“One does one’s best writing Flash Fiction.
These little constructs of conceit use heat and pressure to improbably compress literacy into gemstones. There can be no high expectations for flash fiction. One does not put a piece of coal into a garlic press; insert it in the oven and think of diamonds.
Such parsimony of words would seem to be practice in developing a punch; as alternating between a speed bag and heavy bag would for a boxer.
Regrettably, like anything at which one works; sooner or later validation is required.
Seeking validation one discovers critics of Flash Fiction. Gadzooks!”
‘The second four word sentence of the ninety five word piece does not rise to the level of the first.’
“One ponders this assessment. Two of the words in question are prepositions. Responding, one deletes the whole goddamn sentence. There!
Emotional equilibrium is recovered. A further attempt is rejected by the entire list of one hundred and thirty six online publishers of the form. One swoons at the profligate waste of bandwidth; no one accepts simultaneous submissions.
Stumbling back from psychic impact of rejection one attempts to clear the senses. Where might this career in Flash Fiction go?
Eureka! A further reading of the literature reveals constants. If one adheres, success is within reach.
Disregard for sexual propriety, promulgation of the scatological, focus on twisted relationships and veiled references to the excretion of bodily fluids; one may craft gems of this ilk until cows come home. If never published by the one hundred thirty six, the product of one’s effort can be strung together as linked short stories and sold to Random House.
‘Salvation lies in the hands of the creatively maladjusted!’ one exclaims; quietly apologizing under one’s breath to Dr. King while counting words. Three hundred seventeen. Not bad.
Oh, and, feel free to call me Dick, if you prefer.”