Edgar Allen Poe’s Single Effect Theory – A Technique to Craft Crisp Short Stories - The Frightening Scream

 

The setting sun filled the sky with orange, but when she looked up from her room’s window, the sky appeared grey. It was a cold, winter evening and after 6 pm, a clock on her room’s wall had stopped ticking. Outside, a street dog yelled a frightening call. He must be feeling cold, she wondered. 

She flung a thick pink shawl on her shoulders and reached for the attic to get an old sweater from the trunk. The wooden stairs were rickety and old. As she climbed, they creaked. 

She hadn’t climbed this staircase in the past three months. The lights upstairs needed to be changed. Most of them had their glass broken by an aggressive storm that came a few months ago, in the monsoon. She had to carry a lamp as she climbed the stairs. As she put one foot after the other, the lamp dangling from her fingers oscillated from side to side like a pendulum. As it did, it spilled pools of glowing yellow light on the giant paintings that hung on the side walls. The gold trimmed edges of the paintings glittered in the lamplight. Some pools revealed expressionless faces of her family members that looked as if they were gazing right at her, not in a happy way. 

She reached the attic and unbolted the door. Everything inside was dusty. The murmuring dust particles formed a disturbing halo around the lamp. She walked to the bronze trunk and tried to open it. It wouldn’t open. Its super-old antique handle seemed to be rusting with years of neglect. She placed the lamp on top of an empty shelf. To squeeze out maximum strength of her muscles, she stretched her right leg from the back and started pulling on the trunk’s stubborn handle vigorously. 

It must have been close to five minutes when the handle appeared to surrender to her will. She pulled it from the knob, swung it upwards, and settled it against the wall. The inside of the trunk looked like another world in contrast to the suffocating desert of dust that surrounded the trunk. 

Lounging within the dark blue velvet lining of the trunk, there were expensive and colorful fabrics, apothecary-style glass bottles of perfume, thick hardcover books, and boxes of mysterious trinkets that glittered in the lamplight. She bent down to dive into this vast ocean of luxury and pulled out a silk bag. 

She pulled a string and unfastened the bag and pulled out an orange sweater. The sweater appeared to have been sewen for a toddler. Above one sleeve, near the left shoulder, there was a ripped strand of orange wool. For just as much time as the sound of a sparrow’s chirp lasted outside, she stared at the sweater, lost in thoughts. 

Then, as if jolted back to the present moment, she flumped the trunk close, grabbed the lamp, and rushed down the stairs. The stairs creaked even more, the echoes of their groaning sounds screaming at her as she walked away towards the front door. She flanked the door open and stepped out on the street, where she thought, was the dog that was yelling the frightening calls due to cold. 

The dog wasn’t there. She stood there for a long time. She looked here and there, on the sides and around the neighbours’ gardens. The dog had disappeared. Where did he go? Will he die in the winter? She looked at the orange sweater. If he would have waited just a little bit more, she could have saved him. With the saddening thought possessing her, she walked into the house and closed the door tight shut. 

She walked to her room, turned off the lights, and slipped inside the blanket on her bed. Moon’s uncaring white light entered through the window and spilled itself here and there. The curvy crests and valleys of her blanket cast shadows on the ceiling. She was still sitting, not lying down for sleep. 

She could not know whether it was her time to sleep yet, because the clock had stopped ticking. So she took out the orange sweater clenched under her elbow. Faint shadows of a tree leaves crept across the floor. She didn’t notice it. She was busy looking at the sweater, as if recalling something she thought she had forgotten. 

Then it came to her, tumbling like a rush of chemicals inside her body. She couldn’t see in the dark but she knew that droplets of sweat were bubbling up on her forehead, inside her chest, and between her legs. She remembered it, scene by scene, sound by sound. As she did, she started crying, at first in faint sobs, then in full-blown screams. 

The frightening screams shook awake a street dog from his sleep. He thought someone around was feeling cold. He shivered. In the sky, the moon hid behind a cluster of clouds.  

 

What emotion this short story triggered inside you? You’ll probably say, grief. And although, there are bits of horror, mystery, and humor in the story as well, the primary emotion that it evoked was grief. You may like to call its emotional cousins like melancholy, depression, sadness, or pain, but essentially it was grief.

For this story, grief is the primary pintuck that is holding together the entire fictional narrative. This illustrates what the celebrated writer Edgar Allan Poe called the “single effect theory,” also known by phrases like “unity of impression” and “unity of effect.”

