Issue March 2010 Flash Fiction Online March 2010

In this month’s column, I want to address two things at once. The first follows naturally on the previous topic of how short flash fiction can be: How long can we make flash fiction? And because my answer to that question is odd and peculiar and won’t be to everyone’s taste, I also want to write about a variety of narrator who is well suited for telling a story in very few words. The link that holds these two subjects together is this month’s sample story.

Wanting to make flash fiction long may seem like a strange desire until you consider the variable demands of the literary marketplace. Some editors don’t want to see fiction submissions under a given word count. What is a writer of thousand-word stories to do?

Certainly the answer is not to pad. A story that works at a thousand words (or three hundred) achieves an effect suitable for that length. Adding words probably isn’t going to turn a short-short into a short story. It’s just going to make it flabby.

My favorite way to make a longer work out of flash is to write several pieces that belong together, either because they are thematically related, pass story elements between stories like cells swapping genes, or are complete stories that also form a larger story arc. In the first case, the stories might simply explore similar subject matter from different angles and then be arranged together under a common title. If the total collection still amounts to only a few thousand words, then you have a piece to be submitted to magazines or anthologies as “a story.” If the total collection runs to tens of thousands of words, then you may have a book that, although a “collection of short stories” (a weak publishing category these days) might benefit from being a collection of related stories. Finally, if the collective work is long and has a unified arc that moves through all the stories of the collection, you have “a novel in short-short stories,” which for marketing purposes you would probably be wise to simply call a novel.

You can do your own research into novellas and novels constructed out of flash fictions. I don’t know of very many, but I can at least suggest Mark Budman and Roberta Allen as writers who’ve had some success with this approach. I’ve never tried it myself. What I want to focus on instead is a special case, my favorite case, for building a unified work from an assortment of flash fictions: the symmetrina.

A while back, in introducing the “word loop,” I wrote about constrained writing, an approach to writing that imposes artificial rules on the writer for no reason other than some writers find doing such things fun, and some readers enjoy the resulting work. The mostly-French group Oulipo, a loose confederation of mathematicians and writers, is perhaps the best-known proponent of such literary games. The best-known Oulipian is probably Italo Calvino, but the writer who was most persistently and successfully “constrained” was probably George Perec, who wrote the novel A Void without using the letter e, wrote a novella in which e is the only vowel, and won the Prix Médicis for Life: A User’s Manual, a novel built on too many constraints for me to name them all here. I’ll just note that that the pattern of a knight’s movement on a chess board provides one of the rules.

Some constrained writing is more interesting for having successfully followed its rules than for the story it tells, and to me, such writing fails. I want a story created with constraints to be read and enjoyed by readers who perhaps intuit that something strange is going on, but enjoy the story anyway even if they never figure out what that something might be. The symmetrina is a fixed form that is on one hand loaded with rules and on the other hand open enough that the stories are still running the show, not the rules.

Here, then, are the rules of a symmetrina. It consists of an odd-numbered series of stories. Each story must be able to stand alone. All of the stories are written to a common theme, which must be named in the overall title. Ideally, though, the title names the theme in an oblique or sly way.

Each constituent story is written to a set word count. The word count for each story is either the number n (which is any positive integer of the author’s choosing) or a multiple of n. The number must appear somewhere in at least one of the stories. For example, in a symmetrina where n=238, a character might be holding two .38 Specials, might check his watch at 2:38, or might have plans for the twenty-third of August.

The word count of stories will start at n and grow bigger with each story until the middle story is reached. Then the stories will grow shorter in the opposite sequence until the last story is n words long. As for the pattern of growth, that’s up to the writer. Any logical sequence can be used. I’m fond of the Fibonacci numbers, which are 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, and so on, adding the two previous numbers to get the next one. So a Fibonacci symmetrina with an n of 238 might have stories of the following word counts: 238, 238, 476, 714, 1190, 714, 476, 238, 238. The title of each flash does not count toward its word count.

