When writing stories of 750 words or fewer, the writer must successfully employ the skills of compression and concision. Compression mandates economy of words, the squeezing together of story line, beginning, middle, end, story arc, number of characters, dialogue and time frame. Tightness in writing and meaningful word choice offer the reader a deep and satisfying read.
The most crucial part of flash stories are their imagery and effective voice. Sometimes, a flash or micro might lose its story line and become so pregnant with imagery and poetic device that it births a prose poem. The two genres are beautifully incestuous.
One of my favorite authors in terms of writing style is Ernest Hemingway. He used a sparse writing technique and infused every word with meaning. Take a look at Hills Like White Elephants.
My teacher, and a famous modern-day author known for his minimalistic expertise, is Bruce Holland Rogers. Read his amazing piece titled Dinosaur and note how skillfully he handles the element of time.
Here is an example of a tiny story I played with to demonstrate compression. Before you read its revision at the end, decide which words the writer might cut. Can you eliminate or change words within this story without altering the overall meaning? How?
The Volunteer from America – Original: 292 words
Doctor Singh of the North Punjab Ashram wore her sari well. The green silk taffeta draped over her shoulders and bright yellow blouse in perfect folds. She unlocked the clinic door and brought in the first patient.
Rain gusted through flapping shuttered windows and twenty patients waited their turn under a narrow overhang.
“Give her the B12,” Doctor Singh said to the American nurse who fingered a tiny syringe, glanced at the patient and back at the doctor. “How much did you say?”
“Three ccs,” Dr. Singh whispered.
“These are TB syringes,” the nurse questioned. “They’re too small.”
The doctor raised her eyebrows and narrowed her black eyes.
The nurse looked at the doctor and at the patient. The patient glanced at the doctor and at the nurse. An anxious face pushed through the shutters. One, two, three writhing bodies piled into the front door, leaning, grasping, waving. Humid air hung heavy with sweat. Voices babbled in Hindi and Punjabi, rising to a crescendo, down again, up again, down. Tibetan prayer flags waved wildly in wind. Hair dripped onto the concrete floor, babies screamed, a dirty wet dog skedaddled through the clinic and cowered under a desk.
The nurse drew the amber liquid into the syringe, hesitated, wiped a patch of hip, jabbed in the steel, injected the medicine and placed a tiny band-aid with smiley faces over the spot.
“Next?” the nurse called out.
Doctor Singh pulled the nurse over. Her eighty year old hands worked up and down her long white braid.
“You and I both know,” she said. “It is not the medicine that gets the patient better.” She pointed towards the sky. “Get it?”
“Got it,” the nurse from America said.
But she didn’t get it at all.
I cut 78 words from the original, creating a microfiction (under 250 words). That is almost a third of the original. See what you think.
The Volunteer from America – Rewrite: 216 words
Doctor Singh of the North Punjab Ashram wore a green silk sari draped in perfect folds over her yellow blouse. She unlocked the clinic door for the first patient. Rain gusted through flapping shutters.
“Give her the B12,” Doctor Singh said to the American nurse who fingered the tiny syringe, glanced at the patient and back at the doctor. “How much did you say?”
“About 1 cc,” Doctor Singh whispered.
“These syringes are too small.”
The doctor narrowed her black eyes. The patient glanced at the doctor and at the nurse. An anxious face pushed through the shutter. Writhing bodies piled into the front door. Humid air hung heavy with sweat. Voices babbled in Hindi and Punjabi, rising to a crescendo. Prayer flags waved wildly in rain. Wet heads dripped onto concrete, babies screamed, a dirty dog dripped through the clinic. The nurse drew amber liquid into a syringe, hesitated, wiped a patch of hip, jabbed in steel, injected medicine, placed a tiny band aid with smiley faces over the spot.
“Next?” the nurse called out.
Doctor Singh’s eighty year old hands worked up and down her white braid. “It is not the medicine that gets the patient better.” She pointed to the sky. “Get it?”
But the nurse from America didn’t get it at all.
Prompt: Examine a story you have written and cut any words that end in “-ly.”
How does that change the story? Does it improve the writing?
Do you want to learn more about concise writing?
Join me at Santa Fe College in Gainesville for Writing Very Short Stories, six Thursdays, 6 pm to 7.30 pm, beginning January 23rd.
It is more difficult to write small, than to write long.
