Fiction in all its forms fascinates me. From the epic story to the bitesized micro-fiction, I am enticed to read and write these stories with a hunger.

Recently I have been writing pieces that move me as I type them: creative nonfiction. The art of spinning the narrative of what is true to me–not a glorious figment of my imagination–feels, itself, an imaginative gift as a writer. Never has writing nonfiction appealed to me more than now.

So I was intrigued about the concept of producing creative nonfiction in the tiniest of forms. Relate a story, encapsulate a moment, move the reader.

Yesterday, my 48-word tale was this:

Before greys populated upon his head, before middle-age gravity melted his features, in the years before my uncle lost his will to live, I visited him in Dublin. He held youthful photos, preserved behind glass. ‘Remember me,’ he would say. And I do, now that he is gone.

The above holds little flesh on the bone for the reader to hold on to, but the beauty is not in the words but the conveyed sentiment. For me as a writer, I embrace the challenge to evoke a feeling in a few short lines.

My uncle, his advancing age that brought with it worries about disappearing in both physical form and in our memories. He is remembered and immortalised.