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A TASTE OF FLASH FICTION

Flash Fiction is a great way to practice the economy of story writing. You must take the reader immediately into the scene, and exit just as fast. In between, the narrative and/or dialogue must grip and hold on. There is no room for any excess verbiage. I find that writing flash fiction is a splendid exercise to undertake just before going into the editing process of books. Plus, it's great fun-the stories can be tremendous.

There are two schools of thought about the length of flash fiction: One sets a 500-word maximum, and the other 100 words-which one of my mentors, Harvey Stanbrough, teaches. The challenge of a 100-word story is very appealing; it's like taking on the ultimate mind-jumbling puzzle. You are required to set a scene, and include all four parts of a story in it: Plot, character, conflict and resolution.

Here are a few of my flash fiction examples, all of which have been previously published:

THE LIFE OF A FLICKERED CANDLE
They looked past each other's shoulders. A candle flickered; steam rose from half-eaten dinners.

She clenched her eyes. "Why are you so dispassionate? Why can't you kiss me like these other men in here kiss?"

He stared into space. The waitress appeared. "More wine?"

The waitress poured, then leaned over and kissed the man flush on the lips. She turned and walked away.

He looked across the table, smiled, and leaned forward, his lips puckered. Her face froze. "Oh no you don't, you wretched man!"

ENCHANTMENT
How do we get out?

We're surrounded by thousand-year-old stone walls, a clifftop, the mdnight moon. I search for back routes and pull on the oak door. "It's the 21st century, and we're locked in a castle," she says.

We stand in an ancient courtyard and yell for help. Clouds eclipse the moon; a gnarled oak moans, chasing a white owl away. A dragon spits fir from a second-floor flat. "Let's go," she pleads.

Two young women come outside. "You live here?" I ask.

"Oh, we are bored and are lighting hair spray on fire," one says.

They lead us out.

A DULL MARRIAGE IGNITES
"Who are you?"

"The other woman; I'm surprised you don't already know." A wide-mouthed smile; thorns stuck into her flesh.

She glared at the woman: Dark, sinewy arms, serpentine legs, sepia eyes, tall cheekbones, a mouth engulfed by lips. Delicious. Rotten.

"Get the hell away from me, from us, bitch!" Her words flared through the room.

"Too late." Her husband walked in, stood behind her, and wrapped his arms around her waist. He never did that.

"What?" Tears.

"You were so sexy last night, so beautiful. What got into you?"

She blinked. Her eyes dissolved in the mirror.

MOUNTAIN'S CHOICE
"Just four steps and you've summited!"

Martin's voice was a distant echo. Jansen tried to lift his boot over a clump of ice; no luck. His leg ignored his mind.

"C'mon, man! Four steps! The view up here is great!"

"I can't. Leg hurts." Jansen's eyes soaked in the panorama of ridges, peaks and tilted snowfields. He soared. "Why kill myself?"

"To reach the top-the reason why you're here."

Jansen smiled and sat on the ice clump. "I am here."

The wind gusted. The mountain groaned. Martin slipped and tumbled into Jansen. They careened over the edge.