by Allison Symes

Flash Fiction & Sharks

by Allison Symes

Flash Fiction and Sharks

Flash fiction has changed my life. What is it? It is any story up to 1000 words maximum though you don’t have to write to that count. I’ve written to 100 words, 50, 750, 1000 and almost everything in between. Although the form is short, it must be a story with a proper beginning, middle and ending. CafeLit loved my flash fiction. Chapeltown Books, who are linked to CafeLit, then issued a call for a single author flash fiction collection. I knew by then I had a reasonable amount written and, along with new material especially written for this, I had enough to submit.

Flash fiction is character led because you don’t have room for lots of description so I must make my characters show you what I want you to see. I’ll share an example later.

It is a form I discovered by accident after escaping “sharks” on my writing journey. You can imagine my joy when I was offered a publishing contract!

Happy Writing Accident

Okay, the writing accident where you end up with two books to your name is the kind of accident to have but how did this happen?

I’d been writing standard length short stories (1500 words +) for Bridge House Publishing, CafeLit, and a few other places. I was having work published online and in print.

Then CafeLit issued a 100 word challenge. My first thought was you must be kidding me. There’s no way you can tell a proper story in that tight a word count.

My second thought was go with it, Allison. They wouldn’t have issued the challenge if it was impossible. What have you got to lose?

The answer to that was nothing.

The Sharks

Now wind back the clock a few years. I was offered a publishing contract for a novel, but the offer letter was riddled with spelling and grammatical errors and this rang alarm bells. I couldn’t believe what the publishers were trying to charge me to bring the book out and realised if I self-published, I could do it cheaper and keep my rights. I would also do a much better job on the spelling and grammar!

Every writer wants their work published but not at any price. It must be to a good standard. I knew, despite having dreamed for a long time of being published, I wanted my book out there “looking good”. I worried if the offer letter could be shoddy, the publishers would be the same with the book.

I contacted the Society of Authors. They told me the company was a vanity publisher and what was wrong with the contract - and boy was there a lot wrong!

I dumped the vanity publisher, got my manuscript back, entered it into a Debut Novel competition. It was long-listed, coming 13th out of 70 entries. I then decided to approach agents. Most said no. I had a lovely handwritten rejection from one saying there was nothing wrong with the book, it just wasn’t for them. I’d learned by now if you get notes like that, take them seriously. Agents are inundated with material, so when they do take time out to reply, it is time to sit up and take notice. Then joy oh joy I was offered representation by an agent.

But the offer letter was riddled with spelling and grammatical errors! There were fees. This was beginning to sound a familiar alarm bell. I turned the agent down, that book remains unpublished, and I changed direction.

Switching to the Short Form

I focused on short story writing, discovered flash fiction, and now have two books out with Chapeltown Books. They’re an indie publisher based around Manchester and their contracts are on Society of Author terms.

What did I learn from this? Firstly, trust your gut instincts. If something doesn’t seem right, check it out. Never be afraid to ask awkward questions and always get good advice if you’re offered a contract. Secondly, if one route to publication doesn’t work out, try another!

Thirdly, never sign anything you’re not happy with. When I turned down the vanity publisher, I’d not been published. There was no sign of that happening at the time either. What these people prey on is the author’s dream. Yet I’ve never regretted burning my bridges here.

So, flash fiction then has been my way in to the publishing world. It has led to publication, being a prize winner (Waterloo Arts Festival Writing Competition three times in a row), judging flash competitions, talking about flash to an international writing summit and to various groups on Zoom.

It was a fantastic writing accident to have! And now story time… the best way to demonstrate what flash fiction is and can do is to share a story!

Dressed to Kill

She walked into the room with an elegance that made everyone in the room turn and stare. But then the last time the locals in the cafe would have seen this woman would have been on the streets when they ignored her. She had been sleeping rough in the now empty Debenhams shop frontage. Nobody took any notice of the homeless in these parts. It was such a shame. She used to get some money from people with a conscience who used to shop there but times change and they hadn’t been keen to spend money in the department store, yet alone on her.

