I alluded to this yesterday in my short story review, which is that I have found myself reading more flash fiction and short-short stories. The sources of this material has been coming from, primarily, online lit journals, which I have been spending more of my time looking for. What I am enjoying from these publications, and this applies to most but not all, is that they are showcasing writers that are playing and experimenting with the short story form.
I know there are many quality online publications out there, but these four I have found very intriguing and inspiring of late.
The Drift – This is probably the most traditional of all the publications, and also not exclusively online either, as they also print their editions. I won’t lie, I’d like to work for this group. Their short story and poetry selection is great. They showcase different viewpoints and styles, and aren’t afraid to try new things. Their Mentions section is of particular note.
Taco Bell Quarterly – When I first discovered them, I wasn’t sure if they were a joke or not. Their posts on Twitter are highly anti-publishing establishment, to the point of being militant, but still retaining a sense of humor about it all. Supposedly, the stories they publish must have a connection to Taco Bell, which may or may be true. The point is that they publish what they like, and don’t care what anyone thinks.
Rejection Letters – According to their own “About” page, they started out publishing fake rejection letters. What they are now is a place for short fiction and poetry that can veer into the absurd. I find that the pieces they publish to be honest, but also they can be rather funny. I subscribe to them, which gets me a daily email with a new story or poem.
Memoir Mixtapes – This is just a good idea for a journal – it’s all essays about people and the songs they find important, memorable, or fascinating. I love finding out about new music, and I really enjoy hearing articulate people describe why songs are important to them. Not only do they select good writers, but the added bonus is going out and finding these songs that were just described to you.
I know there are a ton of other great publications out there. If you know of any, leave their names in comments so we can all share with each other.
I have been getting into short short stories, and flash fiction. What I am enjoying about these smaller works is that is that I feel like most of the writers are playing with the short story form, and experimenting with what can work when it comes to narrative. Maybe this is a reflection of the digital age, and texting – use as few words as possible and get to the point.
“My Wonderful Description of Flowers” by Danielle Dutton is not a flash fiction piece, but for The New Yorker, it is a shorter short story at just three pages. There is no plot to this story, and I think that was purposeful. The story functions like a dream, and in the first paragraph, the narrator tells us that her husband had a dream, though he very rarely dreams. And with that framing, the story is on its way. There are a few narrative threads, or lines that weave in and out of the story; the husband not returning a text message, their child playing a video game that doesn’t seem to be like any type of normal game, a lecture and reception, a stranger who had corresponded with the narrator, and then a train ride that leads to the end of the line.
The prose is lovely, light, and ethereal in the sense that it flows back and forth from narrative threads, which could only work together in a dream. What keeps the narrative moving forward is the growing frustration with the messages not being returned, and the train literally running toward the end of the line. These two threads do function as the device that creates the rising action, so the story has the feeling of a plot, or at least that a climax is coming. Dutton has created this frame for the story to live in, and then she goes on to fill spaces with movements, gestures, actions and observations. It’s a wonderful experiment in testing what a narrative can be, and be used to hold a story together. And like a good guest, the story knows not to overstay its welcome, and gives an ending that isn’t climatic, but is satisfying as it fits within the atmosphere of this dream-like world.
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(Yes, I would say that this story will be spoiled.)
I like flash fiction, and, I do take some responsibility for this, but most of the flash fiction I encounter is rather serious. Coming across a piece that is humous, and one that also delivers a punch, is like finding a tiny gem. “In the Garden” by Elliot Harper is that sort of flash fiction. I mean, it is about a foul-mouthed gnome who lives in a garden, and has a rather unconventional philosophical conversation over tea with the narrator.
The story exists in a dream the narrator is having, and a bookend structure is used here; the story fades in from darkness to light, and then ends by going from light to darkness. Between those fades, we are in the narrators garden, but it is never clear if the garden exists only in this dream, or is the garden from the narrator’s real life and is being dreamt about. We can assume that the garden is from real life, as the narrator claims ownership of it, knows the gnome because the guy is referred to being in his usual place, and the narrator says he has worked hard on the garden – but is this setting from the narrator’s real life? I say this because the gnome says to the narrator that everything one sees is just the brain’s interpretation. Do we even see the same things? Can two people interpret reality the same way?
And then I started to think that this story might actually be a metaphor about death, and how our existence is only momentary compared to the totality of the Universe. The gnome has a mini-milky Way galaxy under his red hat, and then the narrator mentions how it will be a shame to have to leave the garden soon. This lead me to start wondering about the bookend structure again; the story ends with a fade to black, and not the narrator waking up. Such as, the story comes into existence, and then goes out. Even the last line, referring to the fade out as “existence” in a “half-forgotten dream.”
Did I mention that the story is funny? It is, by the way.
It’s refreshing to read a piece that makes you think. It’s impressive to do it in such a compact form.