Finally, the first and last stories must be written in the first person (I or we). The second and next-to-last stories must be written in the second person (you). The other stories must be in third person (he, she, Bill, Rachel).

That’s it. According to these rules, a symmetrina must be at least five stories long, but there is no upper limit. Instead of the Fibonacci numbers, a writer could double n each time, or use the series of square numbers.

This is a fun form to use as an excuse for creating with other writers. I collaborated with five other writers to put together a collage of stories on the theme of protest for an issue of Indiana Review. But I like writing symmetrinas as solo efforts and have published them in a variety of magazines and anthologies.

The sample story for this month comes from one of the first-person stories that made up the Indiana Review symmetrina. I hope you’ll find that it stands on its own. And it’s also an example of a point of view that I think is well suited for flash: the collective narrator, or the first-person plural. We.

There are some longer stories that use a collective narrator. William Faulkner’s A Rose for Emily is such a story, but the “we” telling that story soon fades into the background, and the reader easily forgets that “the whole town” is telling this story, or at least one person who is speaking for the whole town. And I think it’s a good thing that the reader forgets. Like so many techniques that can work for a brief time, I think that a “we” narrator grows tiresome if the reader is reminded of it. Soon the reader is liable to be distracted by thoughts about just who “we” are, and how often does any collective speak for long with a unified voice? “We” swiftly becomes an awkward device.

But in a story of only a few hundred words, there isn’t enough time for the collective voice to become awkward. It can, in fact, become strangely powerful. With that, I give you “We Stand Up” and ask you to consider what other collectives you can think of that have a story worth telling in such a voice.

The image was particularly nice: a yellow and black weaverbird caught in the act of building one of their hanging, gourd-shaped nests on his anti-tank cannon mount. It was a keeper; Akili just had to decide which picture to give up in exchange. He had plenty of power left in his superconductor ring — enough for years of twenty-four-hour imaging. But not enough memory to hold more than thirty seconds at a time. And even less space for long-term storage. The thermobaric warhead that the rebels used to initiate the ambush had savaged him. Besides the loss to his memory cores and all but one of his cameras, his central wiring harness had been severed, leaving him completely immobile on the side of this Kenyan foothill.

Akili examined the two images he permitted himself to keep in long-term storage. One was of Captain Orongo, hat pushed back on his head, relaxed and laughing the day before their last patrol. Akili hesitated. He wished he could have done something to help during the ambush. But unable to move, all he could do was watch the hyaenas drag off what was left the next day. This image was now the only thing he had to remind himself of the Captain.

The other image was of a three-month-old sunrise. It was indeed beautiful — a blended palette of purples and reds that tinctured half the sky. But there would be other sunrises. So he deleted the image and put the weaverbird beside the Captain.

Days became weeks, and other weaverbirds arrived and built their nests on his cannon mount. Akili enjoyed watching them work. It made him happy — the birds had come to depend on him, but in a way different than the Captain had.

Akili was turned inward one morning, reviewing the short-term images of yesterday’s nest-making progress, when he suddenly became aware of his gun mounts and targeting processor. He turned his attention outward. Forty-seven point three meters downhill sat an empty cargo truck. Beside him, two men — neither in uniform — cursed as they shoved on his scarred and dented left leg, trying to knock him over.

The flechettes from Akili’s anti-personnel rifle made tiny pops as they broke the sound barrier. One man gave a short yelp, his chest sawed open. The other simply fell, a pink cloud hiding the ruins of his face. Target: Rebels and/or scavengers, his processor whispered. Directive: self-preservation.

Akili concurred. Besides, in rocking him, they had knocked down several nests.

Query: current mission status?

They’d been ambushed. Not only had they not completed their patrol, he’d been unable to protect Captain Orongo. A failure all the way around, Akili thought.

Query: secondary mission/objective?

Akili hesitated. Until a few moments ago, he hadn’t been able to even react to the outside world. A quick functions check showed he’d regained his weapons, short-range millimeter radar and targeting processor. During this time, neither the truck nor the bodies had moved. But there were now too many gaps along the cannon mount for his liking. Just then, a pair of weaverbirds flew up and landed, shrieking their anger.

