I received a review on one of my stories, Asleep On The Beach, that the reader enjoyed the story but thought it was a little short. It prompted me to double check and make sure that I was writing my stories long enough. According to Fiction Factor by Lee Masterson, a short story is anywhere from 1,000 to 7,500 words long. My minimum is 3,000 words and I usually don't go much beyond 4,000 words, so I think I am within the ballpark by his standards.
Another great website for short stories, Classic Short Stories, has a list of many of the classics like Charles Dickens, Nathaniel Hawthorne, O. Henry, Rudyard Kipling, Guy de Maupassant and Jack London to name just a few. They wrote usually between 1,500 and 10,000. (You can read many of the stories there for free as well.)
I guess the trick is in the writing so that the reader doesn't feel like they have been jipped when they get to the end of the story. Here is an example of a story about the third of the length that I usually write, but it gets the point across.
|Monday dawned warm and rainless. Aurelio Escovar, a dentist without a
degree, and a very early riser, opened his office at six. He took some
false teeth, still mounted in their plaster mold, out of the glass case
and put on the table a fistful of instruments which he arranged in size
order, as if they were on display. He wore a collarless striped shirt,
closed at the neck with a golden stud, and pants held up by suspenders
He was erect and skinny, with a look that rarely corresponded to the
situation, the way deaf people have of looking.
When he had things arranged on the table, he pulled the drill toward the dental chair and sat down to polish the false teeth. He seemed not to be thinking about what he was doing, but worked steadily, pumping the drill with his feet, even when he didn't need it.
After eight he stopped for a while to look at the sky through the window, and he saw two pensive buzzards who were drying themselves in the sun on the ridgepole of the house next door. He went on working with the idea that before lunch it would rain again. The shrill voice of his elevenyear-old son interrupted his concentration.
"The Mayor wants to know if you'll pull his tooth."
"Tell him I'm not here."
He was polishing a gold tooth. He held it at arm's length, and examined it with his eyes half closed. His son shouted again from the little waiting room.
"He says you are, too, because he can hear you."
The dentist kept examining the tooth. Only when he had put it on the table with the finished work did he say:
"So much the better."
He operated the drill again. He took several pieces of a bridge out of a cardboard box where he kept the things he still had to do and began to polish the gold.
He still hadn't changed his expression.
"He says if you don't take out his tooth, he'll shoot you."
Without hurrying, with an extremely tranquil movement, he stopped pedaling the drill, pushed it away from the chair, and pulled the lower drawer of the table all the way out. There was a revolver. "O.K.," he said. "Tell him to come and shoot me."
He rolled the chair over opposite the door, his hand resting on the edge of the drawer. The Mayor appeared at the door. He had shaved the left side of his face, but the other side, swollen and in pain, had a five-day-old beard. The dentist saw many nights of desperation in his dull eyes. He closed the drawer with his fingertips and said softly:
"Good morning," said the Mayor.
"Morning," said the dentist.
While the instruments were boiling, the Mayor leaned his skull on the headrest of the chair and felt better. His breath was icy. It was a poor office: an old wooden chair, the pedal drill, a glass case with ceramic bottles. Opposite the chair was a window with a shoulder-high cloth curtain. When he felt the dentist approach, the Mayor braced his heels and opened his mouth...(continue)