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I like flash fiction. It’s a literary form that I think correctly reflects the time we live in; cut the bullshit and get to the point. And it also feels like it’s a big middle finger to those writing professors that used the cliched response to their students that “less is more” but then would turn around and complain that their short story didn’t take enough time to develop theme, character, setting…
Where stream of consciousness tried to capture the feeling of how thoughts and emotions roll around in one’s mind, flash fiction is an example of a thought, emotion, or memory that explodes to life in your mind, then fades away. “Big Phipps Climbs the High Dive” by Brendan Gillen is a sharp piece of flash fiction that seems to fit that definition.
The piece is a memory from high school, and not a particularly fond one, but I wager that most people who write fiction don’t have good memories from high school. It’s about Phipps, a larger kid who is about to win a belly flop contest. The narrator unfortunately gave Phipps an awful nickname “Beans” which he regrets, and even tries to get other students to stop using, but the cats out of the bag. There is a sense that the narrator regrets many things when it comes to Phipps, but the narrator never gives us what Phipps full, real name is. It’s as if Phipps never became real to the narrator, even though we are given insights to who Phipps is. He is a boy forced to play football because of his size. He likes playing Warcraft, which the narrator has done with him at Phipps’ home, but the narrator won’t let himself becomes friends with him. An example of peer pressure on the narrator is given, and the feeling of shame just oozes off of the story. And after Phipps has won the contest, the narrator tries to talk to Phipps, but the narrator admits what he wants is for the charade of their “friendship” to continue. Phipps response is a perfect button for this piece, as Phipps is aware of the type of person the narrator really is, and is done with playing along.
(And we are at the part of the blog post where I ask if you liked it. Then I ask you to please like, share, comment, or follow this blog. You know…)
(The short story “Returns” by Annie Ernaux appeared in the November 14th, 2022 issue of The New Yorker.)
(Yes, I will SPOIL this story.)
Illustration by Sébastien Plassard
The New Yorker publishing a shorty story by Annie Ernaux for this issues, is the equivalent of a company softball team bringing in a ringer to bat cleanup; Like this story was going to be bad. Such is the world of publishing a Nobel Prize winner writer.
But why was it good?
The story is simple, or, more like, is direct and to the point. Plot wise; Daughter comes to visit her elderly mother who lives alone. But the first sentence sets the tone for the piece succinctly:
The last time I saw my mother at her home, it was July, a Sunday.
Immediately, there is a feeling of sadness, mourning, even regret, coupled with Summer and a feeling of relaxation as it is a Sunday. We are loaded with emotional information that only us and the writer know. We have been made a confidant as well as a witness as to what will follow.
The story is told in three sections, three acts. The first, the introduction of the setting and characters, as well as showing that there is some awkwardness between the mother and visiting daughter. The second section goes deeper into the awkwardness between mother and daughter, showing that the teenaged years were difficult and filled with fights and screaming. These are two people trying to make amends; the mother wanting to daughter to stay longer – offering gooseberries -, but the daughter is willing to leave early if the conversation lags. And the third section, the narrator acknowledges that the mother has no power over her anymore. The memories of the narrator’s former life come back to her, again showing that she was unhappy there, and wanted to leave. Then a stray cat arrives, which the mother feeds and allows to stay, and for a short time the mother and daughter find a subject of conversation. And then the climax, the daughter goes to leave, but the mother gives her a form she needs help filling out, but the daughter refuses to do it at that time. The daughter promises to fill it out and send it back to her mother at a later date, which upsets the mother. Then the narrator describes leaving the town, and how the places fade behind her in the distance. Finally, we learn the mother soon suffers sunstroke and is admitted to the local hospital. When the daughter returns to the home, she finds the gooseberries in the refrigerator that she forgot to take, but now the berries are spoiled and brown, liquid lump.
This story flows easily like water in a stream; it gently takes you where it wants to go. It moves so well, that all the little tricks to elicit an emotional response are but ripples on the narrative. We know that death is coming from the first line, and short stories love dealing with death, but Ernaux talks about death by not saying death. It is hinted and lingers in the background of what is to follow. As the story continues, there is the tension between the mother and daughter, shown by the slight bickering about locking the front door. Moving deeper in, we learn the reasons for this tension, knowing that this is not something that is easily overcome. But these two don’t hate each other, as when the cat arrives, we see that they can connect and share. But as we know, all visits must end, and we see how the mother tries to prolong their time. By this point, we understand each characters motivations, what they want, and how they cannot give the other what they need. The melancholy comes through these passages. These are the last moments, and this last interaction isn’t acrimonious, but also not affectionate either. This is the parting one has when you believe there will be another Sunday, and another chance to make up for lost time. It is all implied, and never directly spoken. And as the daughter rides the train home, and she does love her mother, from her description of leaving, we know that she doesn’t want to be there. And when the end of the story arrives, as we knew it would, the gooseberries in the fridge serve as the button for the story; the lost opportunity that withered and died.
In talented hands, storytelling seems so simple and effortless. Breaking this story down, examining it, it’s like I can hear the important notes that Ernaux is hitting in the middle of this melody of a story. It is impressive, this level of skill.
Annie Ernaux doesn’t need my endorsement, but she is a ringer.
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