Microfiction, also known as flash fiction or short-short stories, is a very brief work of fiction characterized by its extreme brevity. There is no strict word limit for microfiction, but it typically ranges from a few words to around 300 words. The goal of microfiction is to tell a complete story or evoke a strong emotional response in a very concise format.
I find this type of writing very challenging, as you are required to evoke emotion in such a short amount of words. You can’t develop characters or a setting, it all needs to be brief, concise and beautiful. I’ve challenged myself this year to write more things that I’m not comfortable with, and I’ve given microfiction a shot. Check it out below:
A Painter’s Muse:
The snow fell in delicate flakes, turning the world into a canvas of white. A lone girl sat by the frozen pond, eyes lost in the silent beauty surrounding her. A small smile graced her face as she dipped her paintbrush into the vibrant colours, a stark contrast against the white backdrop.
She delicately stroked the canvas, snowflakes settling on her black hair and red scarf. Her hand moved deftly, body otherwise completely still. Eyes darted back and forth, examining the beauty around her. The only sound through the silence was the occasional creak from the snow-laden branches, bowing beneath the heavy weight of snow. Her imagination unfurled as she watched the frozen oasis around her.
A rustle nearby interrupted her focus. She glanced to her side and watched as a curious fox emerged, the bright orange a stark contrast in the white world around. She locked eyes with the fox, an unspoken understanding passing through them. She smiled as the fox turned, unbothered by her presence. It was the main character she needed.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting hues of pink and gold across the sky. She brushed her last stroke on the canvas, her masterpiece was completed. The snowy landscape had become a symphony of colour on her canvas, forever frozen in time. The fox, front and centre, beautifully contrasted the white canvas with orange hues.
She packed her easel and silently retreated, footprints in the snow the only clue she’d been there at all.
Emilie Turner 