The O:JA&L Masters Series
Flash Fiction: An Essay on Craft
Tom Hazuka
STRUCTURE AND STYLE IN FLASH FICTION
Click on the link MIXTURE to explore or download Tom Hazuka’s new chapbook in the O:JA&L Masters Series.
Writing fiction, especially literary fiction, should be a process of discovery. I always encourage students to create stories without planning overmuch or expecting to know how a story ends before you begin. If you absolutely must make an outline, go with what works for you, but if you’re new to fiction writing please don’t assume that you need one. Most of the writers I know would be hard-pressed to finish anything if they had to know the ending before they started. Having a preordained ending in mind, while sometimes comforting, can also be limiting: the writer might put on literary blinders and rush straight toward that ending, instead of being receptive to fascinating side trips and unforeseen possibilities. Even if you go to Rome to see St. Peter’s, it’s mistake not to explore out-of-the-way alleys as well. At the very least, you won’t just experience the same things every other tourist does.
Although this advice applies to fiction of any length, it’s practically a necessity for writing flash fiction. While co-editing Flash Fiction, You Have Time for This, Sudden Flash Youth and Flash Fiction Funny, I read thousands of flash fiction of widely varying quality. Most of them had been published, usually in literary magazines. Their authors ranged from the famous to the unknown.
You might expect certain patterns to emerge. They didn’t.
The only thing every story had in common was its length, which led me to a conclusion I hadn’t foreseen: the shorter the story, the less a writer can rely on (or fall into the trap of) copying predictable patterns. In flash fiction it’s virtually impossible to write a formulaic story, because there is no set form or structure for fiction this brief. Even if you tried to write a mystery or a romance of, say, six hundred words, readers would take your story as a form of metafiction, a comment on the genre rather than a piece of genre fiction itself. And that’s what you would be doing–trying to create something new, expanding possibilities rather than conforming to the predictable expectations of a genre.
So, what am I claiming? that structure doesn’t exist in flash fiction? Far from it. I’m claiming that any story of this length must discover its own structure with little help from established models–and style is a huge part of that discovery process. This is true of all fiction writing, but the shorter the story the more heightened the effect, and the more demanding the writer’s job. Shorter might seem easier, but it’s tough to write a satisfying story in so few words. You need to do a lot in a small space, and that means making each word count. The best flash fiction displays the charged and resonant language of poetry, while also managing to tell a story. This is a challenge indeed.
But that challenge needn’t be either grim or daunting. It’s hard to write great flash fiction, so don’t worry about trying to. Take the pressure off yourself and focus on having fun instead. No matter what the subject matter, flash fiction is a playful form. It lends itself to experimentation, to the quirky and the unexpected. It’s difficult to be stodgy in only a few hundred words. You have to get in and get out.
Although excellent flash fiction has been written using every conceivable point of view, most of mine are in first person. Why? Because first person is wonderful for quick, efficient double-duty characterization. By double-duty I mean that anything your narrator says not only provides information to the reader, but it also characterizes the narrator. What the narrator chooses to tell us, and how he or she tells it, shows us a lot about that person. Is that narrative voice sarcastic? Friendly? Snobbish? Clueless? Devious? All of the above?
I hold these truths to be, well, not self-evident but true nonetheless:
1) For a story to feel done, to “work,” there has to be movement or change in at least one character, possibly though not necessarily to the extent of an epiphany, a moment of insight. There must be the sense that nothing will ever be quite the same for the character after this.
2) In a first-person story, one of the characters who change has to be the narrator, no matter how large or small the narrator’s role in the action. In my story “Homeward Bound” the narrator is an observer, not a participant. But without the narrator’s perceptions and presence the story would just be an anecdote.
The only exception to these rules occurs when the lack of character change is the point of the story, such as the heartbreaking example of the butler who narrates Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day. The reader yearns for him to loosen up and embrace his chance for happiness, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Yet the ending is powerful because we vicariously experience the situation through him and realize what he should do. In a successful story using either approach, the effect is the same–movement or change in the reader. This is fiction, after all; the characters don’t exist. They only matter insofar as they affect real people who read about them.
The shorter your story, the more likely that it will consist of a single scene. To increase the immediacy of that scene I often use present tense, though that’s certainly not necessary. What is necessary is a context for the scene, a sense that it fits into a larger picture. Without that context the events of the scene, no matter how interesting, will remain inert. There’s no resonance in a vacuum.
Context can be created in any number of ways, including voice and language cues, backstory, history, culture (including popular culture), and setting. This list is by no means exhaustive, and the categories overlap big-time, but it’s a useful place to start. I’ll give some brief explanations along with a few examples from my stories.
Narrative voice–through tone, slang, use of languages other than English, or other idiosyncrasies that personalize the voice and make it specific–creates a wider world beyond the events of the story. The first line of “Vaporware” (“So I sell vaporware for a living, what’s that prove?”) implies a narrator with a chip on his shoulder who is probably insecure about his job. It also evokes the context of a capitalist society, which is soon reinforced by comments about money, customers and “giving it a shot.” In the background is the Horatio Alger ideal of the American Dream waiting for anyone who works hard: “This is America, last I heard.”
