Flash fiction has to be one of my newest literary loves — and for good reason. But first, some context:
When I was younger and far more naive, I thought a novel was the way to immerse myself in a story, to escape the humdrum day, to have an experience I’d not otherwise get to have. And for the most part, reading novels worked well for me for years. I spent time exploring new worlds and lands, met hundreds of interesting people, tasted exotic foods, and felt new emotions all from the pages of novels.
But then it happened: The Slump.
After graduating from college and getting one of those adult jobs I’d heard tell about, something changed for me. I couldn’t put my finger on what that change actually was, but I felt it in my bones. My life had become a system of task-management duties and schedules, weekend errands, and condensed social time during which I was mostly an exhausted potato. My daily reading time dwindled to devastatingly few minutes, and fitting in even those few minutes in a day was often a challenge. I learned quickly that a novel isn’t exactly the most convenient medium when you’re taking lunch at your desk (or slipping into the restroom for five minutes of peace away from co-workers), waiting for the bus to arrive, or standing in line at the grocery store.
Novels are heavy, too, especially when buried in purses, backpacks, or carry-on luggage. Reading became especially difficult after my daughter was born and my breast pump necessarily took up the space where my book had been. Once I got beyond the post-partum brain fog, put away my breast pump, and found my back to a daily reading habit that felt good, I realized I needed a different kind of reading material, something I could consume in just a few minutes during an otherwise packed day.
Enter, flash fiction.
Once but a consumer of flash stories, I began penning my own, testing the proverbial micro waters, getting myself back into the swing o’ writerly things. And I learned, quickly, how challenging it is to craft flash stories that don’t leave readers ungrounded watching talking heads in a vacuum.
So, how does one craft a piece of compelling flash fiction, one that answers the question asked and leaves readers feeling satisfied?
What is flash fiction?
Pocket-sized stories aren’t new. In fact, flash fiction stories share a rich and varied history spanning centuries and cultures, finding a niche in the 21st century, though modern flash stories are quite different from the short parables and fables of the past. Today, flash fiction is generally accepted as short fiction, usually of fewer than 1,500 words, though there are lots of sub-genres in the flash world:
- Dribble: Stories of exactly 50 words
- Drabble: Stories of exactly 100 words
- MicroFiction: Stories of 300–500 words
- Short Shorts: Stories up to 1,500 words (MetaStellar’s limit is 1,200 words)
And there are even more sub-divisions in the flash world I haven’t shared here. Regardless of subgenres and other details, flash stories all have one thing in common: They can be read in a flash.
How to write flash fiction
Restraint in writing? Challenge accepted.
Limited word counts in flash stories require you to make careful and judicious choices of what to keep and what to revise away because in flash fiction, there’s little room for coyness or ambiguity. In a novel, novella, or a longer short story, the reader has more time to get to know your characters and their circumstances, but the same is not true in flash. Often, flash stories focus on a single moment, a snapshot in time, and, as such, the reader needs to infer all the necessary details from that moment alone.
But like their longer counterparts, flash fiction stories must have a basic plot, including a beginning, middle, and end. There’s a story arc, even if it’s little more than a hump. Flash fiction also benefits from tension and conflict, as well as character motivations. Remember: Your readers still want a story, albeit a teensy one.
Here are some broad strategies to writing a teensy story readers will like, and I’ll use bits of stories I and others have shared to illustrate these points.
Set the scene right away
If you open your flash story with a philosophical musing or platitude, you’ll almost always lose your readers. That’s because without immediately having a character on which to focus or a setting to put them in, your reader gets little more than a voice in their ear, detached. To set the scene right away, tell the reader where you are in space-time and what your character is dealing with.
Here are some first lines that set the scene for readers:
“In Neura’s stagnant, digital realm, there are two paths: remain forever trapped in this hollow simulation, or venture into the boundless singularity where reality itself is in constant flux.” — me, “Binary Purgatory.” Right away the reader knows they’re in a digital place called Neura and that they have two choices available to them, which leads to intrigue (why these choices?) and mystery (which option will be chosen?).
“Before she was a god, she was a girl: of braided white hair and nut-brown skin and sapphire-blue eyes that were clear as the ice-holes she’d fished in as a child, when her body was her own.” — Ryan Cole, “The Fire In Her Eyes.” Right away the reader has a clear image of the character they’ll be following for the duration of the story. And right away the reader probably has a few questions, the answers to which they must read to find. How did she become a god? Why is her body not her own? Who, then, owns her body?
“Welcome back to the Nexav Workplace Harassment training module.” — Ike Lang, “Nexav Workplace Harrassment Training Module (Required).” In this opener, the reader intrigue comes not due to character or setting specifically but due to experience. The narrator is a training module, an atypical narrative voice, which by sheer virtue of being atypical invites the reader to continue reading. Readers have a sense that they’re picking up where they left off, starting the story in medias res, so they get to jump right into the action.
Get up close and personal with your characters
For flash fiction to be truly compelling, you’ll need to know exactly what you’re writing about, why you’re writing it, and what you want to say. To do this, you must know your characters intimately, including understanding their emotions as they navigate your story landscape. But in flash pieces, exposition and long, flowery descriptions are a no-go. Choosing the right details, then, is critical to connecting your reader with your character.
