When it’s 3 AM in the long, dark night of your soul, most people think about life, where they went wrong, and why they drank fourteen cups of coffee. Me? I think about flash fiction.
Flash fiction is like menopause––somehow it keeps happening, even though nobody wants it. And what about those hot flashes and cold chills that have honest women clawing at the drapes all over America? I’m still talking about flash fiction. I have some news for anyone who thinks flash fiction is NOT dead: flash fiction is dead. Also, pet rocks aren’t coming back. All the kids care about these days is drinking beer-tinis from a can and spouting “letter fiction” on poetry night.
Instructions For Making Letter Fiction:
It’s so easy a graduate of art college could do it. Take any two letters of the English alphabet and combine them! The result is magic. I’ve given a few tasty examples below:
Voiced by a recently divorced and rather overweight secretary of an import/export firm upon passing a cupcake shop while on her way to the tube station at King’s Cross.
Every man is an island, and all the island wanted was to watch the game. Why can’t the island watch the game? Don’t make this about us, Martha. You never liked cricket.
Hard-wired into the female brain by God and estrogen upon any request made by a male (unless Pomeranian).
It’s quite impolite and unsanitary to touch the front of a public bus, especially at forty miles per hour with your face.