Foy is an aspiring author and poet. Her poem Jardín y Jardinera was recently accepted and put on display at The Spitzer Art Center, a local gallery. Fiction, and anything with roots growing outside of reality, is her tree; you can read her real world ramblings at her website on Wednesdays. Happily married with a Blue Heeler baby, she lives in the Shenandoah Valley.
100 words ain’t many. How do you fit a story into so few words? Trust your readers are clever enough to understand what’s not being said.
Why do you like flash fiction? Instant gratification. That sounds terrible but there’s a satisfaction that comes from just being finished. No weeks and months of rewriting, editing, and wading through self-doubt.
Been writing long? At twelve, I started strong, writing poems, song lyrics, and half-finished stories, only to slack off during college. This past October, I came crawling back and couldn’t be happier!
You write anything else? Melancholy poetry, limping short stories, and, recently, a full-length Speculative Fiction. Narrative set in our reality is something I usually try to avoid.
Any advice for other flash writers? Don’t let another writer’s skill or success intimidate you. We’re all mortals here and everyone sees through different eyes.
Any interesting writerly projects in the pipeline? Yes, I’ve got this burning dream to write dark children’s shorts. The hero is a past shadow-self of my Mr. Foy. I want to record his adventures for our future Foylings.
I just finished reading a book. Can you recommend another? The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman. Captivating, unique, and a pinch of Edgy. I can’t praise it enough.
Foy S. Iver
No Bio Chem.
No stretch marks.
No take backs.
The idea of lists seared itself into my brain, and then my fingers were writing bullet point wishes, and those wishes were changing with age until I had the moment when that final superficial desire is replaced by the substantial, the meaningful.
ctrl + alt + delete
Foy S. Iver
“Doctor that image, will ya?”
His poke sends pixels scattering. The muscles in my arm tense. I drive my fingertips into the keys to keep from smacking his flawless hand away.
Damn company people and their manicures.
Clawing through the sooty remnants of Earth left mine ashen from a million memories, bodies, souls.
I wipe the stick-and-blanket shelter from the image along with another piece of my autonomy.
“We can’t have Earth looking hospitable. Theo said you found trinkets.”
“A knife, an iPod, a picture. Anything else?”
The badge burns a circle in my breast pocket.
It is humanity. A testimony. There are survivors.
For the bookends, I knew I wanted to use “doctor” as a verb. The photo suggested a small-town boy-becomes-man story. Lately, I’ve been experimenting with twisting expectations. If a photo screams down-to-earth, I’ll launch it into sci-fi space. An image floated by: a woman pawing through our planet’s dusty remnants while a man monitored her. I didn’t let it slip away.
The Dying Swan: Dancer to the Last
Foy S. Iver
“…sweet, sticky tonic and there’s no certainty it’ll cure pneumonia–”
“Victor?” Anna lost in covers.
Her self-ascribed husband moved bedside, “Dearest?”
“Are they taking me to hospital?”
Victor’s eyes monitored him. The physician answered cautiously, “We can operate but…you wouldn’t dance again.”
“I could live–?”
“Love,” Victor’s words crushed hers. “You’re not thinking clearly. If you couldn’t dance, wouldn’t you rather slip away?”
She tried freeing her hand from the cage his fingers formed.
“You don’t want to be remembered that way. Not when the world could know you as ‘The Dying Swan–dancer to the last.’”
Fear turned her skin hard and white as a tooth.
If the host takes the time to post links and wiki-pages then I want to honor that by exploring them. Five minutes into reading about Pavlova, I had my story thanks to that curious word “asserted.” Peering at history from a tilted angle can reveal worlds you hadn’t seen.