Flash fiction isn’t just about brevity; it’s about delivering a complete, impactful experience in a small space. Many writers confuse slice-of-life vignettes with flash fiction, but the key difference lies in their intentional focus. While slice-of-life lingers on a moment or mood, flash fiction presents a narrative arc: a story that builds, shifts, and resolves within tight constraints.

THE KEY DIFFERENCE: STORY V. SCENE

Take, for example, the story “On Auto” by Matthew Goldberg, published on September 28, 2022, by Intrepidus Ink. At first glance, it could be mistaken for a slice-of-life piece: a character who resents his self-driving car in a world where autonomy is stripped away and culture dulls people with prescription pills. The narrator, Greg, muses, Didn’t somebody clever say it’s the journey, not the destination? Well, there’s no journey when you’re on auto all the time. Despite the association of being “on auto,” this story does more than observe—it transforms.

The protagonist begins feeling powerless, forced to relinquish control to a machine. “I didn’t ask for a chauffeur,” he says. “My hands can easily operate a steering wheel, but ever since the automakers installed PersonLock, I have to sit like a slug while Car zips me from A to B.” 

Then comes the shift: a mechanical failure allows him to seize the wheel. Goldberg doesn’t allow his protagonist to complain about a lack of control; he makes Greg take action. This moment is crucial, and flash fiction thrives on a turning point that changes everything. The story accelerates (literally and figuratively) toward a climax of defiance, speed, and reckless freedom. 

THE POWER OF THE TURNING POINT

Slice-of-life stories capture existence—a single feeling, routine, or realization. 

Flash fiction captures change—a character, a perspective, a situation turned on its head. I yank the wheel to the right, and to my astonishment, it actually turns. I feel Car’s tires shift. Greg defies the system and the machine that enforces it. “You don’t control me. I control you,” he shouts.

Without Greg’s shift from frustration to rebellion, “On Auto” would be a static meditation on modern numbness. Instead, it hurtles toward a thrilling, inevitable conclusion. I will break through the barrier. I will crash headlong into whatever lies ahead, my fate my own. That final line lands with power. It’s not about safety or resolution—it’s about Greg choosing his own direction, even if it ends in chaos.

WHY FOCUS MATTERS

Writers often believe that short fiction means shrinking a novel into a few paragraphs, but that’s a mistake. Similarly, flash fiction isn’t a fragment of a story; it’s a whole one, compressed. 

A narrative arc needs stakes. 

It needs movement. 

It needs an ending that lands with a punch, not a soft fade-out.

Goldberg’s story doesn’t show us a moment—it delivers a metamorphosis. A person becomes a rebel. A passenger becomes a driver. That’s flash fiction at its finest.

IN CLOSING

The next time you sit down to write a short piece, ask yourself: Am I showing a moment, or am I telling a story? If your character hasn’t shifted, your story might still be in park.