Flash Fiction Competition 2026
Back for 2026- our Flash Fiction comp gives you a chance to get creative in a short form of prose writing… not always easy to achieve, as we discussed with our Scriever, Catherine recently! Have a go…
JUNE COMPETITION
The June Flash Fiction competition is now open, entries will close on 30th June, see below for full details of how to enter.
Competition Details
1) Payment
Please pay your £3 entry fee at this link:
This will give you a reference number.
2) Submission
Please add this reference number at the top of your Flash Fiction document. Send your finished Flash Fiction piece of no more than 500 words to: fed2024@gmail.com who will then forward your piece to the judges.
3) Prizes
a) The winner of the Flash competition will be offered publication on our Federation website and promotion via our socials for the winning Flash.
b) The winner will be offered the opportunity to have their piece included in the Federation 2026 anthology.
c) The winner will be invited to read their piece at Tinsel Tales in the company of our Makar and Scriever.
All rights will remain with all respective authors.
APRIL MAY COMPETITION WINNERS
Congratulations to the winners of our bi-monthly Flash Fiction Competition for April May 2026.
WINNER: MOLLY MURRAY – SELKIE Pfffffffffffff. Rhona’s stiff dry robe shiggles to the ground in a heap of green camouflage and pink fleece, revealing swollen ankles and neon-blue veins vining her bare legs. Cellulite crinkles on her thighs, outlining her purple tank suit. Rhona shuffles her orange crocs off and shifts into the sand, inhaling deeply into her chest, feeling sand filling the spaces between her toes. She releases with a heavy whoosh of an exhale, a barbaric, guttural yawp she would have been too self-conscious to share in yoga classes in her younger days. It used to be harder than this to let go, to anchor into the earth, to inhabit the space of this moment, but now she doesn’t find it hard at all, now – she doesn’t care what people are thinking when they see her extra rolls exposed. She has nothing to hide. Anyone who is still listening to the standards of misogyny at this stage of global mayhem clearly has bigger problems than her exposed body. Tires crackle over pebbles. Rhona glances over at the parking lot: a couple of gangly teens are untangling from a metallic green Ford Fiesta. She misses her own two at that age, when they would still make appearances at dinner, let her kiss them on the cheek on the way to bed, called her house their home. They were the ones who encouraged her to begin wild-swimming in the first place, to find the bravery to be seen in her own skin. Her wild-swimming mates are nowhere to be seen. Sun sparkles river on the surface of the water. There is no need to freeze here on the beach – they can find her in the waves. Cold air clings to Rhona’s bare limbs and chest as she shuffle-slides through sand, and steps over a slosh of purple-grey seafoam. Breath lengthens, skin hardens in the chill: goosebumps pebble her arms and legs. She steps into the edge of the sea, water lapping over her feet, rising with every step, slapping against her chest, enveloping her. The shock, the gradual, surprising warmth of the cold – she sighs with relief. Rhona plunges in, feeling the adrenalin of pure, wild existence: there is only her body, this moment, survival, in this wild space of the sea. She feels flooded with a rare sense of belonging: Such a long journey we’ve had, haven’t we? She asks herself, wrapping her body in an embrace. We’ve finally come home. Her skin feels like rubber: she sees her purple swimsuit floating away, and realises, these trappings of her old life are not a part of herself anymore. This moment is only the next natural step in her journey of life, a journey that has given her the courage to shed her skins, one by one. Rhona’s not even surprised when her human skin peels away. She only feels flooded by a sense of homecoming as her true self swims out of it: a silky grey seal, at home in the current.
