Writing Workshops Staff
2026-03-30T18:21:00-05:00

Eight Flash Fiction Masters and What Their Work Teaches About the Short Form

Flash fiction gets treated as a stepping stone. A warm-up exercise. Something writers do before the real work begins. This is a fundamental misunderstanding of the form. The best flash fiction is complete in itself, as formally demanding as a sonnet and as emotionally ambitious as a novel. It simply operates by different rules.

July is National Flash Fiction Month, and it offers a good excuse to look closely at eight writers who have shaped what the very short story can do. Each of them proves a different principle about compression, structure, and the strange alchemy that makes a story of 300 or 1,000 words feel as spacious as one ten times its length. If you write flash, or want to, their collected body of work is the best education available.

What follows is a taxonomy of strategies. Read it as a map of the form's possibilities.

Lydia Davis and the Philosophy of the Sentence

Start with Lydia Davis because she makes the most radical claim about what a story can be. Some of her fictions are a single sentence long. Others run to several pages. All of them treat the sentence itself as a unit of narrative architecture, not merely a vehicle for conveying information.

Consider the kind of work Davis does in collections like Can't and Won't and Varieties of Disturbance, the latter a finalist for the National Book Award. A piece like "Her Birthday" is two sentences. It contains a complete meditation on mortality, the strangeness of aging, and the limits of counterfactual thinking. The Man Booker International Prize committee, which honored Davis in 2013, described her work as having "the brevity and precision of poetry." That description is accurate but incomplete. Poetry compresses through image and sound. Davis compresses through logic, following a thought to its most unexpected conclusion and stopping the instant it arrives.

The craft principle here is precision as depth. When every word is load-bearing, a single sentence can contain the emotional weight of an entire narrative arc. Writers who study Davis often discover that their own flash fiction drafts contain three or four sentences doing the work of one. The revision question her work teaches you to ask: what happens if I remove this sentence entirely? If the story survives the cut, the sentence was decorative.

Amy Hempel and the Weight of What's Missing

Amy Hempel's approach to flash fiction is almost the inverse of Davis's philosophical precision. Where Davis makes every word present and accounted for, Hempel builds her stories around what has been deliberately left out. The reader feels the shape of the absent material the way you feel a missing tooth with your tongue.

Hempel's minimalism is often compared to Hemingway's iceberg theory, but the comparison sells her short. Hemingway omitted to create a sense of stoic restraint. Hempel omits to create emotional vertigo. In her compressed stories, the distance between what a narrator says and what the narrator feels generates almost unbearable tension. The sentences are clean and controlled. The emotions underneath them are not.

Her influence on the flash fiction canon is enormous. When Amy Hempel selected work for Best Small Fictions 2017, she was choosing from a field of writers many of whom had learned their compression from reading her. The craft principle her work teaches: the reader completes the story. A flash fiction that tells the reader everything it means leaves no room for the reader's own emotional participation. The most powerful flash fictions are the ones that trust the reader to feel what the story has chosen not to say.

Kim Chinquee and the Accumulated Ordinary

Kim Chinquee has been called the queen of flash fiction, and the title reflects both her output and her consistency. She has published hundreds of very short stories in major literary journals, earning multiple Pushcart Prizes and establishing a body of work that maps the emotional terrain of everyday life with startling economy.

Her stories tend to center on domestic moments, relationships in transit, the body in physical space. A Chinquee flash might be about making breakfast, walking through a parking lot, sitting in a waiting room. The drama comes from the accumulation of precise, seemingly mundane details that suddenly reveal something volatile underneath.

This is harder to pull off than it sounds. Most flash fiction that attempts the "ordinary moment rendered extraordinary" approach ends up flat, because the writer mistakes observation for insight. Chinquee succeeds because her sentences carry a double charge: they describe the surface action while simultaneously registering the emotional current running beneath it. Her characters rarely announce their feelings. The feelings emerge from the rhythm of the prose itself, the way a repeated physical gesture can betray anxiety or longing without a single word of interiority.

The craft principle: dailiness is a legitimate subject for compression. Flash fiction does not need a surreal premise or a dramatic reversal to earn its brevity. Sometimes the shortest distance between the reader and a genuine emotional response is a very precise description of someone doing something ordinary while feeling something they cannot name.

Diane Williams and the Energy of Strangeness

Diane Williams occupies a unique position in flash fiction. As both a practitioner and the founding editor of NOON, the literary annual she launched in 2000, she has shaped the form's aesthetic boundaries for over two decades. Her own stories rarely exceed two pages. They are strange, syntactically unpredictable, and almost aggressively resistant to summary.

