I tend to subscribe to Keats' advice that if poetry doesn't come like leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all. And for now I extend this to flash fiction, which I find more closely related to a poem than the short story. I do, though, enjoy reading it when done well, the effect that can be achieved in such few words. Hemmingway once said his best work was this six-word story: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Brilliant.A few years ago the Guardian invited other authors to pastiche this extreme brevity. Here are some of my favourites; the only rule: six words.
Dad called: DNA back: he isn't. Helen Fielding
Juicy offer. Must decline. Still paralysed. Richard Ford
Evil isn't necessarily unkind. Gran next. DBC Pierre
It was a dark, stormy...aaaaargggh! John Lanchester
Catherine had treasonable sex. Heads rolled. Helen Simpson
Womb. Bloom. Groom. Gloom. Rheum. Tomb. Blake Morrison
Armageddon imminent. Make list. Tick most. Ian Rankin
Had a go myself, though see above mitigation: Trust your instinct. Unless serial killer.
Anyone do better...?
6 comments:
"Certainly," said the inn-keeper.
(Sorry, couldn't think of two more words.)
Riptide: No swimming. Reading is safer.
I win, is likely not true.
"Pay taxes," Harold said to G.Reaper.
Phone rings, connects - yelled obscenities, disconnects.
Fire. Cries. Must go home, but …
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