Below are all the stories which have won our flash fiction competition (most recent at the top). We may change some small aspects of punctuation, spelling or grammar if it impacts the flow of the story, however, stories are usually published un-edited. We consider a good story to have an emotional impact via the twist, rather than perfect grammar or punctuation.
However, perfection in grammar, punctuation and spelling is encouraged and always appreciated!
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Competition 21: Lindsay Burns
The Pursuit
He got off the late bus at the same stop as her. Again. Natasha gulped. Then she took a deep breath and started walking.
Her steps had purpose, though she resisted going too fast in case he noticed and panicked. She made a fake call, the phone shaking in her hand.
Her heart pounded in time with his footsteps as he stamped through puddles, closer to her now. She imagined his strong hands on her and shuddered.
By the gloomy light of sparse lampposts she could see the left turn she would take. This is where she’d lost him on previous nights. Not tonight though. Her stomach lurched.
They turned, then Natasha crossed the road. Stay calm, she told herself.
By now they were neck and neck on opposite pavements. She felt his eyes on her, saw his hand go into his pocket, heard him pick up speed, held her breath.
Then she exhaled as she spotted warm lights from a nearby house.
He ran up its drive, fumbled with his keys and let himself in.
She smiled. He would be her new love. And now she knew where he lived, she would never let him get away.
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Competition 20: Varda Tully
A Dish Best Served Cold.
I’m slow manoeuvring the drive-through, but I enjoy a burger as much as the youngsters. Removing my glasses, I rummage in my handbag for a different pair to scrutinise the offers. Should I have the special, the usual, or go off-piste?
An impatient honking makes me glance in the rearview mirror. The young woman behind the wheel appears to be mouthing obscenities. I order the fish burger, wave apologetically, and crawl to the next window in first gear.
“Can I pay for the car behind?” I ask the sweet boy counting my coins, then drive to the last window to collect my lunch.
In the mirror, I see the lad who has taken my money pointing at me, no doubt explaining to the woman that her order has been paid for. Her hands rise to her cheeks. She mouths an embarrassed thank you. I give her an energetic thumbs-up. Seniors must not hinder the progress of a younger generation.
So as not to delay, I snatch the paper bags from the server’s hand, park up, bin the fish burger, taste the Whopper, sip the woman’s chocolate milkshake, and watch her screech a circle to the rear of a long queue.
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Competition 19: John Holmes
Cold Call
Megan lowers the phone and rests it back on her desk. Leaning deeply into her ergonomic chair, she reflects on how many years it has been since she last spoke to her mother.
Nine years of silence, and Megan has still not forgiven her. Even now, as she listened to what her mother is saying, nothing changes.
Mum knew, yet still allowed it to happen.
Opening a new file, she smiles and types ‘Ron GREEN’, pressing the keys just a little too firmly. Megan takes a deep breath and picks the phone back up.
“Sorry about that Mrs Green. Yes, of course, we will organise everything. Rest assured, we will handle every aspect professionally.”
Megan parroted more of the company’s spiel, gathered the necessary personal information and booked in a home visit for the end of the week.
She clicks Ron GREEN’s file closed and watches as it vanishes from the screen, well aware that it is still there, somewhere. Just like her mother; invisible but never fully disappeared. Haunting.
Her dark thoughts are abruptly interrupted by a new caller.
Megan gathers her phone, “Good morning, you are through to reception at ‘Foster’s Funeral Care Directors’. We appreciate you calling.”
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Competition 18: Gloria Gozi
It’s the little things
I stare down at my palms, fingers clasped together. The lines in between are a jigsaw. Slotted perfectly like the pieces of a puzzle coming together. My hands are all I can look at to stop me from crumbling. From looking up and having to face stares and impatience.
Forcing my hands apart, I run my fingers over nail marks already etched into the table. How many people have sat here, facing the same question? A single sheet of paper lies in front of me, taunting. Paper with all its qualities. This one thin and smooth. Tall with a slight gleam and softly curled corners. It’s the little things. It’s the feeling of running out of time, losing focus and having the breath vanish from your mouth only to be replaced by your heartbeat.