Trucks were expensive; whoever had sent the two men would want it back. But the bodies crumpled at his feet would serve as an appropriate warning. Anti-personnel area denial in a 360-degree, twenty meter radius, Akili thought, then added all four-legged animals above one kilogram for good measure.

Interrupt: insufficient memory for database necessary to implement new mission. Continue?

So Akili asked how much memory would be necessary. The answer made him pause: all but 16 of the undamaged bytes he possessed. If he initiated the area-denial mission, there would be no room in the memory cores for his higher functions. He would cease to exist.

Akili spent a moment pondering this. He studied the image of Captain Orongo, then took another look outside. One of the two weaverbirds still sat on his cannon mount. Its mate reappeared a moment later, a long blade of grass dangling from its beak, then began patiently bending the grass around his cannon, beginning a new nest.

He hoped the Captain would have understood. The weaverbird flew off to get another blade. Akili tracked it with his camera until it was out of sight, then told his targeting processor to go ahead.

A man carrying a small red box in one hand walked slowly down the street. His old straw hat and faded garments looked as if the rain had often beaten upon them, and the sun had as many times dried them upon his person. He was not old, but he seemed feeble; and he walked in the sun, along the blistering asphalt pavement. On the opposite side of the street there were trees that threw a thick and pleasant shade: people were all walking on that side. But the man did not know, for he was blind, and moreover he was stupid.

In the red box were lead pencils, which he was endeavoring to sell. He carried no stick, but guided himself by trailing his foot along the stone copings or his hand along the iron railings. When he came to the steps of a house he would mount them. Sometimes, after reaching the door with great difficulty, he could not find the electric button, whereupon he would patiently descend and go his way. Some of the iron gates were locked, their owners being away for the summer, and he would consume much time striving to open them, which made little difference, as he had all the time there was at his disposal.

At times he succeeded in finding the electric button: but the man or maid who answered the bell needed no pencil, nor could they be induced to disturb the mistress of the house about so small a thing.

The man had been out long and had walked far, but had sold nothing. That morning someone who had finally grown tired of having him hanging around had equipped him with this box of pencils, and sent him out to make his living. Hunger, with sharp fangs, was gnawing at his stomach and a consuming thirst parched his mouth and tortured him. The sun was broiling. He wore too much clothing — a vest and coat over his shirt. He might have removed these and carried them on his arm or thrown them away; but he did not think of it. A kind woman who saw him from an upper window felt sorry for him, and wished that he would cross over into the shade.

The man drifted into a side street, where there was a group of noisy, excited children at play. The color of the box which he carried attracted them and they wanted to know what was in it. One of them attempted to take it away from him. With the instinct to protect his own and his only means of sustenance, he resisted, shouted at the children and called them names. A policeman coming round the corner and seeing that he was the centre of a disturbance, jerked him violently around by the collar; but upon perceiving that he was blind, considerably refrained from clubbing him and sent him on his way. He walked on in the sun.

During his aimless rambling he turned into a street where there were monster electric cars thundering up and down, clanging wild bells and literally shaking the ground beneath his feet with their terrific impetus. He started to cross the street.

Then something happened — something horrible happened that made the women faint and the strongest men who saw it grow sick and dizzy. The motorman’s lips were as gray as his face, and that was ashen gray; and he shook and staggered from the superhuman effort he had put forth to stop his car.

Where could the crowds have come from so suddenly, as if by magic? Boys on the run, men and women tearing up on their wheels to see the sickening sight: doctors dashing up in buggies as if directed by Providence.

And the horror grew when the multitude recognized in the dead and mangled figure one of the wealthiest, most useful and most influential men of the town, a man noted for his prudence and foresight. How could such a terrible fate have overtaken him? He was hastening from his business house, for he was late, to join his family, who were to start in an hour or two for their summer home on the Atlantic coast. In his hurry he did not perceive the other car coming from the opposite direction and the common, harrowing thing was repeated.

