christopher

I was taught this one form of writing once and only once. Called flash fiction, you create a narrative in less than 250 words. If you are conscious of how few words you use to develop a story, then each word carries significance. That's the idea, at least. The catch? You can't call attention to the world's significance because no one would take you seriously.

"Lift up that pillow; your keys are underneath," no longer means anything. Then it starts.

The world becomes flash fiction. It's a story of getting a cup of coffee while trying to hold your fat-pants up, a story of walking from your house to the bus, a story of getting dressed to go to sleep, and a story of packing your bag.

Nouns become verbs, and vice versa. You get the idea.

Also, it helps to write when you first wake up. Morning makes the cup of coffee and the belt left on the floor significant. The bus fare and the broken bag zipper? All significant. The pillow and keys all mean something. You notice how often you miswrite "word" and "world."

You make a list of things you could write about, and you count the words that you misspell; you keep a close eye on the count. And at the end of this two-hundred-and-fifty word dash, you realize the catch: you must twist and bend the world while you let it trickle down your fingers.

The trick is that you can't hold it for more than 250 words.