Four Flashes You Need to Read Right Now!

recommendations from the community

Cala Gonone, Sardinia - Photo by Luca Cassani on Unsplash

"Read, read, read. Read everything -- trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You'll absorb it. Then write.” --William Faulkner

Buongiorno friends!

By the time you receive this, I’ll be on a plane home to Colorado after a wonderful trip to Sardinia, capped off by the always amazing and inspiring Flash Fiction Festival in Bristol, UK.

I hope you are all having a wonderful summer. I’m laughing at the pushy headline here, but I’m in earnest. I recently asked the flash community on Twitter for some flash recommendations from relatively less known writers. Writers they feel deserve more eyes on their work. And of course, the flash community being so generous and supportive, I received a TON of recommendations. I’ll mention more in a future newsletter, but for this one, I chose four, with links to their work and a few words about why you ought to read them if you’ve not already.

It would be awesome if you’d read and weigh in with your own thoughts! I’d also love to hear of any recommendations from all of you in The Art of Flash Fiction community! So do please leave a comment below.

So, without further ado:

Kelli Short Borges recommended the work of Nicole J. Brogdon, saying she “has a very unique style and many fine pieces, but this one is one of my favorites.” Read “Pastels” published in Vestal Review.

Why you should read it:

This piece covers a subject that takes some courage to tackle in the space of a flash fiction. I’ve talked about the three paragraph structure before. Here, Brogdon puts it to powerful and effective use. The opening paragraph feels sweet and light, as two young schoolgirls create art together in their classroom, gently chided by their teacher for licking Marisol’s pastel painting of a horse. But look at that first sentence. It begins: “On her last painting…”

The second paragraph brings the shift: “I wonder what would have changed if I had gone to school that particular day.” Here we learn the terrible truth. And: “Then the colors of the kids get smeared together in my head,” echoing the image of smearing from the first paragraph.

The final, exquisitely painful paragraph shows the narrator remembering her murdered friend. Image and sensory detail carry the emotion here. And the final line is perfect and so moving.

Heather Bell Adams recommended the work of Lyndsie Manusos, particularly her story, “Generations of Leaves” from Passages North.

Why you should read it:

I’ve talked about how impactful repetition and anaphora can be, how they heighten emotion and create a heartbeat for your flash fiction. Here, Manusos makes effective use of anaphora, beginning the first four paragraphs of this story with the same simple sentence: “Yaiya mows the lawn in the rain.” The pattern is then broken in the final paragraph. Making a pattern in your prose, then breaking that pattern, is a deft way to tell a story in a small space. The shift does so much work, creates movement.

See how the picture of Yaiya expands with each paragraph. How she is watched by the people she loves and her love her. We begin to see a woman who is watched, but not entirely known or understood, as is true of most women.

Note, too, the beautiful use of parallelism in the sentence structure (go HERE for a discussion of parallelism vs. anaphora):

“Her daughters, which although…”

“Yaiya, who doesn’t have a drop of Greek blood…”

“Papa, who remembers the first boat they bought together…”

“The cabin, which was no bigger than their bodies entwined.”

“Her yard, which is bigger than her house by far…”

This lends music and a heartbeat to the story, heightening the emotion. We learn why Yaiya mows the lawn in the rain. A gorgeous and moving story.

Steph Liberatore recommended a flash essay by Deb Fenwick, “Escape Route,” published in In Short.

Why you should read it:

Oof. This is a tough one. Deb Fenwick immerses us quickly into the world and time of this story with excellent details. It seems like it may be another coming of age story. But deftly, she introduces a bit of unease. Something in how vividly the teenaged girl imagines something lovely from her boyfriend, who’s run off to get her a surprise. The story takes a hard turn here:

“We patched this boyfriend-girlfriend lifeboat together in our mid-teens.”

This story has undercurrents. Devastating ones. Ones that threaten to pull this girl under. And they inform all that’s happening on stage. This writer makes you feel what this girl is feeling and do we ever wish she could escape—now, and when she was eight years old.

Christina Sponselli recommended the work of Merridawn Duckler. I noticed that many of her stories are titled as parables. I especially loved “Parable of the Skatepark.” Note: This piece was a finalist in Mid-American Review’s Fineline Contest a while back, and is featured in her forthcoming collection, Southern Most.

Why you should read it:

Well, just see for yourself. Great lines. Great voice. “Smells like cheese food, b.o. and sins of commission in here” and “red hair under his beanie makes him look like an unlit match” and that sharp turn at the end. As writers, we’re warned off this kind of ending, but here, for me, it works completely because of the glorious writing. It’s not a trick. I don’t feel cheated. This is life.

(“Parable of the Skatepark” is reprinted below with permission of the author, who owns the copyright for this piece.)

I wake at my namesake. Today is the day. Gold air, baby blue clouds. Sun on the rim like a blood line across the knuckle. I feel the board falling into the empty pool, churning my hairless gut. My big feet rise from earth. I’m king of that moment, only moment that matters. I was first to wake from the pile: Doug, Mike, Cory, Whisk. They reek. Smells like cheese food, b.o and the sins of commission in here. Someone’s music is still leaking out the earbuds. We planned to wake at dawn and damn here I am, the first to rise. The new park. They cut the ribbon yesterday. We’re going when it opens, before toddlers and chicken hawks. The structure is clean, perfect. Swims in fog like God’s own frying pan for my meat.  I stake my claim. No one believes me. Cory shakes his head and glides off, red hair under his beanie makes him look like an unlit match. He peels it off, the mullet flies free. No one thinks I can do it. I been falling, failing, cracking my head like an egg. But today I’m boneless; I’m vert; 360; rise, air, land. Today, I win everything. Everyone cheers. I open my eyes. I’m in a hotel room in Spokane. The dream. I’m sixty. Don.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on these works and/or to hear some recommendations of your own, in the comments below.

Thanks, as always, for your support and enthusiasm. Have fun and stay cool, my friends.

With love & gratitude,

Kathy