by Angela Rydell

Angela Rydell

Want to shine a light into the inner workings of your flash fiction? Plenty of online courses help fiction writers strengthen skill with craft. But most teach fiction fundamentals, or divulge the secrets to writing The Great American Novel. Only a handful focus on that crazy little thing called flash fiction. Which are they? Below you’ll find a survey of five of the best online courses out there devoted exclusively to making your flash writing tighter and brighter.

WOW! “Flash Fiction Workshop”
Course Description:
Instructor: Gila Green (
Start Date/Length: October 27th 2014, 8 weeks
Fee: $175
Additional Links: Find out more about WOW here and more about their classes here.

“Wow” isn’t just an exclamation of admiration—though there are some spectacular testimonials for this workshop. It stands for “Women On Writing,” an organization that employs successful women writers to teach meaty workshops (and offers great contests). But you needn’t be of the feminine persuasion to take the course.

This eight-week class is of the tailored one-to-one variety. The instructor emails a lecture each week to a group of approximately 8-10 students. The email includes examples, discussion, feedback and an assignment. Writers respond to the weekly assignment, which builds on the one before. So it’s not the kind of class where you write a story or two per unit. Instructor Gila Green says it’s designed to help you develop “a small flash into a full flash week by week and prepare for publication simultaneously, so that at the end of eight weeks you have a full, critiqued flash and a publication plan.”

While there’s no official discussion board or critique forum set up, group discussions/critiques may be initiated via email by the instructor on a case-by-case basis, if “a particular piece can benefit from group critique and…the group is advanced enough that the critique will have a positive effect.”

The focus here is on quality one-on-one time and deep revision, and that means student satisfaction is high. Green adds, “…many participants tell me that they are thrilled that finally someone is telling them how to fix things, not just what needs to be fixed. This doesn’t mean I write any materials for them, but I do try to focus on the how, the range of possibilities to get you where you’d like to go. I also include a focus on publication mid-way through the class, so that participants have a realistic idea of what is out there and what the current editorial demands look like.”, “Flash Fiction: Writing the Short-Short Story”
Course Description:
Instructor: Barbara Henning (
Start Date/Length: January 5th 2015, 10 weeks
Fee: $340
Additional Links: Check out other creative writing classes online with at and

This ten-week class is currently underway (it started Sept 2nd). Fortunately, it’s offered multiple times a year. Future start dates are January 5th and April 5th, 2015.

Expect plenty of bells and whistles. The fee includes lecture/blackboard (with interactive links), plus optional pdf readings, and some meaty material on theories of short fiction. You’ll receive both instructor and peer critiques, participate in an ongoing discussion of the readings and assignments, and write a lot—up to 9 one-to-two page stories (with an option to submit revisions in lieu of new work).

But you needn’t get bogged down. Instructor Barbara Henning says, “The student can put as much time into the course as she might like, either simply working on the assignments or also following the links and pdfs provided.”

Look forward to a lot of interaction, a mix of experience levels, from beginning to published writers, and a class size of five to fifteen students. Barbara adds, “The course can function as a workshop on flash fiction, an introduction to fiction writing craft, as well as a more advanced course in ideas about writing fiction.” A nice bonus: Barbara teaches this very class in an MFA program.

Fish Publishing Online, “Flash Fiction Writing Course”
Course Description:
Instructor: Mary-Jane Holmes (
Start Date/Length: Enroll any time, complete in 3 months
Fee: Around $323 at current currency rates
Additional Links: Read an interview about the course on Cafe Aphra Blog at

Whether you’re from across the pond, America’s heartland, or elsewhere in the world, distance learning makes Fish’s flash fiction offering (based in the UK) accessible to all English speakers. Take ten modules at your own pace over three months. Though there’s no discussion, Mary-Jane Holmes, course instructor, encourages “an open dialogue, even outside the reviewing of set pieces.” Plus, “many students use the Fish Publishing Facebook page as a way of connecting and for discussion.”

This course will keep you busy. Each module includes up to four assignments and preliminary exercises. You’ll submit all assignments for feedback, which may include one or two completed stories (up to 300 words in length). You’ll receive a detailed critique of each exercise, and have an opportunity to rework and resubmit. Holmes adds, “Our one-to-one approach means we really get to grips with each individual’s writing style and from here can help work on developing their strengths and ironing out the weaknesses; a class orientated workshop can’t always afford to be so specific.”