A Williams story might begin with a recognizable domestic scene and then, within a sentence or two, veer into territory that feels hallucinatory. The strangeness is never random. It operates according to its own rigorous internal logic, one that privileges the sentence as a destabilizing unit. Each sentence in a Williams story slightly reorients the reader's expectations, so that by the end of even a very short piece, you have traveled a considerable psychological distance.

NOON became a home for writers working in this vein, publishing flash fiction and short prose that prioritized formal daring over conventional narrative satisfaction. Williams's editorial vision expanded what the form was allowed to do. Before NOON, avant-garde flash fiction existed but lacked an institutional home with serious literary credibility. After NOON, it had one.

The craft principle: a sentence can function as a unit of disruption, not just communication. Writers who feel constrained by the conventions of realist flash fiction should read Williams to see how far the form can stretch without breaking.

Looking to explore the full range of flash fiction? Browse our upcoming fiction workshops, including courses on the short form, generative writing, and compression techniques.
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Etgar Keret and the Surreal as Emotional Logic

The Israeli writer Etgar Keret uses absurdist premises the way other flash fiction writers use realistic settings: as compression devices. A Keret story might open with a man who discovers a hole in the middle of his living room that leads to another dimension, or a child whose imaginary friend turns out to be more real than his parents. The fantastical situation is never the point. It functions as a shortcut to emotional truth, bypassing the scenic and expository work that a realist story would need to reach the same destination.

This is a genuine craft strategy, not a gimmick. In a story of 500 words, you do not have space to build a realistic scenario that gradually reveals its emotional stakes. Keret's surreal openings establish the stakes immediately. The impossible situation creates an instant contract with the reader: we both know this is not literally true, so we can skip ahead to what it means.

His stories are often very funny, which obscures how technically precise they are. The humor functions as another compression tool. A joke, like a flash fiction, depends on economy and timing. Keret's sentences do both jobs at once, advancing the narrative and delivering the comedy in a single motion. His collections, widely translated and celebrated across dozens of countries, demonstrate that flash fiction can travel across languages and cultures when its emotional logic is sound.

The craft principle: a fantastical premise can be the most efficient path to genuine feeling. Writers who default to realism in their flash fiction should try Keret's approach at least once. Invent an impossible situation that externalized an emotion you have been trying to render through realistic detail. See which version gets closer to the truth.

George Saunders and the Compressed Epic

"Sticks" by George Saunders is 392 words long. Two paragraphs. It contains an entire life.

The story follows a father's obsessive decoration of a metal pole in the family yard. Season by season, the pole gets dressed for holidays and occasions. The narrator, the man's child, reports these decorations with flat, almost clinical detachment. Then, in the story's second paragraph, the children grow up and leave. The father grows old. The decorations become more personal, more desperate. He tapes index cards to string: letters of apology, pleas for understanding, a sign that reads LOVE, another that reads FORGIVE? He dies. The new owners throw the pole away.

The entire arc of a family's emotional history, spanning decades of distance and regret, compressed into less than a page. Saunders achieves this through temporal compression, a technique that flash fiction is uniquely suited to exploit. Where a novel would dramatize individual scenes of conflict between father and children, "Sticks" skips over those scenes entirely. We never see a single argument, a single moment of cruelty or tenderness. We see only the pole, and the pole tells us everything.

Saunders, who won the Man Booker Prize for Lincoln in the Bardo and whose stories have appeared in The New Yorker since 1992, is known primarily for his longer, more elaborately satirical fiction. "Sticks" proves that his instincts for emotional precision work just as powerfully at the shortest lengths. The craft principle: flash fiction can compress time in ways that longer forms cannot. An entire life, rendered through a single recurring image, can hit harder than a fully dramatized scene.

Tara Campbell and the Cross-Genre Flash

Tara Campbell describes her work as "smart wonder fiction," and the label captures something essential about her approach. Her flash fiction borrows from science fiction, fantasy, fabulism, and literary realism without settling permanently in any of those categories. A Campbell story might feature sentient trees, or a woman whose grief manifests as a literal weather system, or a perfectly realistic scene that gradually reveals itself to be something stranger.

This genre-blending is itself a form of compression. When a flash fiction draws on the conventions of multiple genres simultaneously, it inherits the emotional associations of all of them. A story that reads as both literary realism and fairy tale carries the weight of both traditions in a fraction of the space that either tradition would normally require.

Campbell's work also demonstrates that flash fiction is a living, evolving form. The writers at the beginning of this list (Davis, Hempel) established the form's literary credibility in the 1980s and 1990s. Campbell and writers like her are expanding its boundaries now, pushing flash fiction toward new hybrid territories that would have been difficult to imagine even a decade ago. Her stories, which are frequently humorous and frequently heartbreaking (sometimes in the same paragraph), suggest that the form's future lies in this kind of fearless cross-pollination.

