Flash Summary

April came and went, as it is wont to do, complete with showers, but mostly chilled temperatures. May has arrived with the unexpected addition of sunshine. Picking up where I left off, I've had a tabloid paparazzi — collective noun for a number of flash fictions? — of flash fiction published in the last few weeks:

• "Fallen Apples", a darkened, inverted fairy-tale flash that appeared in the first issue of The Treacle Well.
• "Immune", a drabble that appeared in the Tiny Tall Tales issue of The Were-Traveler.
• "Wrecked", a flash tale that appeared in the High Tide issue of Flash Frontier. The phrase "a memorable and unexpected piece" was used in the email from the editors — which is only good if it appears alongside an acceptance!
• "Poseidon's Child", a drabble that appeared in The Delinquent, issue 20.
• "Long Time", a drabble and a half that appeared in National Flash-Fiction Day's April FlashFlood.

In other flash-related news, the NFFD's micro-fiction competition results were announced, with the winning and commended entries readable online. The judging was tough — nearly 450 entries that had, ultimately, to be turned into an ordered list of 10 — but enjoyable.

In personal competition-related news, I had a story longlisted for the Fish Flash Fiction Prize and another picked as a runner-up in the Salt Flash Fiction Prize. My entry, "A Higher Calling", will be included in The Salt Anthology of New Writing 2013 due out in a few months.

The Word of Mouth event last month was great fun and well attended. Two readers chose to read flash — Tania Hershman and me — and two chose longer short stories — Holly Corfield Carr and Nick Rawlinson. The pieces I read included "A Higher Calling", "So You Think You Can Cook?", "Authenticity", "Wrecked", "To Catch a Falling Leaf" and "S3xD0ll".

Word of Mouth

Some things in life we look to for certainty but find only disappointment in their uncertainty. Spring, for example, has so far failed to spring with anything that might be considered either conviction or temperature. The good news, however, is that April is filled with certainties, if not for spring at least for a couple of dates: 30th April sees the closing date for submissions to the Bristol Short Story Prize and, to help promote this, Word of Mouth is hosting some short story readings on Wednesday 3rd at The Thunderbolt with Bristol-based authors Tania Hershman, Holly Corfield Carr, Nick Rawlinson and me.

In the meantime, here is "Authenticity", my 250-word entry into the Lascaux Flash contest. Next month also sees publication of some of my flash fiction in The Delinquent, The Treacle Well and The Were-Traveler.

Flash Fiction: To Catch a Falling Leaf

They say it's good luck to catch a falling leaf. Some say it will bring you a day of luck and happiness, others say a month. A few say you should make a wish when you catch it.

"Is no such thing as luck." Mr Korzhakov might not believe in it, but I could really do with some. Parents are talking divorce, someone nicked my bike, I failed last week's applied maths test, Milly dumped me and Leona just looks right through me.

"What people call luck is just experience of the one in probability of one in N. If you bet heads you have one in two chance. If you get heads you feel lucky, if you don't you don't. If you bet on rolling three, you have one in six chance. If you roll three you feel lucky, if you don't you don't. And so on." Mr Korzhakov sweetened dry lessons in probability and stats with a rambling preamble, before moving on to a syllabus that invited sleep and doodles.

"Not if you use my dice!" Aaron spilt gaming dice over his desk. Mr Korzhakov walked over and picked up a d20, holding it close enough to peer over his bifocals.

"Icosahedron? Is Geometry. Pure maths is Mr Brown, Aaron, not me. But of course, this one in twenty. Bigger N, luckier you feel if you get it. Is why people like to play lottery — N very big!"

"What about bad luck?" I asked.

"Ah, good question, Jim. Is still luck, just different type. You want one-in-six bad luck? Play Russian roulette with six-shooter! You buy lottery ticket? Have more chance of being hit by car than winning! Good or bad, luck just name we give to events we notice but not see bigger picture, when we hope instead of predict."

It's Mr Korzhakov first this morning. I'm about to head through the school gates when I spot Leona on the other side of the road. I slow to match her pace, to think of something to say, to think of a reason to talk to her.

I spot a leaf twist in the breeze and fall from the sycamore overhanging the road. The breeze is gentle enough that I can tell how the leaf is going to fall and where. Golden and crisp, touched by a reluctant autumn sunrise, it hangs in the air for a moment, like an invitation. Luck is on my side. I run, crossing over to catch it before it hits the road, my wish at the ready.

