Need a little mid-winter inspiration? Try one of these flash fiction prompts:

1: Write a story in which something transforms into something else.

2: Write a true story that is so ___________(insert adjective here) that no one would believe it’s true. But it is.

3: Find a story you’ve written that isn’t quite working. Chop it down to exactly 100 words. Give it a new title.

4: Write a story that is based in or uses elements of mythology–any mythology from any culture or time period.

5: Bibliomancy–open the dictionary to any random page, place your finger on any random word and poof! That is the title (or part of the title) of your next story.

6: Write a story from the point of view of someone much older than you.

7: Write a story about or featuring a body part. (Heads out of the gutters, people, there are other body parts!)

8: Write a secret, preferably one you think no one could relate to.

9: Write a story in which something important is lost.

10: Use a dream or pieces of a dream to create a surreal, alter-reality story.

11: Find a story of yours that’s not quite working. WITHOUT rereading it (this is key), rewrite it from scratch, letting it morph as necessary. Then compare the two and blend to taste.

12: Write a story that begins with, and consists mostly of, dialogue.

13: Write a story that deals with or includes some aspect of a taboo.

14: Write a story that has happened to you but write it from another person’s point of view.

15: Write a story that involves a reoccurring and/or deep dark fear.

16: Write a story that’s happened to someone else, but write it as if it happened to you.

17: Write a story that has some reference to a current event.

18: Write a story that involves an animal.

19: Write a story in which you spill a secret, yours or someone else’s. Disguise as necessary.

20: Write a story that takes place in an empty landscape.

21: Rewrite a scene from history.

22: Write a story that involves time travel.

23: Write a story that contains at least three of these elements: body lice, gasoline, a Hostess product, a childhood hero, an outdated slang expression, a song title or your favorite flavor.

24: Write a story that contains elements of a real holiday memory.

25: Write a story that takes place over breakfast.

26: Write a story that includes a humiliation, real or invented.

27: Write a story that involves a celebrity.

28: Write a story in which the impossible is now possible.

29: Revisit a story you’ve written. Count the words. Now reduce the word count by half.

30:  Write a story with a theme of “The End.”

Thanks to Carolyn Zaikowski for inviting me into this writerly conversation! Read about her new book, A Child Is Being Killed, forthcoming in June from Aqueous Books.

And now, without further adieu:

TEN INTERVIEW QUESTIONS FOR THE NEXT BIG THING

What is your working title of your book?

The Monster Opera and Other Bible Stories
Where did the idea come from for the book?

Originally The Monster Opera and my flash fiction stories were separate projects, but once I started writing I realized they were all part of one single manuscript.

THE MONSTER OPERA: I remember very clearly the day I accidentally found Gertrude Stein’s libretto to Four Saints in Three Acts. I was already a fan of opera, but surprisingly I’d never really thought about the libretto of an opera (the written “script”)—which might seem weird since I’m writer! But when I started reading her libretto—and it was pure opera AND pure Stein—I became totally inspired. There is a quote by Susan Sontag, and I’m paraphrasing here, about the novel and opera being the two most antiquated forms, the forms that have evolved the least over their lifetimes, and since I was already a novelist I decided to write a story that met in the cross section between the two. So The Monster Opera is neither and both and ultimately asks the question, “Who owns a story?”

I’m also lucky to be in creative partnership with Nick Busheff, who is an amazing composer. He’s taught me a lot about opera and classical structures and he scored the first 15 pages for a live reading/performance about a year ago.

AND OTHER BIBLE STORIES: The absurdist world of the flash fiction stories that precede the opera came only recently. Having spent a lot of time immersed in the world of flash fiction thanks to my involvement with Fast Forward Press, I originally I thought I was collecting my previously written/ published flash fiction stories for a separate story collection, but soon I found the flash stories were taking me into an entirely new, surreal direction and ultimately hooking up with The Monster Opera.
What genre does your book fall under?

Absurdist. Surrealist. Experimental. Genre-bending. Flash Fiction. Collections. Opera Librettos. It is a collection of 29 flash fictions and one flash opera, which is a story using the form of an opera libretto.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

None. Dear God, no. (Although Bernadette Peters might make a good Magdelena in a staged version.)
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

“Twenty-nine absurdist flash fictions and one flash opera.”
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

Depends how you count.  The short answer is one year for each section, with an additional year in between to break down and question if I should really be a writer.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I adore the story collections of George Saunders and Lydia Davis. The Monster Opera was of course inspired by the opera libretto, Four Saints in Three Acts by Gertrude Stein, as well classic books like Frankenstein and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Well, as I said I thought for a long time that these were separate projects. I owe much of the synthesis and the big picture shift to fellow writer Rob Geisen, who was working on a poetry manuscript at the same time. We spent much of the summer in a writing dialogue, and both of our manuscripts grew in unexpected ways from the cross-pollination. So I guess you could say I was inspired by poetry!

Nancy Stohlman~January 17, 2013

Next week, look for exciting interviews by:

David Wagner, talking about his new science fiction manuscript, What Marvoulous Things Await to Be Seen.

Bryan Jansing, talking about his new non-fiction book, A Guide to the Microbreweries of Italy.

Nate Jordon, talking about his new chapbook, Vinnie Palmieri.

