e c l e c t i c a
s p o t l i g h t a u t h o r s
The Google / Flash Fiction Exercise
(Click on the titles to view the full pieces)
I could take a small group of writers, I said, and in one week give them "hopeless" prompts and just 75 minutes thinking and writing time, and they would all produce stories good enough to submit.
Everyone loves Sue. You said that yourself. You said she's the sort of person who gets on with everyone. It's because she's a little overweight and in a tracksuit.
Now the trouble with The Pigeon is, he's trouble.
He prayed to be included in a layoff, but it was always someone else, and he was left with that someone else's impossible mound of work to do on top of the impossible mound he already had.
If Aeschylus's old man hadn't been pissed as a fart and in a funny mood, and if his nipper hadn't been a can short of a six-pack, we might never have had tragedy.
Picasso had a blue period, van Gogh a brown-greenish one and later a yellow one; bananas have green, yellow and brown.
Truth was her thing.
There are no rules when it comes to the fishes, except that they must have slept deep and have xx's where their eyes used to be and must, at some point, have been surrounded by men in gone-to-ruin Italian Suits (hand-tailored) whose Guccis are embedded in concrete.
Paddy was the proverbial contender, gallant loser. He was noble in defeat, had a huge heart. People chuck those phrases around like confetti nowadays, but applied to Paddy, they really meant something.
Did I have any honour? I thought I did.