A Collection of Flash Fiction

Flash fiction--sometimes called Micro, Brief, or Sudden Fiction--is a relatively new form of short-short story, each piece only about 250-400 words. Derided by some as indicative of short attention spans or the death of literacy, Flash Fiction can actually be quite difficult, varied, and imaginative. As Mark Strand says, "It can do in a page what a novel does in two hundred. It covers years in less time, time in almost no time. It wants to deliver us to where we were before we began." And Joyce Carol Oates: "We who love prose fiction love these miniature tales both to read and to write because they are so finite, so highly compressed and highly charged." And John L'Heureux: "The short-short story is an exercise in virtuosity that tightens the circle of mystery surrounding what we know."

Below are some experiments with Flash Fiction submitted by Cindy Nichols' Creative Writing fine arts group for Governor's School 2002.

Note: Tyler Nantt's microfiction could not be included in this collection due to deadline difficulties. However, his work and much more by the Creative Writing group can be viewed in their online Web Book at:

http://www.ndsu.nodak.edu/instruct/cinichol/GovSchool/ChapbookCover.htm

Karla looked in the mirror at herself again. Had plastic surgery actually failed her, and is this how she actually looked to others? She couldn’t understand, why had the doctor simply told her that there were no big risks of the treatment? Obviously he had been wrong.

After thinking about it for a week, she finally decided it was time to “stand up” to the doctor, and allow him to see what she was dealing with because of his low concern for her well being.

Three days later, she finally got up the nerve. She couldn’t believe she was going to do it, but she knew something had to be done. The doctor was just getting done with another one of his patients when she walked in. He didn’t recognize her at first, but she quickly moved up to him, and finally he saw her

--Krista Carson

Harmony

I am sitting on a park bench on a late Saturday evening. Only here, on these trails, and on the playground over by the edge of the street, do all manners of people come together. The children play on the swings as the drug dealers make their sales and plan their kills. The happy couples wander the trails, and the drunken teenagers puke on the trees when they think no one is looking. These people are all in sync here in this park in a surreal sort of way that is perfect in its absurdity. I hear what they say, and their thoughts brand them all as shallow and self-absorbed. Ninety percent of what these humans say is simply noise to fill up the silence. Nothing they say actually means anything, and I am astonished at ultimately how little people actually say after talking for hours. The words all boil down to nothing. I have spent days on this park bench, and sometimes I can almost sense the meaning out of the corner of my eye, but it always disappears when I look at it straight on.

--Mayuree Rao

The Ant

In an average house in suburban America a small boy's whining gets on his mother's nerves and she yells at him to go outside. So he wanders outside, in his socks, and he looks down at the ground and sees an ant hurrying through the grass. The boy gets down on his hands and knees so he can see better and notices that the ant is carrying a brownish piece of food almost as large as itself. What is it? A grass seed, a piece of another bug, or a breadcrumb that he dropped on the ground a few days ago? He keeps following the ant until it reaches one of those small anthills that are just a hole about the size of a BB across with a circle of fine dirt piled all around. The ant goes into the hole and comes out a few seconds later without the food. Why doesn't the ant just eat the food itself? The boy goes inside and asks his mother, "what do ants do with their food?" His mother tells him to go outside.

--Ryan Liffrig

The Drive

Jim drove fifteen miles to work every day. Every day, his daydreams consisted of more bizarre things than the day before. A giraffe crossed the street in front of him and winked before falling into a manhole. The traffic lights turned blue, orange, and magenta. The rainwater that usually ran down the street was green slime. It engulfed a tourist and his dog before oozing down the storm drain. Today, the florist on the corner was missing both arms and her hair was a fountain of flames that cascaded down her back. Jim worked in a morgue.

--Brittany Jablonsky

Sunday

Church is full today, that's odd. They must all be sinners waiting to be forgiven. Well good luck, Heaven's doors are narrow. Mrs. Steward walked up to her pew, dressed in her Sunday outfit, carefully folding her bulletin. Oh look, the twins are behind me. They better behave and not talk during mass again; I don't know why their mother doesn't teach them some manners. She stood as the choir started the opening hymn. The choir sounded all right, but she didn't see why the woman beside her couldn't sing quieter, she was ruining the whole song. They sat down to hear the Gospel. The elderly widow sat erect, listening carefully to what the priest said. She couldn't understand why the rest of the church wasn't silent. There were kids laughing and babies crying. Too many people in the not so big building made it seem stuffy and overcrowded. When the basket came around she slowly placed her twenty-dollar bill on the very top, and a smile came to her face as she thought of how much she was helping. Everyone ought to be as giving as she; she always noticed how some people didn't give every week. How selfish of them. She hurried out of church afterward to avoid the masses of people with their children. Why must they stand by the doors afterward, this isn't a social time. She trotted down the street and hoped it wouldn't be so crowded next week.

