Somewhere, possibly in a photography class at college, I learned about art as a matter of filling forms. In this context a "form" meant a more or less familiar pattern, a way we use to organize matter and experience in our minds. When writers choose a subject about which to tell a story, they are choosing a form for their story. Love, animals and abuse are common forms for stories. This idea can also be seen in photography, where certain subjects, such as trees, are very common. Others, such as almost-extinct animals, are less common. Because the "tree" form has been filled so many times, it's difficult to take an emotionally effective photograph of the favored old oak in your back yard. The exotic animal, on the other hand, is something new, and a photo of its face, or even part of its face, is more powerful than a picture of, say, my cat's face. An uncommon form is easier to fill, but it is also more difficult to find.

I was reminded of the idea of forms while reading for flashquake. The many submissions on common themes, or forms, surprised me. I read many stories about early sexual encounters, the abuse

of women, children and animals, suicide, drunken misadventures and senile dementia. There were so many submissions on the topic of abuse, they began to blur together. At least they did until I read R. E. Bowse's essay "Breast," which filled the form of "abuse story" in a way I'd never seen done before. After I read the essay, I couldn't quit thinking about it. Other submissions that caught my attention tackled less common forms, such as selling and buying fish in China. Arlene Ang's poem "Miss Wei sells 15-Catty Carp to Lord Chou's Attendant" appealed to me because it is different. While there were other submissions about situations unfamiliar to me, I reacted emotionally only to some, such as Ang's. This obscure

element, the emotional reaction, is what leads me to consider the work outstanding.

I'm not sure which form, common or uncommon, is easier to fill. Writers are most familiar with common themes, and while we have trouble describing these in new or different ways, we don't stop trying. On the other hand, finding the thing that has not been described before is difficult, too. I wonder if "write what you know" shouldn't be "write what you know until you finally come across the thing you thought everyone else knew, but it turned out they didn't." But that's not quite right, either. To be emotionally effective, the well-filled form must touch on some aspect of experience in a way the reader feels, deep down, to be true. That search for truth is what keeps us writing and reading, near and far, on the familiar and less so, for a reflection of our own experience. I hope this issue of flashquake shines a new light on forms you have seen before, and also shows you forms you've never seen before in any light. And I hope you enjoy reading the selections as much as I do.