The pièce de résistance? Your final story will be entered into the Fish Flash Fiction Prize (the contest fee is included in your course fee). And that’s not all. Holmes says participants “also have a chance to be published in the annual anthology (and there is some prize money too!).”

The Eckleburg Workshops, “Small & Mighty! Short Short Fiction”
Course Description:
Instructor: Meg Pokrass (
Start Date/Length: April 2015, 4 weeks
Fee: $110.00 (now on sale at $90.00)
Additional Links: Look into other Eckleburg Workshop goodies at

The low price, distinctive visual presentation, and small class size are big draws for this offering. It caps at six students, give or take, depending on instructor discretion. Founder and Director of The Eckleburg Workshops, Rae Bryant, says the low numbers mean “a level of one-on-one attention that students rarely find in campus and online workshops.”

How much writing do you do? You’ll stay busy. In four weeks, you write four new flash fiction stories. But there’s more than just writing. The course includes “online lectures, discussions, workshop forum and individual feedback from both instructor and peers, as well as an ongoing student profile, access to the alumni listserv and publishing opportunities board.” Yeah, that’s a lot of bang for your buck.

There’s plenty of material, but you can pick and choose what you’d like do, and spend anywhere from a few hours a week to full days on course material, exploring the options and interacting with your peers. Plus, they’ve sidestepped the traditional blackboard model and custom-designed their own platform. If it’s anything like the eye-candy on their website, you’re in for a treat. Another bonus: “The online visual structure of the course makes it easy to read and respond to weekly discussions via your smartphone.”

What else makes this course unique? Bryant adds, “The Eckleburg Workshops are a place where talented writers and extraordinary instructors share space and focus with other individual voices. We offer a venue where these voices can shed the boundaries too often placed upon literary writers in particular niches or programs. The student’s organic talent and exploration of that talent comes first.”

UW-Madison Continuing Studies, “Fiction in a Flash: Art of the Very Short Story”
Instructor: Angela Rydell (
Course description:
Fee: Level 1 $125; Level 2 $155 (details below)
Start Date/Length: Enroll any time, complete within a year
Additional Links: Find more UW-online offerings at

This course caters to writers who like to take their time in a flash. It’s the most “open schedule” of all the offerings here. Expect low pressure and high value.

At your leisure, log on to UW-Madison’s server to access each unit’s lecture/blackboard material (written & taught by yours truly). Each unit is chock-full of stories by contemporary flash writers, analysis of their work, craft tips, links that expand on tricks of the trade, and writing exercises. The spotlight is on one-to-one feedback from your instructor (yes, moi). There’s no discussion or critique forum, but instructor interaction is encouraged: send me questions unit to unit or chime in on my Instructor Facebook page ( You’ll also receive email updates that inspire you to put pen to paper. And if you want more structure, I can take on the role of taskmaster and help you follow-through with a submission plan that’ll keep you writing.

How much writing will you do? Level 1 writers write up to five stories, Level 2 writers write up to eight. You’ll expand from six-word stories to 1000 worders. That expansion includes revision techniques, and you can always submit a revision of an earlier story in lieu of a new one.

I specialize in tailoring feedback to your needs, and ask, up front, if you like your critiques mild, medium, or hot. Challenge yourself or take it easy, it’s up to you! Receive supportive comments that help you identify what works, grapple with challenges, and delve as deep as you like.

As a bonus, you get access to an extensive appendix featuring dozens of model stories online, direct links to flash markets looking for new work, tips on preparing your work for submission, plus a list of reliable websites and revitalizing prompts that’ll help keep you writing long after you’ve finished the course.

Okay, that’s the long and the short of it.

Know of other good courses? Please post a comment and share what you know.

Thanks to the directors of the programs, and the instructors, for providing such helpful info on the courses.


