The Essence of Flash Fiction

I read an interesting interview with flash fiction writer David Gaffney over at Nik's blog.

There were some interesting points. Some I agreed with like:
"...making flash fiction stories is like cooking spinach; you fill a pan with enough leaves to feed an elephant then after a few minutes all you have left is a coating of thin green sludge on the bottom" And this: "Flash fiction don’t just cut to the chase, it cuts to the point of the chase..."


And some I very much disagreed with:
"...Maybe flash is a male thing like minimalism -there are no cushions or scented candles in flash fiction"
Male thing? No. no. no. Women also can be brief and to the point, sir. And I don't know if you met my 7th grade English teacher but he was a male and he couldn't find a brief point if it stabbed him in the eye.

Mr Gaffney has some very fun flash here. I particularly like the one about a windscreen that is set to the man's glasses prescription. That would be very handy, though of course a pain when you need a new prescription or want to sell the car.

I wrote a flash piece for the recently ended Chocolate contest over at Help I need a Publisher. I didn't win (Congrats to the winners!!) so in honour of Halloween, which in a former life was my favourite holiday ever- I mean costumes AND a bag full of sweets- I am posting my story below.It was supposed to 1) include chocolate and 2) be scary. I find children who kill, especially their parents, very scary. Possibly something I should have checked out....

The Etiquette of Chocolate
I awake thirsty and head to the kitchen. I pass Mama sitting; an empty box of chocolates on her lap.
But then I stop.
Something is wrong. Her head droops at an odd angle. Sticky steps forward and I see her bloody, sliced neck.
Are they still here?
Panicked, I back away-I must save my sister!
I turn back and she's standing in the hallway, her tiny face smeared with chocolate. “Oh Rebeca…. thank God!”
Light from the bare bulb flicks off something clutched in her small hand. Confused, I look at her, and then at the knife.
“She wouldn’t share.”