Three Paragraphs + Anaphora: Flash Extravaganza - Day Fourteen
another way in to flash fiction
Hi friends! This March 15th newsletter is going out to all subscribers, so welcome free subscribers! I’m so grateful for your continued readership and support, and hope you enjoy this Flash Immersion Extravaganza post and writing prompt! The event is running through March 23rd and all posts are being archived, so you can upgrade and join in if you so desire. We’d love to have you!
WORKSHOP SATURDAY, MARCH 21st (1:00-2:30 EDT)
There are still some spaces in THIS Saturday’s 3-in-90 workshop. NOTE: This is the last of the three part series on Originality in Flash and the last live online workshop I’ll be teaching for awhile. So if you’ve been curious about these generative 90 minute sessions, now’s your chance to join us! Always lively and productive. The session will be recorded.
When I run these Immersion Extravaganza events, I’m never sure what to expect in terms of participation. How many will show up? Will they even try the prompts, let alone post their work here? My terror is always that the response will be…silence. All of this is to say, thank you so much! For your energy and enthusiasm and taking on these prompts. I’m so thrilled and grateful. I’m blown away by the standard of writing. What a talented group you are!
What follows is a popular prompt from the February, 2024 Extravaganza from which a lot of amazing work was generated. Hope you enjoy!
YOUR PROMPT
Those who are new to flash fiction sometimes express frustration about how to begin. If you’re used to writing longer, you may feel yourself cut off by the constraints of flash fiction before you’ve had a chance to really get a story going. You’ve used up half your available words and you’ve only just cleared your throat!
I find it very helpful in this case to 1) begin with a constraint, a time limit, a structure, a container, etc., then 2) supply a “way in” that silences the editor and taps into your subconscious to get the words flowing.
So, write THREE paragraphs. Begin each paragraph with the same phrase. Repetition has a way of lulling us. It feels rote, automatic. As you write or type, you're merely filling in the blanks. Interesting things may happen as you go. Unplanned detours and juxtapositions, magic even. Try to have something change from beginning to end.
Some examples:
You won't remember….
What I found…
What he needed…
The place I…
We would always...
After that, they…
He knows…
By writing in three parts it already feels like you're telling a story. You’re imposing a structure of sorts but this is only to get you going. It’s only to stretch your muscles, loosen up. If it turns into something, wonderful, but if it doesn’t that’s fine too. I want to see where this goes for you. You may unearth something that surprises you.
Fill with sensory detail, musings, dreams, asides, flashbacks. Pull from what you've collected over the years, consciously or subconsciously. Don’t worry about “making sense” or writing anything that adheres to rules or feels official. Tell blatant lies or make confessions. Invent or play or steal all your want.
If you're inspired to do so, give your three paragraphs a great title and/or subtitle them.
Click the button below to access the Extravaganza Archive if you wish to return to any of the prior days’ prompts. I’ll update it every day.
Happy writing!
Kathy
Road Trip
You don't want to remember how Mom stayed home with your baby sister while you walked to school alone. There was no crossing guard for afternoon kindergarten and each day you froze at the curb until a kid yelled, "Now!" Your class napped on thin terry towels, restless fledglings, beaks momentarily closed, ears listening for the squeak of the chocolate milk cart. Back home after school, you'd sing BINGO until Dad told you to go outside to play with the traffic which made you laugh. Every morning you'd beg Mom to walk with you. She said, "Not today, you're a big girl now," and "Never talk to strangers," but the kids inside Larry's car were singing Jesus Loves You and when they asked you if you wanted a ride, you ignored the cracked windshield and hopped in the car.
You don't want to remember when you were a freshman in high school. One night you heard your heard first crush, "Hey, you wanted a ride home?" You followed him to Eddy's Datsun and crawled in, and when Eddy asked what that pile of hair was doing in the backseat your crush laughed that he didn't know, she must have heard wrong, but they took you home anyway, sliding a little on the snow-packed roads. You gave up on senior boys, walking alone through cold nights lingering on both edges of day because of daylight savings time. You couldn't wait to get your learner's permit. You couldn't wait to fly the coop.
You don't want to remember how scared you were when, later, you drove to Pittsburgh in your red Ford Maverick, a pair of cross-country skis stretched over the passenger seat lengthwise. At a busy rest stop in Ohio, a truck driver, waving and bellowing hello, startled you as you emerged from the toilets. You relaxed when he explained how the other drivers were looking out for you. His daughter was your age, he said. You told him you were starting graduate school at Carnegie Mellon. We'll keep you safe, honey, he said. You thanked him, reassured, and scurried back to your car, closing the door quickly and locking it. Sometimes your car sputtered when you started it, but not this time. You hit the road again, alone.
You’d say
You always said I’d never amount to anything, that girl, you’d say, she’s got her head in the clouds and her feet don’t touch the ground long enough to go anywhere. How will she ever amount to anything?
You always said he was no good, he has no common sense. You don’t need no man to make you feel whole, you’d say, but I didn’t believe you so I married him.
You always said, ain’t no hill too high to climb, you just have to start. You have yourself to fall back on, you’d say, and you have me.