Flash 50 features an eclectic mix of 50 new, very short stories. Fifty unique takes on life and the human condition. Each of these finely crafted stories is sure to captivate, move and nourish.
Flash 50 features an eclectic mix of 50 new, very short stories. Fifty unique takes on life and the human condition. Each of these finely crafted stories is sure to captivate, move and nourish.
Iâd been congested and coughing all day when my wife suggested I take a Covid test.
âNobody tests anymore,â I said.
âBut if youâve got it, youâll spread it,â she said.
I knew she was right. I had a week full of meetings and events ahead. I didnât want to cancel anything, but I didnât want to infect anyone either.
So I took the test. It was positive.
I cancelled my appointments for the week. Suddenly, I was homebound with an open calendar. I wasnât sure what I was going to do.
Then an idea came to mind. A few days earlier, Iâd heard Don McLeansâs âStarry, Starry Nightâ on the radio. It was still playing in my head. It made me think of Van Goghâs famous painting. And that made me think of the paint by numbers I did as a kid. Maybe I should do one now to pass the time, I thought.
So I went online, found a paint by number of âThe Starry Nightâ and ordered it. It arrived in a long, thin box the following day.
I cleared the dining room table and opened the box. Tucked inside were a 16 by 20-inch rolled-up canvas, instructions, strips of little plastic paint pots, several brushes and a little poster of the finished painting to use as a guide.
I was surprised there were so many numbered sections: 1,205. I hadnât noticed that online. This was a lot more involved and advanced than the paint by numbers I did as a kid. Maybe this wasnât such a good idea, I thought.
I read the instructions. They laid out the process in a simple, orderly fashion: paint in sections, top to bottom, left to right, light colors to dark. They also included âpro tips.â
The first tip was to tape down the edges of the canvas on a flat surface. I grabbed a roll of masking tape and did that. Seeing the whole gamut of tiny numbered sections made my task seem even more daunting.
For a moment, I felt an urge to stuff everything back in the box and return it. But then what would I do all week?
I popped open the little paint cup stamped â1.â White. I checked out all the â1â sections in the upper left corner of the canvas, selected the smallest-tipped brush and dipped it in. Then I slowly lowered the tip of the brush to a small section near the corner and began to fill it in.
I tried to stay inside the lines. But after only a few strokes, my brush strayed into a different section.
In that moment, I was transported back to my childhood and an experience I had nearly forgotten.
When I was six years old, my mother bought me a paint-by-number kit. It was an autumn scene filled with trees bursting with color.Â
She set up a card table in my bedroom, laid out the contents of the kit and brought in a small glass of water so I could clean my brush between colors. She told me what to do, then left me to paint on my own.
But as soon as I started painting, I screwed up. I couldnât stay inside the lines, and the colors began to run together. Â
I pounded my fist on the table and stood up fast, knocking my chair over. Through tears, I glared down at my awful handiwork.
âI canât do this!â I yelled.
I grabbed the cardboard canvas, tore it in half and stuffed it in my trash can.
My mother must have heard all the commotion because she came back into my room. I was sitting on my bed, crying.
She sat down next to me.
âWhatâs wrong?â she said.
âI canât paint!â
âWhy do you say that?â
I told her what had happened. I thought sheâd be upset. Instead, she said, âYou donât have to stay inside the lines, you know. Artists blend colors. They blend everything. Thatâs what makes their paintings so beautiful.â
If Iâd been older, I might have thought she was just saying that to make me feel better. But I took her words to heart.
âDo you want to try another painting sometime?â she said.
âMaybe,â I said, sniffing.
âWell, whenever you'd like, we can go to the store and pick one out.â
A few days later, we went to Kmart, and I picked out a new paint-by-number kit:Â a spring scene with lots of blossoms and flowers.
When we got home, my mother helped me set up again. Then, once again, she left my room.
I sat down and began to paint. This time, though, I didnât get flustered when my brush strayed outside the lines. Â
A few days later, I finished that painting, which I proudly showed my family. My mother framed it, and together we hung it on my bedroom wall.
*
Now I scanned the nearly blank canvas on my dining room table, then studied the poster of the finished painting.
I remembered reading a story about Van Gogh painting âThe Starry Nightâ after looking out the window from his room in an asylum and seeing a large morning star. He wasnât allowed to paint in his room, so he began painting the star heâd seen in a studio, without the view for reference. The result was a dream-like image, a combination of elements real and imagined.
I thought about my life. I never imagined Iâd be so successful in the corporate world. Many of my colleagues have been smarter than me. But unlike most of them, Iâve always been able to navigate ambiguity, and that has made all the difference.
âArtists blend everything.â All my life, Iâve heard my motherâs voice and felt her loving presence.
I finished all the â1â sections, with white paint bleeding beyond many of the lines, and moved onto â2.â Blue, my motherâs favorite color.
While many see the novel as the peak of literary creation, the short story is undervalued. Far from being 'the same but shorter', writing short stories is a whole different artform, one that requires specific skills. When the short story becomes flash fiction, the ability to encapsulate an idea in a few short paragraphs is essential and requires a writer of skill.
Flash 50 is undoubtedly a product of such skill. Tassone's prose is exceptional. Dialogue rings true, every sentence feels crafted and the result is a fine selection of accessible, engaging stories.
It could be argued that the wisdom is a little homespun. One central thrust to the collection as a whole is 'wouldn't it be great if we all slowed down a little, spent less time looking at our phones and more time talking to people'. There's nothing wrong with this as a sentiment, of course, and I'm sure many of us would concur. If too much of that makes you itchy, however, you might want to consume this in small doses. Which, of course, is how it should be. Reading it in one sitting for this review probably over highlighted this aspect.
The book is divided into three sections, Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow. Tomorrow fades a little, relying as it does on extrapolating future scenarios that don't always satisfy. There, the simplicity of the format probably works against the content of the stories, as the futures described seem a little trite.
Tassone is definitely at his strongest when writing about people. There's more than one CEO discovering the important things in life, true, but mainly Tassone's characters, even when described in the shortest of stories, contain an essence of truthfulness and authenticity that lends an emotional weight to the stories that is indisputable and moving.
Ultimately, while the potential weaknesses might sink a lesser writer, Tassone avoids the pitfalls simply by being thoroughly gifted at what he does. Great writing is always a joy and if it's put to the purpose of teaching us all a little humility, perspective and proportion, then maybe we could all do with more of it in our lives.