How long is long and how short is short? No matter how well-argued, theoreticians are debating this question just for the sake of discussion, and never with a goal of having a final say on it.
What Is Flash Fiction and Where Does It Come From?
Flash fiction has been the most widely growing fiction phenomenon in the 21st century, with its roots and great popularization in Canada and the US.
Photo by Paul Downey
Some argue that it always existed in one form or another: anecdote, joke, myth, fable, fragment, allegory etc. Others make the connection between the development of prose poetry as a catalyst for the birth of flash fiction. Many go even further and try to be as exact as they can, indicating Edgar Allan Poe as the father of flash fiction.
Another point of much discussion is the nomenclature of flash fiction. There are so many variations of it. If we were to group them, then it’s easy to see that some contain the word ‘fiction’: flash fiction, microfiction, minute fiction, thus emphasizing the genre.
Other names for flash fiction contain the word ‘story’ i.e. ‘short story’: short-short story, micro story, so as to indicate that it has derived from the short story. This does seem to degrade flash fiction a little, since it may give the impression of a subgenre, even though it deserves a special place of its own.
And then, there are the names which suggest the effects these shorts cause on the reader, therefore: flash fiction, sudden fiction, minute fiction, implying the shortness and the element of surprise as characteristic of these narratives.
Perhaps, the most important and harsh debate is on the word count of this fiction. It can’t easily be determined, just as with all the other elements of this widely disputed phenomenon.
This results with opinionators who promote flash fiction as prose of 100 words, to the most widely accepted group that limits it from 250 to 750 words, and the ones who don’t like many restrictions and categorizations and accept anything under 2,000 words as flash fiction.
Personally, I support the medium group, because it gives just enough limitation as to arouse creativity, whereas it also categorizes itself as a special genre.
Practicing Flash Fiction
The reason for the popularization of shorts is straightforward enough: people want fast bites in these dynamic and time-restrictive times.
What’s more important to pinpoint, though, is the superior nature of writing flash fiction.
Flash fiction condenses meaning in the shortest possible prose form. Microfiction is about lyrical writing. Just like in poetry, every word should have appropriate weight; bring that ‘magical’ element to the story.
And although these stories are read in a matter of a minute or two, the best ones often linger in our minds much longer than a longer read, say a novel.
This kind of writing requires specific talent for expression. Plus, it’s the best exercise for writing longer forms in the future. Attempting a novel without having written many short stories is like trying to be a professional without ever being an amateur. It doesn’t cut it.
In an interview for the Paris Review, Gabriel Garcia Marquez says:
One of the most difficult things is the first paragraph. I have spent many months on a first paragraph, and once I get it, the rest just comes out very easily. In the first paragraph you solve most of the problems with your book. The theme is defined, the style, the tone. That’s why writing a book of short stories is much more difficult than writing a novel. Every time you write a short story, you have to begin all over again.
So rather than dreaming about writing the next great American novel, why not give writing shorts a go and become a master of expressive meaning?
What’s your experience with flash fiction?
PRACTICE
For fifteen minutes write a short-short story. It can be as short as 100 words. Actually, the shorter the better. This practice is all about learning to condense a story as much as possible.
As usual, don’t forget to peak into others’ practices and support them with your feedback.
800 meters. Three-foot letters on the pavement. 800 meters and I’m sure I’m going to die at the side of the road. Or pass out. Or vomit. 13.1 miles minus 800 meters? Subtract. Subtract pain from this equation.
600 meters. How many meters are in a mile? Thump. Thump. Thump. Stagger. Pause. Breathe. Stagger.
400 meters. I can hear yelling, clapping, whistling, bells ringing. Can’t walk. Too many witnesses. A 5k is 3 miles. 5000 meters is 3 miles…… 5000 divided by 3. Agony can’t be divided.
200 meters. My name on the air. Phil, shirt red as blood. Waiting. Cheering. Hoping me on.
0 meters. Done. Clip the chip off my shoe. Hold me up. Turn me in the right direction. “Here’s your medal.” The equation balances: Me minus agony equals done.
As a runner, I love this! Counting the miles and mapping the turns to the finish line. All written in gasps. “I’m going to die at the side of the road.” Thanks for sharing this.
This was so much fun to read! 😀 I also love how this was written in gasps and sentence fragments. It really pulls the readers into the story.
Superbly-written, I feel out of breath just reading it.
Love this! It’s so realistic and keeps you reading until you get to those last few words, and then once you’ve read them, your disappointed because it’s over. So, you read it all over again just to enjoy it once more. Fantastic job!
Exciting! Thump. Thump. Stagger. Loved it.
I too had to read it several times and I feel the pain and the thrill of success. I was a little confused about referencing 13.1 miles minus 800 meters and then the 5K. Was 13.1 a typo or did I miss something? I am not a runner.
Thanks for this question. 13.1 is a half-marathon (for runners) and when you get close to the end of the race, the remaining distance is often written on the road to encourage you to keep running. Counting down, as it were.
This is the math that I try to do in my head as I’m running along….trying to figure out how far 400 meters is in miles. And it doesn’t usually work very well by the end of the race.
I liked your story before, but having a little background knowledge just bumped it up some more notches. I am not a math person either so don’t do math to help me focus. I sing simple songs depending on the task. Recently spent five hours trekking and climbing in a cave. I know numb exhaustion. We sang till we couldn’t, but those songs locked in my head and sustained me till we got to the car. The math sustains you. Thank you.
I’ve done just enough running (and that’s not much) to understand the breathlessness in this story. Enjoyed it!
”Agony can’t be divided.” I honestly stopped to stare at that sentence for a long moment. The whole thing was nicely written! Very fitting tone for the situation.
Cool story. I don’t know that I have anything to add to others’ comments. But you did an awesome job. All the praise you received is much deserved. Congrats on an awesome practice.
Loved the pace of this too.
800 meters, that would be half a mile. Yep, you got it – I do it too! 😉
I LOVE flash-fiction! 😀 I often don’t have the patience to sit down and write a short story, so I’ll do flash-fiction instead. Here’s a short story I wrote for a flash-fiction contest (it didn’t win, but I still had fun): 🙂
The knife plunges into the girl’s chest. Her shriek pierces the night air, but no one will hear her. This town is empty. Except for us.
The red blood is vivid against the cold floor, slowly spreading like vicious vines. Twisting, turning, entwining with each other. The blood trickles towards me.
“Please!” she screeches. Her face is ghostly, white as milk or snow. “What have I done to you?”
I should call the police. I should run, run from this house, from this terror, from the horrific scene unfolding before me.
But I can’t. For I am only a lamp.
An interesting approach. The scene is filled with tension, but the ending just doesn’t do it justice in my opinion.
James, have you not seen “The Brave Little Toaster”? My son’s fav from the eighties. Lamp was a star…upstaged vacuum and blanket. 🙂
He strikes me as someone who has seen that wonderful movie! If not, it had better go on his to-do list.
Ok. The lamp definitely surprised me. You built the tension very nicely, but I am tempted to agree with James — the end is a bit of a letdown.
My other question, if there’s only the girl and the lamp, who’s stabbing her?
So clever! You really got me with that ending, what a surprise. I was already trying to figure out why the town was empty and who the “us” were. I loved this.