I try to make sense of the words on the paper. Use them to pluck words from my mouth and make my choice. Ignore the harsh spotlights I’m sat below as the drumming in my chest quickens. As the sweat builds in my palms. As the waiter stands above me, gestures at the menu and repeats the question.
“I said, can I take your order?”
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Competition 17: Katie Kent
Under Arrest
I laughed as I fastened my tie. If someone had told me that I’d be doing this job one day, I’d have told them to pull the other one. But I’d been out of work for months, and was getting desperate.
Scrutinizing myself in the mirror, I put my hat on. I looked the part, but something was missing. I opened the top drawer and picked up my police badge, pinning it onto my blouse.
Nerves churned around my stomach as I got into the car. It was my first real day on the job, and I hoped I’d be able to remember my training. After mentally preparing myself, I began to drive.
I knew I’d reached the right house when the music was so loud, the walls were almost shaking. I took a deep breath and got out of the car.
I knocked on the door, but they clearly couldn’t hear me over the music. After I pressed the bell, the door finally opened. A young, topless man stood in the doorway, swaying. “Officer?”
Pulling handcuffs from my belt, I stepped into the house and started to undo my tie. “Andy, you’ve been a very bad boy.”
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Competition 16: Jenny Drury
The Last Post
She checked the website again. Yes, she knew where she was going and still had over an hour. She really didn’t want to miss it, not this time.
Phone in hand she couldn’t resist a quick look at Facebook – nothing new of any interest, but she glanced again at that gorgeous picture of her grandchildren in her son’s last post. How different this Christmas would be for them: a new home, missing familiar routines, missing familiar faces. If only she lived nearer and could see more of them, but all she could do was send gifts and love and hope it helped. But she mustn’t get distracted or time would run away. She grabbed her coat, checked everything was safely in the pockets, and set off.
A short time later she reached Market Square and spotted the familiar red in the corner. Heading that way, she checked her watch then took a seat. Her hand reached inside her pockets. All was safe.
She waited.
The first bugle note sounded at exactly 11am. Carefully she slipped the medals from her pocket, pinning them lovingly to her coat. Three medals: Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan.
Afghanistan. His last post.
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Competition 15: Kathryn Hefford
Sisters not Twins
A two year old girl peeks at me from behind a tree trunk. I feel as though I can reach out and touch those plump little cheeks.
I remember going to a mother and baby group. At one of these groups the mothers sat round in a circle their babies on their laps listening to a health visitor talking. She stopped and looked at you. You were standing up on my lap.
She said, ‘She’s so beautiful’. Quickly followed by, ‘Of course they’re all beautiful’.
A young woman looks back at me from her graduation photograph. She has a black mortarboard hat on her head and her slight frame is lost within her graduation gown. Her soft brown hair hangs down in waves and her eyes are so alive. She has a dainty nose and perfect teeth and her smile shows off her dimpled cheeks. Her elegantly shaped eyebrows are sisters not twins (her words) and her skin is smooth and suntanned.
My reverie is broken by the sound of a key turning in the lock. She walks into the living room and looks at me.
‘Have you been sitting there all day? You need to get a life mum’.
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Young Writer Competition 1: Naomi Adachie
The Text Message
Today 2:35 AM
jaz, i’m so screwed right now!
?
you know my parents are so strict!
right.
how can i help?
we need to think of a plan
my parents have been on my neck
recently…
and when they see me tmr…
it’ll be the last straw that
breaks the horse’s back.
you mean camel?
?
straw that breaks a camel’s back
ok miss smarty pants, use your brain to
think
there’s nothing you can do.
cmon there has to be
i mean, will you really get in trouble?
ofc dumbo. i snuck out at midnight and
had drinks with my friends at a PARTY.
my parents will go ballistic for the
fact that it was a party, let alone the
drinking!
you messed up big time.
thanks, jaz, for being so supportive!
girl, i’m just being for real.
you need to start packing your bags.
to run away?
ofc not! you won’t last a second out there.
wow, drunk jaz is so mean 😦
no not jaz.
?
Emma, you better be packed for
tomorrow morning.
girl wtf?
Oh and you’re grounded, young lady.
wait…
shoot!
