Month: May 2020

5 Steps to Flash Fiction Competition Success

5 Steps to Flash Fiction Competition Success

I gasped with delight on checking my emails this morning, which is not generally a regular occurrence. The reason was a message from Cambridge Writers’ to let me know I had come third in their annual flash fiction competition. The entries are voted on by members, which makes it even more wonderful to have my piece ‘Location, Location, Location’ recognised.

For this flash fiction competition, there was no theme or genre, but the word limit was very tight, at just 250 words – definitely a challenge! So how did I go about it?

I have always been amazed at how the best flash fiction stories seem to pack so much into so few words. I am no expert, but I have identified a few ingredients that seem to be common to the good ones.

Plot – Get a concept. It doesn’t have to be complex. If you are struggling, pick a nursery rhyme as a starting point. The themes are often quite dark, and you may end up with a story that no one would ever know was originally inspired by one. Write from the point of view of one of the children of ‘The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe’, for example. With themes of poverty, child abuse and neglect, the piece could really pack a punch. It could be made into a more positive story though, perhaps by having the child escape to avoid being “whipped soundly”.

Characters – Keep the cast small. One or two characters works best, there is only space for those vital to the narrative. First person point of view (I ran, I wanted) is often used to very good effect, and I would choose it in the ‘Old Woman…’ example, to get the reader right inside the head of my main character. Also, avoid describing a character as brave, working class or whatever, and instead show these traits through their actions and use of language in dialogue.

Action – Create a single scene. The bulk of your story will probably take place in one ‘scene’ or event. Think of it like a seminal moment in a movie, a scene that can stand alone. In my example, I would pick the moment the child is creeping out of the house in the middle of the night with a bundle on their back to run away. The reader doesn’t need to be told everything that led up to this moment, they can infer from the context of the writing what has happened, and how high the stakes are.

Conflict – Give your hero a problem to overcome – This is necessary for any narrative of any length. With the demonstration story, the old woman/mother could catch the child in the act of escaping. This would provide a really thrilling scene with a high degree of peril.

Ending – Finish with a bang. In flash stories, endings are often ambiguous, or designed to make the reader think. Having said that, they do need to make sense with the rest of the story so far. The hero could be allowed to escape, they could be caught and punished, or they could stand up to, or even murder, the abusive parent.

Demo Story

Let’s take ‘The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe’, here’s how I’d follow each step in a (very quickly written!) flash fiction story.

I crept towards the heavy wooden door, careful to avoid the creakiest floorboards. The house was unnaturally quiet, my brothers and sisters all sent to bed with their bruises.

This opening couple of sentences tells the reader that it is night, the character is a child, the setting is a house, probably an old, creepy house, due to the creaky floorboards. An atmosphere of tension and fear has been introduced, the child clearly does not want to be discovered. I’ve also identified the theme of child abuse by the mention of bruises. This section, at 29 words long, is pulling its weight in terms of storytelling.

At the foot of the stairs, my backpack of clothes slipped from my shoulder and thumped onto the floor. I froze, breath held, dreading the foul squeal of my mother’s bedroom door. Nothing.

This section shows the character is running away, why else would they have packed a bag and be creeping downstairs in the middle of the night. The reader now knows the child is afraid of their mother, and the horror of the child is clear at the prospect of being discovered.

I carefully gathered up my bag and tiptoed across to the door. I turned the big iron key in the lock and grasped the doorknob.

“Where do you think you’re going?” mother sneered.

Here, I raise the reader’s hopes by almost letting the child escape, then bring in the conflict as the mother appears. I’ve included a few quick descriptors so far, about the key and door, which add to the atmosphere and setting, without adding too many words. You want to create a picture in your readers’ minds, you just don’t want to go on about it for too long.

I span around to face her, babbling excuses, my fingers scrabbling desperately behind my back. As she loomed out of the gloom, my hand closed on the knob and twisted it. She grabbed my arm as I flung open the door but I wrenched free of her talons. My bag flew across the hallway, scattering its meagre contents on the stairs behind me. I hurtled out down the garden path, her boots thundering, too close, at my back.

I throw the reader right into the action in this middle section, as the child tries to escape, and is pursued. At this point, I’ve written 173 words, and the story is in full swing, the reader is hopefully gripped and invested in the outcome for the main character.

Now for the ending. I know lots of writers, myself included, struggle to decide on one. It sometimes seems impossible to know how a certain story should finish, but finish it must. I have been known to write several alternatives and read each through to determine my favourite. As this is a quick example story, written just for this blog, I’m not going to lose sleep over it, and just have my character escape. But, as the story has dark themes, I want something of a sting in the tail. The prospect of the siblings left behind offers the perfect foil to the relief of the escape.