What does the couch think about all this? 😉
I felt kind of bad for laughing, but it was funny anyway 🙂
Would that be a by stander(d) lamp? (Sorry, terrible pun!)
This started at 300+ words; best I could do was reduce to 170.
Sea oats whispered across the dunes. Curls of ocean swept the beach and sandpipers danced to the call of the gulls.
A lone figure wearing orange shorts and a red tee shirt struggled through the sand, tugging a loaded wagon.
At his perfect spot, he lifted out a cooking grill and a battery powered auger drllled a hole for his unbrella secured with a mountain of sand. He set up two corn hole ramps with bean bags. Brushing sand from two chairs, he set them in place next to an oversized boom box. As he adjusted the antenna, a rap tune thundered across the sand. The man stripped off his shirt, popped open a brew and sent a text messaage while he paced impatiently scanning the horizon for his friends.
Sea oats whispered in the dunes, curls of ocean swept the beach and sandpipers danced to the song of the gulls.
The beginning (and ending) are very evocative. Lovely description.
You have a very poetic style, loved the opening two sentences. At first I thought the lone figure was a child with the wagon and clothing description so was jolted when he pulled out the auger. Am unsure how I feel about being jolted (read it a few times) but your writing is strong and I like the way you have two different scenes juxtaposed here.
Thanks! It was intended to jolt from the different viewpoints.:)
The beginning and ending captured my attention. Loved the vision of a lone figure with a wagon. Then you startled us from our nature stupor with a man who could have been anywhere do to his lack of respect or appreciation for nature, but nature didn’t care. It just kept on with it’s beauty. Maybe, I will drive to the beach today. I think I am inspired.
Thank you for your input and I know you will see the beach much differently than this man did. I call it, “The Young Man and The Sea”!
Short stories, especially flash fiction, seem to have a good effect on the online world. As you said, people are fast-paced and want instant gratification. But, additionally, people want to be able to quickly preview an author/blogger, and see if they like the content. They usually pick either poetry, blog posts, or flash fiction. That makes these little beasties a great opportunity to display your abilities as a writer.
That’s good to know. Guess I’ll be working on more flash fiction!
Yup!
What have you been up to, Sophie? Your responses have become rather… succinct.
Been writing on a novel and not sharing it, huh?
Don’t be a closet writer now… come on out of there. 🙂
Blush. You got me. I’m writing a play actually and it’s been such an exhilarating experience, which is good, but also quite draining. Some days I feel I’m not sane anymore, but I’ll keep it up until I finish. Going crazy can’t be one of my worries at the moment 🙂
I know how it feels. I had been writing on my novel none stop for a few months. (got 200 pages done) I’ve decided to take a little time away. Still writing though. Due to joining the Story Cartel and this prompt, I’ve wrote three short stories this month and have two more waiting at the door to be wrote.
Let me know when that play is done, I would love to read it. I like plays.
Wow, that’s quite a progress. I’m not nearly that prolific. Keep it up!
As for the play, it’s in another language, but when it’s finished and translated, I’ll be glad to share it. I haven’t been this enthusiastic about any other writing project so far, and I hope it turns out as clearly as it is in my head.
This comment has certainly inspired me to invest more time in Flash Fiction. I wasn’t aware of how much was out there, and so easy to access as well. 🙂
Sit, think, write, done. 🙂
Brilliantly written! I know there is another various of this in the fanfiction world called a “Drabble”; where the writer must write a short story with a beginning, a middle, and an end in 100 words or less.
Cool. I’ll check out Drabble. 🙂
“Sleep. Why is it such an elusive concept? It should be as easy as lying in bed, closing your eyes, and drifting into an unconscious state till the Earth spins around the Sun for a few hours.
But it isn’t.
You lie in bed staring at either the ceiling or that annoying clock with red digital numbers — that clock you know if going to go off very soon.
I just want to sleep! Why can’t I sleep?
The last time I slept was when I was out in the country — with it’s cold brisk sea air, and the sound of the grey ocean crashing on the rockside. Oh, that air! That wonderful feeling of oxygen rejuvenating all those cells that for such a long time have been subject to the dirty air of a congested city.
Perhaps I should go back there . . . but I know in my heart I can never go back.
For fear of . . . her.”
Ex-lover keeping him awake at night?
Somethin’ like that.
I loved the details and the ending.
I liked the unexpected ending.
Have been doing it a lot in the past… may come back to it again 🙂
http://paulocoelhoblog.com/2009/06/17/your-story-in-my-blog-stars-by-ani-chibukhchyan/
129 words (I’m getting closer).
His wounds were critical; he had lost excessive blood–there was nothing more Cassius could do.
He knew it was only a matter of time.
Cassius stood far from the sick-bay, distracting himself with mundane readings on the monitors, until a gentle hand was placed on his arm.
“He’s calling for you,” Aurora said gravely.
Cassius forced himself to the sick-bay–ever step agony.
“Hello, old friend.” Cassius said.
Lucius’ greeted with a weak smile, but his expression soon changed.
“I’m-I’m sorry Cassius…I didn’t mean-”
“Hush now,” Cassius interrupted softly, placing his hand on Lucius’ shoulder, “rest.”
Lucius relaxed; his eyes wandered as the light slowly ebbed from his eyes.
“Good-bye…’old friend’,” Lucius said with his final breathe. His heart monitor sounded one tone.
“Good-bye.”
the first sentence drew me in right away – your dialogue rings true, loved “Hush, now” so simple, yet so telling of Cassius character. I found myself wanting a bit more though. More descriptors to differentiate who had lost the blood for example. Was that Cassius or Lucius? I was a little confused over the POV, something that’s an easy fix.
Thank you for your advice, it’s very helpful. I’ll be sure to make the needed adjustments to make the POV more clear. But I’m not sure how I will be able to do that and keep the Drabble close to 100 word . . . Do you have any suggestions?
In the first sentence, “His wounds were…” you could name him instead. For example “Lucius’ wounds were…” Same with the next sentence. Is the “He” Lucius? Also if Cassius is telling the story, remember Cassius is the main character and tell us what he sees, hears, feels and show us that…hope that helps!
Thank you Margaret Terry! Very helpful!
It sounded like Lucius died. Cassius didn’t appear very moved. I wouldn’t be wasting words like “Hush now” if I knew they would be my last. If you’ve ever lost somebody, think about that moment over and over, until tears are in your hearts and emotions are bursting at your heart, then write.
Broken – See if my little short story can help you. It is NOT easy to achieve emotion in a piece and unless it truly comes from the heart, and even still, it requires a fine control over the writing elements, it is easily botched and will come across as awkward. Keep trying, keep editing, and you’ll get there!
A very sound observation; thank you. The original draft of this was much longer (about 1000 words; half being dialog), so when I revised it to turn it into a flash fiction, I tried to get the main emotion of the scene and keep it around 100 words.
Thank you very much for the suggest about writing an emotion piece! I will be sure to use your technique the next time I write an emotional scene.
The lady looks at the smouldering ruins of her home, where she had housed her vast collection of exotic birds.
– Well, at least I know what I’m having for supper.
Hopefully they didn’t cook too long, otherwise they’ll be tough to chew.
Nicely done. This is kind of Jack Handy-esque. If any of you are not familiar with Jack Handey, just Google “Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey”. You’ll be glad you did.
