So here it is, the final act in the fictional writing mini-series. It only seems apt that I would use the shortest article to end it all (aw come on, I’m a writer, I am allowed to be a little dramatic). One of the main reasons why this area is somewhat scanty is that there is ongoing debate and discussion as to what constitutes "flash fiction". They cannot even agree on a name for it yet…but for the purposes of this article, we will stick with flash fiction. I am going to try and give a little insight into this area and see if we can glean a just a little more than we currently know. So I hope you are all sitting comfortably, then I will begin.
As the name suggests, flash fiction is the name given to fictional written prose that is extremely brief. That is the one thing that the experts can agree on. What they cannot reach a consensus on is just how long the piece has to be in terms of word count for it to be classed as short fiction. For example, some magazines say that a story that is less than 300 words is flash fiction whilst others consider stories that are 1000 words or less as flash fiction. I mean, what is a writer to think. There isn’t even agreement as to what to call it. Sudden fiction, micro-story, short short story are just some of the names that have been given to this type of fiction.
The roots of flash fiction are found far back in time, as far as Greek times. The finest example of that time is Aesop’s fables; more modern writers in the genre include Lovecraft, Chekhov and Kafka. The flash fiction genre has been given a new lease of life by the popularity and the ubiquitous Internet, especially online magazines.
The actual name ‘flash fiction’ may have come from a collection of works published in 1992 with the same name. What the editors wanted to portray is that anything that fits onto 2 sides of a magazine page (usually 700-800 words) would be and should be classified as "flash fiction". Again, due to this, other definitions of brief fictional writing have sprung up and have been named after the amount of words contained in them. Examples of this include 69-er which has exactly 69 words; 55-er - a story of 55 words excluding the title of the story. Each one, like the short story, does have characters, plots, action, obstacles etc. The main difference is that, with the limited amount of words, these are not often ‘fleshed out’ in the story but are only hinted at. I have tried to do this but have only managed to keep it to 100 words so I admire anyone who could write flash fiction and get a whole storyline in there…who knows? Despite my efforts, I have been unable to get more, but I hope this has helped you through this area. I am going to finish with a short story of mine which I wrote earlier this year when I was just starting to find my feet in the fictional world (although I had been writing since I was about 13-14, I did not really pursue it as a career until late last year). I use it to end what has been a fascinating mini-series for me . . . enjoy . . . .
"The silence roared. Miles was waiting quietly, patiently, body tense and alert waiting to spring. It made little sense to him or to anyone to sit here, shoulders hunched, head down, eyes fastened to the door of the house. Miles almost laughed out loud as his mind went back…
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“See me after class, Mr. Brookes.” Mr. Cooper, my Maths teacher, fixed Miles with a stern glance to which Miles responded with a sniff and an indifferent shrug of the shoulders. This isn’t the first and it wouldn’t be the last time that he would face the humiliation of yet another detention, another note, another mark against his school record. He was so sick of this. All he wanted was to finish school and get out of this place. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself and he definitely did not want yet another spell in a stuffy classroom with Mr. Creepy.
After the class ended, he sauntered over to the teacher’s desk and waited till the other kids had gone. He stood up straight waiting for the mind-numbing task that would inevitably ensue. What was it going to be this time? Lines? Would he be scraping gum off the desks? Doing a weeks’ homework in an hour? Picking up rubbish from the yard? Miles almost looked forward to these as he guessed what today’s fun job was going to be . . . and behind door number three is . . . .
“Mr. Brookes, are you aware of why you are here?” Mr. Cooper’s monotone almost broke Miles’ reverie. It was the sharp tap of flesh hitting table that did the trick.
Miles pretended to think and then looked him straight in the eye. “I think so. But I would be delighted if you could enlighten me.” The sarcasm dripped off his tongue much like the raindrops racing each other on the windows.
Mr. Cooper paused, took out his handkerchief and slowly wiped his brow. If he was fazed by this insolent display, he was at great pains to disguise it. He put it back in his pocket, took a deep breath and continued.
“You are here because you have again flouted school rules. You have come in late and furthermore have submitted substandard work.” He waited to see if his words made any impact on the young man. His attitude said otherwise. He continued, his measured monotone seeming even deeper than usual. “That may have been acceptable in your last educational establishment, but it is not going to be tolerated here . . . any longer.”
Miles waited impatiently for the climax, the punchline, The Big Punishment.
“You are being suspended . . . starting now.” The teacher scraped his chair back as if to distance himself from the decision he was making. “I’ll talk to your other teachers to see if there is any point in setting a return date. You can go.”
Miles’ head was pounding, mouth gaping; green eyes stinging with the shock, he slumped on a chair in disbelief and looked at Mr. Cooper, willing him to unsay what he just said. Two tired but defiant brown eyes stared back at him. “You may go, Mr. Brookes; I’ll be in touch.” He then stood up and started writing the next lesson on the white board. Discussion was over.
This could not be happening. Miles was expecting a lecture, some quasi-degrading task, a disdainful look. All of that he could handle. But being suspended was not part of the plan. Plan A was to get through it; there was no Plan B and that–was not good.
Miles stood up uncertainly and shuffled out of the door. How was he going to explain that he had been suspended? It wasn’t like he was old enough to have free periods, no adverse weather conditions, no teacher training and the next public holiday was months away. His brain hurt with thinking too hard. His feet pounded the pavement with angry determination and suddenly it became clear. He didn’t have to go home straight away! But what could he do? Where could he go? He didn’t really have any friends and it was too cold to stay out.
“Hey watch it!” the cab driver threw Miles the V sign before driving off muttering furiously to himself. Great, suspended and almost killed in one day. Life doesn’t get much better than this, Miles thought bitterly to himself.
The slightly musty smell filled his nostrils as his dad’s voice filled his memory.
“I’m going to be late home but can’t wait to see you.” The library was comforting with its slightly eerie corners and over-stacked shelves, the soothing silence acting as a buffer against the madness of the day and the craziness awaiting him at home. He shook his head, rubbed his tired eyes with cold hands, shocking his system slightly. He turned the pages of his book, taking in the tale of misplaced justice and true friendship. He loved it here, Mrs. Warner the pretty librarian always looked out for him with a warm smile and good book. When he was in here, he could leave the bad stuff out there and today of all days, he needed that.
The darkness felt like it was moving in, causing his heart to race and his breath to come in shallow painful bursts. He crouched down, further straining to catch any sound, no matter how small. Suddenly, there it was - a slight click and the sound of soft-soled shoes walking on wool carpet. Miles tightened his grip on the pistol and drew his gangly 12-year-old body to its full height and as the door opened, he cocked the weapon and pointed it at the intruder’s heart and shot. Death was instantaneous and hush again descended. Miles picked his bag and walked to the door taking one last look at the mum’s killer as he lay dead, eyes wide open, seeing nothing.
“See ya dad” he whispered as he ran out of the door and into the shadows.
The Inner Darkness © February 2009
All the best budding writers and novelists…
© Angelique Fyre September 2009
