Flash Fiction

Flash Fiction has been around for years. It’s the art of writing incredibly short stories. The precise definitions vary; some editors consider 1000 words to be a micro story, others insist on 75 words, sometimes less.

We here at Vision feel like this is the perfect style of story for our rushed and hectic lives. It’s a succinct, short-and-sweet style that, while being a refreshingly speedy read, can carry as much meaning as the most dense and lengthy of novels.

The beautiful thing about flash fiction is that, despite its diminutive size, there are no limits; flash fiction can be of any genre, any style, can take a panoramic view on the vastest of human situations or focus in on the most mundane event and infuse it with meaning.

Here, we have two examples of flash fiction, written by our very own students

One Point Two

“You’re not one point two metres tall,” I told her.She was bouncing on her feet like a runner warming up. I didn’t like her shoes: faded red trainers with frayed laces, loosely worn. She slid about with each step.
“I will be,” she said. “You’ll see.”
She stood still. She’d grown. I blinked, then I realised; she was standing on tiptoes. “That won’t work.”
“Watch.” She shook her shoes. The soles hit the ground. My shoes were nicer than hers: black leather pumps, shiny like pebbles, patterned with daisies. They moulded tight to my feet. The gate opened, an assistant waited. He was a guard of old, gripping his ruler like a battle-axe.
“He looks scary.”
“He looks bored.” I squinted, looking at the girl as if through the wrong end of a telescope. Who was she? Where was her mum? Mine, with a red lipstick smile, stood tall behind the crowd. The queue was shortening, the girl tottered forwards. I smiled smugly: she wouldn’t get through. We stopped. I looked up; the assistant glared down. The measuring stick swung clean over my head. “You have to be one point two metres tall to go on this ride.” I stood aside. The rollercoaster lurched awake with a mechanical whirr. It picked up speed. In the blurred rush of colour, I could see her: in the front seat, arms raised face flush with excitement. My cheeks reddened for another reason. Elizabeth Bingham

A Moment

London. The Strand, thronging. He bucks the current. A myriad of faces flitting past. There’s a red hat, blue eyes, a yellow coat in the midst of suits and court heels. His fingertips brush hers as they pass and there is a sudden jolt. It’s a physical pain, a sharpness that travels up his arm and rests on the nape of his neck. He gasps, and the sound of his heart beating violently drowns out all else as he turns to look at her. She stops to look at him. In that moment, he sees their future. She’ll love The Smiths, write poetry, go for long walks in the fens, he’ll propose to her on a mountain in Peru as the sun rises. Their wedding will be simple and delicate; their first home will be small but neat; they’ll laugh over building a Benny bookshelf and make love in the debris of the assembly kit. It won’t all be simple, they’ll squabble over her long hours, or his devotion to music magazines, but they’ll have two beautiful children with her eyes and his sense of humour. They’ll retire and travel the world together before moving to a cottage in Yorkshire, only the clacking of knitting needles interrupting the silence of their bliss.She is looking at him, eyebrows raised and biting a corner of her lip before she begins to talk, he can’t hear her, all he knows is that spark, that incredible jolt of attraction that’s stopped him in his tracks.’Pardon?’ he says.’Sorry! Static!’, and she melts back into the crowd. Gone. Joanna Barrow