The Single-Scene Flash

"Triangle" by Larry Brown

Photo by Marco Bianchetti on Unsplash

Hello friends,

I was recently interviewed by Peter McAllister at Inkfish Magazine and one of his many great questions was this:

You once said that a lot of published flash fiction “is really more of a scene than a story”. Do you think that ‘single-scene’ quality is something that defines flash versus longer short fiction? And how do you feel the planning and writing of a flash piece differs from that of a short story? 

“A single scene can be a very powerful and work as a complete flash fiction. The trick is to allude to more beyond the confines of the scene. Something that resonates emotionally that’s “bigger” than the scene itself. In short fiction and novels, scenes are building blocks and typically don’t work on their own. They’re not meant to.”

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Recall my discussion of “Yours” by Mary Robison during February’s Flash Immersion Extravaganza, as an example of a single-scene flash. Read also “The Wig” by Brady Udall as another example of an excellent single-scene flash.

Now, let’s look at “Triangle” by Larry Brown (Copyright is held by the author. This story first appeared in SAND Journal (Berlin), then in Best Small Fictions 2017.) I love this story for its humanity and quiet power.

Triangle

BLUE TRIANGLES, solid blue. Too blue, almost, for a food. She brought the cereal with her from her mother’s. On the box blue triangles rain from the sky, landing and glistening in a glass bowl. She is the reason I buy milk.

[This opening is spare, but loaded. We know the parents are separated. The image is strange and strong: “blue triangles rain from the sky” and the telling, “she is the reason.” Consider the symbolism of a triangle in this story: child, father, and the off-stage mother.]

I set my beer on the counter. A light beer, as if it makes a difference now. My cell hangs at my hip, new “Reveille” ringtone uploaded. I am considering growing a goatee.

[Two recent changes: the ringtone and the goatee…attempting to reinvent himself a little.]

That’s your dinner? I say.

She scoops more blue triangles from the bowl and slants the spoon across to where her chin rests in her palm, elbow pinning the notebook open on the table. Perched atop her head are dollar store reading glasses. Her eyes are fine, this must be fashion.

[I see those glasses as this story’s “significant object” but pay attention to all the “things” in this scene.]

So, she says, not looking up, that’s your dinner?

I am about to take a drink.

Joking, she says.

Really, she says. She adjusts the glasses on her head, glances my way.

[The glasses are her “seeing” him.]

I get it, I say. The floor creaks, my weight shifting. I am smiling.

I go to the living room, close the venetian blinds, flick on a couple lamps, check my cell, knowing I missed nothing but believing I could have. Back to the kitchen and my spot at the counter, thinking I should have upped the thermostat, thinking a goatee, well, it could look, I don’t know, forced.

[The phone, perhaps hoping to hear from the wife he’s separated or divorced from. Perhaps hoping to hear from anyone. Questioning the goatee now. See how she gently challenges her father.]

Sometimes I forget, I say. The lights, I forget they’re on.

She lifts her elbow and the notebook page flips on its own.

If I remember, if I’m in bed, I say, coming back downstairs feels too far to go.

The fridge hums. The beer seems to be emptying itself.

[Great line “the beer seems to be emptying itself.” Note the spare prose, the ways in which Brown uses white space and emptiness, conveys the silence with that humming fridge.]

I shrug. Sorry, I know you’re studying. Trifling. Her word, earlier, to describe the math test tomorrow.

Those lights, they’re like a night light for you, she says. Nothing wrong with that.

Night light? I say. Then, softer, I add, Maybe.

[This daughter sees him, sees his loneliness, his sadness.]

She pushes away from the table. She dumps her bowl into the sink, wipes her hands on the dish towel. Triangles, not such a solid blue anymore, crowd the drain.

[Change and movement conveyed via the breakfast cereal.]

Dad, she says.

Then she springs, her arms locking over mine, trapping my arms to my body. I hear a gasp. It’s me. She places her head against my shoulder.

You’re not so fast, she says, continuing the hug.

Reading glasses stare up at me. I shake my head.

I can’t slow down, I say.

[What a moment. Again, very spare. Those reading glasses, looking up at him, and the ache of that last line. There’s so much resonance here because the writer has given us space to feel. Nothing here is overplayed, yet it’s emotionally powerful.]

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Remember: A scene is a fully dramatized unit of change in a story involving two or more characters in real time, (usually in one place), including action, gesture, body language, and dialogue. A scene usually plays out in the same setting from beginning to end, but a scene may move from one place to the other if the characters are walking, driving in a car, etc. 

For a scene to be a STORY/FLASH it must evoke thought and feeling beyond what happens on stage, beyond the last sentence. It must have a full and satisfying conclusion that doesn’t feel like it’s leading to a new scene. It must stand on its own.

Some Tips for Creating a Single-Scene Flash 

• It helps to include one or more significant objects in your scene. (As seen in Larry Brown’s “Triangle.”)

• It is also helpful to show us the object more than once. But an object is not necessary. It’s just a useful way in. 

• Don’t force the metaphor on your first draft, but if you do the work of pre-writing the metaphor may arise organically. 

• Remember, as a scene, something must change from beginning to end. 

• Better yet, make two things change. But one is the BIG change. 

• Characterize with brief, well-chosen details and actions. 

• You can layer the work, add resonance and context, with a very brief, well-chosen bit of backstory or flashback. 

• Use your title to fullest advantage. Make it do some heavy lifting. 

• DO NOT BE AFRAID OF SUBTLETY! Flash fiction that is quiet can be every bit as compelling and moving as a heavier story. The key is resonance beyond the ending. 

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YOUR PROMPT

FIRST: Quickly sketch an opening paragraph for a scene scene involving two friends or family members or strangers engaged in an ordinary activity. Really ordinary. 

Some possibilities: Father teaching son to tie his shoe. (Knots) A friend cooking another friend dinner. (Nurturing) A person lost in a big city asking a stranger for directions. (Lost. Guidance.) Elderly woman encounters a rabbit while working in her garden. 

Just open the scene like a film. Read the first paragraph of “Triangle” again. That short and to the point. BUT INCLUDE AN OBJECT. Don’t overthink this, just throw in an object. Anything will do but if it’s a little weird or unexpected so much the better. But doesn’t have to be at all. 

SECOND: Write your way into this scene, allowing whatever comes to you, but with the intention of creating movement and change. Don’t worry about the BIG change yet (though it may arise organically from the writing). Just have something that was happening in the opening paragraph move or shift or change by the last paragraph. The dinner is done cooking. Or maybe it burnt. Or maybe the friend leaves before it’s served, the ingrate. 

Write dynamically. I mean, keep the two people moving, talking, doing, reacting. SHOW US THAT OBJECT MORE THAN ONCE. 

Allow whatever comes. Take a full ten minutes to draft the scene.

Bear in mind the tips I shared, as well as what we learned from reading and discussing “Triangle.”

Maybe make use of the ideas discussed in previous newsletters of absence, negation, and white space and rendering quiet power in flash fiction.

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Can you think of a single-scene flash you’ve read recently? Feel free to share in the comments.

Thanks for reading!

Much love,

Kathy