The blind man did not know what the commotion was all about. He had crossed the street, and there he was, stumbling on in the sun, trailing his foot along the coping.

Stephen cradled Mara in his arms. She was light, but awkward to carry because of her trees. A blood willow grew from her shoulder and hid her face behind a curtain of crimson leaves. Its trunk was pale and gnarled.

They’d taken this path to visit her father’s grove, back when Mara could walk. Now a cottonbone tree grew from her thigh and locked her knee perpetually straight. The roots extended down her leg and dangled from the tips of her toes.

Natasha and Evan toddled along behind him with Grandma Angie between them.

“See the cottonbone trees?” Angie pointed at a grove. “Grew a long time to get that big.”

The bleached-white cottonbones stretched up into the clouds. Scattered among them were the smaller blood willows, with branches sagging down to the ground instead of reaching to the sky. Bright red blossoms dotted the branches like a troupe of ladybugs.

“Will Mommy bloom too?” Natasha asked, noticing the flowers.

“We’ll see,” he answered.

“Stephen,” Mara called, “come look at this.”

She stood in front of the bathroom mirror with her shirt knotted up above her rounded belly. He smiled. “Are the twins playing soccer in there?”

“No, this.” She pointed to a red bump on her hip.

“Bug bite?”

“It’s been like this for three days. I’ve been nauseous, but I thought it was the twins.” She picked at the bump with her fingernail and winced.

“Well that’s why it hasn’t gone away. You’re picking at it,” he scolded, laughing and grabbing her hand.

There was a dot of blood on her fingernail. He wiped it away and opened the medicine cabinet to look for a bandage. When he turned around, Mara was crying.

A blood willow sapling had sprouted from her hip.

Mara’s clearing was covered with moss. Stephen set Mara down on the blanket of green. Her breath came in gasps.

“The other way,” she said.

He turned her to face her father’s grove. Stephen had never met him. Mara insisted he was there in the grove — that the curve of his pelvic bone formed the base of a cottonbone tree and his heart hid inside the trunk of a blood willow.

Grandma Angie took the twins to his grove, and Evan hoisted himself up into the cottonbone branches. Stephen turned to call him down, but Mara whispered, “Let him. Papa so rarely gets to play with his grandchildren.”

“He’s not there,” Stephen said. He pulled the blood willow branches aside so he could see Mara’s face. Her eyes were clear blue, but unfocused.

“He’ll be so happy that I’m here.”

Already her roots dug into the ground around her. Natasha ran up, nearly slipping on the slick moss. “Mommy, Grandpa is blooming! I picked you flowers.”

One corner of Mara’s mouth curled into a smile. “Hang them where I can see them, okay?”

Natasha draped the bright red blossoms over the cottonwood on Mara’s leg.

“Give Mommy a kiss.”

Natasha obliged, then wandered back to her grandpa’s grove.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Mara said.

“We’ll stay.”

Stephen stroked the side of her neck. He could feel the bulge of the roots beneath her skin.

“And after?” Mara asked.

“We’ll stay.” He didn’t know what else to say.

“Hold still,” Stephen said.

Mara lay face down on the bed. A cottonbone sapling poked out from her shoulder blade. It was as thin as hair, and silver-gray. He gripped it with the tweezers.

“Ow, ow, ow.”

“I haven’t started yet.”

“Leave it.”

“We can’t. The doctor said to pull them early.”

He yanked. Mara buried her face in the pillows. The sapling dangled from the tweezers, three inches of roots stained red with her blood. He chucked it in the trash. Mara rolled over, revealing a blood willow on her stomach.

“It’s getting worse.” He ran his fingers over the stretch marks the twins left behind.

“The seeds are in my blood,” she said. “We’ll never keep up. Pull this one, then let them be.”

He grabbed the willow with the tweezers and tore it out. She cried from the pain, and he hurled the offending tree against the window. The sapling left a trail of Mara’s blood as it slid down.