I love this. Very …. ummm….concise.
Mmmm… never had bird with feathers still attached…
Exquisite!
Well, that’s one optimistic lady! Loved it.
LOL, Made me laugh! 🙂
Great post, Sophie, thank you. I just entered a contest for a short short that had to be less than 400 words and was based on a childhood memory. It was so HARD to make it less than 400 words so for this practice I tried to keep it at 200…
I was in a hurry again and rushed to stand in line to pay for my gas. The only person in front of me was an elderly man whose was checking lotto tickets. His crooked hand trembled like a brittle leaf on a winter branch as he reached across the counter to pass his ticket to the cashier. I was sure the cashier would rush him with the line up stretching behind me. She had a face that looked road weary and it didn’t look like any of the roads were called patience. When the elderly man dropped his ticket, the guy behind me began to cluck and shuffle his feet. Someone else hissed “oh, for crap’s sake”. But the cashier’s eyes were only on the customer in front of her. She checked his ticket and said “Sorry, this one’s not a winner.” Her tired eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. He purchased another ticket and when he struggled with sliding his bank card in the machine, he accepted her help. “I can’t tell you my PIN number, though.” His voice was a whisper, frail as the rest of him. “If I do that, I will have to kill you after.” He winked at her and my heart skipped a beat.
Oh, wow! That would definitely stick with me.
Here is another great story starter. I want to know what the wink meant and why her “heart” skipped a beat. So many possibilities. Margaret, I truly enjoy your writing.
thanks, Cat. Haven’t seen you for a while here – nice to see you again!
I love the image of the elderly man, especially how you described his hand. And I do like his sense of humor 🙂
thx, Victoria!
This is an interesting story, but I’m not sure I understood the narrator’s heart skipping a beat. I thought it was cute, but I figured he would win the lottery or something.
I can see that, James – in my desire to keep it close to 200 words (for my own personal challenge), I failed to say something about judging people(the cashier) and being surprised by kindness and patience…
Ah! It’s just so representative of the never-ending waiting in queues… Especially: ‘it didn’t look like any of the roads were called patience’ Very good! Those last lines left me wanting more.
thx, Jackie – isn’t that the truth about queues? The whole world is a queues and so few of us are good at waiting…
I like it, though I think you should add more info to make it even better. Don’t worry about the word count – only the story counts and what feels right for you.
thanks, Sophie – I set the word count as a personal challenge, just to see if I could tell this story in 200 words. Makes me wonder about the power of the story itself and its needs for “more”…
I’m not too happy with how this came out. I’m hoping it’s just an example of an artist being displeased with his work, even though it might be okay, after all.
~ ~ ~
Don’t you touch me repeats itself in my head lying awake at night who said that? It rings negative in my head but today went well I think. I held the door open for that old man at the coffee shop even though he was taking so long I thought about letting the door hit him but I didn’t do it. I smiled and he smiled back and I let him in line in front of me, too. I tipped the coffee girl.
I should be asleep by now. I get up to use the restroom and in my dark hallway I hear something in my garage, like my tool drawer sliding open and closed. I freeze, wait, silence. If I go in there and find the goddamn Wilkins boy snuck in through the window I’ll carry him home by his neck.
In my underwear I walk to the garage. I open the door, turn on the light. My Cadillac is there. I step down to check for scratches and I feel the worst pain of my life in my foot. My pinky toe breaks; I hear it crack like an egg. I fall over, banging my temple on the Cadillac’s rear door handle. Under my car there’s eyes. There’s a shadowy face. It’s giggling something raspy.
The homeless woman climbs on top of me and her breath smells like something dead and her hair is like steel wool. Her tattered clothes are rubbing
dirt on my skin and she’s laughing in my face.
“I’m touching you!”
She licks my cheek, stands up, turns the light off and I hear her shuffle around the front of the Cadillac and climb onto my work bench then she’s out the window. I lie on the cold floor, groaning. I think my head is bleeding. If I could get to the light switch, I could check.
wow, Karl. There is so much here. I burst out laughing at the stream of conscious thought about letting the door slam into the old man. But no matter how much I like the first paragraph, I’m not sure it’s needed for the short story. I think you could start with “I should be asleep by now” which is a provocative first line. The rest is just tooo good! A homeless woman in his garage?? She breaks his toes and licks him before she turns off the light and leaves? Fun stuff! Your writing is strong here – fast paced action, really great work.
Thanks, Margaret. You always have such good advice. I could shorten the piece by omitting that first paragraph, but the first line does need to stay. She’s the one he said, “Don’t you touch me” to, hence her response, “I’m touching you.”
I thought about that and after reading it a couple times am not convinced her saying “I’m touching you” adds anything major to this story – she’s whacko enough with her behavior. (unless of course, it’s something important to you which I completely understand too)
I agree with Margaret on this point, except, I think I see what you were trying to accomplish. If you are trying to say maybe she was taking revenge on him, it would make more sense if we knew what he did to deserve it because tell her not to touch him.
In my head, before I wrote it, he passed her on the sidewalk and she tugged on his pant leg, said, “scuse me, sir,” and he knocked her hand away and said “Don’t you touch me,” and kept walking. I guess I got caught up in the rest of it when I tried to write it and forgot to mention that. But I value yours and Margaret’s feedback very much. You brought to attention what I didn’t make clear and that’s just another mistake to avoid in the future.
I like the full circle feel to it. I think it illustrates that this woman followed him home, drew him into the garage and attacked him for the sole purpose of rubbing it into his face. I think there’s also this thing about her that is more than just crazy, it’s about her humanity. Perhaps I’m reading into her side of things, but how far would a person go reclaim their humanity? In the end, I feel like he still didn’t get it.
So…this is one that I started a long time ago and just recently finished. I wasn’t completely happy with it so I just put it away and only recently came back to it:
The Butterfly Effect
Jose and Carmen sat in their driveway, their backs to the still-steaming time machine.
Jose drew in a sharp breath, producing a loud oink.
“Man,” he said, raising a cloven hoof to his face and scratching his snout, “the butterfly effect, huh?”
Carmen raised a wing to the crown of her head, feeling out the contours of the newly-acquired bump that was there, prying loose a flurry of tiny feathers; they drifted in listless circles to the ground in front of her.
“I know, right?…friggin butterfly effect.”
Where did they go? What did they do? and How are they going to get out of this mess? This one does need to be expanded. Great opener for a NaNo Novel.
Thanks for reading; I appreciate your feedback.
I actually have no interest in expanding this into novel (or even novella or “long” short story) format.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying this because I think my piece is perfect as is and above criticism. I can see where this could use some expansion, maybe to provide more of a beginning, middle, and end (although my intent was to get one wondering about what was left unwritten, maybe I left too much out).
But I think if nothing was left unwritten–if all the details of how these two came into possession of the machine in the first place, where they went, how they got back, why they changed, how they managed to undo what they had done–were all put out there, it’d lose something. I feel like it’d be akin to someone rattling off a good one-liner, then following it with a ten-minute explanation about why the joke was funny. But that’s just me.
She pushed off the ground looking around. The park fence whipped in circles around her. Eyes shut. Hands holding head to stop imminent tilt. A home. Heck she had a home and a name. She knew she did. Another dip to the side forced her eyes shut again and both hands to touch the gravity that anchored her. A brief glimpse of a bicycle crumpled beside her jostled a memory as a raccoon chittered objections from a branch overhead.
