One of the most exciting and challenging genres to write in is flash fiction.

Flash fiction is basically a very short story. It is also known as micro fiction or sudden fiction. There are many ways to tell if a piece falls into this genre but one tell-tale sign is length. Flash fiction never exceeds 1000 words. These pieces have no minimum word count but cannot go over this word limit.

It can be quite a task fitting an entire story into just 1000 words, but that’s part of the fun!

Here are a few common characteristics of flash fiction:
1. Structure: flash fiction still follows the traditional structure of beginning, middle, end with an element of conflict and narrative closure.
2. Setting: You don’t have a lot of space to play with so most flash fiction pieces take place in one setting.
3. Characters: Flash fiction pieces are mostly plot-driven, not character-driven. There should be no more than two characters in your piece.
4. Description: Just because they’re short, doesn’t mean they are short on description. Use all of the literary devices you normally would. Make sure to create a balance between description and plot development.
5. Surprise: Great flash fiction usually involves an element of surprise or a twist in plot. This is to get the reader to think more carefully about the meaning of the story.

Have a look at the story below, written by one of FunDza’s staff writers during a creative writing workshop.

When reading it, try to read like a writer and not just for enjoyment. Think about the way in which the author wrote the story, the words she used, the way she brought her characters to life and what exactly makes this plot effective. Try to read the story with a critical eye and read the piece more than once if you need to.

Once you’ve finished reading, complete the comprehension below which will help you unpack the piece in more detail.

***

Sixty-four hours

Tamica Mopp

Sixty-four. It’s been sixty-four hours since I last heard from him. Yes, I counted the hours, not the days. God, I’d even count the minutes. He left. He left me before he even got a chance to know me.

Sixty-four hours ago, I met him for the first time. I had dreamt all my life of meeting this man, I never imagined my dreams would come crashing down within a few hours. I thought he’d be my everything, the one I had waited for. Instead he was everything my mother warned me about.

She warned me about the red flags of this man. The inconsistency. The making you feel as if you are nothing. The absentmindedness. The placing others above you.

But I had faith that he wasn’t as bad as my mother had made him out to be. I was greatly deceived.

Sixty-four hours ago, I sat at the diner waiting for him. I had anticipated this day, years before.

“Ready to order, or should I give you a few minutes?” the waiter asked.

“Uh, yes, just a few more minutes, he’ll be here soon,” I said, convincing her, but really I was convincing myself.

“Okay, I’ll be back shortly,” she said, walking off.

He was late. I don’t know why that surprised me, it was one of the things mother warned me about. But I didn’t care, I just hoped he wouldn’t leave me hanging.

Just then he walked in. He was tall. He was handsome. Just like his pictures. Just the way I pictured him, a stunner. He walked over to me and my heart started racing.

“Claire?” he asked, unsure of himself.

I didn’t blame him, it had been years. Although, I’d recognise him a mile away, I still didn’t blame him for not recognising me.

“Yes, dad, it’s me,” I said, barely able to contain my excitement as I grabbed him tightly for a hug.

He was uncomfortable and that hug was never reciprocated. He stood stiff as if I was just a stranger, not his daughter.

I felt the uncomfortable stares and looks of sympathy from those in the room; this town was way too small.

He sat down and the waiter didn’t hesitate to take our order.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Just water for me, thanks,” he said.

“You’re not eating?” I asked.

“Maybe a bit later,” he said.

“Anything for you Claire?” the waiter asked.

“I’ll have a slice of chocolate mousse cake and an iced coffee,” I said.

“Coming right up.”

It was just the two of us, his eyes glued to the menu, mine glued to him.

“So…how’s your mom been?” he asked.

“Mom’s doing great, I think she’s been more organised about this wedding than I am,” I said.

“Wedding?”

“Yes, that’s why I wanted to meet you. I’m getting married in a month and I wanted you to be there.”

There was silence.

“Congratulations, kiddo! I’ll call you to confirm.”

Call to confirm? It was so cold. There was some more awkward moments.

“Dad, why did you leave me?” I finally mustered up the courage to say.

“I…I had so many other responsibilities kiddo,” he said, casually.

I felt the tears pierce through my eyes. I felt so insignificant in that moment, but still hopeful. Hopeful that perhaps after 27 years of being absent from my life, I was now something he deemed a priority in his list of responsibilities.

“And what about now, dad?” I asked.

“Honey, I can’t answer that right now, things are so messy.”

Just then his cell phone started buzzing. It was as if his world changed, from the uncertain, uncomfortable, disinterested man, to suddenly lighting up.

“Sorry, gotta take this, it’s my baby girl.”

My heart sank. I was his baby girl. He left me.

The laughter from the other line could be heard, the joy on his face evident. I guess that little girl is everything I could never be.

After a few minutes, the call ended.

“Listen, honey, it’s my baby girl’s birthday tomorrow. I need to rush to get her this gigantic teddy bear she’s been begging for. You know how 7-year-olds are. It’s always ‘Daddy this, daddy that’ you know, just the other day she—”

“And what about me? What about my daddy that was missing for 27 years of my life? Now he is sitting here before me, oblivious of who I am, and boasting about another daughter, getting her everything she ever wanted and yet not giving a cent about me.”

I could feel the tension rise in the room, as all eyes were on us. The sadness I had felt earlier had evolved to anger. Bitter raging anger.

Instead of trying to fix what’s been damaged, he politely got up, pushed his chair inside and said, “I’m sorry, I really am, I’ll call you and we can talk in a better setting.” He looked around awkwardly.

“You’ll call? But here I am right now, let’s talk right now, dad,” I almost begged.

“I’ll call you,” he said.

He left and never looked back.

It’s been sixty-four hours, he still hasn’t called.