my mind is deep even in the enclosure. I get little air, only enough to feed my brain, eyes and heart.  I’ve atrophied to the point of putridness…sloshing along the slick glass floor…razor like shards of glass shed from the walls rip at my molten flesh.

My mind decays.  Flashes of brilliance are followed by the shock of impending death.

I can get out, but you wouldn’t want me to.  I am…what comes in your dreams.  I don’t mean to be hurtful.  What harm can a putrid runny mess living inside a cube be?  I prefer to act out in dreams.  You think it is your vivid imagination…It is very real.

Comments

I think it was successful. It doesn't look like you lost anything. Well done.

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I agree with spots. It lost nothing and gained a lot with the edit.

Answer 4

Obsession

No one knew her name, but everyone in town knew her face.

Except me.

At first I ignored all the talk about the creepy lady that hung out near the graveyard, but eventually, I too was carried away by the intrigue. So, one day, I decided to pass by the graveyard on my way home and see this mystery woman. To my disappointment, there was no sign of her.

I tried to forget about her, but couldn't, so I went there again and looked around for hours. I began going there every day, in hopes of seeing her.

With time, nobody talked about her anymore, except me. Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. Like I'm the one that invented her!

I guess she doesn't come here anymore, but I still pass there, day after day.

Comments

Original for reference:
Obsession

No one knew her name, but everyone in town knew her face.

Except me.

 They were all talking about how the creepy lady was always hanging out near the graveyard. At first I payed no attention to it, but people seemed obsessed with her. I'm ashamed to admit that I was carried away with the current, intigued by the mistery woman.

They say she never talked to anyone and if they tried to talk to her, she just turned around and left. I was curious. So, one day, I decided to take the long way home so I would pass by the graveyard, curious to see the object of so much gossip. I was disappointed in a way to find no sign of such a person anywhere.

For a couple of days I didn't think about it, but then someone mentioned her again in the shop and I was pulled in once more. This time I didn't just pass by. I stayed there for hours, circling around the iron fence, stopping at each shadow. I began going there more frequently, not even conscious of what I was doing. I just somehow included the graveyard into my daily route.

With time, people stopped mentioning her and I was the one that had to bring the topic up. And when I did, they looked at me like I was crazy. Like I'm the one that invented her!

I guess she doesn't come here anymore, because nobody talks of her. But I still pass there, day after day, in hopes of seeing her.

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Spots:  I think this is another one where the intrigue or mystery is muted by the "cut in half".  This original could use an edit, but I think you lost the feel of the story by chopping it too much.  When I find the time, maybe later today, I'll try my own re-write on this one if you don't mind and if you do I apologize ahead of time.  I like this story.

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I don't mind at all, Doug. Thanks for your input.

Answer 5

Ok Spots...here is my "cut in half" version of your story.  Not quite cut in half, but edited and I had to add something at the end.  I hope you don't mind.

No one knew her name, but everyone in town knew her face.

Except me.

They all talked about the creepy lady always hanging out near the graveyard.  People seemed obsessed with her. I'm ashamed to admit that I was intrigued by this mystery woman.

They say she never talked to anyone and if they tried to talk to her, she just turned around and left. I was curious.  One day, I decided to take the long way home so I would pass by the graveyard, curious to see the object of so much gossip. I didn’t see her.

For a couple of days I didn't think about it, but then someone mentioned her again in the shop and I was pulled in once more. This time I didn't just pass by. I stayed there for hours, circling around the iron fence, stopping at each shadow. I began going there more frequently including the graveyard into my daily route.

With time, people stopped mentioning her and I was the one that had to bring the topic up.  When I did, they looked at me like I was crazy. Like I'm the one that invented her!

I guess she doesn't come here anymore, because nobody talks of her. But I still pass there, day after day, in hopes of seeing her. Now people talk about me hanging out at the graveyard…waiting…watching.

Comments

I had to go back to the original story because I couldn't figure out what was missing, so in that sense I think you did a great job.
I'm just wondering if more could be cut out. I'm curious to see what others think. The ideal is probably somewhere between mine and yours.

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I'll agree with you there.  My biggest hangup is that too much editing can take the wind out of a piece.