Deconstructing Flash Fiction Changes How We Teach Reading and Writing
Every word in a story, letter and speech matters, because words have the power of holding greater meanings while conveying emotions from different points of view. The use of deconstruction with flash fiction is a method of teaching students how to analyze and discover information about characters, motivations, and outcomes in the story.
Flash fiction stories are not new, but when the story is culturally relevant, students have an easier time connecting and can apply the learning through deconstruction. The best thing about flash fiction stories is they can grow with the reader, bringing new insights with each reading.
We have to go beyond plot, setting and characters with our students. They might be the foundation of story, but do not help convey the meaning of the story. We must take the time to teach our students to look at the higher concept. They must look at what is not said, what is said, and the underline meaning. Learn how to decipher emotions and ask why, but also, what are the motivations of the characters. We don’t have the time to deconstruct a novel in the classroom, but we can deconstruct a flash fiction story. Flash fiction helps students learn how to deconstruct and move on to novels and poetry.
My favorite speech is The Gettysburg Address. 272 words. There is power in brevity.
As Lincoln inspired a nation with a speech, teachers can also inspire students with a flash fiction story to use deconstruction for reading and writing their own stories.
Death of a Writer
In fourth grade our English teacher, Ms. Ayala, wanted us to write a short story. She said the best story would win a bag of pan dulce. When she said that, every kid in the class smiled with wide eyes. It had to be a story like Robinson Crusoe. We had to pretend we were shipwrecked on a deserted island, and then describe what we would do.
It was hard for us to imagine, because none of us had ever been on a ship and the only island we had been on was Padre Island. But Ms. Ayala said, “That’s what imagination is for. You can write anything you want.”
“Anything?” we asked.
“Yes, anything,” she said with a warm, trusting smile. I thought about it all morning and during lunch. On the playground, my friends and I were playing marbles, and all I could talk about was the story we had to write. Ramiro Ramos, who was burning ants with matches he had snuck into school, looked up from his favorite hobby.
“You heard her. She said we could write about anything we want. We can’t get in trouble for writing what we want to write,” he said as ants curled to a hot flame.
A few days later our teacher started inviting students to read their stories out loud in front of the class. I can’t remember any of them, not even my own story, but I do remember Ramiro’s.
When she called him, he got up and walked in front of the class and took out a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket. He unfolded it several times and cleared his throat.
“This is my story,” he said. “One day I was on a ship and it crashed on an island. And there were monsters and they ate me. The end.”
I started laughing because I thought it was the funniest story ever, but the other students looked confused. Ms. Ayala got mad and sent Ramiro to the principal’s office, and he was paddled three times.
A Bilingual Translator’s Journey: David Rice’s “Death of a Writer”
My name is Julieta Corpus, and I have translated four flash fiction stories by Author David Rice, and each of them could be described as self-contained worlds of youthful rites of passage. They all deal with boys who experience unforgettable, yet regrettable, moments in which the main character takes a bird's life, or intentionally gets a fellow student into trouble with the teacher, or witnesses how one of his peers attempts to win first prize for writing the best story by inserting a quick ending involving a monster.
That last story is aptly titled, "Death of a Writer,” and I thoroughly enjoyed translating it from English into Spanish. However, as with all the rest, it came with its own set of challenges. The main challenge dealt with choosing the appropriate words and phrases to produce a final Spanish version which flowed with the same playfulness and hilarity as the original. For example, I couldn't use historia corta for the words short story knowing that there is no such genre in Spanish literature. In another part of the story, David Rice writes, "every kid smile with wide eyes.” If I had translated literally, the end result would read that the kids smiled with open eyes, as in: "los niños sonrieron con los ojos abiertos,” so I decided to emphasize the comedic aspect of the image by adding a descriptive word before abiertos, muy abiertos or very open.