But it falls through my hand. Passes through it. Right through it. As if it didn't exist.

I look up. Leona is standing next to me, staring right through me, her mouth frozen, open, covered by her hand. I turn to see a car, a shocked driver fumbling an emergency call on his mobile, teachers and pupils running towards the gate, a fallen boy on the road wreathed in uncaught autumn leaves.

"To Catch a Falling Leaf" was first published as part of National Flash Fiction Day New Zealand's Write-In. More background here.

Acoustic Flash

I finally managed to attend an Acoustic Night Bristol event the other week (28th January). It happens every couple of weeks on a Monday night, up the road from me at Halo. As I'm often away — Mondays especially — the proximity has been more of a tease than an opportunity.

I read a couple of pieces of flash: "I Think I Get It" and "So You Think You Can Cook?". This picture captures a moment of hesitation — I'm either expressing something in an actorly way or doubting my choice of words and punctuation:

As well as the ambience of the place and the quality of the performances, a great feature of Acoustic Night Bristol is that performances are recorded and mixed. Here's mine:

Flash Fiction: Measures

She drank beer in pints and wine in glasses (large not small) and underestimated both in units. She smoked in halved fractions of ounces but snorted in multiple grams. She aimed to lose in kilos not pounds because pounds lacked ambition, but switched to pounds then silence as weight lingered then rose. She miscounted Friday nights out while weeks should have been tracked. She lost count of tears when nine months passed and failed.


"Measures" was first published with Paragraph Planet. More background here.

Competitive Flash

Following on from the hope expressed at the end of my January posting, my entry in the fourth quarter 2012 Flash 500 competition has reached the shortlist. It might be a bit much to hope it will reach placement in the top three, but I'm delighted it has got as far as it has.

And speaking of flash and competitions, the first National Flash-Fiction Day 2013 competition has been now been launched — and I'm one of the judges. Excluding the title, submissions should be no longer than 100 words. More details can be found here. The deadline is Friday 8th March.

Happy flashing!

Flash Fiction: The Cambridge Arms

I find myself in need of a decision. Sunshine, cloudless sky, gentle breeze, late afternoon... and I seem to be standing outside the Cambridge Arms. It's not a hard decision. Let's call it early evening.

"What can I get you?"

Bitter would be my usual, but the association of warm sun and something amber and colder is difficult to shake off. It's a classic bar, but lifted out of the usual woody darkness by tall windows framing sunlit trees. Very picture book. Or advert.

"A Grolsch, please."

Just as imagined, the pouring of the pint, glistening and bubbling, satisfies expectation, an association honed by rose-tinted memories, cultural conditioning and no small amount of advertising.

Sarah says I suffer from too much imagination — a polite way of drawing attention to her patience. It's not just that I over-react to films. Yes, I avoid horror movies if I want a good night's sleep... if we want a good night's sleep — Sarah doesn't appreciate being woken in the real world by me calling out from a dream.

It's an interesting thought I only seem to ponder when I wake but, when I dream, am I still colour-blind? I certainly dream in colour, but I never notice whether I struggle to distinguish red and green in my dreams. I guess, by definition, the not noticing is itself a kind of blind-spot, isn't it?

No, it's not so much the nightmares as the daydreaming, non-sequiturs and tangents that Sarah says I — and she — suffer from. I like to think it makes conversation less predictable and keeps our relationship fresh. I think she likes that. I think.

"Lost between random and surreal. Sarah, you really pick them." Her sister's boyfriend-critique, delivered within earshot and a wine glass of first meeting me.

"I'm right here," I'd said, returning from the kitchen with more wine. Her sister had pulled a smile before starting on her next glass and judgement.

The landlord seems distracted as he finishes pouring. Turning, I can see why. We exchange money, pint and glances. The target of his — now our — distraction is a blonde. She's overdressed and waiting, but for someone, not something, not a drink.

My drink. The first sip is just as imagined. Pleasingly wet, satisfyingly cold.

Her red dress is almost theatrical, a little too movie star for the bar and the time of day. She's gazing into the middle distance, as if something might happen... but might not.

I notice the landlord. His eyes gesture, behind me.

"Andy, what are you doing?"

Ah. Sarah.

"Enjoying a pint?"

"Andy, I was trying to give you directions to the camera shop so you wouldn't get lost and wonder off."

"Yes, you said 'Imagine you're outside the Cambridge Arms'... so I did... fancy a pint?"

"The Cambridge Arms" was first published at Every Day Fiction. More background here.