 

According to Poe, the “single effect theory” is a brilliant way to learn how to craft a short story. The theory states that a short story should revolve around a single, intense emotion, such as dread, grief, anger, fear, etc. You can refer to Robert Plutchik’s Wheel of Emotions for a full list of emotions you can use as starting prompts for your story.

 

The idea of Poe’s Single Effect Theory is that every sentence, every incident, every detail, or character should converge to provoke one, singular, pre-conceived, desired emotion in the reader. It can also be a single psychological or intellectual state, such as confusion or contemplation. Nothing that is extraneous to this singular state should be added to the story.

 

It’s like, looking at the story as if it were a machine engineered with various elements where each element worked together to serve a singular purpose. You can also imagine it with the example of a song’s guitar notes. The notes might have different leads, multiple chords, but there is always a dominant chord that guides the rest of the melody.

 

Poe believed that writing isn’t a random craft born out of spontaneous bursts of inspiration. Rather, it’s quite alike solving a mathematical problem. A story doesn’t come out from a random burst of inspiration, but is constructed piece by piece with words, sounds, images, and other elements. He, himself, applied this technique in his work, where he explored the darkest recesses of his mind, the madnesses, the obsessions, the psychological terrors. 

His poem, The Raven, is centered around the emotion of deep melancholy. Many of his works express the emotion of poetic beauty often linked to sadness and loss.

His “Single Effect Theory” is a fascinating lesson that also teaches us a way of exploring our own inner psyche, where we can magnify each emotion and lay it out bare and naked on the paper for our mind to see and reflect. It’s a focused meditation into the self carried out on the vehicle of words, via writing. It’s both a prompt and the way, whichever way you like to see it, and use it.

 

A picture is worth a thousand words – An exercise for creative writers

A picture is worth a thousand words...

For decades, centuries maybe, visual artists have drawn on this proverb to feel good while writers are left gazing at the 1000-word draft that took them a whole week to write. Not that there is any separation between writers and artists, but there is another way to look at this proverb, that crossed my mind.

 

Sometimes what one picture can say with its compact visual, even a thousand words struggle to express. This is true, indeed. But if you are a writer who is passionate about (or just interested in) writing, this proverb holds a brilliant exercise you can do, to enhance not just your writing, but also your mind.

 

For artists, the proverb presents a contracting exercise, where they have to condense lots of little elements into a single frame and present a big idea in a little space. For writers, on the other side, the proverb presents an expanding exercise. You can call it brainstorming.

 

Since a picture is worth a thousand words, this picture is a metaphorical treasure trove for you to explore ideas, new perspectives, and kick start your writing process each time you feel the block.

 

This is what I mean to say. Take one picture. It can be anything -  a photograph, an illustration, an AI image, a painting you found on Pinterest, a doodle you saved on Instagram, an ad poster, photo from a childhood album, or even your own selfie. Take this picture and take a good look at it. By good look, I mean, immerse your gaze in its details – the colors, the shadows, the patterns, the textures, the setting, the expressions (if there are characters). These details are potent triggers and prompts for you to get your sleeves rolling and dive into a whole writing project.

 

Imagine the possibilities.

 

One picture can help you write a thousand books. This idea can even trigger a dramatic iteration cycle between artists and writers. Artist will produce a picture, writer will write a thousand books, artist will read these books and produce a different picture, writer will again write a thousand books. And the process goes on…forever.

 

This is how just one idea, no matter how good or how boring it is, can generate a whole new universe that can function on an iterative, self-generating loop.

 

From a simple proverb to a writing exercise to a tantalizing possibility…

I am impressed. I am going to try out this exercise. If you too find it exciting, do let me know!

 

Telmo Tinga and the Hovering Rain Cloud | Magical Realism Concept of Storytelling/Writing

 Ever since he lost his wife to a snake bite, Telmo Tinga transformed forever. He withdrew from the world and dedicated himself to a life of recluse. Enshrouded by the green cloak of looming forest trees, his little hut was both his home and his work station. For as far as his eyes could see, the ground was enveloped in prickly carpets of long, pinny grasses. Shooting from within these grasses, giant trees rose proudly, spreading their gnarly branches like veins of a monster’s claws trying to posssess the blue canvas of the sky. On most days, there wasn’t any animal in sight, let alone a human. 