Retracing my steps a bit, I want to point out that I also debated with which word would work best for kid. I couldn't use chamaco or boy because that would have excluded the girls. Also, it's a regional word, and this would add a restrictive element to David Rice's stories which he writes for a wide audience. I came across the same dilemma when choosing the appropriate word for matches. I used the correct term, fósforos, because writing cerillos, instead, would fail to enrich the reader's vocabulary. The part where the boy gets paddled by the principal also required the best image I could conjure for Spanish speakers by deciding to use the word tablazos for paddles. All in all, I was happy with the results, and so was the story's author who can now delight students in two languages.
La Muerte De Un Escritor
En el cuarto grado, nuestra maestra de Inglés, la Señorita Ayala, nos pidió que escribiéramos un cuento corto. Nos dijo que el mejor cuento ganaría una bolsa de pan dulce. Cuando lo dijo, cada niño de la clase sonrió con los ojos muy abiertos. Tenía que ser como uno de los cuentos de Robinson Crusoe. Tendríamos que pretender ser náufragos en una isla desierta, y luego describir qué haríamos.
Era difícil imaginarlo porque ninguno de nosotros había viajado en un barco y la única isla que conocíamos era la Isla del Padre. Pero la Señorita Ayala dijo, "Para eso es la imaginación. Puedes escribir cualquier cosa que desees."
"¿Cualquier cosa?” preguntamos.
"Si, cualquier cosa,” lo dijo con una sonrisa cariñosa y llena de confianza.
Lo pensé toda la mañana y durante el almuerzo. En el patio de recreo, mis amigos y yo jugábamos a las canicas, y de lo único que yo hablaba era sobre el cuento que debíamos escribir. Ramiro Ramos, quien se encontraba quemando hormigas con fósforos que había introducido a la escuela a escondidas, volteó a verme desde su pasatiempo favorito.
“Tú la escuchaste. Nos dijo que podíamos escribir sobre cualquier cosa. No nos podemos meter en problemas por escribir lo que queramos escribir," lo dijo mientras que las hormigas se enroscaban con la llama encendida.
Unos días después la maestra invitó a los estudiantes a que leyeran sus cuentos en voz alta y enfrente de la clase. No recuerdo ninguno, ni siquiera mi propio cuento, pero sí el de Ramiro.
Cuando lo llamó, él se levantó y se paró enfrente de la clase y sacó una hoja de papel doblada del bolsillo trasero. La desdobló varias veces y carraspeó.
“Este es mi cuento," dijo. "Un día yo iba en un barco y se estrelló en una isla. Había monstruos y me tragarón. Fin."
Yo me empecé a reír porque me pareció el cuento más chistoso que jamás había oído, pero los demás estudiantes se veían confundidos. La Señorita Ayala se enojó y mandó a Ramiro a la oficina del director, y le dieron tres tablazos.
It Starts With the Title
I start with the first word, “Death.” I ask students if death is a negative or positive tone? Death is a sensitive topic. Depending on the grade level, it’s best to approach the topic carefully. Losing a friend or family member is not easy.
Students will say death is negative, but some say it depends on age or maybe illness. Usually they agree death has a lot of “Depends on.” Death can be cruel or merciful.
Then we talk about what’s a writer? A writer is an artist like a musician, painter, or dancer, trying to express themselves. Trying to communicate a view or idea. And we know, from the title, Death of a Writer, a writer is going to die. How does the writer die? Is this a murder story? Should we kill an artist?
Is the title positive or negative? Some students say it depends and I reply, so some artists should die? Don’t we have the right to express ourselves through music, clothes or even hairstyles? What’s wrong with someone expressing themselves?
By this time the students are ready to move on with the story: “Why is this taking so long?” I always reply, what’s the hurry? I just want to make sure we deconstruct the story. Let’s try to understand what the story is truly about.
The first line is about a 4th-grade student. Our protagonist is a 9-year-old boy. I ask students if a 9-year-old is considered a kid? They say yes because he’s not yet a teenager. I ask them is writing a short is easy? Some say yes and others no. I ask the students if asking a 9-year-old to write a short story might be asking too much?