The sun set, and the air turned crisp and cool. “Should I take the twins home?” Angie asked.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Mara whispered through the roots in her throat.

“I’ll stay,” Stephen said.

Mara didn’t answer. Natasha and Evan pushed in under her branches.

“Time to go home, Mommy,” Natasha told her.

Mara strained against her roots to bring one arm up and stroke Natasha’s cheek. “Go with Grandma, and be good, okay?”

She reached for Evan, but he was too far away. Stephen nudged him forward.

“That goes double for you young man. You be good for Angie and Daddy.”

“Bye, Mommy,” he said. He put his head against her cheek. “I’ll come climb you tomorrow.”

Angie hugged Mara, then led the twins away.

Stephen leaned against the trunk of Mara’s willow and cradled her head in his lap. They talked about the twins, about Angie, about anything that wasn’t trees. When she got tired, he talked for both of them, a constant chatter so she’d know she wasn’t alone.

“Stephen,” Mara whispered. He stopped talking for the first time in hours. She coughed and gasped. Stephen brushed his fingers over her hip, her stomach, her neck. He remembered the trees they’d pulled, small victories before this final, crushing defeat.

Silence filled the clearing. There was no wind to shake the leaves, and no breath to rasp and rattle in Mara’s chest.

Stephen stayed and talked to her trees. The sun rose, and in the warmth of morning, Mara’s willow smelled faintly of flowers. He pulled her branches closer and squinted in the morning light. Scattered among her leaves were tightly curled red buds, flowers beginning to bloom.

 

My future daughter-in-law Janey told me exactly how it would go down and what to say. She’s been doing this for a while now, so she had this Nancy lady down pat, from the extra-extra smile to the cautious handshake to the little sing-song apologies dangling off each phrase. Everything went just like she said it would. The words felt awkward in my mouth, like pieces of food that’re too big to chew, and I thought that Nancy was on to me right up until she says, That sounds terrific, Mr. Cortinas.

You can call me Gordo, I say.

It’s called a non-profit but everyone at the office is obviously making a killing. The kids are called minority and emotionally challenged but there’s a lot more of them and they show a lot more emotions than the staff. It’s a care facility but the windows are barred. The list goes on and on, but still, I like my job. The building’s one of these old gothic type numbers on the not-yet-gentrified end of Lorimer. Used to be an opera house or something, so it’s still got all that good run-down music hall juju working for it. I show up at 9 PM on the dot, because Janey said my sloppy Cuban time won’t cut it here so just pretend I’m supposed to be in at eight and I’ll be alright. And it works.

They set up a little desk for me by a window on the fifth floor. Outside I can see the yard and past that a little park. I find that if I smoke my Malagueñas in the middle of the hallway, the smell lingers like an aloof one-night stand till the morning and I get a stern/apologetic talking to from Nancy and then a curse out from Janey. So I smoke out the window.

A little after midnight, the muertos show up. They’re always in their Sunday best, dressed to the nines, as they say, in pinstriped suits and fancy dresses. Some of them even have those crazy Spanish flamenco skirts on. They wear expensive hats and white gloves. While the children sleep, the dead gather around my little desk on the fifth floor foyer and carry on. Mostly they dance, but a few of them bring instruments: old wooden guitars and basses, tambores, trumpets.

It was four-thirty in the morning, two Thursdays ago, when I noticed the kids were joining our festivities. They mingled with the muertos like it was some pre-pubescent/post-mortem sleepover party. There was John Carlo showing two faded shrouds some new two step, and nearby a few dapper dead fellows demonstrated the jitterbug, marking each step so the young ones could follow. It was really very touching, right up until Nancy appeared in the doorway with her mouth wide open.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

She wanted to know the same thing, but she said it more forcefully and, really, what could I say back?

Outside, I took in the still dark morning. Newly unemployed, I felt strangely fresh. Soon it would be breakfast time. Small faces gazed through barred windows as I walked away. Perhaps they were watching the jaunty procession of shadows that followed in my wake.