The Flashnificent 7. A simple concept. Seven writers, seven days of the week. Get a story out on each day of the week, give the public some high quality fiction in bite-size portions.
It worked for a while. Each of us sweated, cried, and in some cases urinated over our respective pieces. We were as steady as P-Funk’s rhythm section and twice as glam. It was as the number of page views started to rise that the problems began.
We lost George first, to croquet. These temptations exist to snare the successful. “Come back George!” we cried, but to no avail. He saluted, waved his little mallet, and was gone.
Next something strange happened to India. She changed her name to Scott. We’re an inclusive, unprejudiced bunch here at the Flashnificent 7, we simply pretended not to notice.
Chris and Davis were next to flounder. Chris became involved in every musical project connected with the University of Winchester. The toll of leaping like a crack-fuelled gazelle from musical project to musical project soon began to show. We knew things were bad when we found him, slumped in a corner, unable to even strum his own guitar. (Not a euphemism)
Davis, who claims to be a time lord, insisted that he had been writing consistently each week, but because he is currently stationed in the late 1800s the technology did not exist for him to post. We attempted to remonstrate with him, but he pointed a screwdriver at us and said “It may not be sonic, but it’ll bloody well hurt.”
That left Brendan, Antosh and Mark. One wintry night the three gathered on a blasted heath.
“When shall we three meet again?” Brendan cackled.
“Hold on,” Antosh said, “weren’t we going to talk about the Flashnificent 7?”
“Tis true,” Mark said, stroking his (frankly revolting) moustache, “we were.”
“Shall we go in then?” Brendan suggested, “It’s unnecessarily cold out here.”
From the warmth of the pub, a consensus was reached. The Flashnificent 7 was no longer working. We were not fulfilling our brief of providing a high-quality piece of flash fiction a day. Antosh and Brendan suggested something looser and less formal, like silk pyjamas.
A site where there was no set day to post, where the pressure to post was off. Open to external submissions and (short) poetry as well as flash fiction. Fewer rules, greater freedom. At first Mark was as resistant and unyielding as his moustache. Then as Movember melted into December, he shaved, and realised Antosh and Brendan’s idea had a simple beauty that could not be appreciated by a moustachioed man.
“Could such a nirvana exist?” Mark gasped. Antosh and Brendan put an arm each around his neck and pointed him at http://theflashnificents.tumblr.com.
Join us, dear reader. Join us.