Again, the students are divided. The next line, “Best story would win a bag of pan dulce.” I ask them, is making the students write a short story assignment into a competition a good idea? I use the example of dancing at a wedding or quinceañera. If the DJ or band says, “Let’s have a dance contest,” the floor clears out because a contest can take the fun out of the party, sometimes. So, making the short story assignment a competition could put pressure on students.
Ms. Ayala tells the students to use their imagination with a “warm trusting smile.” The trusting smile doesn’t help our protagonist. He thinks about the assignment all morning, but at one point does thinking all morning become stressing all morning?
Our protagonist takes the writing assignment seriously whereas his friend, Ramiro, is not worried because he believes in the warm trusting smile. He believes the teacher. “You can’t get in trouble for writing what you want to write.” But Ramiro is also a smarty-pants. He sneaks matches into school and burns ants. A foreshadow of what happens to him when he’s paddled. Ramiro is irreverent or maybe a bit too flippant? But maybe he’s just being a kid.
When Ramiro reads his story in front of the class he does so in a nonchalant manner. His story is not in a binder, it’s in his back pocket folded several times. He clears his throat and says, “This is my story. One day I was on a ship and it crashed on an island. There were monsters and they ate me. The end.” The students are confused and only our hero thinks it’s funny. But it’s not funny when Ramiro is sent to the office and paddled three times.
Is Ramiro’s story a story? I think it is, but it needs more description and so on, but there’s a story there. Ramiro starts by saying, “This is my story.” It’s no one else’s, only his. Ramiro crashes on an island and is eaten by monsters. The question is, who are the monsters?
When I ask students they say it’s Ms. Ayala. No hesitation. I counter, but it says, “Monsters,” there has to be more. Who hired Ms. Ayala? Students say the principal is to blame for the punishment too. Again, I counter with who hired the principal? The superintendent they say. I say, okay, so there are three monsters? Ms. Ayala, the principal and the superintendent, and that’s it? No other monsters ate Ramiro? The students think and sometimes one will say, “You can blame the school board, they hired the superintendent.” I say, okay, Ms. Ayala, the principal, the superintendent, and the school board, that’s it? No more monsters ate Ramiro on the island?
At this moment they realize the town voted for the school board and their parents are the voters. And someone will say, “But people voted for the school board and I guess they’re monsters too.”
I say, so we got Ms. Ayala, the principal, the superintendent, the school board, and now the voters? Well, what about the students in the classroom? They didn’t come to Ramiro’s defense either. Not even the protagonist came to his defense. Is the protagonist to blame too, even though they are friends? And what kind of friend is he if doesn’t come to the aid of Ramiro?
Finally, one of them will say, “So everyone’s a monster?” I tell the students the only way you can protect the artists and thinkers is by voting or speaking up, plain and simple, but it takes courage.
I use this story to talk about a quote from Martin Niemöller. U-Boat Commander from World War I who later became a Lutheran Pastor in Germany. The dangers of being complicit.
“First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out because I was not a socialist. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out because I was not a trade unionist. Then they came for the Jew, and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak for me.”
After all, we are the ones who create monsters and we must learn not to become a monster. This can lead to conversations about our civic responsibility to communities, schools and students.
Death of a writer.
Eternal Flame
I have lived with ADD my whole life. So when I was a kid, going to church was tough. Sitting for a whole hour during the mass without any other way to divide my attention was almost too much.
Thank God I was a Catholic, and we had the Catholic Hokie Pokie: sit down, stand up, kneel, sit down, stand up, shake your partner’s hand. I mean, if the Vatican made a workout video, we’d all have buns of steel. At the time, I thought praising our Lord Jesus Christ was hard enough, but serving him must take nerves of steel.