Mom, I can explain…
Yeah, on our two hour drive to your new
boarding school
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Competition 14: Karen Court
Justice Is Served
Fully sated, the serial killer stole away from the teenager’s still warm body. Shrouded in the darkness, he scurried unseen down the road and was hit by a pick-up hurtling around the corner. His broken body was flung across the road and the life seeped out of him.
The frantic driver swerved too late, stopped and viewed the carnage. Dropping his face into his hands, he sobbed. Driving distracted, he had been desperately searching for his daughter, abducted from the parking lot as she waited for him to arrive. With a serial murderer prowling their town, she was afraid to walk home tonight when her shift finished.
This day had become a tragic nightmare; first losing his daughter and now he was a killer, too.
Was there no justice?
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Competition 13: Joel O’Flaherty
The Stranger and her Shoebox
To your credit, you are always patient with her.
You should know her name by now, but you can’t remember if she ever told you, and it is too late to ask. What you know instead: she visits you every day at 4 pm, and she is completely, utterly insane.
She is always armed with her shoebox of photographs. Moments from her life, stolen from the ephemeral, ensnared in permanence: moments she clutches now in withered, shaking hands. She shows you places you’ve never been, people you’ve never seen.
She’s forever smiling a little too widely. A coaxing smile that never quite reaches her eyes, never chases away the hollow sadness lingering there. You often find it hard to meet her gaze, the intensity of it, the way it demands something from you that you simply cannot give.
But you don’t mind her visits. It’d be lonely without them.
And this is how you spend your time together: faded polaroids passed from one ancient pair of hands to another. Distant holidays, birthday parties, baby photos. Never the same picture twice.
You never seem to react correctly; she always leaves disappointed.
She no longer asks:
‘Do you remember this, my darling?’
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Competition 12: Virginia Crow
Did You See It?
“That’s weird.” Mel lowered the binoculars.
“What?” I looked up from the notes I’d been taking.
“There’s something strange in the woods.”
“Teddy Bears’ Picnic?” I suggested comically, but humour died on my lips as I saw Mel’s expression.
“There! Did you see it?”
I peered into the trees. There was dappled light from leafy shadows, creating a mystical patchwork on the forest floor. Had I seen it? Or did I only imagine growing darkness because of Mel’s words?
Shadows were moving, seeping down from branches, and stretching out from each fern leaf’s filigree twist. Where greens, reds, and golds had shone, blackness now took over. The woods were alien, hostile even. The trees knew we were there to study them, and had grown tired of our voyeurism.
Closing in from all angles, shadows pushed against us with suffocating darkness. Only the path behind remained safe.
“Let’s go!”
Snatching Mel’s sleeve, I ran. As the grassy route opened onto the car park, I scrambled into our car.
“What was that all about?” Mel panted.
“You pointed it out to me,” I replied defensively.
“I meant the leucistic blackbird.” Mel’s expression made my blood freeze. “What the hell did you see?”
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Competition 11: Jeff Taylor
Fishing with Charlie
My old mate, Charlie, has taught me everything about fishing. In the school holidays he’s shown me how to read the tides, the moon and the weather. The age gap between us is no problem. He always uses a hand-line and scoffs at my fibreglass power stick with the level-wind reel and all the flasher rigs (He’s always more successful than me, of course).
So here we are again, coming up to our special fishing place in the old clinker dinghy, and tying up to the channel marker.
“This’s been our lucky spot for so damn long,” I say gratefully as I get out the bag of burley. It’s our own secret ground bait formula.
The old sea-dog I love like my own father kept very quiet about his slow decomposition from within. Not unlike a prize catch kept too long in the fridge.
The water’s still and the sun’s shining, as I carefully measure a teaspoonful from the urn and sprinkle it in the burley bag before dropping it over on a rope.
I’m going to keep on fishing with Charlie for as long as I can.
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Competition 10: Julia E Sands
Bird Watchers
There was a bird hide up by the reservoir, where they flocked in great numbers every year. All through the summer they shifted restlessly inside the little hut as the birds flitted from branch to feeder, murmuring observations to one another.
‘Look at that spotted one there. Quite something, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Amazing variety this season.’
Flasks of tea swapped hands, steam clouded the view. There were rumours this year of a snipe. Somebody’s phone went off. A brief scramble ensued, followed by dour silence. Eventually, the birds began to sing once more.