Angela Rydell is a poet, novelist, short fiction writer, and writing instructor. Her stories and poems have appeared in journals both in print and online, including The Sun, Indiana Review, NANO Fiction, Flashquake, Crab Orchard Review, Alaska Quarterly Review and elsewhere. Angela’s flash fiction has won the Portland Review’s inaugural Flash Fiction Friday contest, was a finalist in the American Short(er) Fiction Prize and Passage North‘s Neutrino Short-Short Prize, and received honorable mention in the New Millennium Writings Awards Flash Fiction Contest. She’s currently a judge for NYC Midnight’s Flash Fiction challenge 2014. Angela lives in Madison, WI, where she teaches creative writing courses in UW-Madison’s Division of Continuing Studies, including the online workshop Fiction in a Flash.


by Thomas Kearnes


I haven’t written a story under 1,000 words in well over a year. Even then, I wrote only one new flash during all of last year and just two new ones in 2012. I’ve published older pieces here and there, either sprucing up something previously left for dead or remarketing a piece after its original online home went dark. That said, I’ve definitely kept busy. I crank out roughly three short stories a month, maybe four or five if they’re on the shorter side (say, 2,500 words). If school and work eat up my leisure time, I feel secure in the knowledge I have enough shorts available for publication that I needn’t worry about running low and missing an opportunity.

None of this, however, explains why I’ve drifted away from flash in the last couple of years. The discipline was certainly good to me. I’ve found homes for far more short-shorts than I have traditional shorts. Part of that, though, is due to the fact I’ve written far more flashes than longer pieces. To decompress after tearing through a new first draft, I scanned the last couple of years of FFC. I paid special attention to revered flash writers (like Randall Brown and Meg Pokrass) explaining the appeal of the discipline and what they believed made flash a discipline unto itself as opposed to just a really short story.

I’ve come to the conclusion that despite whatever flash publications backed my work, I was never really a flash writer. At least, not in the vein of those I’ve been learning about through their own explanations and their work itself. My most dramatic difference with what I assume is the prevailing wisdom on flash is that I refuse to embark on a first draft unless I have a three-act narrative securely in mind. (Yes, sometimes I outline my longer shorts.) Depending on images and sounds and unicorns to convey my message to readers freezes my heart with terror. Narrative is the backbone of my fiction, the base from which all other elements originate. I admire flashes that eschew conventional storytelling, but I’ll never pretend to understand how they work.

I kept plugging away at the discipline, however, and I’m not proud of my reasoning. Simply put, I considered a 1,000-word story far less of a gamble of time and energy than a 20-page marathon. If a flash fails, you’ve only lost an hour or two. If a story five times that length fails, you’ve lost one or two weeks. The arithmetic seduced me. Also, there are scores more venues seeking flash than short stories, at least online. If a particular flash was reasonably well-executed, marketing was sometimes a breeze. Contrast that with having to pound the pavement for a year or longer with a short story, even a terrific one.

Also, it’s only recently that I acquired enough confidence to hop from one longer piece to the next. I’ve received enough positive feedback from peers and editors to believe I can pull off a work of fiction that’s 4,000 words or longer. My problem now, and what will continue to be my problem, is selecting the most compelling premise of the dozens I have swirling inside my head. (There are plenty of bad ideas in the mix, of course.) Still, it’s a huge relief to know I can construct a narrative of enough complexity to run past 15 pages.

Perhaps another reason I clung to flash fiction so long without truly understanding it was that I was too nervous about striking out in new directions. As any of you familiar with my flash fiction can attest, I had a basic formula: let one scene in kitchen-sink realist style play out in real time. Occasionally, I experimented with second-person narration or quasi-prose-poem affectations, but well over three-fourths of my flash stories fell under the “one-scene wonder” category. It still humbles me to realize that all along, I was submitting to editors who likely viewed scene-driven flash as the mark of the amateur. (I should also mention that back then I rarely read flash publications or flash writers discussing their craft. I was petrified I’d discover everything I was doing was wrong, wrong, wrong.) What can I say? I was an amateur, and my one saving grace was a knack for conjuring lapel-grabbing premises.

Also, flash fiction allowed me to rummage through all the baggage of my romantic and sexual pasts and still convince myself that I was creating actual art instead of psychotherapeutic dribbling. Yes, I know, a couple of years ago, I encouraged all of you to excavate your personal histories for flash. If you decide to do this, however, I’d caution that you embark on that particular first draft because you firmly believe general readers will enjoy it, not because you just need to vent.

