What makes a story, a story? Flash Fiction has gained a lot of popularity lately. I once took a workshop where we wrote several different kinds of VERY short stories. Here’s one that had to be 69 words:

If you eat breakfast your day will be better. Are you kidding?

Nine-am. I was already exhausted. My son threw up on me. The car quit blocks from daycare.

Would a bagel make it all better?

Shoes – soaked.

Nylons – run.

Shirt – sweat-stained.

I sighed and stepped behind the counter. A customer approached. “How may I help you?”

“Can you direct me to a place with a really good breakfast?”

I like this, but is it a story? There is some character, very little setting, some conflict… Here’s one that had to be the personification of an object:

There was no X marking The Spot, but its color and size called attention to it just the same. The Spot put up with people gawking and their often curious or rude comments. It couldn’t help where it was, right there in the center of the living room. There for all to see.

Right after it appeared, birthed suddenly on a rainy fall day, there was much discussion by the woman of removing it. The Spot cringed and tried to shrink back when someone approached with their “sure fire” remedy for spot removal. Oh, the scrubbing, the spraying, the dousing with water, vinegar, and chemicals!

But The Spot hung on, gripping the carpet fibers, refusing to be removed. Refusing to let her forget. For it knew it had a purpose, a reason for being beyond being an object of discussion for visitors.

For awhile, the woman who owned the home had placed a round rug over the spot. A scratchy, wool thing. But because of its prominent location in the traffic patter, the rug caused more accidents than were acceptable. And she really didn’t need another accident.

More than a year passed and The Spot felt time creeping up on it. Age caused its color to fade and be less noticeable to the occupant. One day, a new woman came in and glared at the spot, her nose scrunched in disgust. “What is that?” the visitor asked.

“Just a spot,” the woman said.

“Is it wine? Did you try to remove it?”

The woman shrugged. “I’ve tried everything.”

“Catsup? Kool-Aid?”

The woman just shook her head.

“We’ll have to negotiate a carpet allowance. It will all have to be replaced,” the visitor proclaimed.

The woman nodded eagerly. She would be happy to sell the home and rid herself of the memories, excise the evidence.

The Spot wished it could wiggle and squirm or cry out—“I have a story to tell!”

But it was still, waiting, hoping someone would look closely. Someone would care enough to wonder about its history—its story to tell.

A story of anger and pain.

And murder.

What really makes a story? Can you really write a story with less than 1,000 words? What do you think?