This was fun. I edited out about 2/3s.
I think you may have edited out a wee bit too much. Is the narrator on a bike and crashing?
Thank you. This is why it is good to have strangers read your work. My writing group knows my brain. The raccoon ran in front of the bike, caused the crash and the brain injury. His chittering helps her get reoriented.
One of these days I’m going to leave this two-bit crumby apartment. I thought I had raised my children right, but after they grew up and became doctors and lawyers they stopped coming around. Then, my husband passed away. For two years I worked at the convenience store just at the end of Griffith street for a meager paycheck and three gun-point robberies a year. This old lady doesn’t intend to make a fuss, you take what God gives you whether it is green earth or the filthy streets of New York City. It wasn’t, though, where I wished to live, not in a rubbish-hole of an apartment complex that charged too damn much; pardon my French. But that night God showed me something about people and perhaps that was why I was there. I’m not sure why he showed me this thing. I’ve always held it as a terrible thing, but true nonetheless.
I had come home and after cooking up some Hamburger Helper for supper, I reclined in my rocking chair, as I did each night, and watched soap-operas on the television. Nearly sixty years of life, and my greatest possession was a fourteen-inch television.
An hour into the show, I heard a scream. I thought nothing of it. People in New York City scream all day long. Gun-fire and police sirens were a nightly occurrence. You try not to think about it. You learn to block it out, ’cause else you will go crazy. Over the next twenty minutes, I probably heard four more screams. But something in me was bothered by the screams. They were all the same voice and not a single other voice fought back. I knew, at this point, that it was not just another bad episode of Jerry Springer, but something else. Sometimes, it was best not to know.
I turned up the volume a few more notches. Finally, the screaming stopped. I could watch my soap opera without turning my head to the black window speckled with lighted spots from the street lamps below each time a scream echoed in the otherwise still night. The window had a missing chip and a piece of tape over it. I hated living on the third story, but, then again, how much louder would the screams have been on the first floor.
Without so much as the jangle of the phone on the wall, I sat there, watching soap operas for about an hour. Then, I turned it off and got ready for bed. The rusty bedsprings squeaked as I laid down, curling up in blankets. As I laid there in the dark, rather disappointed with my life and my children, I heard a soft whimpering. I listened for a moment. It sounded like crying. It was coming from that creaky old window patched with tape. I don’t know why I did it, but I got up out of bed, slid my tired feet into my blue and worn slippers and started to the window. I can only say God must have pushed me to that window. I got to the window and looked into the lamp-lit gray streets below, surrounded by a glossy-wet darkness.
I could see parked cars several yards from the base of the building. I heard the cry again, and as I looked about, I saw a pair of legs on the ground beside an unclean dumpster. Shifting my head, I could see an arm and part of a blouse, but the rest of the woman was not visible for the dumpster being in the way. Then, I saw the rugged blacktop pavement painted over with dashes of blood.
I grabbed the phone and dialed 9-1-1. I put the receiver to my head as I rushed back to the window. The cord of the wall phone just barely stretched to the window.
“9-1-1, please state the nature of your emergency,” came a calm female voice on the line.
“Yes. There is a bleeding woman on the ground outside my apartment building.”
“The address?”
“Sixteen-forty–forty-three Griffith Street.”
“Sixteen-forty-three Griffith Street?”
“Yes, sorry.” I stared out the window, her legs were still moving, writhing in agony.
“–with the victim?”
“No, I am in my apartment.”
“Stay there, do not go to the vic–”
“Hold on! I see someone approaching… A man.”
“An officer?”
“No. No uniform. Has short hair, grey shirt, black pants. A tattoo of a… woman I think on his arm–Oh my! He has a knife!”
“Stay calm, remain on the line. Help is on the–”
“He’s stabbing her! She’s screaming!”
“Ma’am please–”
“He’s raping her!” I crumpled to the floor crying, my wrinkled knees hitting the floor roughly. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I couldn’t watch anymore. More, more of her scream floated up and I could hear the sound of something repetitiously banging against the metal dumpster.
The 9-1-1 operator continued to ask me to stay calm, but I knew I would never be calm in these blasted apartments ever again. I started praying, kneeling beside my window in my nightgown and slippers. The operator, too, if my memory serves, prayed with me.
The screaming and metallic banging had stopped before the police arrived. I finally hung up the phone after thanking the operator. I crawled back in bed, but I could not sleep.
When morning light came just a few hours later, I rang my daughter in Illinois and told her my story. A few days later, I left that forsaken city and apartment with my daughter.
I had heard, later, that the poor girl died. She had been raped not once, but twice that night. She suffered over thirty stab wounds all over her body. Had laid in that street bleeding for over two hours… But for all that that experience shook me, and how guilty I felt for ignoring those screams, those cries for help, the fact I could have saved her, nothing prepared me for what I heard one of the news report say:
Though the victim was only feet away from a five-story apartment complex housing over 500 people, only one emergency call was placed.
Wow … Fantastic, thought-provoking ending. The main character can be easily identified with. I know there have been things that I have ignored that I later wished I hadn’t. It seems that the world is growing more and more self-centered. It’s easy to rush along, ‘minding our own business.’ But we don’t know who we could have helped if we had just stopped and cared a little.
Whenever in a situation where someone else’s life or property balances on the goodwill of people, don’t think someone else will do it for you. Even if there are 1000 of them. Actually, the more there are, the LESS likely they will be to respond.
So true.
It’s terrible how life-like this story is, in that it has almost certainly happened exactly this way and very well could happen again.
I like the framing device you used. This woman sounds like she has plenty of stories to tell and she told us this one. The line at the beginning: “I thought I had raised them right, but when they grew up to be doctors and lawyers” makes me feel like even though she did raise them right, she feels she could have done better. That’s the best way I can explain it. Succinctly, I like her.
Actually, to be honest, this HAS happened before. The story is loosely based on a group effect termed “Bystander Effect” in Psychology terms. It gives that the more people are standing around witnessing, the LESS likely someone is to do something about it.
As a matter of principle, when faced with these circumstances, I do it just in case no one does. Just did this yesterday actually, saw a car slide completely out of their lane 5 times over the course of less than 5 miles. Almost hit a side wall, too. Phoned it in, just couldn’t stand the thought of not doing something about it.
We need more people like you. On the Earth, I mean.
Thank you, that means a lot to me.
When I got to the end, I realized that it sounded a lot like a story that they used to define that term. As many times as I’ve read about it, though, I’ve never felt it the way you painted this story. I love that you enter this lady’s mind and put your feet into her blue slippers, putting a face to ignoring masses. You provided us the ability to fill her slippers with our feet and recognize that we are, I am, the ignoring masses.
I like your focus on how the lady raised her children. I think she did think she could have done better, probably in that focused too much on their professional success instead of their family responsibilities. I think this subconsciously-placed detail is fitting to the story because it emphasizes again neglected responsibilities in decency to other human beings and skewed societal values and definitions of success.
Holy terrifying, James! I was right there with the woman while she was on the 911 call hoping she’d yell out the window to the killer and tell him the cops were on their way, then hoping she wouldn’t because he would see her and may come after her at some point. The dialogue on that call is first rate. Amazing pacing. Great work.