I leapt the fence, and dashed into the forest. The gate clanged shut behind her as she gave chase. By the edge of the wood I had a good lead, she was an old woman after all. I entered a field, smashing through corn that towered over my head. Surely she would not follow me in here. I slowed down and slipped stealthily between the rows. Finally, I stopped and listened for sounds of pursuit. There were none. The night was silent again, as if nothing had happened. Then, from within the leather walls of that distant house, came the old woman’s shouts of fury. I blinked hard as I turned my back on the crying of my brothers and sisters, and made good my escape.

I dropped in an ‘old woman’ reference here, and progressed to actually calling the mother ‘the old woman’ by the end. This, in conjunction with the ‘leather walls’ and ‘brothers and sisters’, explicitly references the nursery rhyme, though you could be more obvious if you wished. Equally, you could continue to call the villain ‘mother’, and remove the word ‘leather’. In that case, it would be much less likely anyone would identify the source of your inspiration.

A final word on word counts

This came in at 299 words. After jotting down the initial story, which ran to about 450, I decided I would trim to 300 words, a commonly used limit for flash fiction competitions. I always focus on writing the story first, without worrying too much about the word count. I usually find I can edit down a fairly large amount if need be.

Tense can provide Tension

As I was writing, I found myself slipping into present tense at times, and if this story was for any other purpose than a demonstration for the blog, I would probably experiment with tenses. Though not something I generally use, I suspect present tense would aid the immediacy of the story, and make it more exciting. That’s another fun thing about flash fiction. You can experiment, and it doesn’t take forever to do rewrites.

Happy writing!

Posted by Rachel in Blog, 0 comments
Location, Location, Location

Location, Location, Location

Trevor strode across the dusty car park into the site office.

“Hi, can I help you? I’m Aaron.” The man rose from a shiny wooden desk and thrust out his hand. Smart suit, flashy watch.

“I can’t believe this. I’ve lived here yonks. Never thought they’d build on this shitty scrap of land.”

Aaron blinked. “Infilling is an efficient way of developing greenbelt land. Were you interested in a plot?”

“Oh yes.”

“Oh,” Aaron blinked a few more times. “Right… Let me show you around then.”

Outside, Trevor marched off down the tacky road, acrid tar invading his nostrils, ignoring Aaron’s gasped attempts to describe the layouts of the townhouses. They progressed past glossy show homes and half-built shells, until plots that were no more than scruffy outlines gave way to the scrubby grassland of before. 

“Over there,” Trevor pointed. “Right o’ that tree I reckon. S’there a plot there?”

“Err…” Aaron consulted his site plan. “That’ll be number seventeen, a super two bed…”

“Perfect,” Trevor interrupted, staring at the hedge line.

“Is there a particular reason…”

“West, innit?” he waved his hand out. “I remember the sun settin’…”

*********

Nine months later, Trevor sat in his garden at number seventeen, beer in hand, as the sun set before him. Digging down to lay the hardcore for the patio had been a nightmare. Hard ground this time of year. Panic had been creeping in until he struck the blue plastic tarpaulin. He’d stopped digging and tipped rubble into the hole. 

Posted by Rachel in Flash Fiction, 0 comments
Human/Nature

Human/Nature

I crept along the bare corridor, peeling each foot from the floor and replacing it in a wave of soundless motion. The fluorescent strip lights buzzed overhead, giving occasional bursts of life like dying flies trapped inside a window pane. I wish I didn’t have to be here. The knowledge that I could just leave and no one would ever know I’d been here was hovering on the fringe of my consciousness. Like a vulture it circled, waiting for the death of my courage that would make me turn back. But turning back was unimaginable. Returning empty-handed would be marginally worse than not returning at all. 

I edged onwards towards the door, trying to imagine I was strolling through Regents Park as I had done only twelve months ago, as the spring blossoms had made their first joyful appearance. I had been oblivious and blissful back then like everyone else, though I had thought I had problems. Just the usual everyday problems, that helpfully distracted us all from the futility of human existence. They were all in the past now. The only goal was the future, if there was going to be one. And for me, the future was you. The authorities may not have deemed you worth saving, but I was determined to do so. The sound of your tortured breaths had followed me as I slipped through the deserted streets. I had meant what I’d said. I’ll be back soon. I’d cut through the overgrown gardens of once-proud London terraces, hiding from anything that moved, until finally I’d got to this place I used to know so well.

