Plots and Stories
For Your Free Use

I'm not the guvnment,
but feel free to flesh out any of these plots with your own writing abilities anyway. 
I'd appreciate it very much if you let me read the finished product for free. 

What is a plot?

The plot is what drives your story, book or play.
A plot can be as simple as: Boy meets girl.
or, even better yet:  Boy meets THE girl.
An example of elaboration would be, Boy that has the gods cheering him on
meets girl afraid of being singled out because she is different.
Then there is the beach movie plot, Boy meets ten girls.

When you think plot, think CONFLICT. 
Who wants something and
who is going to keep him or her from getting it?

The Fairy Who Lost Her Toadstool

Just as important as conflict
is SITUATION. 

Let's set this O. Henry sample up for an example.

Way back when the dollar was worth at least fifteen cents, Gladys and Margaret took the LONG, scenic route home from their latest bridge club meeting.  Their back tire blew out and Gladys just got the car stopped safely.  They surveyed the damage then looked both ways.  "You know, I haven't seen another car in the last half hour," said Gladys.

"That's right," Margaret admitted.  She looked the other way, and sighed.  "Do you think it will fix itself?" she asked.

"I'm sure it won't," said Gladys.  She turned to look in the opposite direction.  "We'll just have to wait for someone to come along."

Almost an hour later someone does come along.  He stops in front of them  and asks if they have a spare.  "I'm sure we do," said Gladys.  She hands him the key to the trunk.

The car rocks from side to side as the man wrestles to remove the spare and spare changing tools.  "Oh, he's only got one arm," Margaret said.  "Do you think a one-armed man can do us any good?"

"I don't know," Gladys admitted.  "But he is trying SO hard; we can't make him quit without embarrassing him."

"That's right," said Margaret.  "But he sure is making a lot of racket back there.  Oh look, Gladys.  He has done it.  Shall we invite him to dinner?"

"Oh, I know we should," Gladys responded.  "But he's just SO dirty!"

"I know, I know.  He smells, and he's clumsy too.  He'd probably knock the tea pot over.  Why, there's no telling what might happen if we invite him to dinner."

The two ladies shuddered at the thought of their porcelain tea pot shattering on the floor.  "Let's just give him $5.00 and be done with him," Gladys suggested.  Her friend quickly agreed.

"Here you go, kind sir," said Gladys as she held the currency out the window for the one-armed man to take.  "$5.00 for your act of charity."

The man glanced at the bill, then raised his gaze and glared at the two women.  "$5.00?   Do you know how much a wrecker would charge you for coming out this far to change a flat for you.  And do you realize how long you'd have to wait before a wrecker got out here?

"Ladies, you open those purses up again and peel out a hundred dollars for my help!" 

You might name this one THE ONE-ARMED BANDIT.  Fill it in and flesh it out and you'll have yourself a good story.

Here you go with another one for a LONG book.

Martha June Wilkerson is at home.
A snow storm is raging outside.  Martha's husband is gone.  Her son is fourteen and looking for heroes.  Her daughter is sixteen and feeling like an old maid.

They hear a scuffle and shaarp cries of pain outside.  Martha grabs the rifle off the wall and hands a pistol to her son, then she opens the door.  Two men have seen their light through the storm and inched their way there. 

One man is wearing handcuffs, but he has a star on his chest.  The other man holds a pistol on the man and is reaching for the star when the door opening sends a splash of light on his actions.  One man is young and well-dressed, in other words, mariageable.  The other man is older, rugged and fierce, in other words, hero material..

Both men claim to be THE marshal and that the other shot two deputies.  "I was taking him in when he got the jump on me."

The storm is getting worse instead of getting better.  Animals have to be taken care of, and a way of doing it devised.  Meanwhile we have two men behaving like animals and each one trying to convince us that HE is the GOOD guy.  We don't know what has happened to the father, killed, wounded, coming back, battling madly to get home, or scurrying off to get drunk at the nearest fort; you make it work your way.  We do have a wagon and two horses and our two marshals are both demanding the animals so they can take the other man in but if we do that we are left stranded out here with Indians possibly on the war path. 

We have now set the situation up so that it drives the story, novel or play.  We can make it even more complicated by setting the TIME or era to make it even more interesting, like just before the Civil War -- or we can just let the era hang loose without mentioning the date so that it doesn't matter and is easier for you to handle.