Yes, the dialogue! I forgot to comment. Great use of dialogue describing the scene. Her desperate urgency came through wonderfully.
Thank you so much. I’m really surprised it came out so well, because I haven’t really had the opportunity to cut a second edit on it.
Your first line gave me chills. It is moving to know that you moved someone. 🙂
Oh dear… This is a story for those who need a good cry. How horrible! I can’t even begin to tell you the thoughts that were going on in my head. I don’t know what it was about the first paragraph, but I skimmed it. The rest, though, I grasped each word and held it close, hoping to gather them all without any of them slipping out of my hands. This is the kind of story, though fictional, people need to hear to understand the bystander effect. If you’re not calling, nobody is.
“If you’re not calling, nobody is.”
Perfect wording.
It is “fictional”. I recall an event referenced either by my teacher or my psychology book that touched on this exact event. A woman being raped and stabbed twice over the course of hours near a populated residence before someone finally called the police.
Sad, but true.
I remember my psych professor teaching about the bystander effect. She was a great professor… Anyway, you captured this just as great as she taught on it! Great job.
Would love to have your opinion on my practice.
I’m getting there! I always try to read my favorites, and you are on that list! I actually am very all or nothing. If I start participating in one of these discussions I tend to want to read all of the stories and make a comment on all of them.
I spend entirely too much time of here! 🙂
Oh my goodness, I know what you mean. I spend too much time on here, and there isn’t enough to do for just one day!! I really wish there was more practice!! I like to think that’s the idea here, though. It makes you want more, so you have to just do it on your own.
I am a favourite?! I just started practicing less than a week ago, and I made it on a favourite list!! You have no idea to what extent my heart just melted.
Yes you are a favorite. I loved that fly one, and I take notice of those who don’t just dump their stories and never give feedback. I’ve actually only been here for about two or three months…
I would like to see you on the Story Cartel. The writers that are there are even more serious. It costs money though to sign up for the course, 130 dollars until the 16th of this month, when the course actually officially begins. It is an 8 week online course. But, then again, you gain permanent access to a community of serious writers. I’m seeing lots of potential for critique partners and long-term friendships with writers. I know though how restrictive putting up money can be though. I got lucky and got one of the scholarships.
I’ve been in the course for 4 days (and it hasn’t even begun) and I can tell you I think I’m really going to like it. It will help me become a better writer. If you want to be a professional writer, its a good investment.
I’m actually reading Joe’s book “Let’s Write A Short Story” right now to decide whether I’m going to make the investment. I guess I better keep reading and make a quick decision!!
So far, I’ve been of the mindset, “Even if it puts my book on the backburner, I’m going to participate, read every story I can and give feedback”. What has surprised me so much, is a lot of the other writers are of a similar mindset.
I would love to have you onboard!
Ohhhh, SO good. ”A story is a promise of a conversation” as the picture of the prompt said. Yours involves topics that could be discussed forever. Such a nice post!
Thank you, I’m glad the story would be one to provoke thought and discussion.
This reminds me of the movie – The Call. It’s quite recent actually. You should definitely watch it.
The review of the movie sounds like something though-provoking. It would be a hard job at times. Some of the calls would make me feel like someone’s life was entirely in my hands. That’s just a scary thought.
Wait till you see the movie; then you’ll definitely be scared by that job prospect. 🙂
Great character building right from the first sentence. I liked the flow of your character’s inner thoughts, doubts and fears. The story develops well, is horrific but very vivid and believable. I read it twice. It gets better with re-reading. Well researched. Well done!
Thank you Katie! I’ve not been re-read much that I know of. That is a high compliment from a reader as thorough as you. I am elated! Thanks!
One instant.
I had never considered the power of a single second upon an entire existence. Like the nucleus of an atom, it had enough force to leave my life looking like Hiroshima.
We were laughing together, playing road games, and anticipating the hard-earned holiday.
Then it happened.
Blinding, crushing, deafening: the tractor-trailer smashed our car into the guardrails. I survived. They didn’t.
My life, in every direction, was devastation. I didn’t know where to start rebuilding. So I plodded through the motions of life without will.
One instant.
Healing, though a lengthy process, can begin as quickly as destruction can strike.
“Hey, join me for a coffee?”
It took just a moment for him to step over to my desk and say the words. It took only a second for me to accept his offer. I hardly knew him then.
Now he is the family that I lost.
But I hold him tighter than I ever held them; I treasure the moments with an intensity that some laugh at; and I appreciate even the smallest blessings now.
Because I know.
It only takes an instant.
Wow. Powerful. And so true how one second can be life altering. I really like the way you compare the healing to the destruction and how both are unplanned. The only thing I would have liked is to know the “who” when you said “I survived. They didn’t” I wasn’t sure if it was family in the same car or the other driver…
Thank you! … and thanks for catching my mistake too! I need to go back and make that clear. It was meant to be the main character’s family that didn’t survive. Then she was alone, until the man comes along and becomes ‘the family that she lost.’
I loved that each sentence was kind of a cliff-hanger. I just needed to read the next words, and the last ones were just perfect. Closing the circle very nicely.
Jackie, I’m so glad you enjoyed it 🙂 Thanks for taking the time to share how you felt!
I enjoyed this story, it was thought provoking and emotional. I agree with Margaret, at first I thought it was a teenage group, I’m still not sure who died, the family or friends?
Thanks for pointing this out. I think the reason it was confusing was because when I wrote that sentence, I hadn’t decided who it was in the car with her 😀 It’s meant to be family. I should go back and make that more clear.
I like the pace of this story, which helps build and release the tension. Very easy to read. As James says, thought provoking and emotional. I think I’ve read it 3 times.
Thanks, Katie!
I walked down to the stream, a ghost among the tendrils of mist wakening from the moist air.
The half-moon gave a weak light to my feet, but it grew stronger as the night rose and shook off the sleepiness of twilight.
Sitting on a rough stone, I looked into the shadows and began to think. I pulled out my flashlight, tried to write, then turned it off and stared at the stars.
Branches of the tree above me grasped at the wind. I wrestled with much more, but could not grasp my thoughts or the inconceivable movement within my soul any better than I could subjugate the wind. A meloncholy that was not sorrow had settled on me a year ago this night, in the dark of October’s waning moon.
I stood up and left the stone to wander.
I met the banks of the shallow stream and stood there for a while, empty. There was nothing, there had been nothing, for twelve months when I renounced my pain and bitterness. Everyone tells you that somehow love will find you when you let go of hate. Everyone is wrong.
The stars spun in their slow, silent dance; the highway sighed in the distance; the moon rose slowly as it had done for thousands of years.
“Speak!” I importuned the stars.
They did not answer.
“Show me your light!” I implored the moon.
The moon hung there, still, among the darkness of the stained sky.
“Answer!” I demanded of the sky, and the sky said nothing. Twelve months of solitude, of emptiness and silence, hovering over the abyss.
I have looked into the abyss. The abyss has looked into me. And slowly, like the setting moon, like the way a fever ends in peaceful sleep, I begin to fall.
