New Metaphors in Flash Fiction

In flash fiction let’s unremember our character. There she is—the little girl or grandmother or scientist—since this is her story, but let’s let her fade into a sepia of the warm and sun-worn story. Maybe let us see our writer, her hot sensate fingers, her consciousness a golden flower burning the words about her into dust.


In flash fiction, make your plot of open air, a late November field where the rain is ice and the ice rattles on the milkweed pods. There is such expanse, this story, a thousand Russian Novembers, a two-wheeled cart pulled by a very old goat. We’re finally out of the city and our shoulders open out.

In flash fiction: a place where everyone is given what they need, a utopia of badgers and buildings. I met a man today. He said, the world is as soft as lace.*


In flash fiction follow your rules. Your ledger is green and full of marks that tell you how you’ve done. The admiral always points his fleet in the direction of battle. Tell your story and then tell it again. Again. All of you get one story.


In flash fiction, the tree or pretty person is that through which you shoot an arrow. To strike what? Something. Anything. Nothing? I alone am aimless and depressed.*


I think it’s always time to go to sleep in flash fiction. At the far back of your brain is an ocean and everyone knows the waves are setting you to sleep. You may want to stay up to see the show, but flash fiction is in charge of things now. You’re about to slip under so go on seal shut your pretty eyes.


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*Stuart Murdock, Lao Tzu.

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