Now you, the author or playwright, has to decide WHAT is going to be decided here.  Will it be your main character's job to decide who is good and who is evil?  Or, is the job to protect the family at all costs?  Or to keep either child from running off with their imaginations and upsetting the quo status qua? 

once you decide the purpose, the situation will virtually develop itself with every word you write leading naturally to another paragraph, and your passion will boil out across the pages like hot lava.

You can take any Max Brand plot and give it a new premise to have a brand new plot.

Following his example you could watch old reruns, like Bob Steele in Thunder Town. Bob has been in prison and takes a parole. He returns to Thunder Town to find those who framed him, but he is restricted by the rules of his parole, no big iron on his hip, no getting in fights. You stop the show right here and solve this problem in your own mind. You start with the exact same setup, an angry man returns, no gun, no fight.

Maybe you then invent a kid brother that wants the reputation your main character once had. Again, your script will almost write itself. But if you are already a more accomplished writer let's take a detour here. Instead of a kid brother eager to take on the tough ways that runs the ringleaders out of town, you invent an older man, a saloon spitoon swamper -- the ONLY ally of our un-gunned hero. Can he be turned into a fire breathing giant? And how do we go about this transformation? This is a tougher write but the story will be more powerful. Use the cards that fill your hand here.

***

Or -- Have you ever been amongst a group of people and heard an interesting situation described?
Right there could be the germ of a new plot for you. Write it down, flesh it out, research it if
necessary, and start writing.
Another way of finding new plots is to deliberately MIS-hear a snatch of conversation. "Oh, I thought you said,,," and go with what you thought you heard. Before long your spouse will be bragging about the interesting conversations yawl have, but that's just a super bonus.
***
Then there are the plots I find by WHAT IFing.
One day I was headed for the temple and had to make a detour to the VA Hospital in my finest clothes.
As I emerged from the hospital there was a man sitting outside, waiting for the free bus to take him home. His clothes were rags, his countenance was frayed with harsh living. But because he is a Vet and probably a better man than me I spoke to him on my way out. He called me back and he commented on how nice my clothes were. "Can I feel them?" Sure. I walked back and he thrust his hand out to my front, right hand pocket of my trousers. He rubbed his fingers back and forth and rolled his eyes. "Cool threads man, Cool threads."
Compliments of the Salvation Army, I told him, and took my leave.
Nothing story-worthy there.  But wait, WHAT IF, what if I hadn't gone ten feet before he began screaming for the police. What if he accused me of stealing his diamond ring. "I saw him put it in the front right hand pocket of his trousers."
Hey, suddenly I've got a situation here. I have the makings of a novel, or at least a good short story.
Do you see what I'm saying? There's a dozen what ifs in my life before every noon. Surely you can find one or two a year to write a novel around.

Another tool for finding plots is obituaries

That's right, obituaries.  Some of them are true gems.  Here's one I found in today's paper.. only slightly embellished.  Bobby Joe Beasley:  It never mattered to Bobby if the glass was half full or half empty because Bobby swilled it swiftly down anyway.

He was born in the city but raised on a farm and amazingly enough he got along with the cowboys even though he was a city slicker.  Occasionally he could even tell the hind end of a cow from the front end.  His real passion was music and in a way he was a true genius.  Bobby had his own band while still in high school and he shook his leg in public ten whole weeks before Elvis did.

Another passion soon consumed him.  Booze, the muse that almost works, became his constant genie.  Consequently he was ill prepared for the exponential growth of his family and it was his wife that put food on the table while he hammered out tunes on the sax alone.

Bobby always maintained a man's true measure was taken in the early morning hours of struggle in waiting for the first bar to open, so in lieu of sending flowers -- please just buy another round at the tavern where you usually drink, just for the gratifying ring of drunken applause that Bobby loved so much.

***

Sometimes just a good title can bring a whole novel swimming into view.  Here's an example:

The Pitiful Lovers of Pike's Pique

(NOTE:  Kidnaper has been spelled wrong for so long
that now it looks wrong when it is spelled right.
I refuse to give in to the likes of Stevenson or even Hemingway.)

**

And we all know the story of Sampson.--
What a hero he was, his place is assured in history forever.
And Delilah?  Poor woman.  She has been typecast forever as the
evil woman who gave him up to the wicked Philistines. 
But, what if Delilah gets a chance to tell HER side of the story?  Do you
realize what SHE had to put up with?  She didn't ask for this marriage, Sampson was
dumped upon her.  Here's this guy that never combs his hair, hasn't had a haircut
in thirty years, thinks he is God's gift to women, and flecks his pecks in front
of her every fifteen minutes. 

