Could you tell a whole story with 1000 words? (That’s “flash.”) How about 100? (That’s “microfiction.”) 7? (Hmm, that’s a definite challenge!)
I’ve previously blogged about my early forays into flash fiction (1000 words as defined by the contest guidelines), but recently I’ve been experimenting with shorter forms: 750, 500, and even 100. I love the challenge of paring away the extras until the essential story is all that’s left. What a fantastic exercise in understanding what “story” means.
I love this definition from Lisa Cron’s Story Genius so much, I have it pinned above my desk on an index card to use as my guide whether I’m writing 100 words or 80,000:
A story is about how the things that happen affect someone in pursuit of a difficult goal
Lisa Cron
and how that person changes as a result.
The shortest story forms only allow for a small cast of characters and one or two scenes, though I’ve seen a few that skillfully navigate more. As a writer, you have to choose each word carefully to convey character, motivation, action, and stakes to the reader. And if I’ve learned anything from the judges’ feedback, you have to stick that landing, just like gymnastics.
Since they’re bite-sized morsels, I thought it might be fun to share the three 100-word microfictions I wrote (in 24 hours each) for the NYC Midnight Microfiction challenge over the summer. At the great risk of a too-lengthy blog post, I’ve also included some gleanings after each story. I hope you’ll be inspired to try your hand in the comments below!
Round 1
Genre: HORROR
Action: PLANTING A SEED
Word to be used: “INSEPARABLE”
LITTLE MIRACLES
I approach their table and flash the grin Lily loved, back when we were inseparable. Before the restraining order.
“Hey, Lil,” I say. “Pregnancy suits you.”
Lily turns whiter than the tablecloth. “Clay?”
“Hiya, Mitt,” I say. Her husband clenches. “So, Lil, guess you did want a baby after all?”
Just not mine.
“Why are you here?” Lily asks tightly.
“To tell you about my job. I spin sperm now. Oh, and thirty-two weeks ago, your fancy fertility doctor planted my seed inside your womb.”
Her hand flies to her round belly.
“Yep. Looks like we’re all having my baby.”
What I learned from this one:
- Get an expert. My OB-GYN buddy Kathleen LeMaitre was kind enough to explain centrifuges and other insemination details that didn’t make it into the written story but helped me understand how things work
- I gave away the “punch line” too soon.
- There’s a reason I don’t write horror. Yuck.
That said, I squeaked by with the lowest possible score to advance to the semifinals.
Round 2
Genre: COMEDY
Action: SNORKELING
Word to be used: “SCAM”
BUCCANEERS OF THE PLASTIC WRECK
“As advertised, find the Lost Ruby, your tour’s on me!” I bent toward the three little pirates. “Ready to dive for sunken treasure, mateys?”
Pirate-themed snorkel tours. Easy money, they said.
I chased those hellions for hours, hobbling around on my faux-peg leg while their mom tanned on the deck. The boys fought. They ate. They peed over the side. Finally, they snorkeled.
“I found it!” shouted the oldest, waving a red plastic gem I definitely hadn’t hidden in the wreck.
Mom was gleeful but not at all surprised. “Free trip!”
I’d met my match. Scammed by a true pirate.
What I learned from this one:
- It’s darn hard to be funny on command, and I really wasn’t. Most of the comedy that made its way into the final story, I owe to my amazing writers’ group, a talented bunch I’ve met through the contest forums. Our beta-read critiques (aka “the swarm”) are solid gold for improving stories, learning from other writers, and building true, respectful community. I hope someday to meet more of them in person.
- The last line was originally written as dialogue (and unfortunately submitted that way to the contest). Another writer on the forum suggested this edit, and I wholeheartedly agree it’s better this way.
Once again, I squeaked by with the lowest possible score to advance to the FINALS!
Round 3
Genre: ROMANCE (writer’s choice)
Action: UNPACKING A SUITCASE
Word to be used: “LIGHT”
OUT OF THE BOX
It’s not Roger’s fault he’s about to break my heart; he doesn’t even know I have one. Age has slowed his tongue and fingers, a mortal blow for a pair like us. Tonight might be our last tryst.
Ten minutes to curtain.
Buckles pop. The suitcase lid opens. Roger appears, haloed by light.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he says, eyes moist. “Ready for our final show?” Loving hands lift me from my velvet-lined bed.
It’s now or never.
Summoning my might, I open my fiberglass mouth. “I love you, Roger.”
Roger’s jaw drops. “I, um, …”
“Roger, please…”
“I love you, too!”
—
What I learned from this one:
- Ambiguity is your friend… unless it stays with the reader after the ending. Sadly, the “fiberglass mouth” was not clear enough to solidify what was being pulled out of that velvet-lined case. Did you guess… a ventriloquist’s dummy? One judge could not decide which musical instrument Roger was about to play. ☹
- Sometimes, 24 hours is not enough! I tinkered with the piece up till 11:52 pm— NOT ADVISABLE—and totally missed nailing the ending. Regrets. This piece should have focused on the narrator gaining her voice for the first time, Roger hearing that voice for the first time and realizing he’d failed to recreate her honeyed tone. The title, too, should have reinforced this theme.
Got a 100-word (or fewer) story you’d like to share in the comments? I’d love to see what you come up with!
Thanks for reading!
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Ok doll, this was majorly impressive. I just did one off the top of my head and what fun. Starting an Advanced Novel Workshop next week. We should Zoom and write together. Typos etc. who cares it was one shot! Here goes:
“We can’t. I can’t.”
She could barely hear the rest.
The cheap hotel a/c sounded like a sick animal.
She knew why. He didn’t know she knew.
He rolled away and catapulted to standing,
His dark curls illuminated by a sliver of daylight
She was always first. Checking in. Key in hand.
The heavy drapes pushed to their limits.
The washcloth that transformed her
cowered in the shower. Red panties on.
.
The sound of his zipper gave her a headache.
She pushed herself up and faced away
She felt nothing but shook anyway.
One shot was all it took.
xo Mimi
Fantastic! Thanks for picking up the challenge. You rock, Mimi!