I reached the door at the end of the corridor. It was heavy and metal and official in a way which had never bothered me previously, but now seemed designed specifically to intimidate. I glanced behind me but the corridor was empty. Before the pandemic, I had breezed along in this very space, cheerfully dodging between trundling groups of patients and fellow doctors. The eerie groaning of derelict generators was chilling. But I was sure there couldn’t be anyone beyond that door. At least not anyone still breathing. 

I raised my pass to the scanner. Beep. The red bar turned green and the doors ground open, on runners clogged with rubble and dust. ‘Critical Ward’, the sign welcomed me. I stepped through, wincing at the deafening scrape as the doors closed behind me. I paused, breath held, waiting to be accosted and interrogated as to why I was here and where I was going. Nothing. I started breathed again. Still nothing. I ignored the ward of beds to my left, with their indistinct white lumps. I turned right, followed the sign to the pharmacy, and the treasures it held. 

The shelves were stripped bare. The room had been all but destroyed. Broken glass and smashed pieces of chairs, benches and computing equipment littered the floor. It was not in the least surprising to me how quickly law, order and human decency had disintegrated as the crisis deepened. Civilisation was a house of cards. No matter how you dressed us up, or got us trading with each other, or even transported us into space, there was still no escaping biology. Our pointless cultures and beliefs had crumbled under the indiscriminate force of nature. Until all that remained was our animal instinct to survive.

I crunched my way through the debris, to the same spot my own survival instinct had led me six long months ago. I placed a relatively undamaged stool carefully amid the rubble of the floor and stepped up onto it. I reached up to the ceiling and pushed a polystyrene tile up to reveal the cavity above. Feeling along the edge of the hole, I found the notch cut into the corner. I stretched further into the void, heart thrashing, adrenaline surging, until I grasped the glorious solidity of an intact glass bottle. The bottle I had hidden while people who needed it were dying all around me. A precious suspension of viral antibodies harvested from early survivors. Survivors like me. Though people like me and you had been last in the queue to receive its lifesaving benefits. 

I stuffed it deep in the inside pocket of my puffer jacket and climbed down off the stool. I retraced my steps through the ruined hospital, heading to the goods entrance at the back, and considered the perilous return journey. The abandoned Tube tunnels were usually worth a try. Especially if I kept to the deeper ones where, if I know anything about human behaviour, the troops would be reluctant to tackle all the extra stairs. I was going to get this antidote to you. And you were going to get better, that was all there was to it. And then we could leave the deadly city and head out into the countryside where wild food and fresh water would be available. Tree cover sounded good too. Thick forests. After all, there are many ways of getting lost, we just had to find ours. Taking a last glance around to check I wasn’t being followed, I slid aside the cover on the service shaft above the Northern Line, and descended into the vanishing light.

Posted by Rachel in Short Stories, 2 comments
Tambourine Man

Tambourine Man

“Excuse me, Kate, do you know how my dad is today?”

The day sister looked up from her paperwork and smiled warmly. 

“Hi, Laura. Er… I’m afraid he’s not so good. He didn’t get much sleep last night apparently and he’s a bit more confused than last week.”

Laura plastered on a smile for the benefit of Sebastian who, not yet tall enough to see over the desk, stood gripping her hand and glancing wide-eyed in every direction at once.

“We’ll just have to see if we can’t cheer him up a bit then, hey Seb?”

Her son gave a small nod, then jumped as a large metal cage full of bedding rattled past.

Laura crouched down to Seb’s level and gave his fingers a squeeze. “Don’t worry if Granddad seems different, he’s just a bit poorly at the moment, okay?” 

Seb nodded more firmly this time. 

“Okay, mum.”

When they reached Eric’s room, Laura leaned around the doorframe to get a look at her dad. Eric was sitting staring out of the window with a blanket over his knees.

“Hi Dad,” Laura called as she led Seb inside. There was no reply, no movement even, from the frail figure in the chair.

“Hi Granddad!” Seb offered bravely.

Eric turned then and gave a strange, bright smile. Laura swallowed. That was not her dad’s smile, full of twinkling mischief. It was the one he gave when he had awareness enough to know he was supposed to, but no idea why.

Laura tried to talk to him, but Eric’s answers were non sequiturs, saying he liked the food, and the view from his window. Except he could not quite remember ‘window’, and just waved a skeletal arm at the glass-filled frame to his right.

“Window, Granddad,” Seb said matter-of-factly, not a trace of surprise at his granddad struggling for such a simple word.

Then he held up his satchel and shook it, making Eric’s eyes brighten at the jangling sound it produced. “I thought you might like a go on this, Granddad. I got it from school.” 

Seb pulled a tambourine from his bag, its wood worn smooth by years of childrens’ hands. He tapped a rhythm against his palm then shook the tambourine’s shimmering zills with a flourish, his arms outstretched like a cabaret performer.

