I’m a little giddy just now, because I finished my very last short short story (aka flash). It feels just right to end my three-year run of writing microscopic fiction & move on to pastures not necessarily greener, but larger, where the wild things are, bursting with characters who long to be felt & written.
I wish you could see me now: I’m balancing a new iPad on my knees. I’m writing on glass. There’s a wondrous clicking noise as my fingers hit the touch screen. I love turning pages and writing down the pane with my fingers. I love to be rid of the keyboard (sorry, Mr Mac) and the mouse or the trackpad or whatnot—I hate having stuff between me and my words, but before I found the iPad I didn’t know it. I love the new writing app “Daedalus|Touch” from “the-soulmen“, who’re also the creators of the incomparable Ulysses writing sofware, and for no particular reason I’m proud that these high priests of the computer screen are German, hail from Berlin and that one of them is also called “Marcus“. I know, silly me.
My very, truly last flash fiction story is called “Thank You For Your Sperm“, by the way, will hopefully come out before the end of the year in a print anthology, and makes me think that I may finally have gotten better at finding titles for my own work. God bless.
[By the by: my collection of excerpts of the entire collection of all my flash fiction worth collecting & excerpting is now finished and readable at Red Lemonade. Go see it while it’s out there.]
—Don’t miss Atticus Review’s All Flash Issue here, masterfully edited by Katrina Gray & read the last word on flash publication written by Dan Cafaro, man on a hill, sailor of the seven secret seas, on the lookout for what’s next, new and naughty: Dan Cafaro, “Publisher Hooked On Experimental Drug“. Simply splendid swordsmanship:
«Flash fiction is the epitome of immediate gratification. At no time does it allow the reader to zone out. At no time does it allow for a slow-paced, steady bout of rope-a-dope while painting the reader into a corner and having him hold on for dear, desperate life. Instead, flash stands toe-to-toe with the reader and demands surefire readiness and mental acuity as it unleashes a fast and furious staccato delivery of rhythms and images. Instead of a deliberate series of verbal jabs, feints, and left hooks, flash fiction abridges the distance between writer and reader by delivering thundering punches, all registering in a swift, precise attack, a flurry of body blows crescendoing with one final death blow to the skull. Flash does not sneak up on us. It knocks us out. Unconscious. Without fanfare. In the first round. Before the ring card girl even gets to earn her keep.»