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There’s hardly any form  that offers so much fun among so many challenges and at the same time teaches you so much about life.

–Elizabeth Smither, poet, author, 2016 NFFD judge

Short on words but long on depth, flash fiction stings like good poetry. Punchy, succinct and surprising, the best flash stories shift the reader’s heart but they also keep it beating hard.

     aaaaaaaaaaaaaa–Nuala Ní Chonchúir (Ireland),  author of Mother America, Nude, The Closet of Savage Mementos and Miss Emily

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I find, in flash fiction, a glorious paradox: a form that is physically compressed yet endlessly expansive.  Allusion, subtext, telling details, what thrives along the margins/between the lines — the resonance after the last bow pass on a cello — what is said/unsaid, what is at stake, brief, but potent.  Terra Incognita.  Whole worlds to be explored with a few well-placed footfalls.  Where even silence, if you listen, can be heard, with all the wing-beats, noisy winds, and implications that dwell within it.

–Robert Scotellaro (US), author of Bad Motel, Measuring the Distance  and other collections; 2016 Micro Madness editor (with Nod Ghosh)

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Flash fiction – a story in a few hundred words – means taking story bones from an author and fleshing them in the mind of a reader. The author has barely enough words to push a character through a doorway, so the reader must choose between blonde or dark, and add the buttons and pearls. In this way, flash fiction may be the most intimate of the prose forms, since the reader often contributes as much, via imagination and interpretation, as the author. The best flash fiction tells its story in the fewest possible words, which melt away during reading to leave nothing more than a haunted moment, sharp and deep as a memory.

–T. Upchurch (UK), winner of UK NFFD micro comp

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If flash were a gun, it would be the SwissMiniGun, the smallest gun ever. But it would still shoot bullets at 270mph and command respect for tiny weapons. If flash were a painting, it would be Picasso’s Three Musicians. At first you’d think it was all there in its one collage square, but the more you stare at it, the more you see it begin to vibrate with song and a dog’s wagging tail. If flash were a song, it would be Crowded House’s Four Seasons in One Day. I love that song because the Finns have left a part out, so I can sing along and feel like I’m part of the House. If flash were someone I knew, it would be my friend Velvet. She describes herself as “remarkably, fantastically short”. Or it might be Pete, the maintenance man. His bearhugs last only a second, but his dirty clean smell stays with me the whole day. If flash had been my day yesterday, I could have gotten much more done in a tenth of the time. Flash would have had time to teach time a thing or two about eloquence at the tempo vivacissimo. Flash is fast, but it’s not fast food. It might have taken years to perfect, like a sauce that reduces to a rich, viscous demi-glace. Flash is whisky in a shot glass. Flash is an adult fly. Flash is this moment right now.

–Christopher Allen (US/Germany), Editor of Smokelong Quarterly

and author of Conversations wtih Teri S. O’Type:A Satire

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I love short stories of all lengths, I’m rather an addict, but flash fiction – which has been around for decades, is no new 21st century invention – has a special place in my heart. Yes, these are very very short stories, but they are also something else, these tiny fictions are their own beasts. Done well, they almost always have an otherworldy nature, perhaps as a consequence of their brevity. Where short stories leave a lot to the reader’s imagination, flash fiction demands the reader fill in almost everything, and the best flash fiction strikes that note perfectly, giving you just enough to conjur up these worlds from only a page-full of words, or often less. There is alchemy at work here, each word, each space, each comma carries a burden, must be placed just so. And when they are, in a great flash story, you gasp, you are left reeling. And you are left shifted, altered. I cannot forget fantastic flash fiction. I don’t want to.

–Tania Hershman (UK), author of My Mother Was An Upright Piano: Fictions

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Flash fiction is to traditional short stories what lightning is to a storm… Thunder, rain, sleet, wind and lightning are all part of the excitement of a full blown nor’easter or afternoon thunderstorm. The rush of hard rain opens our eyes; its steady drum on the roof soothes us until that first roll of thunder raises our pulse; lightning makes us anticipate and 1 2 3 count. Then rain again and we wait for another loud crack, more electrical fireworks, the clouds to clear, the skies to blue. A good storm is filled with promise, surprise, fear, suspense, relief, joy, and sometimes sadness. So is a good story.

–Gay Degani (US), editor of Flash Fiction Chronicles; interview at Flash Frontier

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A good flash piece is a tickle, a pinch or a slap, and leaves the mind tingling.  Poetry can do that too, but more through surprising use of words, than through plot or an unseen ending.

–P S Cottier (Australia), poet and editor, author of A Quiet Day and Other Stories and The Glass Violin, quoted in AntipodeanSF

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Flash fiction is a tray of frosted petite-fours, so tiny and delectably edible, far less caloric than its bigger siblings: the cake slice, the tarte, the piece of pie. So you can take a flash fiction delicately between your fingers and slip it inside you, and savour its sugary warmth, or its sticky jelly center, or its biting lemon curd, and you will hardly put on a pound.  Flash fiction is approved by Weight Watchers International.

–Susan Tepper (US), author of From the Umberplatzen and The Merrill Diaries

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Sergei Yesenin

Dear Slawa, call me a tragic figure, or call me an idiot, but I don’t actually believe in flash fiction as a literary art form. That makes me feel like a little mermaid on land. Shorts have a number of definite advantages for quick consumption; but plastic bags also have definite advantages over cloth bags (like when it rains) and still they tend to break and they don’t age well. Having said that, when I think about it, I have a similar prejudice against poetry so it really must be my problem: I just don’t understand poetry properly, but neither do I understand flash. Both seem like a single glove of a pair of gloves. They beg to be completed. Maybe poetry and flash must be sung or spoken to attain the same fullness as a novel. My resolve to write is in tatters. I will now take my madness with me into a hot bath and hopefully drown out these voices of right and wrong because they’re so useless. Afterwards, I’ll rub myself off with snow and I hope to cleanse myself in the process. If none of these thermodynamic measures should help, there’s still the Vodka.» [Taken from: RRRrrr – a Novel in Letters by D. Dzhugdzhur (Д. Джугджу́р), Irkutsk, Siberia, 1984.] [Photo: Sergei Yesenin, 1925 ]

–Marcus Speh (Germany), bi-lingual flasher (in English and German)

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