If you have not met flash fiction before, you are in for a treat. If you have, here is yet another attempt to define it, to pin down this most slippery of beasts. And because I am a writer, I’ll define it like this:
Imagine standing at the open door of a room where all is in darkness, and you can see nothing. Imagine someone flicking on the lights - to the count of one, two - then plunging the room back into darkness. You didn’t have time to take in much, but you know exactly what room this is, now - a bedroom, an operating theatre, a kitchen, a courtroom. Odds are, you also remember a few things about the room - something about the bed, for example - something out of place? Something odd about that operating theatre... what was that on the floor in the corner? The kitchen - who was that peering back at you from the window? The courtroom - was that a small boy crying in the dock? But this is today - we don’t put small boys on trial? Do we?
A great piece of flash fiction creates a complete world in very few words, draws you in, and makes you complicit. You become the creator too, in partnership, filling in the gaps the writer leaves behind, your brain often adding the reasons, the detail. And because it is, to some extent, ‘yours’, it has a lasting effect. It may be very short - usually under 300 words, or 500 words, sometimes under 1000, sometimes as little as 100 or even 50 - but it packs a punch beyond its weight.
Do not be tricked into thinking a flash has to therefore ignore the craft of fiction. If anything, the fewer words you have to play with, the harder it is to create something strong. But think of an old Oriental painting, a flower, a tree, a horse, made in a few brushstrokes. In a great flash piece, you will find living characters created with those brushstrokes. A setting created thanks to a single wall. A flash of narrative lit up, then extinguished, leaving the reader wondering, but satisfied - because a good flash is never incomplete.
Perhaps the greatest asset for a flash writer is the ability to create character through voice. That skill is well worth exploring, and the best exploration is either through just doing it, or by reading what others do. So - here are some great writers of flash, some well known, others not, or not yet... many are writing colleagues of mine, and I know their work well. Do look them up, do some research of your own, read the wonderful flash journals. A lot can be found online.
David Gaffney
Dan Rhodes
Sara Crowley
Aimee Bender
Tania Hershman
Calum Kerr
Nik Perring
Randall Brown
Etgar Keret
And finally - flash is not only an end in itself, the art of flash writing is also a wonderful liberating creative process. I always begin writing workshops with this exercise - so have fun! I call it Flash Cricket - because you have to bowl and field words.
Flash Cricket:
Here is a list of twenty random words. Don’t read them too closely - but cut and paste onto a fresh document, save and close. When you have twenty minutes to spare, make a cuppa or something stronger, and get ready to write. Only when you are ready, open the document, glance at that first word, and start writing, immediately. No planning in advance. And every few sentences, pick up the next word, incorporating that into the flow. Make it happen - make those words fit - it will feel absolutely nuts, but it is only a bit of fun - and you will end up with unplanned, surprising twists and turns, strange connections.
Shadows
Flint
Shimmer
Stealth
Jealousy
Cashew
Priest
Oil
Mother
Steely
Champagne
Bergamot
Wool
Mississippi
Tiger
Keyring
Hamburger
Candlewax
Absolution
Coast
Who knows, maybe a fascinating character will have wandered into the room while you weren’t looking. By the way, you can play this game with other writers easily. Enjoy! And best wishes with all your writing.
Follow @vanessagebbie on Twitter, and check each day for fun #StoryGym writing prompts.
I lay and watch as my shadow crawls up the wall. I turn on the lights and they flickers like flint fire. Then all her objects are revealed, they shimmer. No longer in the dark, their stealth diminished. Jealousy poisons my mind as I think of her. I see her box of cashews, how she liked to break them before she ate them.
Oh how I wish I were a priest. How they maintain composure- I do not know. I think of holy oil, poured over me by my mother. She stares at me with her steely eyes. My father drinks champagne, and the priest Bergamot tea. They cover me in wool.
Now I sit here in a small house, in the town of Mississippi- laying wasted, like a lazy tiger. I pick up the keys she left, dangling it off my finger from the keyring. I look at my half eaten hamburger, sitting cold like dried out candle wax.
Oh California, give me your absolution- how I miss your coast.
I am in a Mervyn Peake mood I guess...
In the shadows, something moved. There was nothing to see – and then a shimmer at the top of the staircase. With customary stealth, Flint climbed the creaking stairs after the girl. He found himself looking down a wide, deserted hallway. Kriza had disappeared.
He decided she must have entered the state room, whose several tall ornate doors lined the corridor. She was often there these days, talking with the major domo or one or another of the squires. Flint was faintly surprised when he recognized his feeling for jealousy.
He shrugged and put his hands in his pockets, uncertain what to do next. His fingers idly palpated a cashew, all that was left of his hurried midday meal. Shockingly,the priest had invaded the kitchen in the middle of it, trailing a whiff of holy oil and panic. Whispers were exchanged with Mistress Grice, and she had peremptorily dismissed the servants.
Something was up. Flint had heard the words “her mother.” For some reason he thought they were talking about the princess. He had seen Kriza and her mother at the assembly, had terrifyingly intercepted a steely glance from the queen meant for the girl. His hand had shaken as he poured champagne into the queen’s goblet. To spill a drop now...
Because of the warmth of the day, someone had opened the tall casement windows at the end of the corridor. The scent of wild bergamot wafted in from the gardens. He hesitated before the closed doors, until he caught sight of the slight movement of a wool tapestry draping a doorway. Approaching, he saw that the door was open a crack.
A faint sound penetrated into the hallway. Someone was singing, a wavering, wandering air. He thought he heard the word 'Mississippi' and could not understand the reference to the old vanished world. It was the princess, he knew that much. He recognized the charming husky backnote in the voice, that always made him think she was recovering from an infected throat.
He slid his hand behind the tapestry, which depicted what he thought might be a scene of tiger hunting from the ancient days. There was a key in the lock, attached to a huge iron keyring that moved as his hand brushed it. His heart clutched. Pointlessly, he remembered the old nurse’s story about curious Wilhelm and the secret door. What had the old fool said? “They made him into hamburger!”
Kriza continued to sing, though. She seemed lost in her song. After long patient minutes, Flint was able to get his head around the door, and spied her at the end of the great room. She was leaning over, idly scraping candlewax from the mantlepiece above a cavernous hearth. There was something quite odd about the pose. In passing Flint took in the brightness of the room, the princess’s preoccupation with the cold fireplace.
And then he saw movement, pulsing, jiggering movement, in its black depths.
There was a dark form crouched there.
“Absolution, Mistress,” an inhuman voice croaked from the shadows. It seemed to mingle abject entreaty with a bounded, boundless rage.
And Kriza just continued to sing, her crooning voice rising and falling in the stillness – needling, violating the air.
Flint felt violently ill and wrenched himself backward through the door. His heart slammed against his chest. She was one of them, she must be. She was a Summoner.
He could not take any of it in; but abruptly it came to him that he was in great danger. He looked up and down the corridor. The coast was clear. He slunk away.
This blog post has inspired me. I think I may just give this a go!