I’m not sure what the catastrophic past was, but I loved the description and details given. Your vivid descriptions of nature and the moon mixed with reflections kept the piece interesting. But, at the same time, I don’t feel like I truly understood it either. Maybe a little too poetic for my sleep-deprived mind. 🙂
I’m not sure it’s supposed to make sense. But thank you!
ooooooh, so many gorgeous passages here, your writing is haunting and ethereal. It left me wanting more. Who is the narrator? A living person? Zombie? (sorry for that, but its so popular now) Your descriptions are poetic and beautiful: “a ghost among the tendrils of mist wakening from the moist air” ” the darkness of the stained sky” This sentence is wow: “The stars spun in their slow, silent dance; the highway sighed in the
distance; the moon rose slowly as it had done for thousands of years”
Great writing.
This is my first flash fiction, hope it isn’t that bad!
__________________________________________
Urgent. He told me. Something about what Sue said. Come.
After his rushed call, I zoomed to his place to find him immobilized in the middle of the kitchen. Boxes were stacked in the whole room and his face was white. He saw me and stood up. ”Parker,” he acknowledged but no more. He hastily packed the boxes as concern grew in my stomach. A glance on the wall informed me that all the pictures of him and Sue had been removed.
”What’s going on?”
He didn’t answer. I got anxious about this weird behavior. All I could think about were the fights they kept having these last couple of weeks. A harsh screech as he stretched tape on a full box.
”Aren’t you going to tell me what she told you?” I tried again.
”Yes.”
I waited a moment, but he didn’t continue. I frowned. ”Well, what is it?”
For the first time, he looked up at me. A smile. ”Yes. She said yes.”
People, just go back to writing about flies please. I just love reading about flies. Fireflies, smacking-pestering-wonderful-flashing flies. 🙂
I was a little confused by this story. Your word choice in a few places was lacking, and I really didn’t get the punchline of the story. It sounded as if Sue, if that is indeed who, said yes to the guy’s proposal.
I don’t care for the first paragraph. It is choppy and vague. The second paragraph creates a sense of mass confusion from me. First, it sounds like the narrator arrives to find the caller ON the floor (because that is what immobilized implies for me). Which is supported by his white face. Oh man, heart attack. He’s dead. No wait, he stands up. Okay. *Reads again*… so he doesn’t pass out, he is, I’m assuming, siting down. He is just white-faced because of box dust or something… 😛
The third paragraph is my fav, totally agree. 😛
I liked this sentence: “A harsh screech as he stretched tape on a full box.” It was a nice touched, good word choice on the screech.
Still, either it was a proposal for marriage or to move in. Still don’t feel like I understand or can fit everything together. Boxes?
Decent grammar and I believe I like the idea you are trying to portray. I realize this is your first flash fiction, but it doesn’t write like a larger story. I saw what you did with the fireflies. Actually, if nobody clubs me for saying this, I thought it was the best on that prompt, even over my own practice. Think clearly about what you are trying to accomplish and what you are trying to say with this piece, back up and try again! You can do better, I know you can!
Very good comments! When I reread it, the guy sure looks dead to me too ahah! Yes, it was indeed an answer to a marriage proposal in my head… To tell you the truth, at first, I wrote ‘No, she said no.’ And the whole scene was a lot more dramatic.. but then I realized my whole writing was affected by how depressed I felt yesterday! ahah, I tried to flip everything at the same time I suppose!
Yes, the whole thing is very vague! You’re absolutely right, it wasn’t clarified enough in my head and I need to have a better idea of what I want to accomplish with the piece.
Thanks for believing I can do better! 😛
James, I tried again as you suggested..
I just don’t know what to think about it,
Would sure like to get your feedback on it if you get a minute!
It is a bit on the confusing side. The only info we have about Sue and your unnamed fellow is that they had been fighting, and now the guy is packing things into boxes. There are too many things she might have said yes to. His smile suggests that she said yes to something good, but they don’t seem to have the best relationship as of right now. Only the pictures of he and Sue were taken down; were there other pictures left up?
James, being the hammer that he is, hit the nail on the head with your word choice of “immobilized.” I too thought there was something wrong with your pale, unnamed fellow
I like your last line. Though it’s unclear what he is talking about, there is a sense of finality to it. He smiles. Whew! Everything’s okay. You wrapped it up, whatever it is, nicely.
I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but never a hammer!
Bwahaha
I probably let too much hints that it was something bad, and now realize how confusing it can be! I’m starting to think I should go back to my first idea (No, she said no)! Sure, there’s editing to do on that one 😛
Thanks for taking the time to comment!
Haha! The mix-up on the ‘immobilized’ word is making me smile. I have to admit that I also thought he was having a stroke or something 😉
Loved the ‘harsh screech.’ … Little descriptions like that put you in the room with the characters! Sometimes it can be hard to describe normal things like tape screeching. But you did it 🙂
If you change it back to ‘no. she said no,’ I think it would have a much more powerful punch at the end. Otherwise, you’ll have to rewrite a few things to make it clearer. Because the fights just don’t go along with her saying yes! On the other hand, I like how you THINK it’s something bad (all the pictures have been taken down!) … until it turns out to be good at the end! So, either way would be great.
November 4, 2006: How does that saying go? Kids say the darndest things?
Kids say the funniest things? Whatever it is, my son told me the silliest thing yesterday, and I quote “I’m the only real Liam in the world. All the rest are aliens.” What a funny kid. Only 3 years old and already believes in aliens. I guess he’s got more in common with my Dad than just being left handed.
November 16, 2006: Odd things are beginning to happen. When I went to drop Liam off at daycare today, I waved to Jenny and she didn’t wave back. At first I thought she didn’t see me, but then realized she didn’t seem to recognize me.
It wasn’t the only time it happened this week, when Mr. Holland came through my line Tuesday, he acted like he didn’t even know me. I fear something bad is happening right in front of my eyes.
February 3, 2007:
Dear Liam,
I love you. I don’t know that you will remember me when you get older since you are not even 4. So much has happened in such a short amount of time. Was it only 3 months ago that you told me about the aliens and I thought you were just too cute? Maybe you didn’t know, maybe it was just a coincidence, but it doesn’t matter now. The aliens have taken over and somehow I can see them. I mean, they don’t look like aliens, they look like people, but I can see it in their eyes. Daddy doesn’t believe me, so he sent me a way. What Daddy doesn’t know is that the doctors are aliens too. I try to pretend like I don’t notice them, but I see them staring at me.
I don’t think I’ll survive my stay here and suspect you’ll never see me again. I just want you to know that I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to take you away, up into the mountains to Grandpa’s cabin. To keep you safe. I love you son and I’m sorry Mommy didn’t believe you sooner. People will try to tell you that I’m crazy, but I’m not. I know that you’ll believe me. Who am I kidding, why would they even let you see this?
February 4, 2033
Dear Mom,
You died 27 years ago today. I found this diary in a box marked “Mom’s Things” a couple of months ago. I don’t know the protocol on writing in someone else’s diary, but I love you too. [I’m sorry that I said that thing about the aliens, I wish I could take it back.] (Sentence has a line through it) Dammit, I was only 3! I’m just sorry about everything, but mostly that I don’t have any memories of you. Just pictures. And don’t worry, Dad never said you were crazy, just sick. He loves you and misses you too. The world is still an odd place. Just yesterday, Hunter, one of my students pretended not to recognize me at the mall. Silly kid.