Eric actually laughed then, and took the offered instrument. He began patting out a beat, hesitantly at first, and then with more confidence as he started to sing. 

The lyrics, though a fantastical poetry, flowed from somewhere deeper than Eric’s illness could reach, and when he got to the final verse, he winked at Laura.

“Take me disappearing through the smoke rings of my mind, down the foggy ruins of time…”

Posted by Rachel in Flash Fiction, 0 comments
An Easy Conscience

An Easy Conscience

This short piece was a writing exercise at a Royston Writers Circle meeting. The exercise was to open a book at random and use the first full sentence as a prompt.

I wrote in response to this quote:

‘God, if he believed in him, and his conscience, if he had one, were the only judges to whom he might look.’

Jules Verne, ‘20000 Leagues Under the Sea’

Since he was furnished with neither a belief in a deity, of any kind you understand, he was not prejudiced against any religion in particular; nor had committed any act his conscience deemed worthy of note, Stuart had simply floated through his formative years unencumbered by such fetters. It was at the tender age of fourteen and a half that he was first troubled by either one of these concepts. In truth, it turned out to be a combination of both. 

The priests at Stuart’s school had all attempted to instil in the children an unholy fear of the consequences of misbehaviour which, unfortunately for Stuart, appeared to include his burgeoning feelings of being rather more interested in boys than in girls. As he grew up, indeed, it was to his best friend, Jack, that his attentions turned.

Jack was a good, god-fearing boy, so Stuart’s mother told him, and an example Stuart would apparently do well to follow more closely. Stuart was happy to heed his mother’s advice, though perhaps she had not intended him to interpret her words in quite the way he did. It was safe to say that she was surprised when she walked in on the two of them sharing a kiss after school one afternoon. She demanded that Stuart examine his conscience as a result of his actions. However, having done so, he could only conclude that, like god, his conscience did not appear to exist. 

Posted by Rachel in Flash Fiction, 0 comments
What I’m Reading in ‘These Strange Times’

What I’m Reading in ‘These Strange Times’

The Colour of Bee Larkham’s Murder by Sarah J. Harris

A really good, pacy read. An interesting and unusual whodunnit, that holds your attention and provides a fascinating insight into Synaesthesia, Autism and Face-blindness.

The story concerns Jasper, a compelling young boy, whose unreliability as a narrator only adds to his charm. Jasper believes his exciting neighbour, Bee Larkham, has been murdered, and is not entirely sure he isn’t responsible for it himself. Jasper is severely autistic, and a synaesthete, which, put simply, means he sees sounds as colours. This condition is central to the way the book is written, but presented in an accessible way if you haven’t come across it before. The descriptions of Jasper’s impression of the world, its people and its sounds are beautiful and really inspire the imagination. The plotting hinges on some of the details of Jasper’s conditions, including face blindness, as he is unable to recognise people visually, even his own father. These aspects keep you guessing as to what really happened, as some of Jasper’s misinterpretations are easy to read between, whilst others are less clear.

Gripping

I was grabbed by this story and, by and large, it held my interest all the way through. There was a bit of ‘explaining’ at the end to allow us to fully understand some of the finer points of the plot, as Jasper relayed what he had had explained to him by his dad. I wished there might have been a better way to impart these points but, other than those few occasions, I was carried along in Jasper’s head and my sympathy was with him, compelling me to keep reading and discover the resolutions to the perils in which he finds himself.

Characters

The only character I really got to know was Jasper. Whilst this was a tiny bit frustrating, I think it was a conscious choice in order to allow any and everyone else to come under suspicion for Bee’s murder. Jasper’s opinions of people range from surprisingly insightful to spectacularly misleading, but again, this was a necessary tool to deliver the story in a twisting, suspenseful fashion.

Did I guess who did it?

Not until close to the climax. The constant swapping of suspects in Jasper’s mind, and subtle use of red herring was largely effective, as was the first person point of view.

Overall, an enjoyable and well-written mystery novel with a difference, and one I’d definitely recommend.

Posted by Rachel in Blog, 0 comments
Welcome to WordsMightFly

Welcome to WordsMightFly

I’m working away behind the scenes to build and improve the site…

I’d love to hear from other writers about their projects, and readers’ views on my own work. I’ll be posting regular flash fiction and short stories, as well as news, writing tips and prompts and snippets from my novels and other works in progress.

Do get in touch, it would be awesome to create a hub for writers and readers (who are usually one and the same anyway) to gather and share advice or info on the world of writing, reading and publishing. I’ll be blogging any tips I pick up along my own publishing journey too.

Posted by Rachel in Blog, 1 comment