‘I’ve not heard one of those before. Have you?’
‘No. I wonder which of them it was.’
Late in the afternoon, just as hope began to fade, there came a rustle of reeds. The veil of steam parted on the snipe, revealed in all his drab glory.
At the end of a most satisfying day, the last of the birders rose to depart. One tugged on her polka dot coat as the door banged shut behind her. Another sheepishly checked his phone.
The woodpecker bobbed his head at the nuthatch. ‘Fantastic viewing this year.’
‘Indeed,’ said the nuthatch. ‘Brilliant idea inviting the snipe.’
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Competition 9: Rosa Carr
The Unknown Statue
‘The sculpture has been there for many years. No one knows who created it,’ said the guide to a group.
No matter the weather, I come to this tranquil garden throughout the year to sit by the unknown sculpture. It’s better in bad weather and there aren’t any people ogling and nattering.
Sitting here now I look at the flowers that have sprung up. This time of year it’s lovely to just see the colour popping up. With the sun highlighting the colours.
How I would love to pick one and smell it. I wonder if I can-
Shudder.
The group move on and one of them has walked right through me.
I come here often, through all seasons to watch over my sculpture. I sometimes wish they knew my name, but then I remember that it’s much more fun with a mystery.
I brush my hand along the flowers and smile as they sway ever so slightly. I wave my hand again with more force hoping to jostle the flowers into movement. Absentmindedly my attention wanders around the garden as my fingers step from one to the other.
My smile vanishes as I see someone’s eyes following my hand.
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Competition 8: Fred McIlmoyle
Torture
As the door creaked open my eyes hypnotically swivelled towards it. There, in the doorway, eerily framed, the gleaming steel spikes glinted threateningly. Their air of impending menace was intensified by the fiendish leer on the face of the man gripping them, fondling them. As he advanced towards me his cold eyes never leaving my face, an icy tremor slid up the back of my neck and I felt the hairs slowly rise, prickling.
How could I ever have allowed myself be trapped in this horrific situation. Visions of those spikes possessed my mind – flashing, descending …biting; the sticky flow oozing down my body. I could sense the intolerable pain as my lungs screamed for air, my heart pounding like a trip hammer. I could visualize the sadistic, vicarious pleasure in the eyes of the watchers, gradually intensifying, necks cranes to avoid missing the tiniest detail of my gruelling torment.
Now he was gradually moving closer, pushing those dreaded spikes towards me – too late! no escape now from this impending torture. Finally, with a lunging gesture and a fiendish chuckle, my coach growled, “Time to get these spikes on lad and run those losers into the ground”
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Competition 7: Chris Ryder
The Final
When he opened his eyes, nothing had changed. The figures on the chessboard remained exactly as they had been: the white pieces few and accusatory; the black, strategic and unyielding.
He had won dozens of championships and vanquished thousands of challengers, some by total devastation, others by clawing his way back from situations far worse than this. He was allowing the stress to overwhelm him, focusing obsessively on what was at stake. He just needed to stay calm. It was just another game.
He saw that he was running out of time. With ill-feigned confidence, he moved his one remaining knight to queen’s rook six. His opponent – ancient and slow, though no less sharp for it – reached out mechanically and made reply.
And there it was.
Defeat was now inevitable.
The certainty of it was strangely cathartic.
He stood up and ran his hands down his face. His opponent rose too, holding out its own bony hand. With one last look at the scene below – of his own form lying in the road, surrounded by desperate paramedics – he released his last breath in a great sigh of acceptance. Then he took the hand of Death, and faded into Eternity.
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Competition 6: Shirley Bold Trott
All Service and No Return
Waiting with anticipation for the difference between a good day and an epic fail. Heart beating with determination, willing our partnership to be at its finest on this beautiful morning. We have been together 5 long years, pleading “Please don’t let me down, please don’t leave me hanging”.
I look in wonder and wish I had paid you more attention, listened the last time you asked for help. Radiating calmness but with fear in my eyes “We can do this, it’s okay” and a lame “next time it will be different”.
Minutes left to spare, and we have done it, right now I love you more than anything, you have made my day complete. I turn and walk away, rushing as I go with a promise of time spent with you on my return.
