Decades ago, I worked in a small government office with an accountant we'll call Bill. I was the new kid on the block, but I was perceptive, and I noticed quickly that no one wanted to interact with Bill. People who would call anyone else in the agency to discuss business would write memos to Bill, no matter how simple the matter at hand.
I worked closely with the personnel administrator. When Bill called and left a message about changing his Federal income tax withholding, this otherwise rational woman wrote a three-page memorandum detailing the procedures for filling out a four-box W-4 form.
I had never had dealings with Bill and was curious why everyone else avoided him so assiduously. So instead of dropping her memo in the intra-office mail box, I hand-delivered it to Bill's office. He seemed wary, but pleasant. He skimmed the memo and then launched into a twenty-minute history of income tax withholding in the United States. I'd heard all I wanted to after five minutes. The other fifteen were spent trying to find a tactful way to extricate myself from the man's office.
I was still shaking my head when I returned to my office, and the personnel administrator cackled with glee. "I told you so," she managed to croak between chortles. "Ask Bill what time it is and he'll tell you how to build a watch!"
Unfortunately, from that day forward, I was Bill's "special friend" in the human resources office. I suffered through at least a dozen more of his tutorials on a variety of topics, until Bill was purged in a change of administrations. I was finally free. But that's not the end of my story.
What does a chatty accountant with an inability to shut up have to do with flash literature? you ask.
The people who worked in that small state agency each had a specific job to do, an objective to work toward. Bill consistently thwarted their ability to achieve their objective.
Most good flash literature also works toward an objective. It is a journey from a starting point to an end point. The writer establishes the starting context at the beginning of the work, and if he/she is skillful, you will be carried along to the work's destination.
Successful shorter works are almost linear, and the journey can be described as a simple straight line from the starting point to the ending point. Take a look at Greg Richard Bernard's story Requiem for a Rodeo Clown. The line there is fairly straight, from the moment that we meet the clown talking with a young girl to his moment of distraction and subsequent injury.
Another example of a linear work is the Arlene Ang poem One Afternoon. In just thirteen lines, we learn about a couple's relationship. The poet has chosen just the right details to keep us moving along with her, and nothing distracts from the focus.
More complex, longer works may entail intermediate stops at one or more points between the start point and the end point, but the line is still more or less straight. For an example of this, read Sherpur Cemetery: Kabul, Afghanistan by J. Malcolm Garcia. In this essay, we meet an old man who tends a cemetery while avoiding thoughts of his own inevitable demise. The narrative spirals around the path, but never drifts. You learn a lot about life in Afghanistan on the way.
Works fail when they stray from the road.
Once you've hooked your reader, he's signed up for the trip; he wants take your journey and reach the destination along with you. Every digression from that straight line risks detouring the reader's attention. Too many digressions, and the reader wanders away to find another tour guide.
So the next time you sit down to write — remember Bill. People tend to avoid things — and people, and stories — that waste their time. So when you set out to tell us the time, don't tell us how to build the watch!