HIGHLY COMMENDED: MARY THOMSON - SAFER Behind her eyelids she sees lights. They are tightly closed and she knows the darkness she cannot see is as solid as the weight of concrete and steel above her. She listens. Good, there are no crying children. Nita had been by the door, so perhaps she’d had time to run; mustn’t think about her not running. Instead Myra pictures men scrambling over mounds of rubble, arms reaching down, calling, “Is there anybody there?” No part of her body will follow orders to move. There is numbness where sensation should be. When Nita was being born, Myra had said yes to pain relief – an epidural – so that when she held her daughter for the first time she’d told her own mother it was like an out of body experience. Like now. Now, again for Nita, she must stay awake and shout. Myra opens her mouth, gags on cement dust. Spits. Once, when Nita was little and her daughter had been playing with sand as they picnicked on the river bank, she showed her how to dust her hands before she ate. Her daughter exactly imitated her, even her expression. She was a born mimic, could even force a smile out of her grim grandfather, though he was always telling her to sit still, be quiet. His disapproving frowns looked so funny on Nita’s delicate face with its twin pendants of thick plaits! There’s a sound she can’t identify. Something is trickling next to her face, liquid or solid, she can’t be sure. Finally she moves her shoulders, finds this gives her upper body a little more space. Try again: she hears herself whimpering: “Help! Help me!” Myra’s husband had said that with this latest evacuation they’d be safer here, and she had believed him. So why? WHY? Myra swallows, moistens her lips, shouts hoarsely, releases a ragged stream of curses. She was shaking with cold and fear, now it’s also with anger. Anger propels her to action, and she pushes with elbows and feet, laughs with delight to feel painfully sharp roughness, pushes anyway, turns her body. Her knees graze against broken bricks. Wriggling her legs sideways she manoeuvres her feet to push and push again. Debris slithers, somewhere. She freezes. Hearing harsh creaks as stones near her slip, she pictures, as on a screen, concrete slabs sliding off twisted girders past eyeless windows onto what was once a road. She turns her head, winces, squinting sees a sliver of brightness, hears voices: “We’re coming, stay still!” She wants to answer them. Fear stops her. Are they the right voices? She reboots her anger, which is stronger than any amount of rubble, or enemies, coughs out all the dust from her throat, finds her voice, screams: “It’s Myra, I’m here!” “We’re coming, stay still!” “I will, for now,” she mutters to herself, “but hurry!” Thinks of Nita, plaits flying, running with her to anywhere but here. Safer.
HIGHLY COMMENDED: ROSS MITCHELL - COCAINE BREAK He swipes his credit card between his forefinger and thumb. Licking the bitter residue from his fingers, no wastage at today’s prices. He smiles as he imagines the old swiping card machines in shops. He is satisfied the line of cheap mixed chemicals is ample in length and girth. The powder shimmering slightly, like fake snow on a Christmas market stall. Cut more times than a ward of self-harmers, no quality control, he muses. He checks the cubicle door again, paranoia kicking in. The first line on the porcelain cistern top, the powder encroaching on the Armitage Shanks logo. Classy! He rolls up his new plastic-coated tenner, perfect straw-like composition, he thinks. Left index finger on his left nostril, right fingers wrapped around the government-sponsored, mint-issued cocaine tenner straw. Standard! He inhales with an intensity so deep, so strong, so feverish the bitter sour powder instantly whooshes from his nasal passage to his throat. He needs that, he needs the false confidence and artificial charisma this powder provides. His next class are a pack of inbred feral reprobates. Teaching is becoming so difficult, he reasons!
FEB COMPETITION WINNERS
Congratulations to the winners of our bi-monthly Flash Fiction Competition for February 2026.