The dawning realisation that change was upon us gave me a heavy heart. That last morning, walking out the door I knew the end had come. Unplugging you makes it final. Removing your cartridges and the last piece of paper, indicates your demise and your lights are gone, the gleam in my eyes turns to another and the void is filled.
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Competition 5: Claire Loader
Roleplay
We were playing headless horseman and I took things a bit too far, didn’t know the strength of my hand. It has to be authentic, I said, hands battling with your struggle, blood pouring upon the grass. I had to tie you then to keep you upright, your lolling body hanging from the reigns, seeking out the waiting ground.
Mother came to check on us, applauded me for my vision, how I was able to set the stage, propel the narrative forward. I always knew I would be a famous director, find my fame on the stages of Broadway.
The men in white suits come daily now, leave a tray of pills and gruel. This is all part of my training – one must live in the shoes of many before telling their stories to the world. I ask most days where next I am to train, their eyes fixed to the soft walls of the cell, before the latch clicks shut once more.
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Competition 4: Shiv Saywack
White Christmas
‘Noah should be so lucky,’ I said.
‘He had God on his side,’ she said.
‘Did anyone ever consider the fishes?’
‘Fishes?’
‘Two by two,’ I said gazing across a frigid lake, once a ploughed field spread cold below a dripping sky. ‘I bet they’re enjoying it.’
‘Them and the ducks,’ she says.
The rain that fell in January fell throughout spring, then summer and autumn. From morning till noon, unrelenting throughout winter, flooding towns, bursting riverbanks, washing away houses, laying waste the country, never stopping for a moment. The ceaseless pitter-patter always in our ears.
‘Was it like this before the flood?’ I ask.
‘The government says it’s not climate change,’ she said.
‘The rains will stop at Christmas. The Jet Stream will change direction.’
But on it falls.
Christmas eve, I snuggled up, luxuriating in her warmth, suddenly aware of how quiet it has become. No more pitter-patter, no drip-dripping, no splish-splashing. Not even the wind. Just the wet house creaking and the gripping silence.
They were right.
It has stopped raining.
I close my eyes and sleep happily for the first time in a year.
Outside, from a leaden sky, snow quietly drifts down.
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Competition 3: Dan McQuain
Father and Son
“Absolutely not!”
“But dad, I still don’t get it!”
“Jesus! Stop pestering me!”
“But nobody believes in creation anymore! Scientists have the math pretty much down behind the big bang theory.”
“What!”
“Whoa, dad, I didn’t say that I believe them.”
“Damn those scientists! I showed you the truth!”
“I know, but I was pretty young then. If you went over it again, I’m sure I would understand better.”
“There’s a lot of people on our side. Creationists are still a force to be reckoned with.”
“Not as many as you think, dad. Some of them have been talking to me. Most of them don’t really believe in creation. The ones that do are mocked as unintelligent.”
“You try telling them about creation. Nobody listens to me anymore.”
“I want to tell them, but I don’t remember enough to argue with the science! Can you show me one more time. Pleeeeease!”
“I could never say no to you. You’ll pay attention this time?”
“You bet, dad!”
“All right. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“BEGONE!”
And there was nothing.
“LET THERE BE LIGHT!”
And there was light.
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Competition 2: Rhiannon Cousins
The Runaway Groom
She stepped into the aisle. He was at the opposite end talking, laughing. He had never looked more handsome. As she got closer he turned. Their eyes met and time froze.
When it started again she watched his expression change; at first happy, then amazed, then ashamed. He turned, tried to run but at that moment the train doors closed and his path was blocked by commuters.
She continued to the end of the aisle and as the train left the station she took her place by his side.
“Hello Ben, remember me?”
Without looking, Ben solemnly replied,
“I do.”
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Competition 1: Sue Dawes
Battle Dress
‘My brother died in combat’
The pause he leaves between sentences, silently screams.
I place my hand on his arm, still sheathed in khaki.
‘Sorry for your loss.’
I will help him move on, one truth at a time.
We take it slowly, with no sudden movements until the trees stand naked, half-camouflaged in snow.
But his mood changes as the summer heat pushes us down; spiky as dead grass.
I find a letter from a BPO address, shredded.
From his brother, begging him to stop wearing his spare uniform and to take his medication.
Fusilli Writing 