A Story of One Hundred Words

Recently my writing professor challenged the class to a flash fiction writing assignment of exactly one-hundred words.

In brief, flash fiction is a short form of storytelling. Defining it by the number of words or sentences or even pages required to tell a story, however, is impossible, for it differs from writer to writer, editor to editor. Some purists insist that it is a complete story told in less than 75 words; others claim 100 should be the maximum. For less-rigid flashers, anything under 1,000 words can be considered flash-worthy. And there are even a few who stretch their limits to 1,500 words.

Not only is the definition of flash fiction unstable, but the name is as well. Pamelyn Casto recounts its various titles in her article Flashes on the Meridian: Dazzled by Flash Fiction:

Other names for it include short-short stories, sudden, postcard, minute, furious, fast, quick, skinny, and micro fiction. In France such works are called nouvelles. In China this type of writing has several interesting names: little short story, pocket-size story, minute-long story, palm-sized story, and my personal favorite, the smoke-long story (just long enough to read while smoking a cigarette). What's in a name? That which we call flash fiction, by any other name would read as bright.

To up the ante, my professor insisted we use the following specific words in our very short story:
beard, orange, hollow, fences. This is the result of my efforts:

I dreamt this salt-kissed fantasy of pressing my nose to that empty hollow between your collar bones, and inhaling the orange and bergamot of your beard oil as my fingers trailed over your skin like I was mapping out a hidden treasure.

It was midnight. That way, I didn’t freckle as we kissed. It wasn’t an exotic swath of sand where the scent of coconuts has its place. It was our beach – temperamental, sometimes fog shrouded, windy, and taciturn – a moody bitch. And yet... beautiful, for her elusiveness. Wild and somehow untamed, despite the careful signage and fences and rules.

What about you? What sort of story would you tell if you only had one-hundred words to convey it?
 

Monday Mouthful - Short Story Challenge

For my writing class last week, we had the challenge to write a short story no more than 400 words in length. This is not easy for me, I love words. It was a lesson in word economy and I like my end result. I hope you do as well.

Like a Moth on Pavement

“What the hell is wrong with the doors?” Jace tossed his usual Marlboro Menthols on the register belt and stared, interrupting my Friday night penance at the express register.  Most nights Jace left me alone, and I ignored that he watched me from the office’s one-way glass. 

His green eyes flicked over me, settling on my name tag. “I’m calling maintenance, but hell if I am waiting around. Neither are you.”

The stifling air seeped into the temperature controlled purgatory, making the automatic doors stick. I was melting; from the humid air or the heat radiating from his gaze I couldn’t be sure. The overnight cashier arrived, sauntering over to Jace. She leaned into his ear, and whispered. He stepped back and gave her a curt nod.

 We stepped outside after shift. The parking lot was covered with moths. Their powder white wings were stuck to the hot asphalt. I was a moth, drawn to Jace’s heat. He laced his fingers in mine as we watched another wave answering the blacktop’s siren song.

 “She’s not my girlfriend if you’re wondering.”

I shot him a look. “Who’s to say I was?”

 “Who’s to say you weren’t?”

“You don’t know me well enough to assume what I’d be thinking,” I scoffed.

“True,” he inched closer, “But, I’d like to get to know you.” He flashed a wicked grin.

His smile seemed to confirm those rumors; women dropped their panties for him on command. Tonight, I was one of those women. Impetuously I leaned in, pressing my lips against his. Jace kissed me as if he had done it a thousand times; as if I belonged to him.

“Colleen,” he whispered, touching his forehead to mine, “you aren’t anything like I expected.”

I spoke against his mouth, “You aren’t either.”

Jace’s rough cheek brushed against mine, “Aren’t moths attracted to light, not blacktop?” He breathed into my ear, “I guess they aren’t what they seem.”

I awoke to the feel of sandpaper against my cheek. “Knight! Damn it, stop licking my face!” I pushed my black kitten away, returning to dream where the moths broke routine and so did I.