What is Flash Fiction?
Flash Fiction is a type of writing that I have only recently begun to try. I am not sure how long it has been around, but there certainly seems to be an epidemic of it – competitions, flash fiction websites, festivals, articles about how to write the best, what it truly involves etc etc – so that if you write it is hard to escape the feeling that you should really be having a go …
And, of course, to state the absolute obvious, it doesn’t take up a huge amount of time to try.
So if the main work in progress is stuck in a seemingly insurmountable pit of problems yet the urge to write is strong, the guilt when not writing haunts, a quick bit of flash fiction could be the answer.
Here is some of mine, and you can read more at http://www.fridayflashfiction.com/
My Flash Fiction
A bevy of small girls in smart dresses, petticoats taut under skirts of pale pink.
“Look at my party shoes, they sparkle!” Birthday girl says to the newcomer who clutches her mother’s hand, unequal to the task of letting go, leaving that familiar smell of face powder and perfume and lipstick.
“Look at the cake!” Birthday girl says. “Five candles. Count them!”
And she does, still holding fast to that hand. But enchanted by sugar flowers, iced rosettes.
Her first party. First friend.
She lets go, little knowing that the bond of friendship thus flickered will flourish, endure.
Broad, brazen smiles for the photographer – there you are in your borrowed bridal dress, your enormous bouquet, on a day of late September sunlight, a gift from mid-summer.
And on your arm, in a smart suit that swallowed months of clothes coupons, your groom, handsome, protective, his hand cautiously covering yours.
Your youth, the two of you, shocks. So vulnerable, so unprepared, innocence loosed on a damaged world, weeping for its sins.
But you survive; you prosper.
And it is love that reaches out from the well-thumbed photo, your legacy bestowed on the next generation.
And the next …
Thin, blanched face, eyes pale and staring, legs ungainly sprawled across the floor as if redundant, loosed from purpose, he talks.
And his voice is loud, lacks nuance, variation, ill adapted to the space. The place. The other tables busy themselves. People resort to newspapers, books, screens, phones. Each other. Attempts to diffuse a situation they find faintly embarrassing. Resorting to distractions from something they are ashamed to confront.
Not the young man with the insistent, strident voice, the body of late adolescence, the understanding of a very young child.
But their own discomfort.
Their inability to embrace such difference.