And I learned this at the age of eight. That’s when I became an altar boy at Saint Theresa’s Catholic Church in Edcouch, Texas. Before serving my parish in this capacity, I had been used to walking in the church with a cavalier attitude and saying to the crucifix hanging over the altar, “Hey, Jesus, can you forgive my sins? and “Hey, Jesus, what can you do for me this week?”
Later, as an altar server, however, I learned that God is best praised when one serves others. It is a lesson I carried with me for many years, but then lost. I found it again eight years ago when I walked into the Main building of Our Lady of the Lake University.
A faculty member in the English Department invited me to talk to her students who had read my collection of short stories that semester. I had never heard of Our Lady of the Lake University, but figured it was like the other church colleges I had been to for readings and book signings. No big deal. I had given lectures in almost all central Texas colleges and this was just one more gig.
Getting there was not easy. I always get lost in San Antonio. The more lost I get, the more frantic I get, and the faster I drive. And how many lakes could San Antonio have? I mean, how can you not find a lake? But I finally found the college. I drove up and parked and ran toward the Main building.
Crossing 24th street, I saw the grand Main building and its bright silver spires and the sun-washed marble cross and statue of the Virgin Mary at the very top. I paused for a moment. When I pulled open the big wooden doors and entered, everything stopped. I wasn’t a cocky thirty-six-year-old man with two books under my belt. I wasn’t the arrogant writer with all the answers. The spirit of the building, the wisdom of its walls and the strength of its floors humbled me. I was eight years old again, standing before the altar of Saint Theresa’s, ready to serve our Lord Jesus Christ. It was that visit that made me realize that I don’t need praise from students. I need to praise them and serve God in the best way I can. Today, every school I visit is Our Lady of the Lake University. Every time I visit with students in any classroom anywhere to discuss my stories, I know I’m there because of the grace of God. No fire can take that away from me.
Because students, like the writer below, are like the eternal flame: They can’t be put out.
Permission to share this testimonial was granted by Mr. Cavazos, who is now a college student.
David Rice grew up in Edcouch and earned a Bachelor of Arts from Texas State University and a Master of Fine Arts from the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley. He is the author of Give the Pig a Chance, Heart-Shaped Cookies, and the award-winning Crazy Loco. He is also the author of numerous feature films and plays and claims South Texas and his Mexican American culture as sources of his artistic inspiration.
As the CEO and Founder of the David Rice Method, his mission is to give all children access to the general education curriculum for reading and writing by developing culturally responsive documents and materials in collaboration with Diana Saenz, Access to the General Curriculum for the Region One Special Education Department. Click here to learn more on how the David Rice Method can change the way reading and writing is taught in the classroom.
Leonel Garza is an actor, known for The Farmer (2021), Keyhole Garden and San Diego Gas & Electric: Podando Arboles y Vegetación en Su Hogar (2020). He is fluent in Spanish and English with a command of dialects in both languages. He has extensive experience in LatinX theater and is a quick study of movement and choreography. He earned a Bachelor of Arts with a double major in history and Spanish from Texas State University. He is also licensed by the State Board Educator Certification (SBEC) to serve as a bilingual educator (Early Childhood-6th Grade) in the state of Texas. He currently serves as the in-house actor and storyteller for the David Rice Method. Click here to learn more about his work.
Julieta Corpus grew up in Mexico before her father settled the family in the Rio Grande Valley, Texas. She earned a Bachelor of Arts in Interdisciplinary Studies and a Master of Fine Arts from the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley. She is the author of Of Loves and Departures/ De Amor Y Despedidas and her poems have been published in Tendiendo Puentes, The Mesquite Review, UTPA’s Gallery Magazine, and Festiva: The Writers Issue. She has also been included in various poetry compilations, such as Writing to Be Heard: Voices from the Chicho, STC’s Interstice, and four Valley International Poetry Festival Boundless Anthologies, The Thing Itself, and the Texas Poetry Calendar. She is also licensed by the State Board Educator Certification (SBEC) to serve Texas students in grades 1-8 in three different areas: Elementary English, Elementary Self-Contained, and Bilingual/ESL-Spanish. She currently serves as the bilingual translator for the David Rice Method. Click here to buy her book.
