Photo: Author
In just a couple of days, gifts that have been gathering under Christmas trees will be opened. Among them will be books of various genres; children’s books, novels, cookbooks, historical biographies, poetry and so on. While I doubt there will be many books of “flash fiction”, I am today offering a flash fiction Christmas present for everyone. Read on.
Well, you may say, that is all well and good, but what exactly is flash fiction? There are many ways for aspiring writers to take the plunge into getting published; sketching out a poem, working on a short story, tackling a novel. All have their challenges. Somewhere in the middle is “flash fiction”, a genre that has become increasingly popular in the digital age (when the ability to concentrate on any content seems to have diminished exponentially as more short-form digital content becomes available; tweets–remember them?–, Youtube reels, news snippets, AI summaries, and so on). Flash fiction resides somewhere between the short story and the microstory, with varying definitions. One I have seen limits the genre to 1500 words or less; other definitions place the limit at 300 words. My first engagement with flash fiction came recently when the Victoria Writers Society announced a contest for flash fiction entries not exceeding 500 words. I thought I would give it a try. I had joined the Society because they had been generous enough to let me speak to them about copyright, based on my book, In Defence of Copyright.
I was intrigued because I have never written fiction. While I routinely crank out a weekly blog (usually between 1200-1800 words, often struggling to keep it shorter rather than longer) I have always admired those who work for years on their opus. Writing a novel is no doubt a struggle unless you have the formula to churn them out like the late romance writer Barbara Courtland, who is reported to have produced over 600 titles that sold 650 million copies in various languages. She could produce a book in two weeks, always tied to the same formula of the impoverished heroine who meets her Prince Charming, marries (what did you expect?) and lives happily ever after. Of course, today AI can outdo that record, but I doubt if AI slop will ever be able to best Dame Courtland’s success.
Daunted by the task of attempting a novel, or even a short story, (and being inherently lazy), I thought that taking a run at creative writing within the limit of 500 words would be a good place to start. It wasn’t that easy. As Mark Twain is famously reported to have said, “I didn’t have time to write a short letter, so instead I wrote a long one.” Getting a story crammed into 500 words is a challenge. Apart from structuring the plot and ensuring a suitably arresting denouement, every word counts. It is a really good exercise to draft a piece and then go back and excise the flab. I found it amazing how much redundancy can be chopped. Editors already know this and are masters of making works more concise. Feedback was provided reminding entrants that;
“Each story still needs a clear conflict and a clear narrative arc, where the characters are changed or transformed in some significant way by the last sentence. An event simply happening or characters having an experience does not offer enough narrative movement to push a story along.”
After initially just thanking me for my efforts, to my great surprise the VWS then selected my entry, along with several others, to be published in their journal, Island Writer. You can judge for yourself whether the selection committee made a wise choice. While you could read my opus by purchasing the publication, for those readers outside the tight little circle of southern Vancouver Island, here it is. A Christmas present for you.
The Bench
“The chip path was soft underfoot. Ochre rays of the setting sun illuminated the salal and cedar ahead. A turn in the path and he emerged onto a headland where a gust of wind brought just a whiff of salt and seaweed. Across the water he could see the sun catch the snowcapped peaks of the Olympic range, tinting them pink. A large container ship, its lights sparkling, was highlighted against the darkening sea. Ahead he saw a viewing bench looking out across the water. At first, he thought there was no-one there, but then he saw a silhouette and realized someone was seated, facing the water, apparently reading a book. It was a woman.
He thought of the many times over the years he had walked this very path and inhaled this view. It had always revived and refreshed him, at times of stress or at times of reflection. He thought back on the different events in his life that had brought him to this place of repose. University studies, and the uncertainty that accompanies the future. Which career path? Will there be a partner to share the journey? Walking hand in hand with her, breathing in a whiff of fragrance from her hair. Putting their boy on his knee and pointing out to sea, looking at the freighters and sometimes a sailboat. Strolling in the evening with her before putting him to bed. Family picnics. Sitting on that very bench with the boy, now a teenager, listening to his growing pains, trying to offer counsel, building hope for the future. Celebrating his graduation with photos against a sea and mountain backdrop. Three generational family gatherings. And times of sadness too. Now once again, on this early April evening, he was alone. This was a place of a lifetime of memories.
The bench was just up ahead. He thought the woman was still there, but when he reached it as the shadows lengthened, she was gone. He knew this bench and its inscription. It had been there for years. Like most of the benches in the park, it had been donated in memory of someone who had once loved this spot. It said, “In loving memory of Lara Porter, April 1930-September 1995. This place brought her comfort”. Then he noticed the small book lying on the bench. It was a collection of poems by Dylan Thomas. It lay open at the work “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight”. He picked it up and read;
Do not go gentle into that good night
Old age should burn and rave at close of day
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
Flipping to the front of the book, he noticed the inscription. “To Lara, Much Love on your birthday, April 6, 1995”. Then the sudden realization. Today was the 6th of April. At that instant, the sun slipped beneath the horizon, continuing its journey west. He turned to see a radiant glow.”
There it is. The setting is Saxe Point Park in Esquimalt, overlooking the Strait of Juan de Fuca and looking across the water at the Olympic Range in Washington State. The story is a total fabrication. I did not grow up in Victoria and did not have a son. But there is a bench there inscribed in someone’s memory, but not Lara Porter.
It was an interesting exercise. Will I move on to a short story? I’m not sure. As I said, I am inherently lazy. But if you want to try your hand at writing, try a 500-word flash fiction. It’s a challenge, but fun. Go for it. Merry Christmas.
© Hugh Stephens, 2025. All Rights Reserved.