All this said, I will forever be thankful I toiled at flashes for as long as I did, because it gave me a crash course in several aspects of fiction writing and publishing. Most importantly, I learned to line-edit, cutting every unnecessary word, every deadwood phrase. This skill has served me well with my longer fiction, often allowing me to excise as many as 750 words from a first draft. Secondly, I learned how to conduct myself with editors far more quickly than if I’d been submitting only longer pieces.

I’ve learned that speculation about my future as a writer or about the future of publishing itself is a waste of time. Maybe flash will continue to rise in prominence. Maybe flash will hit a dead end once faced with a general readership that has no clue how to appreciate it. Maybe scene-driven flash will come in vogue. After all, even unicorns can overstay their welcome.


Thomas Kearnes holds an MA in Screenwriting from the University of Texas at Austin. His two collections are Pretend I’m Not Here (Musa Publishing) and Promiscuous (JMS Publishing). His fiction has appeared in Litro, The Adroit Journal, The Ampersand Review, PANK, Word Riot, Eclectica, SmokeLong Quarterly, wigleaf, Storyglossia, A cappella Zoo, Spork, The Pedestal, Digital Americana Magazine and elsewhere. His work has also appeared in several LGBT venues, such as Diverse Voices Quarterly, Diverse Arts Project, Educe Journal, and the Best Gay Stories series. He is studying to become a drug dependency counselor. He lives near Houston.

by Meg Tuite

me:mirror:roadtrip:2014 Flash fiction was immediate love at first sight when I read some chapters of The Decameron, Edgar Allan Poe, and The Blue Octavo Notebooks of Kafka’s, but that’s not a genre I was writing. I wrote long, long stories that moved closer to novella terrain and when I was a kid I tried to write a novel. I have no idea how many pages I made it through, but I remember furrowing my eyebrows when at my desk, and seeing a huge pile of paper next to me. It was probably mostly blank, but my memory tends toward that as well. I’ve been writing for over twenty years to unleash myself from the flesh canvas that I cannot possibly get away from. That sounds ominous, I’m sure, but I hope that other writers will get it. We write in order to release and come to know ourselves better. At least, that is the case for me.

While my Mom was actively dying and hospice was called in and coming to our trailer I found I couldn’t stop, nor did I want to stop writing whatever I was able to put on the page. This was something that had teeth in it and a voice that couldn’t be fisted into silence, because it ran on its own time and energy. I am sure that it was how I survived that year or whatever amount of months or years it was, because during that period of my life, time was some kind of truant clock that ticked like a plant slowly dying. You could never actually catch it clawing for air or water, but the remnants of its loss were apparent in shriveled up appendages. After Mom died, I saw how the words were able to twist the scars I had into some kind of art that was not framed by anything but hope for sanity.

I tried and still try to find some way to exist in this strange, gluey world we are placed in. I started with that exquisite lust for reading. It had me before I knew what it meant to trust. Every word I read from those jasmine-magnolia-scented writers was like running through the hot sand into the cold-ass water screaming all the way! I was far, far away from any place that could crush or banish me. I was smoky musk, saber-tooth badgers, an invincible avenger who could create an earthquake just by a look or a hum on an elevator that could squelch injustice between its toes.

Invisibility was something most appealing in a house where being seen was not a trophy or an affirmative of any kind. To fall through the cracks was a beautiful endeavor, like that white space in a flash piece. You are moving along with the story and all of a sudden the single-spaced prose surrenders into a deeper density of double-space unsaid and you are quivering trying to figure out what exactly happened between those lonely spaces. Did the protagonist wear his mother’s face? Did he lick the floor, literally, or just admit that he’d been playing in mud for so damn long that each step was a throbbing wasteland of squeezing from kitchen to living room to bedroom?

Flash fiction has allowed me to capture particles of my past and express them sporadically as they come back to memory. My childhood migrated like some strange culture that bid me to get up, get out of bed and get on with something, as though adulthood was any different.