***

Now, it doesn't have to be Delilah; you can set this in a modern setting with
anyone. Let's go with a modern husband and a modern wife.  Everything is
going swimmingly, as the husband supposes, and suddenly he is hit up side
the head with the demand for a divorce.  The charge is mental cruelty.  It
isn't enough that he prove to a court of law that the charge is groundless,
how does he prove to himself he never done it?

Better yet, the wife is suddenly trying to put the man under psychiatric care
"He keeps saying there are bugs in the house.  He scratches until the blood
runs, but there aren't any bugs."

---  Then there's my favorite transposition.. We all know the "true" story of Tarzan and Jane,
how she fell madly in love with this savage brute and admired his every failing...
But let's transpose dear Jane for a moment.  Instead of appreciating everything
done by this ape man, everything he does is wrong, DEAD WRONG.
"What do you mean tearing up these beautiful flowers just to make me
a bed for one night?  And take that silly lion skin off your loins buddy,
I've got a pair of Levis that will just fit you."

***

When Custer died Libby Custer swept the nation with her idolized version of
his life and times.  Her books and talks kept bread on her table while
making Custer a Saint.  But what if we turn the tables on Custer twice and
have their dear sweet Mamie tell the inside story of how they really lived?

These plots are just starters to get your creative juices flowing.  Use the plots
to start your story out, and take the rest of the book (or story) wherever you wish to go.

It's the last game of the season and coach tells the team a national scout has been seen in the grandstands.  "Play your hearts out.  Make him notice you."

The news is intoxicating and the team scrambles for the scrimmage line.  There's a scout up there.  There's a scout up there watching US.  There's a scout up there watching ME!

The quarterback pulls some fancy plays and the team shows off in its glory.  The game is soon over, and they won by just a few points, but it had been a beautiful game.  The coach tells the quarterback to hang back in the dressing room.  "Let the scout come to you, boy."

They wait for thirty minutes, but no scout shows up. 

"Maybe he's waiting at your house.  Maybe he's going to write you a letter.  Maybe somebody made a mistake?"

They go to the teen hang out and the whole place is ringing with excitement.  "Johnny's been picked by the scout."

Stunned, the quarterback leaves the joint while the coach rushes over to congratulate Johnny.  As the quarterback pauses by the coach's car he notices an older man getting into a Cadillac.  He rushes over.  "Aren't you the scout?"

"Yes."

After a pause too long the quarterback says.. "I'm the quarterback from the winning team tonight."

"Yeah, I believe you are."

There's another pause too long.  Then the quarterback asks, "Didn't you like the way I played?"

"Oh, you were pretty good," says the scout.  He pauses for a moment as if wondering how blunt he should be.  "I guess you don't realize that games are won and lost long before the football team is ever picked."

"What?  There's nobody fixing the games I've played in."

"No, not fixing, just picking the competition."  The scout pauses again, shrugs then plows on.  "Before the school year ever starts somebody down in the office goes to a meeting where they pick the schools they want to play against.  There's teams they don't want you to meet, and there's teams they beg to come against you.  You've had it easy all year, son.  It's been like playing your own second string.  You've been a hero here, but you up against some real competition and you'd get wiped out in the first quarter.  It might be a good idea to go down to the office sometime and tell them how much you appreciate THEIR strategy for making you look like a hero."

***

The car screeched to a halt only inches away from the spectators ringed around the fiercely burning house.  Both doors slammed open.  The man exploded from the car like a shot from a cannon.  He broke through the spectators and lunged for the hole where the front door used to be.  He was screaming: "Larry!  Shirley!  LARRY --"

The woman sagged on the car door, screaming at the top of her lungs... "Larry, SHIRLEY!"

Two of the firemen sprinted after the man.  Joe tackled him, but the man kept right on struggling to get away.  "They're safe," Joe shouted.  "We got them out!"

The man didn't hear, or hearing, did not understand.  He tore loose and -- eyes wild with terror -- sped again for the open hole filled with boiling flames and oil-laden smoke.

You can take it from there.  Right?

***

Here's a tougher write. 
All doctors profess themselves good at spotting hypochondriacs, the malingerers, and the outright frauds.  Dr. Henry Jones prided himself on being one of the best spotters and would go to any length to expose them.

Then, one day, he finds himself suffering from a strange malaise.  At first he tries to find the cause himself.  As his own patient he is far from successful.  So he engages the best friend he has in the medical profession.  The months go by and suddenly he realizes he is no longer one of the gods, but definitely marked down on the list of hypochondriacs. 

