Week 1 Fairy tales, micronovels, and prose poems: the many faces of flash.
Discuss: What flash fiction is, and can be. Examples of different forms, from a fleshed-out poem to a novel in miniature. In a form that demands brevity, what can we eliminate and still have a story? Or must flash fiction follow a traditional story structure at all? Can it be something more dreamlike, more image-driven?
Read 3 flash fiction pieces: “The Mother,” (Lydia Davis, from Breaking It Down), “The Game,” (Tawnysha Greene, from elimae), and “Winter White,” (Kathryn Kulpa, from Metazen).
Exercise 1: Beginning with a ‘found’ first line.
- Head to the nearest bookshelf and choose a book at random. It could be fiction, but you can also try this with poetry, nonfiction, children’s books, even cookbooks.
- Turn to the page that corresponds to your month of birth. For example, January would be 1, August would be 8, etc. Write down the first full sentence on that page. (If this isn’t possible—for example, you land on a blank or copyright page—just go to the next nearest page that is part of the text.) Then, open to the page that corresponds to your day of birth and write down the first and last word on that page.
- Set the timer for 10 minutes and freewrite a story that begins with the sentence and uses the other two words. No other rules—just work those words in!
Exercise 2: Casting the Runes. Finding inspiration in words, images, random juxtapositions.
a. Pass out crayons. Pick a color that speaks to you. Set the timer for 5 minutes and brainstorm as many words as you can think of that describe or relate to that color. Free-associate; don’t overthink.
b. Then, pick a color that you think is the opposite of the color you chose. (Use a color wheel if possible.) For 5 minutes, brainstorm all the words that come to mind for that color.
c. 15 minutes: Do a freewrite or try a flash story using at least three words from both colors, or as many as you can.
Homework:
Continue and/or revise the pieces you did in class. Or, if you don’t love them, try a new piece using the same prompt.
Readings:
The Mother
Lydia Davis
The girl wrote a story. “But how much better it would be if you wrote a novel,” said her mother. The girl built a dollhouse. “But how much better if it were a real house,” her mother said. The girl made a small pillow for her father. “But wouldn’t a quilt be more practical,” said her mother. The girl dug a small hole in the garden. “But how much better if you dug a large hole,” said her mother. The girl dug a hole and went to sleep in it. “But how much better if you slept forever,” said her mother.
The Game
Tawnysha Greene
|
|
When we visit our cousins in the mountains, we sit in a circle in their room, talk about our parents while our parents talk about us downstairs. When they tell us to go to bed, sleep on the floor, we turn out the lights, share more in the dark.
We play a game about whose daddy is stronger and they say theirs, we say ours. Their daddy smashes a hole in the wall with a single fist. Our daddy punches through a window, doesn't flinch at the broken glass, his blood. Their daddy uses a belt and they take a flashlight from under the bed, show me bruises not yet gone. Our daddy uses the horse whip, the BBQ cleaning tool with the jagged edge when Momma's not home, and my sister takes the light, shines over her legs where there are scars.
We take turns with the flashlight, hand it over without turning it off, and the beam bounces off the ceiling, walls, before catching on skin, bright beneath the light. A neck, bruised green. An ear, stitches along the back. A broken tooth.
We pull our pajamas off, hold ourselves out, twist down, around, point to our shoulders, our sides, our backs. We touch the places now, feel the hardness of bone, where new skin etches together under the light until we can't tell where one person ends and another begins. |
Winter White
Kathryn Kulpa
I’m whirling. I’m laughing. I’m catching snowflakes on my tongue. It’s a grey day but my world is always in sunlight. It’s a cold day but I’m always warm.
It’s afternoon. Isn’t it? Late afternoon. Three o’clock. That isn’t really late but it seems late. Doesn’t it? There’s something frightening about winter. The light goes away so early and we always think, maybe this time it won’t come back. But it always does. It always has. I’m a snow globe girl in a snow globe world. How could the light leave me forever?
It’s winter. It’s always winter. Minty, tingly, white, clean, laughing, dancing, a snow globe world. There are places in the world where it’s never winter. Where clothes stick to you year round, envelopes seal themselves and cut flowers wilt within hours. You don’t live in one of those places. Do you secretly wish you did? Do you gaze out your gingerbread frosted window and wait for a red and pitiless sun?
You are alone. Are you alone? Are you waiting for someone? Someone to dance through snowflakes with? Someone to lace your white, white skates? Someone to smile at over your palm-cupped mug of hot cocoa?
You’re waiting. Are you waiting for him? Will there be a snowball fight? You’re laughing in the silent snow. A look that might be interpreted as laughter. Eyes squinted, mouth wide. How far is laughter from terror? When is a laugh a scream? Are you running for the joy of being alive on this snowy gingerbread day? Are you running for your life? Running into the still white woods, hoping they will offer you protection. Crying for sanctuary. Begging for shelter.
You’re a snow globe girl in a snow globe world. You will never stop running. You will never tell us why you run.