Flash offered my pen up to a community of poignant moments that found unshaven lawns and a cancer of dandelions a sure sign of lurking pedophiles behind closed drapes. Plaid shorts and withered chitchat were about ‘whose kid was going to make the cut in T-ball,’ and every scrupulous connection between neighbors was all wagging flags and x-rays that relayed Aunt Mallory’s lack of bowel movements into her desire to eat gym socks.

My brother used to launch foot-long rockets into space. It was expanse made manifest in a world that could have been the size of a school locker. No. Our family packed into our pastel blue checker cab car once a month and drove out to a field that had lots of room for the shadows and hell we never spoke of. We unloaded ourselves and roamed around looking for the perfect place to situate this upheaval. Brother was untainted by ego and agreed with the sibling who found the smoothest ground, the sweetest plain, the place of picnics and photographs.

All of us huddled around his being. His hands were as exact as microscopes. They zeroed in on the cadence of the unseen. He looked up into a sky placid with clouds and all of us squinted our eyes and searched above for some space that wasn’t gray. Brother shook his head at us. What color was tinsel? We all backed off, only as far as he made us. Our eyes widened, internal organs illuminated candles on a birthday cake somewhere on a planet inside us. The flick of at least five or six matches waxed and waned before ignition. A flame blasted from beneath this plastic, white beacon. The sound was as vast and addictive as discovering that something in this world actually worked. We laughed, screeched, howled, twirled and lived some kind of us that we rarely got to flash. We watched this physical brother-made being, manifested in our basement, shoot up into the atmosphere until it was barely and surely as large as a universe.


Meg Tuite‘s writing has appeared in numerous literary journals. She is the author of two short story collections, Bound By Blue (Sententia Books, 2013) and Domestic Apparition (San Francisco Bay Press, 2011), and three chapbooks, the latest titled, Her Skin is a Costume (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2013). She won the Twin Antlers Collaborative Poetry award from Artistically Declined Press for her poetry collection, Bare Bulbs Swinging (2014) written with Heather Fowler and Michelle Reale. She teaches at the Santa Fe Community College; lives in Santa Fe with her husband and menagerie of pets.
Her blog:


by Andreé Robinson-Neal


It’s time to dust off your holiday hats, scary masks, leaf project centerpieces, turkey decorations, and sleigh bells as Flash Fiction Chronicles moves into the last quarter of 2014! And what better way to start off our September in Review than with a holiday. Gay Degani began the month by sharing Kiwi Flash Fiction Day and an interview with its founder, Michelle Elvy. Michelle offers a poignant reminder for all of us: “Because life is short. And so is some of the best fiction.” What a great sentiment!

And in case you needed another reason to celebrate, Susan Tepper brought our own Gay Degani right back for UNCOV/rd. Be sure to read the interview, which will encourage you at those times when your story isn’t going according to plan. Gay also reminds us of the possibilities in our writing; one way to reflect on the possibilities is to “remember what came before” and we do that well here at FFC. Sarah Crysl Akhtar takes us back to check out some dazzling pieces from the EDF Archives. This month’s find was The Non-Opening Window by Simon Barker. The story was a tasty treat and a perfect comedic appetizer for the rest of the month.

September is not often identified as a month of holidays but before we had reached the midway point, we found ourselves knee-deep with a second: New Zealand National Flash Fiction Day Contest and its winners, Sarah Dunn, Tricia Hanifin, and Sue Kingham. They offer invaluable tips for those who plan to submit to writing contests and gave us a peek into their process for crafting a submission.

Speaking of submissions, Julie Duffy continued her exploration of genre and reminded us that romance matters (and sells, to the tune of $1bn!). For those who may try their hand at crafting a romantic tale, Julie offers tips from the Romance Writers of America, including a detailed description on sub-genres and audience.

If you don’t have time to write the next million-word prize-winning passion play, Christopher Allen shared why flash fiction writing is a perfect solution for time-strapped scribes. However, if you are time-strapped because of distraction, take a hint from Rohini Gupta, who reminded us of the things that can take our focus off the goal and what we can do to get back to work.

We rounded the corner into the last part of the month with RK Biswas, who took us on an imaginative tour of William Todd Seabrook’s The Imagination of Lewis Carroll. Like falling through the rabbit hole, this review will capture your imagination just as the chapbook captured the reviewer’s.