But now…. She was wearing a glamorous red threequarter length dress with gold braiding around the wrists and neckline. The perfume was Chanel No. 5 and she walked to her table as if she owned the place.

She was dressed to kill.

It was a killing that turned her fortunes.

But now was not the time to talk about that. She suspected the police would find out soon enough. Right now, all that mattered was that, for the first time in goodness knew how long, she was going to have whatever she wanted to eat and drink, and she was going to enjoy herself, knowing those staring at her now had no idea who she was or what she had done.

By the time they found out, she’d probably be in prison but even then she’d be okay. She’d have a roof over her head. If the police didn’t catch up with her, she had the money and she would buy a new identity and life. Her appearance here proved it could be done.

Nobody remembered the homeless and occasionally that was useful.

Website: https://allisonsymescollectedworks.com/ Books: http://author.to/AllisonSymesAuthorCent. Her Youtube channel, with book trailers and story videos, is at https://www.youtube.com/channel/

UCPCiePD4p_vWp4bz2d80SJA/

With her non-fiction hat on, Allison blogs for online magazine, Chandler’s Ford Today, often on topics of interest to writers. Her weekly column can be found at http://chandlersfordtoday.co.uk/author/allison-

symes/

Allison also blogs for Authors Electric and More Than Writers, the blog spot for the Association of Christian Writers.

Allison Symes, who loves reading and writing quirky fiction, is published by Chapeltown Books, CafeLit, and Bridge House Publishing. Her flash fiction collections, Tripping The Flash Fantastic and From Light to Dark and Back Again are out in Kindle and paperback. She has been a winner of the Waterloo Arts Festival writing competition three years in a row where the brief was to write to a set theme to a 1000 words maximum. Website: https://allisonsymescollectedworks.com/

Mom’s Favorite Reads’ authors span many genres but flash fiction is a particular skill to master. Several authors left their writing comfort zone, and took up the flash fiction challenge to create a story under 300 words….

Spinning It Backward by Rebecca Carter

A man in a white robe, girded by a sash bears a placard over his neck.

“The world is doomed. Repent now.”

Another man scratches his scraggly beard and thinks, “I’ll do my part to make it better.”

A woman in front of him in the grocery line counts out change. The man pulls a fifty from his dirty, ragged jeans. He slaps it down. “This is a ‘Pay it forward.’”

“No, I’m fine.” She glares at the man, but the cashier has already completed the sale.

She waits for him in the parking lot.

With hatred in her eyes, she shoves money into his hands.

“Won’t take nothing from the likes of you.”

A solar flare leaves the sun. A couple, once joined by good intentions, now breaks apart.

A car, previously given to one in need, crashes into a tree.

A child prodigy, provided a second chance at life, finally succumbs to disease. Deed after deed undone.

Further back the spring unwinds, ripping through the fabric of time. A previously won battle becomes lost because a message wasn’t delivered.

A cruel regime takes control. Mayhem reigns.

Faster and faster the good deeds unravel.

Judea, now.

The Good Samaritan passes by, turning his head away.

Judas never betrays his Lord with a kiss. Jesus never crucified. Mankind doomed.

The intensity of the solar flare increases. Earth scorched. Life no longer exists. The spinning stops.

Triumphant… by Ceri Bladen

As I sit astride my black steed, my sword covered in blood and innards, I look at the bloodbath on the plain below me. Neither side has fared well.

I roll my shoulders under my heavy armour. I, King Bulut of the Kingdom of Kral, should not be fearing defeat. I rule.

But not today. Lord Cenk’s army seems to have the upper hand. My advisors—the ones who are left— suggest retreat. Too many of our men and horses are being taken down by Lord Cenk’s ferocious dragons.

My heart is heavy. I half-hear their arguments as I focus my attention on the stench of death and burning. It assaults my senses. It is my fault I led so many to their deaths. Their lives; my guilt. Lifting my hand to signal a retreat, something snaps within me. While responsibility and old age felt an enormous burden to bear, I did not want my legacy to be destroyed. Destroyed like the burning items in front of me. My blood boiled as hot as the raging fires.

