'Sudden Fiction: American Short-Short Stories' -- a Goodreads review

Sudden Fiction: American Short-Short Stories by Robert Shapard

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


I found gems in this collection, like Stuart Dybek's "Sunday at the Zoo," which takes barely a page to accomplish craziness, desperation, and hilarity.

Raymond Carver's "Popular Mechanics" flares up and chars the imagination in little more than a page and a half.

In the Afterwords sections, I also found several insights into the short-short story from Dybek, Tobias Wolff, Joyce Carol Oates, Paul Theroux, Russell Banks, Mark Strand, and several others.

For example, in one of the Afterwords, Joe David Bellamy writes, "Compression and concision have always been part of the aesthetic of the American short story form. Some writers, perhaps spurred on by information overload of our time, began to experiment with just how far these values could be pushed without losing the minimum weight needed for a memorable dramatic statement."

Fred Chappel writes, "Unease, whether humorous or sad, is the effect the short-short aims at."

Charles Baxter: "It's a test of the reader's ability to fly, using minimal materials."

Baxter again: "It's not that people don't have attention spans. They just don't believe in the future, and they're tired of information."





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'Field Guide to Writing Flash Fiction' -- a Goodreads review

The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Writing Flash Fiction: Tips from Editors, Teachers, and Writers in the Field by Tara L. Masih

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


The intro surprised me by establishing the historical and critical validity of "flash fiction." After all, acclaimed writers who've ducked under 1,000 words to tell a tale include Ernest Hemingway, Donald Barthelme, O. Henry, Jayne Anne Phillips, Jorge Luis Borges, Joyce Carol Oates, Raymond Carver, Ambrose Bierce, Sherwood Anderson, Ron Carlson, Stuart Dybek, and many more. This book has 25 craft essays paired with 25 examples of flash fiction. It makes a heck of an intro as well as a short master class.



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'Today I stole a back massage' -- short short fiction

Today I stole a back massage.

It was a smash-and-grab operation.

Around lunch time, I went to the Massage Therapy Center at the corner of my street and the highway.

I punched the window. The glass smashed, just as I had planned.

I grabbed the first massage lady I saw, according to plan.

Lucky for me, I picked a room with a small massage lady.

As the last of the glass tinkled to the floor, I heard New Age music and snoring. The massage lady's client remained stagnant, face-down on the massage table, with more hair on his back than all the candles in Christendom could wax.

I slung the massage lady onto my back. I hooked my hands under her knees, and I ran down the uneven dirt on the side of the street.

"I know it's a bit bumpy," I said over my shoulder. "But I still expect quality service."

She didn't seem to speak English, so I don't know what she was screaming.

I was lucky a second time: Her hands were still slick with the oil she was using on her client, who I imagined would be late returning to work because no one was there to wake him.

I almost stumbled on a chunk of asphalt, but the massage lady's hands only popped from my trapezoid muscles for a split second. The massage lady, although screaming, was providing quality service.

I heard sirens, probably three blocks away.

"OK," I said. "It's time to ditch you. I've been watching the evening news very closely. Most thieves toss pocketbooks and wallets into dumpsters. Do you know where there's a dumpster around here?"

The massage lady was no longer screaming. She was yelling at me, quite angrily, as she kneaded my shoulders, but I didn't know her language.

"Look," I said. "I realize most massage ladies are more valuable than pocketbooks and wallets. So I'll tell you what. Here."

I walked over to a large pickup truck in the liquor store parking lot, turned, and backed toward the hood. Her knuckles hastened between my shoulder blades, trying to complete at least part of her quality service.

With a little shrug, my stolen massage was off my back, sitting on the hood of a pickup truck.

"You might want to get down from there," I said. "The truck's owner might suppose someone left him a gift massage."

At that point, the sirens were probably a block away. So I wiped my fingerprints off the backs of her knees and ran.

She yelled something at my back, but she wasn't yelling English. I bet the local cops don't know her language, either.

You know what? My neck and shoulders have never felt better. But my legs sure are sore.

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Flash Fiction: Thanksgiving Drive

Husband: I realized the reason for my melancholy. I 'm a white male mostly of British descent and I haven't conquered anything. Aside from seafood buffets. I have no empire.

Wife: You could conquer the backyard. The immense garrisons of vines along the back fence will require serious weaponry. And you could claim the backyard for yourself. Called it Husbandland.

Husband: But it won't fight back.

Wife: It's land. Take the land!

Husband: But no one is occupying it already. I mean, that's not conquering. That's just squatting.

Wife: That's not squatting. It's your land. It's Husbandland. It's occupied by weeds and fall leaves and dog piles. Take it back! Take back the land! It is your empire!

Husband: Oh that's just great -- an empire of vines, weeds, leaves, and shit.

Wife: Stop and let me out of the car.

Husband: At least you said "stop" first this time.