A Flash Fiction Study
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University of Mary Washington Eagle Scholar Student Research Submissions Spring 5-3-2019 Hand Me Downs and Other Stories: A Flash Fiction Study Sarah Stephen Follow this and additional works at: https://scholar.umw.edu/student_research Part of the Creative Writing Commons Recommended Citation Stephen, Sarah, "Hand Me Downs and Other Stories: A Flash Fiction Study" (2019). Student Research Submissions. 275. https://scholar.umw.edu/student_research/275 This Honors Project is brought to you for free and open access by Eagle Scholar. It has been accepted for inclusion in Student Research Submissions by an authorized administrator of Eagle Scholar. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Hand Me Downs and Other Stories: A Flash Fiction Study Sarah Stephen Advisor: Colin Rafferty (ENGL 491) Department Chair: Gary Richards University of Mary Washington 3 May 2019 Stephen 2 Table of Contents Abstract ………………………………………….…………. 1 Author’s Statement ………………………………………... 2 Chapbook: Hand Me Downs ………………………….…..... 4 Reading Reflections ………………………………………... 24 Stephen 1 Abstract Flash fiction is generally classified as short stories fewer than one thousand words and has surged in popularity since the 1980s. Its contemporary roots cause it to be a highly experimental genre through form, content, and narrative techniques. This portfolio is both a critical study and creative exercise on flash fiction. It includes reflections on technical and creative flash fiction books that discuss what defines the genre and how it is exemplified by specific authors, as well as personal responses on the author’s understanding her own writing process and how she can apply flash fiction conventions to her work. This study culminates into a chapbook of twelve original pieces of flash fiction that reflect the author’s personalized understanding and creative approach to the genre. Stephen 2 Author’s Statement The first time I heard someone talk about flash fiction, I knew it was going to become something that I could never get out of my head. Back then, at the ripe old age of twenty, I thought I knew every form of storytelling out there; I thought I had rung them dry with my short stories of a few thousand words and poetry that talked too much about love because it didn’t know what else to do with itself. So hearing a friend mention this new kind of story with a catchy name filled me with curiosity and excitement. I ordered a stack of flash fiction collections, prepared to tear through them and stuff myself with content, and then didn’t touch most of them for months. I still haven’t. I’ve recently noticed that my favorite types of literature are ones that I would never attempt to write myself. I fall back on the excuse that I would never be able to achieve what these pieces do, and so it’s best to admire them as a reader and not a writer. This attitude is not just lazy, but self-sabotaging. To find a story that makes me curse in excitement is the best feeling I can wish upon myself, and my only goal as a writer to create that experience in my own work. So I’ve finally stopped staring at the pile of flash fiction on my desk and dared myself to make some of my own. Over the past four months, I’ve become acquainted with the ever-fluctuating genre that is flash fiction and what makes it memorable. I started this endeavor full of anxiety that I wouldn’t be able to write a successful flash piece to save my life, but the more I discovered about it, the more comfortable I became with it. What drew me to this genre to begin with is how blurred it is. It refuses to sit inside any established frame and instead makes a space for itself, spreading its edges over conventions for poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. It is so experimental that critics cannot reliably define it, and the Stephen 3 only consistent rules it seems to have is that it must be short, and the author must say it’s flash. Despite this inherent liminality, I found myself tying my pieces to the physical world as I created this chapbook. Each of these stories started with an object—something that sparked my interest and made me wonder how it could function as a character. I wondered how a person could have a relationship with something inanimate, what kind of influence it could gain, how far it could reach. I thought of how objects get passed along loved ones and strangers and leave faint trails wherever they go, like memories. I held my stories in my hands, split their edges apart and resewed them, and let their voices lap over one another. At the end of this project, each piece felt like a hand-me-down—small