Wednesday, 10 April 2013

Flash Fiction.

Flash fiction is very short fiction, typically either under 500-1000 words long.

We're going to post some of our flash fiction here but in the meantime you can see what we mean by visiting

Flash fiction differs from a word sketch or vignette because it must be a self contained story that comes to a satisfying conclusion; in other words it needs a beginning, middle and end.

For many, me included the first piece of flash fiction preceded the digital world. This story is usually attributed to Ernest Hemingway 'For Sale: Baby Shoes, never worn'. See also Drabble.


  1. hannahtranter16:

    My family is known for many things. Honour. Integrity. Tradition. We originally came from Tokyo, Japan, and life is hard to adjust to here in Britain. I paint. It keeps me close to my roots. I love to paint. I learned how to paint when I was little, when my grandmother was still alive. Today I decided to create something, a new work. I got together my oil paints and began to paint, my brush flicking across canvas with each movement of the wrist.

    I started with the background. Red is a good colour. I gently dipped my bush into the paint, making sure to get the right amount, creating a crimson sunset. The sun was darker as it went down the page, the tint slanting to match the sunlight, trailing down the page. I had to let that dry before moving on.

    Remembering my roots, I paint a simple blossom tree. The black branches complimenting the sunset background, the pink cherry blossoms too.

    Next, I wanted to paint a person. I start with the outline, carefully marking the silhouette of a slim, graceful body. A plain white dress with red polka dots and blue sashes around the edges would suit her, the tan of the young girl’s skin standing out from the sunset and tree.

    Finally, I drew some lanterns, choosing a simple paper design. These protrude from a stick placed in the warm hands of the young girl, emiting a soft glow that lights up the darkness of the sunset. The little girl walked across the painting lighting every inch of my room.

    I compared the painting to the photograph I had in my hand. The little girl did my grandmother justice I thought. I was pleased.

  2. The flame horse ran through the silver forest, gold leaves scattered everywhere. The only forest it could run through. Survive in. The embers it left in its trail were a constant reminder to it that it was born of fire and destruction but also of love. One sacrifice to create the flame. One to kill the flame. A price for a life.
    Suddenly, it stopped, drawing to a halt as something sounded up ahead, where no-one should be.
    No-one came here. For it was seen as a cursed land. The villagers raved about the fire breathing horse that would burn you alive. For this reason, the people stayed just outside the forest, never coming in, never seeing the true glory of the horse. But this one day, a young foolish child was exploring. They had gone into the forest just to seek some game, but as the child delved further into the forest they started to notice the trees slowly turning silver with golden leaves and red ruby apples falling from the trees, the mixture of jewels sparkling in the moonlight.
    The horse realised it could not fly away from the boy so he dodged behind the trees, watching, following, eyes burning. His eyes burned with the hellfire he was born from, the longing he always felt leaking immensely. He needed a friend, but everyone ran from him. No-one understood him.
    The child looked to the sky, realising for the first time how far he’d come and how dark it was. He curled up in a hollow tree and fell asleep, praying it would not get cold. The horse’s first instinct was to run now the danger posed no threat, but when he looked at the child, he realised he could not leave him to suffer the fate of the forest, for while it was pretty in the day, it was deadly at night.

  3. What is this stability of our life? What do we hold onto? Our family? Our work? Our lives? When the wars evolve into technological warfare, what are humans? They are there to choose when to push a button. When Artificial Intelligence is perfected, the human race will be obsolete. We will be eradicated by the superior metallic race that we are now, ultimately trying to create. We are trying to create, perfect, and become those who will wipe us from existence.
    What have we achieved in the state of progression over the eons we have existed? Fire. The Wheel. Flight.
    What have we destroyed? Peace. The ground we walk upon. The air we breathe.
    As a race, we have successfully progressed ourselves into a time that we have destroyed so much, we are attempting to find others to replace us for our mistakes. What will become of our legacies? Our creations? They will all be decimated, or used against us. Our creations will become our demise.
    The only thing that keeps us on the single thread of logic and reason is the hope that we will one day be able to blame another for the mistakes that we have wrought upon the colossal creature that is Mother Gaia.
    Our existence is stagnant. We are creating the fabric of our destruction in the hope that it may save us from itself. What we can accomplish will be the only thing that can save us from our own accomplishments. Whichever course of action we take upon the mortal coil that we are all bound by, will ultimately become the complete possession of our lives.
    Our existence is stagnant. We are dooming our lives with our progression.
    We are forging the iron maul that will shatter the glass bell of the Human Race.

  4. “Wake up!”
    The shrill strident screech pierced the still air, penetrating the ears of a sleeping wolf, dressed in denim braces with the brightest white buttons. He was awake in a second, scrambling to his feet, his claws scratched the cold, solid ground beneath him. He rose to his feet, his eyes darted, animalistic in their manner. He took in his surroundings, drawing in short fearful breaths. The ground he stood on felt alien to him. It was too solid to be dirt. Too smooth, too perfect to be concrete or brick. It was like standing atop porcelain. The white ground spread around him in a circle, the outer ring decorated with eloquent blue swirls. To his left, he saw some long objects, the dim light of the room reflecting the dull grey colour. It was a glinting, sharp, weapon of an object… a knife and a fork!
    This set the wolf’s nerves on edge… until he looked up. All around him was darkness except a single blazing orange pupil, the slit barely noticeable. Blazing cruelly, as it glared down at him. The voice returned.
    “Sleep well, little wolf?”
    The voice was female, and took a sarcastic and sadistic tone, as if she enjoyed scaring him.
    “Are you ready to pay for your crimes?”
    This confused the wolf. He was about to speak up, only for the eyes glare to become stronger, discouraging him.
    “Do you not remember that girl in the red hood? Or those three little pigs and their tiny homes?”
    Terror seized the wolf’s gizzards, turning his insides to ice. He broke out in a cold sweat as the realisation hit him… he never thought he’d have to pay for those times.
    “I’m going to make you learn the pain they went through. For a crime of gluttony, I will bring you pain, through gluttony!” the voice cackled maliciously, as a single hand reached from the darkness and snatched up the knife and fork. The wolf yelped in anguish as the two soulless weapons of metal came down at him.

  5. The coldness of war

    All I see is blood. A sea of scarlet. Everywhere is red, a picture of death and destruction. I waded through the bodies piled high from this war, looking for refuge from the biting cold. My young body is weary, broken by the war, just looking for a place to stay. The entire ground is an unforgiving no-man’s land, the latest victims of this never ending fight, fighting for what we believe in, but it just seems that we are all just dying needlessly. This is what the world has come to. We kill others, ending their lives to get a single scrap of bread. Times are hard. They don’t seem to be getting better.
    I see people like myself, child soldiers fighting for our parents’ cause, children killing children all in the name of “freedom”. We stand here, face to face, fighting to the death and all because our superiors tell us to, the lions leading the lambs to the slaughter.
    I continue on my quest to find a place to rest. The brisk, cold wind wrapping itself around me, slapping against my skin. The bodies began to dissolve into the crisp snow; a symbol of the innocence I once held, slowly being overpowered and tainted by the blood of war. I searched high and low for the campsite, the one simple constant of my life.
    I can’t wait for this to be over, to go home to my family, to see my friends and go back to life in peace. They say that all is fair in love and war but I can tell you first hand, war is loveless… and all the love lost can hardly be fair, can it?
    As I ascended the large stone steps, I started preparing for the next day; my life as a nine year old warrior.