Micro fiction

Micro fiction is fiction usually defined as being of less than 100 words. A neat form for coming up with ideas, it at first can be difficult as one must think very closely and concisely about what one wants to achieve. However, after spending some time writing them, they become fun and very fulfilling - and, as I just said, they're a great way for coming up with the kernels for larger ideas. As they say in studio kitchens and delivery rooms nationwide, here's one (well, several) I made earlier:

Writer’s Block

In five minutes, I’ll not remember what I’ve written. It’s pointless. I had a two-book deal for £50,000. I invited my friends round to the soiree – burgundy, canapés, a champagne toast. I could see Steven boiling away in the corner all evening, chatting nonchalantly despite the froth spuming from his mouth, invisibly. Bang! Sarah uncorked the champagne, I kissed her cheek. I went to the kitchen. Bang! He’d struck me with the knife block. ‘You hot shot bastard,’ he said. A pool of cooling blood, A&E… You might laugh, but it brings a new dimension to the phrase ‘writer’s block’.

The Writer’s Academy

‘Always use the active voice.’ he said, striking me in the temple. ‘Never use a trite statement, and avoid cliché like the plague.’ He reached into his duffle bag and pulled out a roll of grey masking tape. ‘Be specific to detail, but telling detail: it’s often what’s not said that’s most revealing.’ He swathed the tape around my head and mouth as if sealing a cracked engine. ‘And finally, always end with a twang – not a bang.’ He reached into the bag. A sharp object floated peripherally. He crouched down to eye-level. ‘So you want to be a writer?’

The Clown

Natasha had always hated clowns. She was seven the day her father bought her one from the Sunday market. Its smile seemed contorted, more a gaping sneer, empty and violent. Its cheeks were the dun red of dried blood. Its clothes were vagabonds’ clothes – damp, unfunny, filthy. She remembered how it stood on her dresser, a crow perched on a tarnished bone. And then one day she threw it into the garden pond. Now she gets up every morning, applies the white face paint and rouge, looks in the mirror, thinks, my eyes are looking more unreal with each day.

Irreversible

It can’t be changed. I’ve done something terrible. I didn’t mean to – I didn’t see him. He ran out into the road. You must believe me! Oh, God! He came from nowhere – it was pitch black. I drove off into the night wind like a wild animal, the engine howling, the image of a small, white contorted shape suspended ghostly in the overhead mirror. It was pitch black. He came from nowhere. Oh, God! You must believe me! He ran out into the road. I didn’t see him – I didn’t mean to! I’ve done something terrible: it can’t be changed.

How to Make a Human Being

As she dipped into the page, he stepped out from it. Steadily, remarkably, the flesh built upon itself. First a leg: enmeshed in tendons and ligaments, bound in muscle and blood vessels. Femur, tibia, fibula - with each new word a new limb. The chest began to heave. Nerve endings shot through him, a fish caught in a net of sensation. A small, sensitive area bulged between the legs. A fine carpet of keratin crept from his scalp. Two aqueous blobs coalesced in his sockets. Skin danced upon him, pulling him taut. She closed the book: Human Biology for Dummies.