A small cloud constantly hovered above his hut, raining down a perpetual drizzle on everything that lay, stood, or hung inside his hut, an unrelenting reminder of the intense sorrow that lingered in his heart. What would have made an ordinary person insane, became the new normal for Telmo. After years of battling his own grief, Telmo had befriended the hovering cloud, the constantly drizzling water, and a strange routine where he spent his days talking to his tools. He used these tools to craft items of furniture, home decoration, and show pieces. At the end of every month, he visited the city to sell these items to a big trade emporium for good amount of money.

He spent a portion of the money to buy home essentials and saved the rest of it in his home bank for buying new tools or for the rainy days. Rest of the days, he spent his time interacting with his tools. The tools, like his family members, listened to his thoughts, his laments, his sorrows, his memories, his happinesses. While he banged their tips on sheets of metal or rubbed their blades against blocks of wood or pummelled ornamented designs with veneer, the tools listened to his stories, with patience.

 

One morning when he woke up to look into the mirror, horror struck him. The mirror was missing. There was just wall, plain mud-colored wall in front of his eyes. This wasn’t however what horrified him. What horrified him was what he saw when he lifted his gaze. The mirror wasn’t missing. It was just hanging at a height. He turned around his gaze to scan other things. It seemed, that everything had gotten enlarged into giant sizes. Even the small cushioned chair appeared to be surpassing his own height. He jumped and hopped on top of the chair and tried to look at himself in the mirror. The cloud hovering above the hut continued to rain down drizzle. 

Little dollops of liquid plopping down caused one of the cushion’s edges to turn wet. He jumped over the cushion and tried to look at his reflection in the mirror. Disbelief enveloped him as he noticed that he was no longer a human, he was an insect, although he still seemed to have a human mind. He could still think, describe things, have feelings and opinions. But his body had turned into an insect, a giant beetle with silver-black metallic body, a tiny round head with two antenna erupting from it and two googly eyes.

Telmo noticed that his metallic body had soaked up all the water from the cushion. The cushion was now dry. He jumped on the ground where the drizzle had wetted it. He noticed that his body again soaked up the drizzle. Telmo stepped out of the hut and started crawling towards the roof. Once he reached the roof top, he took a long jump to try and touch the hovering cloud. He latched on to the cotton candy-like cloud and shifted his body on top of it, in the same way he had been sitting on the cushion. His body started soaking up the moisture in the cloud. Within a few moments, his body had sopped up all the water. The cloud dissolved in the mist and Telmo dropped on the roof, his belly holding all the water his body had absorbed.

Crouching underneath a mallet, he slept. The next day he woke up, he felt different. His chest felt open, his abdomen pulsing with warm swirls of breath, his head dizzy yet light. He looked up. The hovering cloud had vanished. He settled down to work on a lamp he had been working on before he turned into an insect. He tried to talk to his tools, but the tools wouldn’t respond, as if their squeaky, creaky voices had died, along with the hovering cloud. Extreme silence jolted Telmo into an intense pang of loneliness and longing. He couldn’t hold back anymore. He slumped down on the ground and burst into tears. He kept crying until evening, then sat there gazing at the fleeting colors of the sky. Golden, orange, pink, purple, blue, black.

Night set in. He walked inside the hut and embraced his late wife’s photo. He no longer felt grief of her loss. He was ready to move on.

 

The following morning, while he was working on the lamp, a group of travellers emerged from the cover of grassy bushes and approached his hut. Reaching the door of the front courtyard, one of them walked towards a small jewellery cabinet Telmo had left out to dry after a coat of paint. Others walked around, gazing at other items that lay scattered in the courtyard. Returning to Telmo, they gave him a big order. He was to create thousand bamboo-glass chairs, for which he would get about 10 million rupees.

 

For the next few months, he dedicated himself to creating bamboo-glass chairs, each daubed with a doodle of his wife’s face and the initial of her name. Once the project was over, he collected all the photos and belongings of her and bid them a farewell by burning. He had liberated both himself and her, something which she would have wanted for him if he could talk to her. He assembled his ash in a tub, poured it in a forest river, and walked away, seeking a new partner and his dreams of success.

 

Apart from being interesting and entertaining, the tale of Telmo Tinga is a fantastic example that illustrates a storytelling concept popularized by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Called “Magical Realism,” the concept, as its name suggests, is a writing strategy where elements of magical or supernatural worlds are presented as natural parts of realistic world, often with a very mundane and matter-of-fact tone or realistic setting.

The concept allows the writer to explore the realm of magic to illuminate the real. With the introduction or intrusion of magic, supernatural, impossible, unrealistic, bizarre, uncanny, or unusual elements, the writer presents the fusion of realistic and magical/fantastic. Boundaries between speculation/magic and reality are blurred. The aim, is to express emotions and normalize magic with amalgamation and practical integration of magic and reality.

