2. Shakespeare’s first sonnet not all bard…
3. Reader unable to open escapologist’s memoirs
4. Vindictive flamingos christen their son Floyd
5. Bullied magician’s wand disappears up arse
6. Depressed bible salesman receives good news
7. Sea-monsters’s small-talk met with gargantuan indifference
8. Folk musician’s music hated by parents
(or ‘Adulterous Transformers! Cheating assholes in disguise!’)
10. Online troll’s girlfriend dumps him anonymously
11. Alien’s epic genital grabbing greeting faux-pas
12. A DJ’s quest for musical talent
13. Helen Pselph writes Self Help book
14. Obese astrologist’s ironically unpredicted heart attack
Previous entry: Six Word Stories #5
…Quick rant about flash fiction:
For those of you not up with the kids flash fiction is the term used for very short-short stories – usually less than 100 words. Several websites extol their virtues and claim them to be the perfect medium for today’s high-pressure, constantly on the go, credit crunch world.
I disagree, believing instead that there has never been more need to stop, take a deep breath, sit down and get lost within the pages of a good book. To put it in context ‘now’ is the 100th word in this blog – barely enough to establish my annoyance, let alone character and plot.
www.txtlit.co.uk/ has further exacerbated me by encouraging people to submit their prose in text-speak!
The reason for all of the above is that, having lovingly honed 8 short stories of 2-5000 words, I now find that half of submissions are for flash-fiction writers.
Now, I’m not one to stand in the way of innovation. Indeed, I love seeing old ideas using new formats. For example – a few years back someone published a Cockney version of the Bible which I particularly enjoyed (‘Jesus got into a right ole bother wiv the Romans’ and ‘some numpty’s only gone and got himself possessed by the devil’ etc), but flash-fiction strikes me as marketing without the product – ‘Couldn’t be bothered to write a book – here’s a pamphlet.’
As I typed this blog I had in mind the image of a retired sergeant major with oiled hair and a monstrous moustache, sitting by a roaring hearth, nursing a sherry against his portly stomach and bellowing his disgust at the decline of the empire whilst reading a broadsheet. Perhaps my rant will meet with equal obscurity given enough time (Note: In a flash fiction story that last paragraph would’ve read ‘old bloke complains by fire.’