Flash Fiction
…is what, I hear you ask? Good question. There are various competitions and websites around that ask you to write stories using only a limited number of words (and some of them, very limited).
Here are some of my entries to some of these:
Daily Telegraph Harry Potter competition
This occured before the last Harry Potter book was published. The objective: To write the final page of the Harry Potter saga, revealing which characters JK Rowling has planned to kill off, in no more than 300 words:
‘It’s the end Potter. You know you can’t kill me, don’t you?’
Harry pressed his back against the heavy door and peered into the darkness of the office he would always think of as Dumbledore’s. ‘I know.’
The waxen face of Voldemort emerged from the gloom. ‘It was a shame about your friends. But you will meet them soon.’
‘Hermione and Ginny had names!’ Harry exploded, almost dropping the concealed silver globe.
Voldemort’s lips stretched into the thinnest of smiles, ‘Quite. But you sent them to their deaths. They were foolish to even think they could stand up to me.’
Harry blinked hard. Voldemort was right. He should have gone himself. How would Ron ever be able to forgive him? He steadied himself, and glowered at his nemesis, ‘Get on with it, then.’
‘Not even going to raise your wand, Potter?’
‘Your Death Eaters have taken it; no doubt following your orders. Is it because you’re afraid, Tom?’
Voldemort’s snake like nostrils flared, ‘How dare you use that name!’ and with a sweep, his wand loomed over Harry. But Harry didn’t flinch. He stood and stared, with only his breathing and the beat of his heart betraying the fear he felt. And anger.
‘This is the start of a new era, Harry,’ Voldemort said, his cold voice calm again. ‘They will remember you. For a while,’ and with an almost imperceptible flick of his wand, Voldemort shouted, 'AVADA...'
Harry dived to the side, tossing the globe behind him.
'…KEDAVRA!'
The silver ball exploded in a flash of green light.
And at that instant, so did Voldemort.
The last Horcrux. The final gift to Harry that cost more than he could bear. His friends’ lives.
Harry scrambled to his feet and whispered, 'Yes, it’s the end,' as tears streaked his cheeks.
BBC Radio 4 Front Row competition
To write a 100 word short story to celebrate World Book Day, using all of the
following words, unwittingly chosen by David Lynch: Bacon, Organic, Fire, Bodies, Experiments and Paper:
“Yuh smell it?”
“Yeah. An’ I’m bettin’ it ain’t pork,” said the old man, with great guffaws.
Thomas thought of his breakfast, organic bacon, and without warning he spewed until his stomach was a knot. The old man carried on laughing.
He lifted his head and froze. Glass test tubes from a junior chemistry set glinted in the half light, as if ready for a child’s experiments, or science paper. They were curiously untouched by the fire.
And then he saw them. Two bodies, entwined in the hope that love would spare them the pain.
The old man fell silent.
55 Words
A website that publishes 55 word (exactly) stories. Here are three I submitted – the final one, Plummet, was accepted for publication:
Bored
“Change channel.”
“I’m watching this.”
“It’s boring.”
“I think there’s a film on the other channel.”
“There’s always a film on the other channel. But I’m watching this.”
“It’s boring.”
“You said.”
“Rocky’s on.”
“I’m watching this!”
“Please?”
“Oh for Heaven’s sake, turn the bloody thing over!”
“Thanks.”
“Actually, I forgot how boring Rocky was.”
55 Words
Impossible!’
‘Not for a talented wordsmith such as yourself, surely?’
‘No. It’s impossible.’
‘It’d take minutes. I don’t see what the problem is.’
‘Write a story in only 55 words?’
‘Yes, with a beginning, middle and end.’
‘It can’t be done.’
‘You keep saying that, but you haven’t told me why.’
‘I can’t count.’
‘Oh.’
Plummet
Despite the sun, snow lingered.
‘Must be minus three,’ thought Jed, fingering the Olympic bronze he’d worn religiously for thirteen years.
‘Damn, I hate the cold,’ aloud, this time, his feet stamping.
He glanced down at his skiing medal, and beyond to his shop doorway sleeping bag.
‘Perhaps I’ll visit the pawnshop, today,’ he whispered.