What elements in this story illustrate the concept of “magical realism”?

1.    Normalization of the fantastic – The perpetual cloud hovering above Telmo’s hut, constantly raining drizzle, represents a fantastical metaphor for the intense grief and unending sorrow that prevails in his heart. Yet the cloud is depicted in an entirely natural and realistic setting.

2.    Fusion of realism and fantasy – Telmo’s story involves a blend of the magical and the mundane. The secluded hut in the forest and the hovering cloud; his job as a craftsman, selling goods in the city, and the talking tools.

3.    Anthropomorphism with magical tools as a Coping Mechanism – Telmo’s core routine, where he talks to his tools as if they were his family members or friends, represents anthropomorphism, a concept where human characteristics are attributed to non-human entities. While drenched in extreme isolation and the profound grief of losing his wife, Telmo uses these magical “talking tools” as a psychological coping strategy. The loss of the cloud and the subsequent silence of the tools at the end represents his mind no longer needing to project that connection—the coping mechanism is dissolved because his grief is gone.

 

4.    Thermodynamics and Phase Transition (The Insect Transformation and Metamorphosis) - Telmo's instantaneous and unexplained transformation into a small, metallic, water-absorbing insect that retains a human mind. - This radical, magical/dream-like physical change is presented as a simple/realistic event. The insect is depicted to possess a magical ability of swallowing up grief (water). This small metallic creature soaks up the moisture from the cushion, the ground, and finally, the hovering cloud. This element depicts the scientific concept of “thermodynamic equilibrium.”

With the act of physically absorbing the energy of grief, Telmo’s body naturally arrives at a state of emotional stability or thermodynamic equilibrium, thereby, transforming into a healed state.

5.    Magical Companionship and extreme ecology: the story presents Telmo in an extreme environment of isolation and recluse where he relies on the magical and supernatural elements as a crutch to manage his emotions. The description of "prickly carpets of long, pinny grasses" and giant trees forming "gnarly branches like veins of a monster’s claws" emphasizes a wild, aggressive environment hostile to human connection.

Extreme isolation, recluse, and grief forces him into an emotional breakdown and eventually, symbiosis. While the cloud of intense sorrow constantly hovers above him, the tools act as his companions in catharsis, listening to his sorrows. When the cloud finally bursts, his reality collapses and he is jolted into a rapid symbiosis. Turning into an insect, which essentially is a materialization of his sorrow, he drinks up the grief, and moves on into radical acceptance. Eventually, his reality starts to shift. He begins to heal. He receives the big order and he feels ready to move into a new life, a transformed version of himself.

 

Telmo's journey from paralyzing grief to emotional liberation, with the magical happenings serving as symbols of his internal state and necessary steps toward healing. His old biology, his old ecosystem, his old mind are now just history. By the end of the story, Telmo turns into an entirely new person. So, basically, the story uses elements of magic and fantasy to shift his reality from old to new. This fusion and intersection of realism and magic is what marks this storytelling device.

 

How Chekhov’s Gun concept of storytelling relates to life?

In storytelling, Chekhov’s Gun is a technique that states that, if, in the first scene of your story, there is a pistol/gun hanging on the wall of a room, then in the second or the following scenes, it must get fired. If it doesn’t get fired and remains hanging on the wall, it is useless to the reader and doesn’t serve a purpose in the story.

In life, Chekhov’s Gun is a metaphor that teaches us that everything, every thought, every feeling, every experience, every memory, every hurt, every heartbreak, every little thing we have, in our body or mind, has a specific purpose. The purpose for different objects becomes revealed at different points in time.

It reminds us how our mind tends to seek connections, associations, purpose, and meaning in seemingly unrelated things, events, memories, or thoughts. Chekhov’s Gun is also a fantastic analogy for how every action we do or every word we speak serves a significant purpose in life. Every action, word, or reaction is a cause that contributes to a certain effect at a latter point in time in the future. Gibberish actions, impulsive reactions, or unintelligent actions can cause disappointment because they didn’t serve any purpose in the story.

So, the next time you sit around and observe your mind and reflect upon your life experiences and look around at the things or resources you have in your house, you’ll be surprised by how rich your life’s story is. Jump inside the train of time and travel back to your childhood. You’ll notice, that your life story has been mapped with a trail of clues or hints. 