The craft principle: genre boundaries are compression tools, not restrictions. Mixing genres in flash fiction is not a sign of indecision. It is a strategy for loading more meaning into less space.

Kathy Fish and the Generative Art of Flash Fiction

Kathy Fish is the rare writer who has shaped flash fiction as both a practitioner and a teacher. Her collection Wild Life: Collected Works from 2003-2018 is now in its third printing from Matter Press. Her piece "Collective Nouns for Humans in the Wild," written in response to the 2017 Las Vegas mass shooting, was selected for Best American Nonrequired Reading 2018, Best Small Fictions 2018, and The Norton Reader. She is core faculty for the Mile-High MFA program at Regis University, and her Fast Flash workshops have produced hundreds of published writers.

What makes Fish essential to any study of flash fiction masters is her understanding that the form is best learned through sustained, generative practice. Her workshops emphasize writing into the form daily, treating flash fiction not as a special occasion but as a discipline. The results speak for themselves: her students publish regularly, and many credit her prompt-driven methodology with breaking through creative blocks that had stalled their work for years.

Fish herself has described flash fiction's defining quality as emotional urgency. In an interview with Inkfish Magazine, she argued that urgency matters more than plot or even characterization in the very short form, because those elements emerge organically when the emotional stakes are high enough. Her own stories bear this out. Whether she is writing about family dysfunction, grief, the absurdities of American life, or the quiet violence of a relationship falling apart, the emotional charge arrives in the first sentence and intensifies until the final one.

The craft principle: flash fiction is a practice, not a product. The writers who improve fastest are the ones who write flash fiction regularly, in response to prompts and constraints, rather than waiting for the perfect idea to arrive fully formed. Fish's career is proof that generative discipline and artistic excellence are not in tension with each other.

Ready to commit to a generative flash practice? In our National Flash Fiction Month workshop, you'll write 30 short stories in 30 days with instructor Holly Lyn Walrath. Asynchronous, open to all genres, with weekly feedback.
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An Exercise: Find Your Own Flash Fiction Strategy

The eight writers above represent eight distinct approaches to compression. Davis works through philosophical precision. Hempel through omission. Chinquee through the charged ordinary. Williams through syntactic disruption. Keret through surreal premise. Saunders through temporal compression. Campbell through genre fusion. Fish through generative urgency.

Here is an exercise that uses their range as a diagnostic tool.

First, write a flash fiction of 500 words or fewer using whatever approach comes naturally to you. Do not plan. Just write.

When the draft is done, look at the list above and identify which strategy you instinctively reached for. Most writers have a default mode, and recognizing yours is the first step toward expanding your range.

Now, rewrite the same core material using a strategy from the opposite end of the spectrum. If your first draft was realistic and emotionally restrained (Hempel territory), try the same emotional content through a surreal premise (Keret territory). If your first draft was strange and syntactically adventurous (Williams territory), try rendering the same feeling through the accumulation of precise, mundane detail (Chinquee territory).

The two drafts will likely feel like different stories. That is the point. Flash fiction is capacious enough to hold all of these approaches simultaneously, and the writers who grow fastest in the form are the ones willing to work outside their comfort zone.

If you want to take this exercise further, July offers the perfect opportunity. National Flash Fiction Month is a tradition of writing flash fiction every day throughout July, and WritingWorkshops.com's fiction classes include multiple options for writers who want structured support and community accountability during the month.

Kick off National Flash Fiction Month with a live, generative Zoom workshop on July 1st. Write six flash fiction drafts in a single afternoon with instructor Lauren Davis. Strengths-based feedback, recording provided.
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WritingWorkshops.com is an independent creative writing school founded in 2016 in Dallas, Texas, and the official education partner of Electric Literature. The school offers online writing workshops, one-on-one mentorships, IndieMFA programs, and destination writing retreats in Paris, Dublin, Iceland, Tuscany, and other locations. Instructors are published authors with credits in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, Tin House, and McSweeney's, including National Book Award finalists, Pulitzer nominees, and New York Times bestsellers. More than 30,000 writers have taken classes with WritingWorkshops.com since its founding, and alumni have signed with literary agents, published books, been selected for the TODAY book club Read with Jenna, won the Halifax Prize from American Short Fiction, won the Mary McCarthy Prize from Sarabande Books, and earned admission to the Iowa Writers' Workshop, Michener Center, Syracuse, Michigan, NYU, and Columbia.

WritingWorkshops.com is an independent, artist-run creative writing school and the official education partner of Electric Literature. Since 2016, we've helped writers strengthen their voice, develop a greater understanding of craft, and forge a path to publication.