“Barrels of water!” I shout to my commanders. “Quell the flames of destruction.”

As they haul the water, unexpectedly Lord Cenk sounds an alarm to retreat. But he had won. I watch as they make their hasty retreat; men and dragons. As a renewed vigour consumes me, I call for my remaining army to reform. The battle has turned. We give chase until they are cornered near high cliffs. There are only two options for them, fight or retreat up the narrow valley. My eyes widen when Lord Cenk’s men enter the valley, and the dragons fly over the top. I do not know what is at the end of the valley. I do not care. But they will not be permitted to come out. If they survive, we will form a truce another day.

I post men at the entrance and return to the Kindgom of Kral.

Triumphant.

One Earth Day by Christine Larsen

“Just a weed seed?” says the tree, creaking and groaning but smiling as he bends. An ordinary thing for an extraordinary old man tree to do… certainly in the eyes of one young boy, dwarfed and humbled by this veteran of countless seasons. So young, eyes filled with such wonder and belief in more than heaven and earth reveal, he can clearly see the kindly ancient face framed by 'hair' branches filled with chattering squirrels, twittering birds; and bunnies and a friendly fox below.

"Without doubt, we are ALL related; even the humblest weed, even the ancients like ME. ALL of us." "Me? Me too? Can I be a rellie, too?"

“Only if you make a wish as you blow on this, my boy,” and the tree's eyes twinkle, as one great 'arm' bends forward, offering a full blown milkweed thistle.

“Each floaty seed will take your wish on the breeze; on the wings of floating thistle fairies as they fly to Santa at the North Pole." Great-great-grandfather tree's smile widens. "He catches them all year round you see, granting some through the year, for you and for me.”

The small boy waits, with not too many jumps, up and down, up and down—waiting for the exact right breeze, and when it finally comes, wishes and blows with all his small might, waving and saying, “Bye bye floaty fairy… fly away home.”

The Tree sways gently from side to side. 'Be always kind and be always free,' says the Tree… and the tiny birds add their chorus, "Be free, be free… like me, like me."

And the small boy touches the ancient one in wonder, and smiles and waves at all the tree's guests, before skipping joyfully away, proud of his wish for this special Earth Day. © 2021 Christine Larsen

Sweet Solitude by Sylva Fae

It's amazing how quickly a mug of coffee next to a camp fire can soothe away the stresses of life. The breeze through the leaves clears my mind and my breathing slows to the rhythm of the swaying branches. I feel my troubles dropping away like the autumn leaves.

It's beautiful here, nothing to do but sip my coffee and stare into the flickering flames. They lick at the cloth and flare bright crimson, hissing as the fire consumes the evidence of my endeavours. I grimace slightly as the act of raising my mug jars my aching shoulder. It's a good ache though, a sign of a job well done. I drain the mug and watch as the fire reduces the blood-stained clothing to a pile of ashes. The fresh earth clinging to the spade at my feet is the only reminder now. I sigh into the breeze and breathe in the contentment of newfound solitude.

Trapdoors by Suzanne Downes

“Watch your step, gents, landlord’s got the trapdoor open to the cellar,” said Old George as Lazarus and Stonier approached the Navigation Inn.

Not Guilty? By Adrian Czarnecki

I’m in the dock, the jury has convened and the judge asks for their verdict. Not Guilty.

Sure enough, the trapdoor gaped at their feet and so deep in conversation had they been that without the old fellow’s warning, they might very well have had a hard landing on a newly lowered barrel of beer. Ha! What the f**k do they know. I haunted and taunted my victim until he snapped. Self defense? Nope, totally premeditated, but prove it.

“Thanks, George,” said Inspector Lazarus. “Dangerous things, trapdoors. You can’t be too careful. My father died falling through a trapdoor,” confided George conversationally. “Really,” said Stonier, “Was he a publican?”

“No,” answered Old George, “They were hanging him.”