Haha what? I love this. I don’t even know what to say about it. It’s great. I’ll read it over and over. I seriously love this, and I don’t know why.
I read this a few times. Okay, something otherworldly is definitely going on, as her last entry is from 2007, though according to her son, she died in Feb. of 2006!
I get the feeling that whatever is going on, it runs in her side of the family. I get the feeling that her dad had it and that’s why he lived alone in the mountains. And of course, given the last sentence, her son has it, too.
Thought provoking, and an interesting format. Nice work.
I like the fact that the son is a teacher. Probably because I want to be a professor of English.
Thanks guys! I was trying to think of a concept and I can never just pull an idea out of thin air, so I was scanning me memory and laughed when I thought of my son saying that exact statement about aliens. Then I thought, what if the world was full of aliens. This diary format was the only thing I could think of that gave me some freedom in jumping around in time. It was fun to write though I nearly didn’t post it since I was concerned the format wouldn’t be well accepted.
I love this. It’s just 4 little journal entries, yet so much is told.
Bravo.
These story does tell a lot in a short amount of time. I noticed the date being off for when she died. I didn’t notice the lineage right away though.
This story is real question raiser. Why/how did the mother die? Why didn’t the grandfather go quiet as crazy as the mom.
Provacative and though-provoking. Excellent writing, I think this makes a new favorite from you!
Thanks for sharing.
I actually am pretty proud of this one. It may be a bit longer than others, but certainly it can still be considered flashfiction, right? Hope you all enjoy. Can’t wait for feedback.
————————
It was Christmas break. Chicago was a mess. Kayla left her studio apartment earlier that morning and had remembered to pack everything up but her Bible. Her most prized possession still sat on her coffee table. For a year, the thing had never left her side. How could she forget it now?
She started out westbound on I-88.
She was in an accident one year, three months and five days ago. She was dehydrated and hadn’t eaten in days. Usually it didn’t effect her the way it did that day. She wasn’t paying attention and even fell asleep at the wheel due to extreme fatigue and stress on her body. She injured a lot of people, killed a few, and was in a coma herself for months. Since then, she found a community of people, started reading a Bible, and gave her eating disorder up to Jesus. She was living the good life. Mostly.
Driving on the highway still made her a nervous wreck up ‘til that day. This was only the third time since the accident that she had gotten on the highway. She spent half an hour beforehand praying for safety. She was two hours and several prayers into her trip before she gained the courage to actually go the speed limit. Eventually, a little more than half way into the trip of nearly eight hours, she was out of the right lane and passing cars.
As she passed a measly Oldsmobile in her giant, glossy black Escalade, she was beginning to feel comfortable. She was ready to be off the road, but she wasn’t so nervous being on it. She was about to get back into the middle lane in front of the Oldsmobile when suddenly, she wasn’t there. She simply disappeared. Nothing of her flesh remained.
The Oldsmobile had no time to react to the sudden stopping of the giant car in front of it. Out of fear, it swerved, crashing into a Semi which caused countless other wrecks.
Chaos ensued.
Mine’s longer…
Hmmm… she just disappeared from her vehicle? Sounds like some kind of Left Behind scene. Interesting, but some of the things in this story just didn’t work for me.
1. “Killed a few.” You couldn’t get a more casual wording on this. If you put these words in a drunk’s mouth after a wreck, it would fit better. “Crashed. Injured some people, killed a few.” Sip beer. “I’m driving home tonight…” (I’m being humorous, not sarcastic, by the way). It sounds like this event really bothered her, make the wording reflect that.
2. If she did indeed disappear from her vehicle, which I still feel is a little unclear, why is the car stopping? It could go into a roll or something, but no one is there to hit the break. It will actually slowly decelerate, or slide off the road to one side or the other…
I think your last story was better. The one with the fly.
Good job, none the less. Keep writing, I love reading your stories, they are always unique.
Ah, criticism… Yeah, I realise it seems like Left Behind, so I made it somewhat so. Not based on left behind, but on the Biblical idea of the rapture, which is what the Bible is in the story for.
I suppose you’re right about the wording. I was trying to make it quick. But it shouldn’t be so casual unless it has a greater effect than just that sentence. You’re right.
The car isn’t stopping, which is a mistake in writing on my part. I guess I got carried away with the whole “flash” bit that I took it too fast and exposed my weaknesses in writing.
Thanks for the criticism! Helps me realise my weakness.
Write slowly, take your time. It’s your time to shine. Enjoy the writing when it comes. And above all, do what you just did. Write it anyway!
I know! This is what I love about this community! The whole “write it anyway” mentality. I’ve been on here for less than a week, and I’m happier than I have been in such a long time. You know why? I’m doing what I love! I’m writing again!
Me too! Don’t give it up. I look back at my progress over the last 3 months and I nearly, excuse my French, merde my pants. I’ve written 300 pages in my book, I’ve wrote three short stories in less than a month, and my writing quality is IMPROVING. I’m marching forward, I’m not quitting this time! Think of how much progress I could make in a year! What I will think then when I look back!
Such enthusiasm! It’s contagious! Keep it up!
I had to read the last couple of paragraphs a couple of times to make sure I was reading it right 🙂 (And then confirmed in your comment to James that it was indeed the rapture!)
A couple of things I wondered about … why did she forget her Bible? I thought that was going to play into something later on in the story.
Also (it could have just been me), since the whole thing is in her point of view, when she suddenly disappears, it jerks me out of her point of view. The whole story, I was seeing things from her perspective. So, when ‘she simply disappeared. Nothing of her flesh remained,’ instead of being HER, just starting to get comfortable driving the car, I’m suddenly sitting in the back seat and she’s gone. Does that make sense?
I like your writing style! It’s enjoyable and easy to read 🙂
this post is helpful to me as i have tried to write novel instead of short one, now i realize my mistake and stand to correct
Her thoughts were of him since Saturday of last week. No surprise to her since on her way to the spa, she was listening to what, at one point, had been their favorite soundtrack. As she lay on the table of the room, relaxing music played in the background. Her thoughts traveled to the far reaches of her mind where her beautiful trove of memories made with him had been stored.
In her mind, one of those very moments replayed, but being jolted back to a sad reality, she was resolute in not reaching out to him this time. He always seemed to fall off the face of the earth shortly after engaging in a few telephone conversations, but whom was she kidding? She just couldn’t stay away.
She would give it one last shot. She wondered how things were with him. She missed his voice, his wit; the banter between them. Most of all—she missed him.
The void she felt revealed how unreachable he was. She emitted a deep sigh thinking that he was definitely her Mount Kilimanjaro—elusive…and, oh so, unattainable.
Interesting introspection of the character. Nicely done, Claire.
Thanks for your comment, James. As you pointed out, this character has a very interesting introspection within the constraints of this flash fiction story. It reminded me of the “Writing Succinctly” prompt that was posted recently.
I agree with James, a really nice passage showing the inner thinking of your character. I like the bit about being as elusive as Mount Kilimanjaro. Such a great image!
Thanks for your feedback, Katie. I appreciate it.
I like reading your character’s inner thought processes as well. I liked the bit about being as elusive as Kilimanjaro. Very strong visual image. Thanks for sharing.
