Why do I write stories that are so short? I think it's the thrill of trying to do something that is so difficult to do; there's no margin for error. Setting, tone, characterization, description, dialogue and action must all work together for a single effect. Each word must do two or more things.
In having each word do two or more things the words left out are just as important as the words left in. If a writer chooses the right words in the right order pictures with sound will form in the mind of the reader. These pictures with sound are only outlines made up of dots. If a writer has luck the reader will connect the dots and these pictures with sound will flash into life. Let's call this "cinematic" writing.
Each word doing two or more things and the words left out will give these very short stories resonance. The shorter a story is the deeper it should be.
I find that to cover as much ground as possible I must bypass the conscious mind and speak directly to the subconscous mind. Here in the subconscious mind exposition loses much of its power because exposition is rational. It is a tool of the rational mind. Only pictures truly speak to the subconscious and this is why I use as little exposition as possible. I don't want to "explain" what is going on; I want to "show" what is going on. This is why my stories are made up mostly of what my characters say and do. When you only have 500 to 1,200 words to work within there is little time for commentary in cinematic writing.
One editor that I sent Compressionism: The Pittsburgh Stories to wrote back to say, "Thank you for giving me the chance to read your collection...I think the stories are steeped in atmosphere-the sense of displacement and loss is everywhere apparent. In the end though I found them more situational and less narrative-driven and as an editor who is drawn to narratives, I found these lacking..." I felt this was a flattering and accurate critique. No, my stories do not allow for much narrative movement. They're too short. They can't answer the question, what is going to happen next? They can only show: what is happening right now.
Hi Guy. I am also a flash fiction writer. I enjoy the challenges of writing tightly. Most of my stories have a "twist" or surprise ending and I am a great fan of Henry Slesar of Alfred Hitchcock Myatery magazine fame.For example, Here's one of mine that I did for skive magazine recently. See below :
The Assassin.
The Assassin emerged from the roof door. He was tall, thin, with flowing black hair that hung to his shoulders. A hawk nose hung over his thin compressed lips, and a pair of the coldest grey eyes searched the skies.
He was carrying a specially made leather guncase in his bony right hand.
After searching the skies for any helicopters, he walked easily to the edge of the roof that had a two feet tall blank wall. He stooped down and clicked open the case. He looked at his watch. It read 2:25. ‘Another few minutes to go before the head of state car come into view’, he figured.
He was a meticulous man, having gone over the site several times to note any flaws in the area. All panned out perfectly.
He heard the sirens in the distance and, tensed. He began assembling the weapon quickly, expertly. After loading it,he sighted the street below. He adjusted the focus and waited.
The front police car appeared, it's siren blaring. It was followed by six outriders on motor cycles, three on each side of the limousine.
The Assassin took in a deep breath.
Finger on trigger.
Cheek to stock.
Eye to scope.
Crosshair direct on target’s head.
Taking in a deep breath,he said, "this is for my son,you bloody butcher." He thought of his only son who had died on the battlefield in the Middle East. As tears flowed from his eyes
He squeezed the trigger.
He saw the vehicle swerved into the crowd . Getting up quickly, he rdisassembled the weapon then headed back through the roof door . Descending a short flight of steps,he walked briskly into a corridor. Boarding the elevator, he pressed the ground floor button crossed the almost empty lobby and walked across to the parking lot,where he got into his car and drove off.
Later, at his apartment, the assassin sat before the TV and watched a replay broadcast of the event on the six o.clock news. Suddenly, he bolted upright in his seat, and couldn’t believe his eyes,
For there before him, was the Head of State, visibly shaken, emerging from the police car that rode BEHIND the official visitor’s Limousine.
He couldn’t help smiling at the trick,
"Yes .’ he concluded wryly, "Those security dicks are good. The bloody Devil sure takes care of his own ,but it wouldn't be my last " he swore bitterly.
He got up and turn off the TV set.
He later learned that a dummy took the bullet in the state car.
Excellent article, guy. I've only tried my hand at one 'flash' fiction, but I enjoyed it and want to do some more. You've described for me the elements I should be working toward -- thank you for your input to learn from.
Love,
CJ
My second book is about a boy who has Asperger's Syndrome and is bullied to the point to where he shoots up his school. I have divided the excerpts from it into three parts: Before, during and after the shooting.
As deafness, illness, and demonic forces close in around him, Ludwig van Beethoven must summon his faith and genius to complete the Missa Solemnis—a sacred masterpiece he believes could bring divine light into a darkening world.
I Made My Boy Out of Poetry is a powerful literary vision of rare scope, beauty and emotional intensity composed of stories and poems that flow in and out of each other like the most lucid and articulate of dreams. These are portraits and studies of
The Assassin.
The Assassin emerged from the roof door. He was tall, thin, with flowing black hair that hung to his shoulders. A hawk nose hung over his thin compressed lips, and a pair of the coldest grey eyes searched the skies.
He was carrying a specially made leather guncase in his bony right hand.
After searching the skies for any helicopters, he walked easily to the edge of the roof that had a two feet tall blank wall. He stooped down and clicked open the case. He looked at his watch. It read 2:25. ‘Another few minutes to go before the head of state car come into view’, he figured.
He was a meticulous man, having gone over the site several times to note any flaws in the area. All panned out perfectly.
He heard the sirens in the distance and, tensed. He began assembling the weapon quickly, expertly. After loading it,he sighted the street below. He adjusted the focus and waited.
The front police car appeared, it's siren blaring. It was followed by six outriders on motor cycles, three on each side of the limousine.
The Assassin took in a deep breath.
Finger on trigger.
Cheek to stock.
Eye to scope.
Crosshair direct on target’s head.
Taking in a deep breath,he said, "this is for my son,you bloody butcher." He thought of his only son who had died on the battlefield in the Middle East. As tears flowed from his eyes
He squeezed the trigger.
He saw the vehicle swerved into the crowd . Getting up quickly, he rdisassembled the weapon then headed back through the roof door . Descending a short flight of steps,he walked briskly into a corridor. Boarding the elevator, he pressed the ground floor button crossed the almost empty lobby and walked across to the parking lot,where he got into his car and drove off.
Later, at his apartment, the assassin sat before the TV and watched a replay broadcast of the event on the six o.clock news. Suddenly, he bolted upright in his seat, and couldn’t believe his eyes,
For there before him, was the Head of State, visibly shaken, emerging from the police car that rode BEHIND the official visitor’s Limousine.
He couldn’t help smiling at the trick,
"Yes .’ he concluded wryly, "Those security dicks are good. The bloody Devil sure takes care of his own ,but it wouldn't be my last " he swore bitterly.
He got up and turn off the TV set.
He later learned that a dummy took the bullet in the state car.
Love,
CJ