Most of my reading the past week has been flash fiction aka short-shorts or micro-fiction. I don’t think there’s a universally agreed upon definition of flash fiction but I consider it flash if I can read it in under about 5 minutes. I really like flash – it fits in with my minimalist sensibilities and I think it takes a certain kind of talent to strip a story down to as few words as possible but still pack a punch. I like that I can read a story or two in small chunks of time throughout the day. I like the variety and the challenge of reading different voices and styles. So today I’m sharing some great flash pieces I read over the past week, many of which are from Fictionaut which is a good resource for flash and poetry as well as some longer pieces. New pieces are posted there every day so there’s no lag-time like there is with more traditional journals. Here are my picks:
Touching Jim by Juhi Kalra
Grandma by Donnie Wesley Baines (Don’t let the title fool you.)
At the Lip of the Swimming Lake by Meg Pokrass
Black Purse by Lucinda Kempe
The Piano Player’s Dead Rejoice by Nonnie Augustine
From WhiskeyPaper: Wild Hearts by Amanda Miska and Leesa Cross Smith
From James Claffey: The Chirr of the Cicada
From New World Writing: Strings by Kathy Fish
From Connotation Press: Comings and Goings and Solstice by Gary Percesepe, preceded by a great interview by Meg Tuite. This is a quote from Gary that I really like: “I love that flash fiction is thriving, as a kind of middle finger to the publishing powers-that-be, a kind of quiet desperation that would please the slumbering Thoreau in Walden, the most un-marketable thing imaginable, and a harbinger (the dreamer in me wants to say) to the writerly/readerly democracy which is yet to come.”
And our book list of the week comes from Book Riot: Book Club Suggestions If Your Most Diverse Pick Was “The Help”
Poem of the week is by Sam Rasnake who has graciously given permission to post here in its entirety. Thanks, Sam!
by Sam Rasnake
I’m the one-eyed troll,
wet, muddy, long nails scratching
stone from dirt below the bridge
while I wait for the boards to creak.
I’m the bridge or the cold
impatient river, or the sky
upside down, blue and white on water.
Mostly, I’m the goat,
my teeth full of grass,
wanting only mountains,
and time to lift my puzzled chin
to what must happen next.
I just love this poem because I’ve felt like the troll, the water, the goat at one time or another. Also, The Three Billy Goats Gruff gave me nightmares as a child and that’s a memory that’s stayed with me through life. Isn’t it funny how that happens?
Remember to check our Pinterest Board throughout the week for more Hot Reads and have a great reading week!