Just wanted to say that this post was phenomenal! I love reading flash fiction and have been experimenting with short stories. They truly are magical, or at least every word should be.
I enjoy writing Flash Fiction in and around longer projects. Most of mine come in between 500-1000 words. One of these days I’ll submit a few. 🙂
I’m sorry I’m posting this so late. To begin with, I couldn’t think of what to write. Then it occurred to me, I should just write what’s on my mind. This thought pattern was prompted by the feedback I received from James Hall, about my first exercise on the Story Cartel Course. Here goes:
She had an infectious smile. Those were my Mum’s words. I don’t know if this was true. My Grandmother was a mystery to me, a legend. She died long before I was born. Gladys, that was her name, made her departure from this Earth in 1969, the same year as the historic moon landing.
My Mum would talk about her a lot, and still does. Her description of Gladys breathed life into her, for me. She was forthright and headstrong. She’d speak her mind, and everyone else would fall into line, including my Grandfather. Her strength of personality, perhaps, at times, made her seem distant and cold. However, she had a wicked sense of humour, a charisma, which brought a sparkle to her eyes. I felt as if I knew her. Damn, I wish I’d met her.
This one really touches home. It is not dramatized, it is down to earth. I wish I had met my Grandpa and I wish I had spent more time with my Grandma before she passed away a few weeks ago. Simply beautiful, Katie, simply beautiful.
I’m glad to be a source of inspiration to you as you have been to me.
Ohhh, I loved the comparison with the first moon landing. Beautiful.
I just couldn’t stop thinking about that flash fiction… Here’s a second attempt.
_______________________________________________________
There were quarrels about her wanting to see the world and him wishing to build something steady. And they fought and they fought. I was the confidant of their after-fights; I would bear the pain they couldn’t take anymore. As they fought and they fought. There were days she went out and he stayed in. When they met again they argued on how the other had wasted precious time lingering at home or abandoning it. And they fought and they fought. Somehow, something brought them always back together. Just so again they would split through a knotty brawl.
I’ve seen those fights. I was a witness as the conflicts sowed in them a fierce determination and so they weaved with unmistakable affection the two dreams together.
”Yes,” he told me when I found him all agitated in his emptied house. ”She said yes.”
Boxes were packed, white silk fashioned. Bells sang through Italy, promises were shared in Sydney. A map of memories. Wandering hearts and steady souls. And they smiled and they smiled.
I am not sure if this even qualifies but criticisms are very much appreciated
He is. Sin and redemption . Shame and pride. Torment and peace. Empty and overflowing in both anguish and strength, but not joy never joy. Because for every fleeting moment that elusive creature is within his grasp , guilt always wounds,lashes,whips and tears. But he moves forward you see, tethered to guilt and shackled to rage, he soldiers on. He knows no other way than this. He walks by my side as I prattle about what he missed while he was gone, or rather when he was lost. He keeps silent but this is expected. I hold his hand feeling the rope burns and he grasps my hand firmly. Suddenly the future does not seem so fragmented anymore. And so we walked , our steps rhythmic and leisurely towards everything he shunned and everyone he rightfully or wrongfully abhorred. He braves the crowd with their scrutinizing eyes and sharp tongues . Lies and truths mixing in the air as they murmur to each other as he passes by. For a moment anger courses through me. I wanted nothing but to snarl and hurl every insult there is. But logic prevailed and I held my breath, settling for looking straight into their eyes instead. As if the mere act, will bore into their malicious skulls that I feel no shame walking beside this boy. This broken boy turned into a lost man over night by a bloody circumstance. Their hushed tones speak volumes of contempt , twisted truths and false wisdom. I am not surprised that I am being judged as well , questioning my actions as though it is their birthright to do so. Destruction and betrayal they deem his future to be. Loneliness and hurt they expect mine to have. They see his claws , I see his scars. They feel only his anger, I feel his heart, tired and mangled. But I do not blame them , they are victims as well . In that crowded street, we all are. We walked seemingly without a care in the world . still, he holds my hand and for all the plainness that gesture brings, it means the moon and the world to me.
I like this, because it leaves a lot for the reader to piece together themselves. You wove the sentences together beautifully. But, I think it might be slightly too vague to make sense as a short story.
Here is what I understood from reading it:
We know that the boy went through something that leaves him scarred (and his hands crippled?). It seems that he is walking back into society for the first time. Or is he going to his trial? Whatever it is that he has done seems to be something good, but those on the outside don’t see the whole picture, so they mock and jeer. The person who is writing the story understands him better than anyone else.
Questions I have:
Who is “I” in relation to the boy? Where are they going? What is it that happened to turn the boy into a man overnight?
Even just hints at the answers to these questions would go a long way into turning this into a really good short story. Hope this helps!
wow thank you for your constructive review 🙂 Admittedly the vagueness was an attempt to make the story grounded on whatever the reader’s reality is. You see this story was inspired by this tragic animation I watched as a child that couldn’t get out of my head. 🙂 The characters are basically anonymous and their relationship vague because I wanted the reader to be introspective. I intended them to look at the story through the eyes of “I” or the lens of the village, but I guess I fell short on that regard. I really need to master the art of characterization.
Ah, ok. Now that you’ve said it was meant to be introspective, I can see how that makes a little more sense. It’s an interesting idea! Did you have any point at all you were trying to get across to the reader? The way I read it, it could almost be a revelation to the reader, showing him if he’s like “I” (taking the part of the person in trouble even amidst peer pressure) or the townspeople (mocking someone just because they don’t understand what that person has gone through). I’m not sure if this is at all what you were going for, but that is how it came across to me 🙂
Really I just wanted the story seen through different lenses . As a wanna be writer hehe, it’s so gratifying to actually take time to look at my work . Big thanks!
Glad I could help 🙂 Keep up the good work!
The Boy on the Bus: 348 words
It’s always the eyes. A glance always a little too long, that’s how you know. He watches me through the bus window, the glass smudged with finger marks and stained with dirt spots. His black rimmed glasses frame a pair of eyes in a colour I can’t decipher from my seat. The air is uncomfortably hot, still, without the movement of the bus to move it along. His eyes break away and he pays for a ticket, smiling politely to everyone as he walks up the aisle. My shoulders seize when I feel his backpack brush my arm as he sits in the seat behind me, in the corner of my eye I can see the wire of his headphones. With his back against the window he flicks through his phone. I scroll through mine, distracting my wandering imagination with music.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, a light tap, barely light enough for me to feel. The boy’s head appears beside me, his hair tickles my ears. Brown and spiked upwards as though he’d just woken up. I turned, my breath coming out of me smoothly, not breathy like my cold would suggest. My hair wasn’t as greasy as it felt, and he smiled at me. Flashing straight white teeth. The countryside blows by us outside, but I don’t notice and neither does he, because, he’s looking right at me. “I’m Sam.” He says.
In my head, I’m much more bold, talkative. So I reply without thinking, “Hi, Sam.”
The crash of the brakes wakes me out of my daydream and the red bus light glows in my eyeline.
There it is. There that look is again, a liquidity of the eye, the play of a smile as he turns around and the bus throws itself to a stop. I don’t smile back though, I worry that he’s looking at someone else and like that’s he steps off the bus.
Turning, I swear he’s looking right at me. A glance always a little too long, that’s how you know. He watches me as we drive away.