Backstory provides information about characters and events leading up to the scene. (Don’t confuse backstory with flashback, a cut to a scene earlier in time which the short short rarely has room for.) “Mixture” gives lots of details about the characters’ shared history, without which the story would have little interest for a reader outside of wondering whether or not a turtle is going to get shot. “Utilitarianism” relies on the conflict between the way things were and the way they are now. When the narrator says, “I return home for the first time as an adult,” tension is established between the past and the present. Without that context the piece is just some quirky sight gags about a married couple who become taxidermists. It only becomes a story because of the contrast between the narrator’s expectations and the new reality he’s forced to deal with instead.
Historical references and dates can be a quick way to establish context. The first line of “Homeward Bound” (“Thanksgiving, 1970, changing planes at a small midwestern airport.”) places the story during a volatile period in U.S. history, on a national holiday with roots stretching back to the mythical beginning of what it is to be American. I didn’t want to be subtle here; I wanted to create context for the scene to follow. The reader needs to know right away that this is a Vietnam-era story. Simultaneously the voice of the narrator starts to emerge, and the setting is mentioned. See what I mean about these categories overlapping? Overlap is good–it shows that your language is not inert but doing double and triple duty. That should be a goal in all your writing, but especially in flash fiction.
Cultural and pop cultural references can serve a variety of functions. They can establish a historical era (overlap again!), such as the mention of Woodstock and a legal drinking age of eighteen in “Field Trip.” They can characterize. Someone who listens to Sinatra while riding the subway is different than someone who listens to Kiss while driving a Lexus. Readers get a different impression from a character who reads Shakespeare than one who reads Spiderman comics–and a different impression still if the character reads both Shakespeare and Spiderman. It’s also fun to play with ironic and/or symbolic titles. In “Vaporware,” The Executioner’s Song and The Jerk show that the narrator reads Norman Mailer books and watches Steve Martin movies, but I chose those particular titles for pretty obvious symbolic reasons.
Setting always creates context. The “same” conversation about food in a Siberian gulag and on a Boy Scout camping trip are not the same conversation at all. The context for the characters’ dialogue gives those identical words hugely different meanings. In “Mixture” the talk between Roger and Jimmy has an edge because a gun and imminent death are involved, but more importantly because the setting at Roger’s pond evokes a chain of memories and shared experiences for both characters. “Field Trip” takes place in a bar to emphasize the absurdity of being old enough at eighteen to kill or be killed in the army, yet not old enough to legally buy a beer. “Utilitarianism” needs to happen at the narrator’s childhood home; no other setting is possible to achieve the same effect. “Vaporware” would be a far different story if narrated by someone other than a confused schmo sitting naked in his apartment while playing hooky from work. “Homeward Bound” tries to create a backdrop of isolation (“small midwestern airport,” not JFK) and danger (Vietnam, flying in a snowstorm) for the scene with the wheelchair soldier. Once you find the right setting for a story, it should be hard for a reader to imagine it happening anywhere else.
A final word of advice: don’t censor yourself during the first draft. Ignore that voice in your head whispering that your stuff stinks and it’s hopeless to go on. The main goal of a first draft is not to be good, it’s to be done. Finish your first draft, flaws and all, then start cutting and polishing your prose into what just might become a gem of a story.
About the writer:
TOM HAZUKA has published the novels The Road to the Island, In the City of the Disappeared and Last Chance for First, as well as seventy short stories, two books of nonfiction (both co-written with C.J. Jones), and a memoir, If You Turn to Look Back, which explores his return to Chile twenty-three years after he was a Peace Corps Volunteer there during the Pinochet dictatorship. Visible Human, a collection of his flash fiction, was published in 2025. He has edited or co-edited ten anthologies, including Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction Funny, Flash Nonfiction Funny, Sudden Flash Youth, A Celestial Omnibus, You Have Time for This and Flash Nonfiction Food. Tom is also a singer-songwriter; links to his writing and original songs can be found at tomhazuka.com. He taught fiction writing at Central Connecticut State University for many years.
Cover Image: Theriomorph (AI-assisted digital image) by O:JA&L staff creative. 2025. Public domain via MidJourney AI.
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O:JA&L’S BUTTONHOOK PRESS MASTERS SERIES
Click on the titles below to explore or download the free PDF chapbooks in the O:JA&L Masters Series.
The Buttonhook Press Masters Series: Brian Clements on Prose Poetry
With an Interview by Associate Editor Pamelyn Casto
The Buttonhook Press Masters Series: Mark Budman on Flash Discourse
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The Buttonhook Press Masters Series: Ray Gonzalez on Prose Poetry
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The Buttonhook Press Master Series: Michael Martone on Flash Fiction
With an Interview by Associate Editor Pamelyn Casto
The Buttonhook Press Master Series: Roberta Allen on Flash Fiction
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The Buttonhook Press Master Series: Peter Conners on Flash Fiction
With an Interview by Associate Editor Pamelyn Casto
The Buttonhook Press Masters Series: Maxine Chernoff on Prose Poetry
With an Interview by Associate Editor Pamelyn Casto
The Buttonhook Press Masters Series: Pedro Ponce on Flash Fiction
With an Interview by Associate Editor Pamelyn Casto
The Buttonhook Press Masters Series: Tom Hazuka on Flash Fiction
With an interview by Associate Editor Pamelyn Casto
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