Sarah Crysl Akhtar provided a talisman that we each should tuck away when the dark clouds of doubt rear their ominous heads. In her discussion about believing in our own gifts, she reminds us to surprise ourselves, trust our instincts, and not be afraid of the eraser or backspace button. And when our instincts do not lead us to publication success, Jim Harrington gave us reasons to appreciate and learn from those rejection blues.

In case you have been held back by the rejection blues, or distraction, or doubt, there were some great flash fiction markets and resources to help you get back to the hard work and joy of writing. Aliza Greenblatt closed out the month with August’s EDF Top Author, Marisa Mangione, who reminded us to look for the golden egg, even in the mundane.

October is off to a great rustling start, so be sure to visit FFC for the latest interviews, markets, and tips.


Andreé Robinson-Neal got bit by the writing bug back in the late 1970s while watching Rod Serling and reading Ray Bradbury—both of whom are everyday inspirations; although she has worked in education for more than a quarter-century, she has never been cured of her penchant for speculative fiction. Find some of her flash fiction at She writes under the name AR Neal, who will hopefully one day be identified as a famous NaNoWriMo participant.


[This article first appeared at]

by T. Gene Davis

t gene davis

Congratulations! An editor loves your prose. You’ve sold your story. Feel wonderful. You should.

After the euphoria collapses, you wonder when the fan mail and comments will start pouring in. Experienced authors acknowledge, selling the story is only one of many steps necessary when building a fan base.

Selling your story to readers begins before you get the editor hooked. You must write your story for your market—the web skimmer. Most magazines publish or advertise stories on the web, and most users of the web skim. Close to 80% of all people visiting your story or story’s advert will skim the page, rather than read the page.

Gaining readers is the act of converting skimmers into readers through a three-step combination of hooking them with a great title, convincing them to read on with an engaging first sentence, and pulling them into the story with a compelling first paragraph. I’ve heard this approach summed up with the words, “Catch, grab, and keep.”

Skimmers are embryonic fans. Convert skimmers into readers by catching their attention. Your title must stop the skimmers’ eyes from roaming the page. Story titles are critical to readership. Trite as it may sound, your title can make or break your story. A catchy title is your first hook. If your story’s title stops the skimmers, you now have the chance of converting them into a reader.

Catch the skimmers’ attention with a title that fills them with wonder. They need to wonder if the rest of the story is as good as the title, or they need to wonder what the title is describing. Either way, you have one title to create an unfulfilled need in that skimmers. You must create a desire in the skimmers to read your first sentence.

Follow up the title with an amazing first sentence. Realize, your story’s first sentence must keep those skimmers from going back to their unhelpful skimming ways. Opening with a shocking or humorous statement may catch their attention. The first sentence must interest the readers, and leave them hanging. If your readers doesn’t have at least one unanswered question because of the first sentence, they may go back to skimming. The key, again, is creating unfulfilled needs in the readers. The readers must feel a nagging desire to know what happens next.

If your title and first sentence engaged the skimmer, you’re ready for the power play—your first paragraph. You have almost turned a skimmer into a fan. Don’t blow it with a boring first paragraph.

Your first paragraph must make your readers care, and leave them wanting something. If the first paragraph fulfills the readers’ needs and answers all their questions, it must introduce more questions and needs. Remember, unfulfilled desire keeps your reader reading. When your reader stops wanting something from your story, you lose your reader.

One rule of thumb I’ve heard, is to give your reader no less than three reasons to keep reading. If you’re skilled, the readers might care about one of the reasons enough to continue reading. At this point, you have turned a skimmer into a fan.

Catch the skimmers with an amazing title that makes them want to know what your story is about. Grab them with an engaging first sentence. Keep them reading with a paragraph that gives them answers, but leaves them asking even more questions.

That’s what you need to do to hook the skimmers.


T. Gene Davis writes speculative fiction, poetry, articles, books, and computer software. In the 1990s, he spent six years editing and publishing the zine, Of Unicorns and Space Stations. These days his zine mania has morphed into three blogs: one for speculative fiction (, another for hobby farming (, and yet another for shogi and computer programming ( Follow his daily exploits on Twitter @TGeneDavis or visit Gene’s speculative blog at


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