Untitled

Once upon a time, in the distant state of Texas, a guy name Billy Bob wanted to go to the rodeo, but his pa said no. So Billy Bob ran away. He took he family’s pick up truck, and sped out of the driveway like there was no tomorrow. When he got there the rodeo was canceled, and postponed for another day.

When Billy Bob got home, his Pa was a waiting. He had a stick in his hand. Billy Bob took it like a man.

--Sarah Walters

Life Rust and Helmets

His bicycle was rusty. He knew if he crashed it would jab him and give him tetanus. Of course, he was safe too, always with a helmet on when he rode and sometimes those funny elbow pads. There was a small piece of soap in his shower. He knew it was there as some sort of slippery death trap. Naturally, he always fixed the leaky chrome shower head. He walked into his kitchen and played around with his garbage disposal, feeding carrots to it, so he could see how well it chopped. But he wore those thick latex gloves that make your hands smell while they sweat under the hot water. He picked up his telephone and called his sweetheart to call it all off. He knew that she was possessive and sold knives out of the back of her pickup truck, and that she could kill him at any moment. He always locked the doors, so he was all right. Through all the risk, he never worried, he never died, but he still watched his cholesterol.

--Josiah Jenkins

The Gift

POP! Whiz! ZOOM! Pow! Noises were coming from his room as if it were the Fourth of July. He had been up there for three days straight. What ever was going on was consuming him.

She slowly trudged up the stairs. He hadn't seen her for three days. He missed their anniversary. He used to be so good about things like that, but every year the surprises were a little less elaborate and less romantic. She felt as if she was loosing him.

Approaching the door, she decided that she was going to drag him out kicking and screaming if she had to. It was a last option, as all her allurements hadn't even fazed him. Then a defining BOOM! resounded throughout the neighborhood. The room's door was blasted off its hinges and fell over the banister to the floor below. Jet-black smoke was billowing from the room.

She ran into the room and there he was standing in the middle of the room looking at something. As she approached, he turned around and looked at her. He stepped away from where he was standing to reveal his creation. Amazement and surprise were etched into her face.

--Elizabeth Dobis

Life

The life was over. Five minutes before on that hill by the bay the life had been happy enough. There singing it stood without much care if one doesn't count life as a care. One minute passed as it sat in the grass thinking of how to let go, and sadly it found without much regret that going was easier after the fact. This life kept on going the minutes not slowing and down to three minutes it got. It smiled to itself and started to think of whether or not heck would be hot. Two minutes to go, life thought to itself ; I guess it's been a pretty good ride, but if only I hadn't stopped on the side and asked for so many directions. As the one-minute mark came and passed the life more or less slowly lay down. The last passing thought to fly through the life was whether it was or not. This life was a fairly smart fellow.

Kids

The aunt was crazier than most, which seems to be saying something. She left her house at nine past three as she had every day for five years. Before that it had been six past seven. These were both in the AM of course because when else are aunts even active. As she rounded the block she decided that she had finally had enough. She took out her wallet and decided to buy the young children some gin. They had been bothering since her decision to start her daily walks earlier. Such abominable kids they are having these days she thought to herself. And why are they all so hairy? It seemed everyday they just got hairier and hairier. My sister's kids are like that, she smirked to herself, and they have the same color hair too. The aunt, of course, had no kids of her own. They just were not plausible to her. Why would someone want some filthy little thing clawing and scratching at you all day? They seemed to be all-together a bad idea in almost any way she could think of. Well to each their own, she thought to herself as she dug in her wallet for cash. The children have to do something I suppose and drinking is certainly something. Where is all my money, she wondered? I know I just put some in yesterday. The kids were waiting and as much as the aunt hated them they certainly weren't going away. Maybe they will get run over after they drink, she mused to herself, I see them lying on the side of the road all the time. Finally, as all hope seemed lost, the aunt pulled her last grubby five-dollar bill from her pocket and handed it to the child. The child spit and ran away leaving the aunt to stare. Good riddance, she yelled and she kicked at the dirt, but at least all the purring had stopped.

--Tyler Mills