I gave my short story writing presentation last Saturday in Portland. Author Jenna Bayley-Burke talked about markets and I talked about how to write one. There's a growing electronic market for shorts which is very exciting for those of us who love to write them. I thought I'd post a short short story I wrote based on the story starters I use in my presentation. I've given the workshop to both writers and nonwriters - it works for both!

Foolish Pity
A short short story
by Heather Hiestand

The sand glowed beige against the waves, a Yucatan aquamarine. The noise of the waves hitting the land nearly blocked the tourists' screams. Of delight? Of pain? Who could tell?
 I am unhappy. Yes, I sit on the balcony of a five-star hotel, watching men in white and red striped parachutes glide over the Caribbean Sea. They float like great storks on gusts of wind. They are unafraid of the roaring planes overhead, which will soon steal them from this time-share paradise.
 I am alone, separate from the party nearby with its pulsing YMCA beat. Covered by a caftan, I look at the lithe, tanned bodies more suited to Club Med than this fabulous, restaurant-filled American holiday dream. I thought I would be at home here but I am agoraphobic and needy.
 There is a knock at the door. I push myself up in my chair. I look longingly at my Fanta glass but leave it behind. No refills, you're dieting. Right. I know I will fill a fresh glass with the orange, caloric beverage on the way back to my roost, instead of Evian as I should. The wind pushes the fabric around my body and I feel sweat drip between my legs.
 A maid is at the door. She doesn't look at me. I am ashamed. Why am I here? Why is she here? What does she think of when she looks at the striations of azure sea? Knowing she will be, again, cleaning toilets instead of baking under the palapas. She'll take the bus on Boulevard Kukulcan instead of a taxi. This is the price of birth in paradise.
 A seagull flaps by, above the waves. My eyes follow its passage, away from here. The maid's eyes are focused on removing my glass from the patio table.
 "Wasn't the seagull beautiful?" I ask. "Don't you wish you could fly?"
 The maid looks up. Her dark eyes are clear above her proud Mayan nose. "No hablo ingles," she says briskly, pulling a beach towel off the padded chair and going back into my suite.
 I stare at the black bird pecking at crumbs in the corner, and groan as I lower myself back into the chair. The seagull passes again, and I drift off with it, feeling my smile against the sun as I dream of floating away.