WINNER: ROSALIND PARKES – THE END OF AUTUMN Today you wait at the crossroads for the school bus, with your new satchel. The leather is pristine chestnut, like the conkers you have stooped for on the way. Autumn is your favourite. A silver blackbird, tiny, is stamped onto the satchel’s flap, flanked by bright buckles and stiff straps. By the end of the day, there will be a ragged scar in the leather, too deep to be polished out. Now, though, at the bus stop, you are excited and hope for homework so you can use the compartments inside. The green single-decker turns the corner and you are suddenly hesitant. It is dangerous to let the back-seat boys from the top class see your satchel and your delight in it. You sit near the front. Harriet will be on soon but she will choose another seat so Sheila can sit with her at the next stop. Their colouring-in is the best; you have given up trying to match the solid smoothness of their maps, or keep the greens and pinks and browns inside the lines. At school, Miss Bignall has just rung the bell so there is no time for the playground, thankfully. There is just the awkwardness of assembly, sitting cross-legged in your skirt, and then the safety of lessons. You can do these, even Arithmetic, because times tables are words and rhythms when you recite them aloud for homework. Your lips learn the shapes and movements and if you keep going you can get 20 out of 20 in the test. Because you are in Clive, which is another name for red, (not Raleigh, Drake or Nelson), you get a matching lollipop. Nelson is the worst because it’s blue. No-one has ever seen a lollipop that’s blue. Breaktime is another worst. The tarmac seethes and sounds are unintelligible: the yell of triumph at a Bulldog win, the shout of rage when someone pushes in at skipping. The edge is good, until Rebecca Demelweek – dark hair, perfect fringe and at a loose end – finds you. She’s a pincher, a scratcher. Although you’re good at watching other people, how they make things work, copying what you see, Rebecca’s not convinced. She knows it isn’t real, treads on your foot and shoves you into the hedge. Mr Gilmore moves her on. The minutes pass, the bell rings. When you go in, the blackbird sits atop a stark pale branch where someone’s compass point has dragged across. You don’t tell. Embarrassed, ashamed of what it means. Guilty that what was bought for you is spoiled. These feelings, which don’t seem to make sense, you don’t have words for but you know they’re real because your stomach aches and you want not to be here, at your desk, trying to write the numbers neatly in the squares, waiting for the bus-ride home. Thinking that Autumn is spoiled forever now.
HIGHLY COMMENDED: STEPHEN SMYTH - ONCE UPON A TIME When he opened the door his heart leapt. There, at last, standing at the reception desk, speaking angrily into the phone, was his Cindy. Not looking over, she waved at him to wait. It was a joy for him to do so. He tried to relax his bulky frame, straightened his leathers. Focussing on her. The same Doc Martens, tight jeans, sleeveless top. Her strong Glasgow accent and streaked ponytail both flaying the air. And there, on her forehead, that fantastic winged spider. He was enchanted. He took in her every curve and gesture, intoxicated by her spirit and animation. The single teardrop on her cheek, swirl of stars on her neck. The webbing on the back of her hand. He felt like a teenager again. His smile widened, purple lightning bolts flashed like an explosion across his face. She slammed the phone down and began to turn. He raised his right palm, revealing a red-fanged bat. It spread out its dark wings in greeting. “Hi,” he whispered. “It’s you!” “Yup.” “Frae the Convention.” “Yup.” “…Charlie? …Chappy? …Charmy!” “Yup. Charmy.” “Whit are yeh doin’ here?” “Ah’ve been looking for you.” “Whit?” “Since we met and split at the last night disco.” “Whit?” She folded her arms. Multicoloured flowers cascaded down one, an intricate dragon reared on the other. “You made such an impression on me. Ah had to find you.” “Me?” “Yehhh.” “Me?” He ran a nervous hand over his leopard patterned scalp. “Ah’ve been searching for you every weekend for the last month.” “Whit?” “Visited forty-two parlours in Glasgow.” “Ye’re kiddin’ me.” “Naw. An’ you’re so striking, but no-one in the city seemed to know you. Then, yesterday, Ah got a wee hint.” “Hint?” “So here ah am. This morning. In Paisley. This just ma third studio. And here you are - Ma Cindy.” He took a half step forward. She drew her head back, tightened her eyes. “Are you …OK?” she said. He stalled, shuffled in embarrassment. Tried to speak. Her eyes began to crinkle. His smile widened further. “Never been happier.”