*sings Queen*
No I'm not here to talk to you about Flash Gordon....nope, I'm here to talk about flash fiction.
I LOVE flash fiction. In fact, before I started writing my novel all I wrote was flash fiction.
Flash fiction is like a super short short story. It's usually no more than a few pages. Most often it's just a page. A story in a tiny box. The challenge is making sure the story makes sense, the characters are alive, and that you build a world in the least amount of words as you can.
It's hard, but if done right, flash fiction can be quite amazing. Done incorrectly, it seems to lack luster and just falls flat. It's a precarious balance to tell a story, but only tell it with the bare bones enough to make the audience interested.
It tests the skill of the writer, and is a great writing practice. Exploring different writing avenues is always great for personal growth as a writer.
I'll leave you with one of my own flash fictions, (I'm quite proud of it).
She squared her shoulders, as they dragged her to the
post. A picture of strength as they tied her into place. Inside she shook as
fear grabbed her gut in its fist. The rough wood scratched her back. She looked
for anything to focus on, anything to distract her from the fear welling up
within her.
“A
cross, where is a cross?” she asked the man arranging the wood around her
ankles. The fear smothered her, causing her to gasp. “I need a cross, please”
He
nodded and fashioned a small one from the pieces of wood arrayed for her
burning. Focused on the task for the Maiden. He handed it to her, as if it was
made from gold. Carefully, she grabbed it. She pressed it to her lips with a
murmured prayer before allowing them to tie her hands behind her. The cross she
placed in her belt, a comforting presence. A reminder.
Again
she held her head high, firm in that she did no wrong. She was innocent of all
charges except belief. But the fear was still there, secretly turning her heart
against her.
“A
cross,” her lips whispered as they lit the fire. The flames licked the wood,
hungry. In front of her, a cross was held, steady by a friar in brown robes,
his eyes sad. Her eyes never left the crucifix even as the tongues of fire
caressed her feet. Fear began its whispering.
She
screamed. The fire rose higher, burning her without a care, its dancing light
deadly to her flesh. “Lord, save me,” She listened for the Voices who would
comfort her, who would soothe her fearful heart, like a balm of healing oil.
She
screamed again and again as the flames engulfed her, embraced her in their
arms. Even through the pain, the fear, she held firm, nary moving a muscle.
Never doubting her God and his path. If this is what was to be asked of her,
she would endure. The smell of burnt hair and flesh filling her nostrils. Her
hair and flesh.
One last
scream, “My God!” and she died, eyes fixed on the cross in her belt.
They
spread her ashes on the cool river, watching as they faded into the water. Fear
grew in their hearts.
But Joan
never died. Not truly. For a Legend won’t ever die.