==============

After a vicious and disastrous early morning attack the Captain of Company E goes
looking for an officer who is naturally awake early in the morning and appoints him
to form a Knight Platoon. 

This platoon is designated to work in the early morning hours from midnight to 8.
They do all the guard duty in those hours, keep the coffee hot, start breakfast going,
catch up the slack wherever it falls. The next time the enemy attacks in the early morning.  Not only is disaster averted but many prisoners are taken and not one attacker escapes.

****

I had zipped up the inner protective portion and begun tugging up the outer covering when Marleen said, “Don't you mind wearing that stupid, Buck Rogers outfit?”

“No,” I told her sadly. “What I mind is going through the living room and having Little Zeke snap to attention and salute me.”

She rolled over to face me. After a moment of intense study she realized I was serious. “Why does he do that?”

“Because the first time he saw me in this suit I told him I was going to the city park to pick up trash. 'Oh,' he said, understanding immediately. 'You're doing your part to keep the world environmentally safe!' I didn't have the moral courage to tell him I was the mayor doing my civic duty, and he's been saluting me ever since.”

Marleen chuckled; she loves to hear me confess my shortcomings. Then she paused to look serious. “But why does it matter if he salutes you?”

“Because that means he is in the top 20% of his class and he has been dot.coded to be politically correct.. Remember, Congress told us we had voted for that piece of legislation when we voted that 'Whats-her-face' woman in for President. For some reason I've been ashamed of every politically correct child I've seen since then, especially when they are in my own family.”

One common failing I see would-be mystery writers jumping into is killing somebody without laying any real groundwork. They will throw up a generic motive like GREED, or maybe JEALOUSY, but somehow it never really gets believable.  Joe's rich old aunt gets the ax and he is busy covering up the dirty deed.

If you just gotta kill somebody to get your mystery moving let's at least make it matter.  Here, let's go back to Joe and his rich old Aunt Gertie.  He's waited ten years and she still hasn't been nice enough to kick the bucket.  Ten years being nice to the old bird has put a definite squint to his eyes when he's faking love and admiration for her flighty ways.

The first thing you want to do is invest Aunt Gertie with gimpy mannerisms you especially hate.  This gives you an edge in making it seem all too righteous ( or better yet, URGENT )to bring the old bird down.  So let's start our mystery out with Joe and Aunt Gertie on their way to a glass show.  "A glass show?  I ask you, a glass show?  She's already spent a hundred thousand dollars of my inheritance on antique glass and she made me, MADE ME build a GLASS cabinet to put the junk in so it would gleam and glisten."

Aunt Gertie is driving the Mercedes, last in a long line of gushers on the street.  Suddenly she sees a truck paused at the stop sign on a side street.  The driver is patiently waiting for them to pass on so he can pull out.  Three tenths of a second later and Aunt Gertie will be past him and he will be clear to make his move.  Aunt Gertie uses fifteen seconds to stop the Mercedes so she can motion the driver to cross in front of her.  Joe ducks his head so she won't see the squint in his eyes.  The driver of the truck flips her the bird.  Aunt Gertie motions again, grimacing slightly.  "Be nice to some people," she mutters.

Joe glances behind them.  As he suspected there is nobody behind them for half a mile.  He looks forward again just in time to see the truck driver slam the door of his truck shut and stride to Joe's side of the Mercedes.  "Why in the ======= don't you get this ******* Mercedes the ***** out of the way?"

Aunt Gertie gasps.  Tears spring into her eyes.  "I was just trying to be nice!"

"NICE?" screams the truck driver.  "Nice would have been going on past and getting the *** out of my way.  You're not fooling anybody with your stupid stopping like you were holding up a mile of traffic, pretending to do a nice deed...."  the driver sputters to a stop, glares at Joe, then goes back to the pickup.  Aunt Gertie is sobbing now.  The driver steps out in front of her.  He bows and with an exaggerated sweep of his arm invites her to get into the other lane and go around him.  His imitation smile is sweeter than corn syrup.  Furious, Aunt Gertie tries to go around him but he steps out in front of her again so she has to stop.  "Have a NICE day," he tells her when her window comes down a fraction.

Aunt Gertie showers down on the accelerator and seconds later she is going double the speed limit.  "Only in Houston," she sobs to Joe.  "There's nothing but slobs like that in Houston."

She sees an old car putter up to the stop sign on the next side street and pause there to look around while waiting so Aunt Gertie can go on by.  "But he's not going to get my goat.  I'll go on being nice to people even if it kills me."

She slams on the brakes to jerk the Mercedes to halt and motions sweetly for the woman driver to pull out in front of her.

