This section shows some short fiction I've written in order to cut away at the excess of my writing: I tend to get overly florid in my prose. I started writing flash fiction in order to develop clearness and brevity.
I'd eventually like to get to the stark, stunning, but evocative style of the following piece of flash fiction, allegedly written by Ernest Hemingway:
"For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn."
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A slapping sound, less loud than thunder, but no less sharp. The crack of soft skin wronged against stubbled skin impenitent. Wronged, righteous, regardless...all gone in that moment. The vacuum caused by that flash of anger only holding out the raging forces of emotion for so long, primal – needing to hate.
A collapse.
A singularity singularly pitiful – trust, love, marriage...her on the floor, him out the door.
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Then the people rose up, incensed out of anger, guilt, greed, frustration…an economy in motion lorded over by their darkest emotions. They knew, subconsciously perhaps, they could not win, but anger stokes courage, foolishly, and guilt goads the soul. They ran not as one, an army of vision, but as a stampede of legs, arms, and shrill screams scrambling over one another, their purpose their only unity.
The vizier stood, horrified and mocking. A sight to see, one's own subjects – slaves – rising up against oneself, but still deluded by the trappings of power about to be lost.
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Ticked. Clocked. Tick-tock. Wher--ow, my jaw!
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Chasms impassible. Graded seventh. ...wanna dance?