Friday Flash Fiction

Today's audio instalment is up over at http://ianhocking.com/Fiction_Flash/Fiction_Flash/Fiction_Flash.html.

Flash fiction

Question: Is flash fiction an art form in itself, or an excuse to write for about thirty seconds, look challengingly at the cat and say, "And"? Who knows. But flash fiction - also known as sudden fiction, Kato-from-the-cupboard prose, and mashed stanza - has a peculiar appeal. It's short; sharp. Very occasionally shocking.

You'll find many bloggers dabbling with flash fiction. A brief glance at my newsreader app reveals sciffy author Gareth D Jones, Managing Director of the Velcro City Tourist Board Paul Raven, and sciffy author Gareth L Powell, all of whom are blogging flash fiction on Fridays.

Readers of this blog - hey, Dad - will be aware that I've ventured into the flash fiction before. See Stone Sun, for example.

But, Saturday morning, when I was reading the Guardian Weekend, I noticed several 'new media' types on the cover (podcasters, mostly, including Alex Albrecht.) I mentioned to my girlfriend how it's possible now to produce professional(ish) quality audio and video without big-money backing. I must have sounded rather pompous and knowing, because she said, "Well, why don't you do one?"

I blinked once.

Twice.

And here it is, m'readers. My FICTION FLASH. As a correspondent of mine, TheDudeAbides, noted, FICTION FLASH has a Twitter-like feel to it, and I'm happy about that.

FICTION FLASH will be released every Friday evening (GMT). It has an iTunes 'explicit' tag because of the occasional strong language. It will tend not to be science fiction; for some reason I'm not able to fathom, my short fiction seems to be of the non-genre sort. Episodes should be about one minute in length. It might be fun to have some guest flash fictioners - if you're interested, let me know.

Click here to go to the FICTION FLASH website.

Click here to open FICTION FLASH in iTunes

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Fiction flash: Mix tape

There is an element of capture and preservation in the act of creating a mix tape for a friend. ___ is a poet. He understands metric; blends new words as hues from the primes; writes with a wooden foundation pen. It is summer as he swaps out the second cassette. James Brown for The Kinks. It is summer in his poems too. It is...it is as his left hand makes the chords shapes of Lola that he decides to take his car and drive to the golf course, drive across the golf course, ripping the fuck from the grass of the golf course, and launch off the cliff and into the sea. But ___ is a poet. There is, first, the last song of the mix tape.

Flash Fiction: Stone Sun

It is all for a right turn of the head, mid-field, and there is the sunset. The mud explodes from foot to foot, from foot to foot, and the now-gone sun makes a stain. My airless mouth hangs in shock. My hands flop and a stone trips me back to last Friday, discussing the hard problems of consciousness with some students. Finally: a bird. What is it like to be a bat? What is it like to run and run?

Fiction flash: The Pilgrim

His sadness is my sadness; this man in the subway with his back against the tiles and a Russian-looking cap open by his crossed ankles. His eyes are hard on the cap. He might be expecting magic. I wonder, passing, giving up none of my money, whether his stare is an answer to coming police questions about moving on. How has the young man etched himself into this routine? Are the pennies in the cap his? Do the tiles at his back remember him when he is moved on? The subway tells the Canterbury Tales in cartoonish, life-sized figures. A knight; a baker; a wife.