Here are some character descriptions that allow for reader intimacy:
“Behind him, someone screamed. Rupert turned to glare at the screamer—Honestly, what a racket!—and stared into the bright sky, slack-jawed, instead.” — Me again, “Charmed, I’m Sure.” Here, rather than telling the reader that Rupert is an impatient man, the interjected inner thought shows the reader Rupert’s impatience. Right away, the reader knows a few things about Rupert. He’s probably more at home in a coffee or book shop than at a rock concert or a festival, he’s a little uptight, and he probably doesn’t have children.
“‘Forty-three?’ I ask over the walkie. Maybe Dispatch meant 42 (Mothman) or 44 (Batsquatch). ‘A Nightraven? You sure?’
“They’re sure. Hard to mistake a five-foot, eyeless raven, especially when anyone looking through the gaping holes in its wings immediately starts projectile vomiting.” — Wendy Nikel, “Nightraven, Highway 9.” In this piece, the narrator wastes little time describing the important details of the winged beast for the reader. Since the onlooker’s physical response to the beast is so specific, the author chose to allow that detail to stand, placing the word “vomiting” at the end of the descriptor intentionally, a power word the reader can’t help but remember, especially at they approach the creature later in the story.
“I glance back at the group I’m leading, wondering why they’ve come. They’re paying well and their gear is good—tall boots, wire backpacks, canvas suits. But they’re not researchers. Seed hunters then, with the money to afford disinfection for their spoils. Emotions swell beneath their puffy faces, the hot mammal taste of their hunger coating my lips like oil.” — Faith Allington, “Seed Hunters.” In this selection, the readers get a two-fer, which is part of the ongoing fun. The seed hunters look like your standard tourists in some ways with their boots and backpacks and suits, so readers see them right away. But since the narrator calls them out as having a “hot mammal taste,” the narrator also alludes to the fact that the narrator themself may be something other than human.
Stay focused on a single idea or theme
Because of its brevity, flash fiction only allows room for one teensy idea. You need not spend time developing subplots or too much character backstory or complex conflicts. If you find yourself taking copious notes and daydreaming about all the elements you wish to include in your story, your story may not be a flash-sized piece.
My flash story, “Charmed, I’m sure,” was written around the theme, Luck is what you make it. In “Binary Purgatory,” the theme held in mind was, Freedom requires choice.
Whatever your idea or theme, write it down as succinctly as possible, usually as a lesson-statement. Challenge yourself to write the theme statement as a fable lesson. Then, using the theme statement as your lodestone, include only the details and information that will enhance the statement while bringing out your character’s personality and sharing the lesson with your reader.
Curate your language
Overwriting, purple prose, is a problem even in longer works like novels, but in a flash piece, it’s a deal-breaker for editors and most readers. Because brevity is key, brevity of language at the sentence level is required. Here is an example from my own flash-fiction editing process:
From my aforementioned piece, “Charmed, I’m Sure:”
Original opening sentence: Rupert patted his pockets repeatedly, beside himself with worry: Whatever had happened to his rabbit’s foot?
Published opening: Rupert Charm’s eyes widened as he patted his pants pocket: Where ever was his rabbit’s foot?
Rationale: After writing the first draft, right away I knew I wouldn’t need the word “repeatedly,” as the act of patting one’s pocket suggests already that the patter is looking for something. “Beside himself with worry” transformed into the more shown physicality of “wide eyes.” And since he was searching in earnest for an object he knew should be in his pocket, Rupert wouldn’t yet be worried about what may have happened to the foot because he’s singularly focused on where, exactly, said foot is.
While both example sentences are 16 words long, the published version packs a harder punch than the original precisely because it is shown, rather than merely told and leaves off with the question that will be answered by the end of the story.
But curating language isn’t just about reframing. It also includes careful trimming and paring back of wordiness.
- These men are representative of the Protectorate. → These men represent the Protectorate.
- At the present time, the shuttle is hurtling beyond Andromeda. → Currently, the shuttle is hurtling beyond Andromeda.
- The waste was disposed of by means of incineration. → The waste was incinerated.
When revising your flash piece, look at each sentence and ask yourself: Have I inadvertently shared the same information twice? Have I written the trimmest possible sentence without losing the overall meaning of the sentence?
For a resource on trimming overwriting, check out this few-years-old-but-still-good resource by Word Counter, Avoiding Wordiness: 330 Examples & What to Use Instead.
TL;DR: Less is more in flash fiction.
In the article, Weave Backstory Into Fiction, I shared that “Readers probably need about a quarter of what you know about your character, so choose the quarter of your character’s history that gives the most insight into who that person is and provides the clearest and most articulate motivation for what they’re doing and how they will change over time.”
In flash fiction, this sentiment rings true but it’s more expansive. Readers probably need about a quarter of what you know about your story. So, choose the quarter of plot, character, setting, and context detail that gives the most insight into the story’s purpose and message.
So, how do you wrangle down your flash fiction without losing its meaning? And do you have a favorite flash story published by MetaStellar or elsewhere? Share in the comments below.
Happy writing.
<3 Fal
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Fallon Clark is the book pal who helps you tell your story in your words and voice using editorial, coaching, writing, and project management expertise for revision assistance, one-on-one guidance, and ghostwriting for development. Her writing has been published in Flash Fiction Magazine. Check out her website, FallonClark.com, or connect with her on LinkedIn or Substack.