"Aunt Gertie!" Joe whispers.

"He is NOT going to stop me from being nice," she says firmly.  "What in the world is wrong with that woman?  Would you come on out of there?"  She waves again, anger making her face a grimace.

The woman smiles and timidly pulls out so her car is right in front of the Mercedes.  She stops and smiles again, then inches forward and looks back past the Mercedes to make sure it is safe to go on past the Mercedes across the second lane.  There is someone back there, must be.  Maybe she has eagle vision or something.  The other car doesn't move, just sits there.  The driver squints at Aunt Gertie and smiles nervously.  She rolls her window down and calls out, "Donde es el mercado en Estrado Willow?"

"Give some people an inch and they take a mile," Aunt Gertie muttered.  She shoved the horn button down and made rude motions at the other car.  Joe slides lower and lower in his seat when traffic finally piles up behind them. 

His eyes close.  "That was your last chance old lady.  I'm not waiting any longer for my inheritance!"

You'll want to change the excuse for murder to a subject of your own choosing, and MAKE IT MATTER to the MURDERER.

Inside The Ninth Cell

Joe Gibbons is caught just outside his home and carried away blindfolded.
When the blindfold is removed there are 7 other men and 1 woman being similarly manhandled. Joe doesn't know any of them.
Their captors are dark-complected Latinos.
The first cell is opened up. On the wall directly opposite is a drinking fountain inset in the wall. One of the captors goes over to demonstrate the drinking fountain. There are two push buttons on the right. He pushes the bottom button. His head goes all the way inside to reach the fountain. When his head comes out he turns to the captives and smiles.
Another captor comes in with a live rat in one hand. The rat stretches its head into the water cavity and the man pushes the top button on the right. CHOMP! A guillotine blade swishes down and slashes off the head of the rat. Blood spurts. The woman screams.
The leader of the captors tells them that the guillotine has been programmed to fall after a randomly selected number of drinks somewhere between 1 and 99 have been taken. The top button can be pushed to end it all at any time. Otherwise, you take a chance on losing your head every time you take a drink. Not even the guards know when the blade will fall to end it all.
The walls are padded, but not the floor. A restroom hole is in one corner. In the middle of the room is a table, fastened to the floor. A stack of writing paper is encaged on the desk. Sheets can be removed one at a time only if the previous sheet has been slid down the slot in one whole piece. A pen is chained to the desk. No chair, no comforts of home.
Each time a guillotine falls, a loud whistle will shriek in all nine cells.
One of the captive men is thrust into the cell. The door slams shut.
The group goes to the next cell. Another live rat is produced and beheaded. The woman captive screams.
One of the captive men is thrust into the cell. The door slams shut.
The group goes to the next cell. Another live rat is produced and beheaded. The woman captive screams.
One of the captive men is thrust into the cell. The door slams shut.
The group goes to the next cell. Another live rat is produced and beheaded. The woman captive screams.
One of the captive men is thrust into the cell. The door slams shut.
The group goes to the next cell. Another live rat is produced and beheaded. The woman captive screams.
One of the captive men is thrust into the cell. The door slams shut.
The group goes to the next cell. Another live rat is produced and beheaded. The woman captive screams.
One of the captive men is thrust into the cell. The door slams shut.
The group goes to the next cell. Another live rat is produced and beheaded. The woman captive screams.
The woman is thrust into the cell. The door slams shut.
Joe is walked to the last cell. Another live rat is produced and beheaded. Joe faints. When he wakes up he is inside the last cell and the door has been slammed shut behind him.
He can hear the stirrings of the other captives faintly, if he listens hard enough. When one speaks it is as if they were right in the cell with him.
"I don't think we should give them our names for anything," says a man.
"My name isn't worth a penny to nobody," says another man.
"My name's Anita," says the woman. Her voice quavers.
"Mine is Joe Gibbons," says Joe. "I'm in the last cell, right beside you."
"We can almost shake hands," she laughs, but the laughter stops abruptly.
"I'm right beside you on the other side," says a man's voice. "My name's Bill, Bill Johnson."
"Hi Bill," says the woman.
"Has anyone taken a drink yet?" asks the first voice.
No one answers. Joe finds himself looking at the water fountain cavity but testing his mouth for dryness. How long before his first drink becomes a necessity? he wonders. His gaze switches to the table with the paper and pen. "Anybody know what in the world the desk and writing paper is in here for?"
No one answers.

***

You can go anywhere, do anything from them,
then go back and do it all over again on a fresh tack.