If we think of a short story as a small wind-up toy, or some other kind of mechanical device powered by an internal energy,¹ then it might be natural to assume that the story ends when the device runs out of power. But this is not necessarily the case. A short story often only ends after it has wound itself down, after it has ceased to show signs of movement, and then suddenly out of nowhere there is a burst of life.

This might be a more useful way to conceptualize the end of a story than to think about adding a “twist” or “reveal.” Instead, think of what might give the story a final jolt of energy, of how it might continue itself past the point when its mechanics would seem to naturally come to rest.

---

1. For more on what types of structures and conceits can give stories their energy, see Lincoln Michel's "On the Many Different Engines That Power a Short Story".↩