Everything was there and everything is there, for a purpose. These little purposes, and the grand overall purpose will reveal themselves later in your life story. Memories, breaths, experiences, cells, atoms, words, emotions, thoughts, colors; if you look around, everything is cosmic. The lesson: Love the unique story of your life and embrace every little thing that is a part of it.  

 

 

Wednesday Afternoon - Chekhov's Gun Technique of Writing/Storytelling #w...

It was an ordinary Wednesday in October. Sun was dazzling with an unusually-bright sparkle. At 2:14 pm, Ramana exited his college gate and started walking towards his home. On the way, he noticed the orange-colored house. He passed by this house every day but didn’t notice any signs of life before. For the past one-and-a-half year since he started going to college, the house appeared to be secluded, unoccupied, and tucked in a shadowy corner of the street. Today, however, its windows were illuminated from the inside. Outside, a stack of heavy, dark-red blankets was piled near the porch.

He walked on and took a turn towards the park. Arriving at the entrance, he noticed a large, rusted gardening tool, most likely a pair of sharp-bladed shears. The shears were dropping upside down from a cluster of purple-blue flowers in the flowerbed, its sharp blades sticking out from the fronds of grass like fangs of a devious monster, awaiting to swallow up kids that were playing around. To protect the kids from getting hurt, Ramana approached the flowerbed, removed the shears from the grass, placed it at the foot of the entrance gate, and walked on.  

Within a few minutes of exiting the park, he arrived home. His parents were out. He tossed his backpack on the sofa and walked to the kitchen to have a glass of water. Although there were still two-and-a-half tubs of ice-cream in the freezer, he was not in the mood today, due to a sore throat. But then, his nose caught a familiar whiff swirling somewhere around him. He turned around to scan the kitchen. His eyes stopped on the right side of the white granite shelf, on a bowl. Steam was spiralling out from a bowl. He lifted the lid and exclaimed “Hakka noodles!”

“Rakhi must have made them for me before leaving the house,” he wondered. Rakhi, his sister, had gone out for a book promotion event. She knew that it was his birthday tomorrow and he loved these sizzling green hakka noodles. He sipped water, grabbed the bowl, and slumped down on the sofa with the TV remote. Immersed in a mystery movie, he guzzled down the entire bowl. Suddenly, his eyes caught an unwrapped packet of dark chocolate spilling from a shelf behind the television set. He walked to the shelf, pulled out the chocolate, and tossed a piece in his mouth.

By the time he switched off the tv and returned to the kitchen, he found himself taken over by a strange, unusual lethargy. Sloppily, he plodded to his bed and dozed off. When he woke up, the doorbell was ringing vigorously. He rushed and unlocked the door. His parents and Rakhi burst inside. “Get ready, quick! We need to go!” His sister exclaimed. “Where?” He asked. “Just get ready. You’ll know,” they told him. His face still hanging in the post-nap laziness, he trudged to his room and half-heartedly pulled out a black shirt to wear.

 When Rakhi, who had been driving, stopped the car, Ramana felt puzzled. He lowered the window glass to find the same orange house. Why did she stop the car here, he wondered. Before he could question, she hopped out of the car and so did his parents. Following them, he walked inside the house. Unlike what it appeared on most days, today, it was lit up in a dazzling glow of lantern lamps peppered around the courtyard. A stranger ushered him inside. All around him were faces of more strangers, all of whom were dressed in dark red blankets, the same ones he had spotted in the afternoon. “Surprise!” Everyone yelled.

His uncle, the brother of his mother, tugged onto his sleeve and asked him to get seated on a dias. The dias was wrapped in a cloth of black silk. His mother stepped from another room, carrying a ritual tray slinging with incense cones, flower petals, and powders of assorted colors. Ramana smiled. They had organized a surprise birthday party for him. The fact filled his heart with a pouring gratitude. “Ramana,” his mother spoke, “Your great-grandfather passed along this Vault of Eternal Gems to you at the time of his death. Now that you are 18 years old, it’s time that you become aware of your powers and procure this vault.” Ramana nodded, his face blushing with pride.

His uncle stepped forward and said, “Show me your hands Ramana.” Ramana twisted his palms. A shriek escaped his mouth and flitted through the room like the trill of a wounded bird. “What? What is this?” His palms appeared as if they had been charred with a dark brown smoke. “The radioactive compound we mixed in the chocolate has worked,” his uncle exclaimed. Ramana looked up at him in puzzlement.

