Example of Writing a Story

The famous storyteller Lait recommends a technique for writing a story: starting from a premise and developing it to a conclusion.
Premise means to place one, two, or more people in a given situation in a place, and then, with creative imagination, to follow these people through that place and through those circumstances.
I find an example of a premise in the story The Happy Prince, by Oscar Wilde:
"High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the happy prince. All of him was clad in fine blades of pure gold, he had two gleaming sapphires for his eyes, and a huge red ruby ​​gleamed on the hilt of his sword. He was indeed very much admired.
He is beautiful as a weather vane, commented one of the councilors, who wanted to acquire a reputation for having artistic tastes; it's just not that useful, he added, afraid that people might think of him as not being a practical man when in fact he was.
Why won't you be like the happy prince? A sensible mother asked her little son, who was crying for the moon. The happy prince would never think of crying over anything. "(Cf. Complementary bibliography, N ° 56)

Why doesn't the happy prince cry for anything? This is the premise. A very simple situation that requires conclusion, this premise with an appropriate setting, natural and meaningful dialogue, a climax and an outcome, constitutes a story.
I. I include, by way of illustration, Bitterness for Three Sleepwalkers, by Gabriel García Márquez. I consider it convenient to separate the formative elements from it:

TITLE:
bitterness for three sleepwalkers
PREMISE:
"Now we had it there, abandoned in a corner of the house. Someone told us, before we brought her things — her clothes smelling of hers of recent wood, her shoes without weight for the mud — that she could not get used to that slow life, without sweet flavors, with no other attraction than that hard solitude of lime and song, always pressed to its backs. Someone told us — and it had been a long time before we remembered it — that she, too, had had a childhood. Maybe we didn't believe it, then. But now, seeing her sitting in the corner with astonished eyes, and a finger placed on her lips, perhaps we accepted that she once had a childhood, who once had the sensitive touch to the anticipated freshness of the rain, and who always supported her body in profile, a shadow unexpected.
All of this — and much more — we had believed that afternoon when we realized that, above her tremendous underworld of hers, she was completely human. We knew it, when suddenly, as if a glass had been broken inside her, she began to give anguished screams; she began to call each of us by her name, speaking through tears, as if our screaming could weld the scattered crystals. Only then could we believe that she ever had a childhood. It was as if her screams were something like a revelation; as if they had a lot of remembered tree and deep river, when she got up, she leaned forward a little, and still without covering her face with her apron, still without blowing her nose, and still with tears, she told us: "I will not go back to smile."
SUITABLE ENVIRONMENT:
We went out to the patio, the three of us, without speaking, perhaps we thought we were carrying common thoughts. Perhaps we think that it would not be best to turn on the lights in the house. She wanted to be alone — perhaps — sitting in the shadowy corner, weaving her final braid, which seemed to be the only thing that would survive from her transition to the beast.
Outside, in the courtyard, immersed in the deep mist of insects, we sat and thought about her. We had done it other times. We could have said that we were doing what we had done every day of our lives.
However, that night was different: she had said that she would never smile again, and we, who knew her so much, were certain that the nightmare had come true. Sitting in a triangle, we imagined her in there, abstract, incapacitated, even to listen to the innumerable clocks that measured the rhythm, marked and meticulous, in which she was leaving. turning to dust: "If, at least, we had the courage to wish her death," we thought in chorus, but we wanted her that way: ugly and icy, as a petty contribution to our hidden defects.
We were adults from before, from a long time ago. She was, however, the oldest in the house. She that same night she had been able to be there, sitting with us, feeling the warm pulse of the stars, surrounded by healthy children. She would have been the respectable lady of the house if she had been the wife of a good bourgeois or concubine of a punctual man. But she got used to living in only one dimension, like the straight line, perhaps because her vices or her virtues could not be seen in profile. For several years we already knew everything. We weren't even surprised one morning, after waking up, when we found her face down in the yard, biting the ground in a harsh static attitude. Then she smiled, looked at us again; she had fallen from the second-story window onto the hard clay of the patio, and she had been there, stiff and concrete, face down into the wet mud. But later we learned that the only thing she kept intact was the fear of the distance, the natural fear in the face of emptiness. We lift it by her shoulders. She was not tough as she seemed to us at first. On the contrary, her organs were loose, detached from the will like a lukewarm dead that had not begun to harden.
CLIMAX:
She had her eyes open, she dirty the mouth of that earth, which she must have already tasted like sepulchral sediment, when she put her face to the sun and it was as if we had put her in front of a mirror. She looked at us all with a dull, sexless expression that she gave us — already holding her in my arms — the measure of her absence. Someone told us that she was dead; and she stayed afterwards smiling with that cold and quiet smile that she had during the nights when she walked around the house awake. She said that she did not know how she got to the patio. She said that she had felt a lot of heat, that she had been hearing a piercing, sharp cricket, which seemed - so she said - ready to knock her down. wall of her room, and that she had begun to remember the Sunday prayers, with her cheek pressed to the concrete floor.
We knew, however, that she could not remember any prayers, as we learned after her that she had lost track of time when she said that she had fallen asleep holding on to the inside. the wall that the cricket was pushing from outside of her, and that she was completely asleep when someone, taking her by the shoulders of her, pushed the wall aside and placed her facing the Sun.
That night we knew, sitting in front of the patio, that she would never smile again. Perhaps her expressionless seriousness hurt us in anticipation, the dark and willful living of her cornered from her. She hurt us deeply, as it hurt us the day we saw her sit in the corner, where she now she was; and we heard him say that she would never wander around the house again. At first we couldn't believe him. We had seen her for months on end wandering the rooms at any hour, her head hard and her shoulders slumped without stopping, never getting tired. At night we hear the sound of her bodily of her, dense of her, moving between two darkness, and perhaps we remain many times awake in her bed, hearing her stealthy walk, following her with his ear throughout the home. She once told us that she had seen the cricket inside the mirror's moon, sunken, submerged in the solid transparency and that she had crossed the glass surface to reach it. We didn't really know what she wanted to tell us, but we all could see that her clothes were wet, clinging to her body, as if she had just come out of a pond. Without trying to explain the phenomenon to ourselves, we resolved to put an end to the insects in the house: to destroy the objects that haunted it. We had the walls cleaned; we ordered to cut the bushes in the yard; and it was as if we had cleaned the silence of the night of small rubbish. But we no longer hear her walk, nor do we hear her speak of the cricket, until the day when, after the last meal, she she stared at us, she sat on the concrete floor, still staring at us, and she said to us: "I'll stay here, sitting"; and we were intermingled, because we could see that she had begun to look like something that was already almost completely like death.
That was a long time ago and we had even gotten used to seeing her there, sitting, with her braid always half-woven, as if she had dissolved into her loneliness and she had lost, even though she was looking at her, the natural ability to be Present.
OUTCOME:
So now we knew that she would never smile again; because she had said it in the same convinced and confident way that she once told us that she would never walk again. It was as if we had the certainty that she would later tell us: "I will not see again", or perhaps: "I will not hear again", and we knew that she was human enough to eliminate at will. her vital functions and that, spontaneously, would end, sense by sense, until the day we found her leaning against the wall, as if she had fallen asleep for the first time in her lifetime. Maybe it was a long time before that, but the three of us sitting on the patio would have wished that night to feel his sharp and sudden crying, broken glass, at least to give us the illusion that a girl had been born inside the home. To believe that she had been born new. "(Cf. Complementary bibliography, N * 23)