Bonus Read: Nothing but Blue Skies
On my seventh birthday my grandmother, Mama Locha, gave me a sky blue shirt with fluffy clouds on it. She bought it in San Antonio at an art gallery and said it was hand-painted. It was one of a kind. “Every day brings a different sky but your sky will always be bright blue with fluffy clouds,” she said. She gave me washing instructions. Wash in cold water and let hang dry so it would stay bright blue. She believed you should take care of your clothes and pass them to people you love.
I’d go with her to Goodwill and she’d look at dresses and coats. “Where do you think these have been? Weddings, parties or chilly nights by a fire? They all tell stories.”
“You think clothes tell stories?” I asked.
“People tell stories and the clothes they wear hold memories. Your great-grandmother made my wedding dress. Your mother wore my wedding dress at her wedding and maybe one day, your sister will wear my dress at her wedding. See, we pass on our clothes and they carry love.”
I loved the sky blue shirt, but I loved one thing more, my dog Crazy Loco. He was great and followed me everywhere. He’d sometimes walk in front, but always made sure I was following him. And other times, Crazy Loco walked behind, but I made sure he was following me. I guess you could say he was my best friend.
One of my other best friends lived a few blocks away and I’d walk to his house to play and Crazy Loco tagged along like he always did. One day I stayed at my friend’s house past sundown and walked home in the dark. But I wasn’t afraid because it was my neighborhood and Crazy Loco was with me. He was a brave dog and though he never really barked and certainly never bit anyone, I think he’d do both, if he thought I was in danger.
I decided to walk through a different street and Crazy Loco was right behind, then I heard a whimper, a sound I never heard Crazy Loco make. He stopped, took a step and limped on his left front leg.
“Hey buddy, you okay?” I asked.
Crazy Loco took another step and whimpered. I thought maybe he had a sticker or thorn in his paw. I walked to him and kneeled to look at his paw. It was dark so I couldn’t see too well, but there was a dim streetlight nearby, so I carried him to the light. I felt under his paw and couldn’t feel a sticker or a thorn, but I felt warm water covering my hand. I put my palm to the light and saw lots of red blood. I looked down at Crazy Loco and could only imagine the pain he was in. I looked for a rag or anything to stop the bleeding. All I had was my sky blue shirt. I didn’t think twice. I took it off and wrapped his paw and did my best to carry him home.
When I got home and walked inside the first thing Mom asked was why I didn’t have a shirt on. I led her outside and told her Crazy Loco had cut his paw and needed badges.
“I used my shirt to stop the bleeding.”
“Are you crazy? That was an expensive shirt your grandmother bought you. And now you’ve ruined it.”
“Crazy Loco was bleeding. I had to do something,” I said with my eyes tearing up. “Mom, please help him.”
My mom worked in a hospital and knew how to dress a wound, but she was right about the shirt. My sky blue shirt was soaked in blood. I put it in the wash with cold water and hung it on a chair to dry. The next day it had red blotches all over it. My mom shook her head. “You better tell Mama Locha what you did.”
My grandmother lived across the street and when I showed her the shirt and explained what I did for Crazy Loco, she put her hands together.
“You gave Crazy Loco the shirt right off your back?”
“I had to do something. He’s like my best friend.” I paused and took a deep breath. “Mama Locha, are you mad at me?”
She grinned and pointed to the sky. “Mira.”
I looked up and it was bright blue with fluffy clouds.
“Mi’jito, that will always be your sky.”
This blog post is part of the #31DaysIBPOC Blog Series, a month-long movement to feature the voices of indigenous and teachers of color as writers and scholars. Please CLICK HERE to read yesterday’s blog post by Dr. Tracey T. Flores (and be sure to check out the link at the end of each post to catch up on the rest of the blog series).