“Let me explain son,” his uncle said, “The dark chocolate you ate was rubbed with a radioactive compound, which will act like the Shadow Catalyst for you to unlock the precious vault. The noodles you ate weren’t hakka either. Instead, they were dipped in a green potion made from a rare jungle moss. This potion thins the blood and heightens the “aural energy” of the drinker so they can access the dark unconscious energy buried in their subconscious mind. Since you have eaten both the items, your body is now activating these higher energies for you.”

 “I don’t understand all this, uncle. Vault? Energy? What’s going on?” Meanwhile, his father approached the dais, with a pair of shears. It looked like the same shears he had spotted in the flowerbed of the park. “We borrowed them from the gardener who works in the park,” his sister confirmed his doubts. “But why?” Ramana stared at her face, nonplussed. His father came forward and held him by his shoulders.

“Ramana,” his father announced, his voice suddenly devoid of affection. “You, only you carry the key to the precious vault that lies in the backyard of our home’s old quarry. All it requires is your blood.” His mouth wide open, Ramana tried to stand up. His uncle pushed him deeper into the dais.

Ramana looked hither and tither. His parents, his sister, his uncle, and all the strangers seemed to be participating in this occultish sacrifice. “Hurry, father. We only have a short window of time before the vault and Ramana’s powers are locked for another decade.” His father stepped forward and raised the shears high into the air. “Ramana, your sacrifice will always be remembered by all of us. By contributing your blood, you are fulfilling the great mission of your life.”

A horrifying, frozen resistance took over Ramana. He felt like his body was about to explode. At first, there were fireballs churning through his belly and then his throat felt like getting choked by a poisonous serpent. Before he could let out his final scream, his father brought the shears down, pounding them first into Ramana’s shoulders, then his chest, and lastly, his belly. In less than two minutes, Ramana collapsed in a heap, his betrayed eyes reeking with wrath and his powerless moans left unheard, abandoned.

In the pinkening sky, the Sun was already sinking. Ramana’s family members had already burned Ramana’s body on a pier. They needed to rush to his house, dig out the quarry, and pour Ramana’s blood on it to unlock the vault. But before they could step out, the entrance gate flanked close from the outside. The chain automatically tangled itself into the metallic hook, banging the door shut. A few moments and a sickening groan filled the room. Lamps started shaking, lights flickering in neon flashes, from blue to purple to green to red. Cracks materialized in the walls and shedding fountains of rubbly dust, the ceiling began crumbling.

 An eerie scream pierced through the air, which was already smelling of burnt earth and sulphur. Blinding smoke filled the room and a flock of sinister-looking black birds erupted from the disintegrating ceiling. They swooped down and dive bombed towards the family members to peck furiously at their eyes, hands, faces, bodies. Within a few moments, almost all the members were choked in smoke and were collapsing like buildings in an earthquake.

“You will never get what doesn’t belong to you!” A ghoulish voice proclaimed and as the words echoed through the orange house, they stole the breaths of those still alive. Then, darkness blanketed the sky and the orange house was engulfed in a hush, treacherous quiet. Meanwhile, ashes from Ramana’s embers rose with the winds and disappeared into the night sky.

This is not just an interesting story, but also a fantastic example of a concept that writers and storytellers refer to as the “Chekhov’s Gun.”

Coined by Anton Chekhov, the famous Russian playwright and short story writer, this concept, in its essence, states that “everything that exists, has a specific purpose in your story. Nothing exists without purpose.” In his letters, Chekhov famously stated that, “If you say in the first chapter that there is a pistol hanging on the wall, in the second or the third chapter, it absolutely must go off. If it’s not going to be fired, it shouldn’t be hanging there.” The idea is to remove everything that has no relevance in the story.

In this story, the objects and elements Ramana witnesses during his journey back home from college are mapping a trail in the readers’ minds, so when they reach further into the story, every object will reveal its purpose – The orange house, the pair of garden shears, the green noodles, the dark chocolate, the dark red blankets, and everything else.

The concept works on the principles of “narrative economy” and eliminating “superfluous or misleading details in the story that might create an expectation for the audience that is never met in the end, leaving the reader unsatisfied, disappointed, or distracted.

The concept can also be observed in the climax of The Hunger Games. The character of Katniss Everdeen is portrayed to possess a skilful understanding of the poisonous nightlock berries in the forest. In earlier scenes, her father passed on this knowledge to her because it was required for her survival in the District, her hometown. 

In the end, this seemingly disconnected piece of information pops into highlight, as both Katniss and Peeta pretend to eat these poison berries to defy the Capitol by making them believe that they were committing suicide. The Capitol stopped them and declared them as victors of The Hunger Games. 

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