and a bit roughed-up, demanding to be shared with others. These stories were tests to see if I finally had the courage to take on a genre I have admired from afar and make it my own. The past few months have given me some well-needed reminders about the fluidity of literature and importance to never be totally comfortable with my own writing, otherwise I’ll never feel the need to change. I’m forever grateful to Colin Rafferty for his mentorship, openness, and encouragement as I navigated through the technicalities of flash fiction and found a definition of my own; to Kate Haffey for introducing me to all the spooky feminist writers; to Shyan Murphy, Joseph Hearl, Will Everett, Amani Redic, Justin Curtis, Hannah Killian, Olivia Blake, Sarah Giuseppe, and Nikolas Dennis for their wholehearted support and enthusiasm in this project throughout all its stages; and to Sarah Tan and Nick Papazian for being emotional rocks through every late night of work, stress-induced rant, and (rare) burst of pride. These stories are flashes of the world around me, and I couldn’t have found inspiration for any of them without the people who tether me to it. Thank you. Stephen 4 HAND ME DOWNS Stephen 5 PART ONE: RITUALS Stephen 6 How the Neighborhood Girls Run Their Monthly Slumber Party At dusk, their bare feet start pattering over the cooked cul-de-sac in an erratic drumbeat. They never wear satin pajamas. The fabric is too loose and slips over their thighs like a cold hand. Instead, they take button-downs from their father’s closets and chop up the sleeves with scissors, find old vacation tees from beaches and theme parks nibbled by moths, wear flannels until their elbows rub through the cotton. Hair flies loose, dripping down their backs like tails or springing off their heads in natural curls. Nails are bare and framed with dirt and glinting minerals that match their eyes. Elbows knock together like windchimes. They pilfer makeup from their mothers’ vanities and rub shadow into the hollows of their cheeks. They braid each other’s hair, weaving twigs into the knots, staining clumps with red berries. The fresh lines scratched into the backs of their necks read like fortunes. They bake cookies out of beetles and loose soil and steep tea with spiders’ nests. They pluck minnows from the stream and run the slick scales over their lips. Moss catches between their toes as they watch for meteors. Constellations smirk back at their waxy teeth. They don’t sleep with pillows, but tuck themselves into one another, heads resting on arms and legs and stomachs, tuned to the echoing pulses that pound against the earth beneath them. Before the sun fully rises, they find their way back, stumbling blindly across pavement, muddy footprints leaving a fresh trail for them to follow. Stephen 7 Whenever She Shops at Antique Stores, She Steals from the Clocks Sometimes it’s as simple as plucking out the batteries, crusted and flaking with powdered Zinc. Sometimes they’ve already been removed, so she picks off the second hands to use as toothpicks. In the older clocks, the ones of burnished gold and heaving chains, she snatches gears and hinges, scratches off paint until they are faceless statues, gaping. She pulls the tabs off fossilized soda cans, entombing the liquid inside. She tries to rub the names off license plates, bleeding rust onto her hands until her fingers throb red and brown, then coats her lips with the tangy powder. If she has time, she stops by the postcards and reads the ones cramped with twenty-cent stories about harbor towns and backyard chickens. She runs her thumb over the words, looking for warmth in the fuzzing paper muddled with lead. Once outside, she shoves her hands into her sloshing coat pockets, holds her currency just under her nose, and breathes deep. Stephen 8 Hunting Lessons The hunter woke on the forest floor to the smell of rot. He was propped against a wide tree, moss cushioning his spine, tucked underneath a mass of dead leaves that had not been there when he closed his eyes some time ago to rest. Uncertain fingers twitched against the shotgun lying parallel to his legs. Only his eyes moved as he scanned the woods around him, straining to find movement. His whole body itched with the feeling of being watched. Without welcome, his wife’s warnings drifted into his head. Her family had lived in this valley for more generations than he could count with his hands. They were as stuck to the land here as the rocks. Their accounts of the town were the backbone of its history, and the public library was filled with their tales of misplaced belongings and townspeople, ingrained in children’s minds by the time they started school.