Originally published at Boston Literary Magazine. Read original here:

Death Row Hugger

by Nancy Stohlman

            For some reason it’s always at night. It’s always in the same room, the light is always jaundiced. The room smells musty, like wet clothes were shoved and left to die in all the corners.

I guess I was destined for this job. My parents weren’t the hugging type, so I’ve always had a malnourished craving for arms around me. I started out as a professional baby cuddler for the preemie babies in the NICU; each night after visiting hours, I settled into the wooden rocking chair with these miniature babies and their ancient, sculpted faces and whispered of a future when they would be strong and full sized.

But nothing could prepare me for being a Volunteer Hugger on Death Row. You enter that holding room, and there they are, trying to enjoy their steaks or lobsters or Cuban cigars or whatever. My job is to hug them just before they take that long walk. It’s not a sexual hug, though I have felt a few erections, and a few have tried to kiss me, but I politely turn my cheek and squeeze them harder. Because there’s this moment in the hug, you see, where it goes from something awkward and obligatory to when they melt into my arms, weeping with their bodies if not with their eyes. Every now and then I hear one of them whisper in my ear, and once one called me Mama.

(Published by Connotation Press, Dec 15, 2012. Read original here.)

What Happened in the Library by Nancy Stohlman

Discouraged by the shelves of unread classics in my extensive personal library, I made a phone call. The clone I ordered showed up at my doorstep carrying an old red Samsonite hardshell suitcase. Did you bring reading glasses as specified in my instructions? I asked. She nodded and cracked an eyeglass case as proof. I showed her to my library. This will be your room, I said. I put a cot out for you, but I don’t expect you’ll be sleeping much. I also put the armchair and my favorite lamp next to the fireplace.

But it’s 100 degrees out my clone objected.

I knew you would say that, I said, so I also strung up a hammock in the backyard. And eventually summer will be over and you’ll want to read by the fireplace. Drink all the coffee and water you want and I’ll bring you three meals a day. No need to ring me—just keep your focus on the books and I’ll slip you food quietly so as not to interrupt you.

I walked my clone over to the bookshelves. My collection is far from complete, I said, but this will get you started. You can go in any order you want; perhaps you work your way chronologically with Homer, Ovid, then Chaucer, Shakespeare, all the way up to Fitzgerald, Hemingway, etc., or else you could go alphabetically by either title or author, beginning at Aesop or All Quiet on the Western Front. You could also go by themes, such as Dickens in the winter. You’ll get every other Sunday off.

What if it’s raining?

Well, if it’s raining on a Sunday then obviously I’m going to need you to stay here and read all day, so if the rainy day happens to fall on a Sunday, you’ll get Monday off instead.

I let my clone settle in and told her she didn’t have to start reading until tomorrow, and I commended myself on my own brilliance.

The first few weeks I was so happy to look in at mealtime and find her curled in the armchair, fuzzy socked feet tucked under her, glass of iced tea on the end table, sometimes the jazz station playing, sometimes just the crinkly sound of pages turning. Her profile was like my own but less weathered by daily stresses and worry lines, and I began to obsess about her and what she was doing as I lugged my lecture notes to and from the university each day, graded piles of essays from fledgling writers, and tried to muster up enough excess energy to sit in front of my own manuscript. My clone, on the other hand, spent whole days wearing the same silky nightgown, or reading in the nude on the hammock wearing just a cowboy hat. When I saw Moby Dick propped on her brown belly as I left to catch the Lightrail, I felt a true pang of jealousy.

I decided to spy on her. With all this time to read, she really should have finished more books. I pretended to leave one day but secretly cancelled all my classes and drove the car to the nearby Office Max and then took a cab home and hid in the bushes below my front window. My clone was just waking up, Moby Dick opened beside her on the bed. I noted that she had been reading that same book for quite some time now—months, even. She sat up and stretched, turned on the reading light, fluffed her pillows, reached for the coffee and chocolate croissant I had left her, pulled her red Samsonite suitcase from under the bed, popped open the lid and retrieved a book I hadn’t seen before. She settled into the pillows holding a chocolate croissant in one hand and the book, opened to the middle, in the other, and I could finally read the title: 50 Shades of Grey.

A quick informational search in my office later told me that this was not a classic nor did it have literary merit.

On the next non-rainy Sunday when my clone had the day off I broke into her red Samsonite suitcase and found piles of books with titles like: Twilight: New Moon, The Notebook, The Babysitters Club, The Nanny Diaries, Chicken Soup for the Girlfriend’s Soul, Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood, and A Girl’s Guide to Getting a Husband. I opened the beautiful hardbound edition of Moby Dick she had been reading endlessly for months and instead found it gutted, a copy of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban neatly tucked inside.

What is going on here? I asked her when she returned Monday morning.

What are you talking about?

How’s Moby Dick?

It’s good.

What’s happened so far?

Well, they’re chasing around this whale and stuff.

What else?

Um, they’re talking a lot about whales and stuff.

And?

I don’t know! Moby Dick sucks, okay! I hate it!

Her face blanched, but it was too late.

I contacted the cloning agency and had her returned immediately. I turned down their offer of a replacement—it was still too soon. But the library seemed big and empty, I thought, cleaning up her crumbs, putting her cowboy hat on the shelf.