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Flash Fiction Competition 2025
The place for a quick read, where we celebrate some great writing.
The winners of our bi -monthly Flash Fiction Competition will be showcased here. To take part next time, watch our for the monthly news mail and on our Facebook page.
OCT-NOV WINNER!!!
Tàrr Às Ceàrn iomallach na dùthcha agus an seann phrìosan, iargalta is aonaranach, na laighe air rubha garbh a’ coimhead cho aosta ris na creagan fhèin. Bha am Prìosanach na sheasamh ri taobh a’ gheata mhòir ag amharc timcheall mar a dhèanadh e cha mhòr gach latha thar còrr is còig bliadhna sa phrìosan agus briathran a’ bhritheimh na cheann. “Deich bliadhna thar fhichead – agus saothair-chruaidh!” Ach an turas seo, bha e gu tur eadar-dhealaichte – bha e saor. Cha robh freiceadan armaichte ri thaobh ach ceò tiugh a’ cumail na fairge gu sear agus a’ mhòinteach gu siar agus esan fhèin am falach. * * * Na laighe san leabaidh, cha robh am balach òg na shuain fhathast. Cha robh e cleachdte ris an àite seo le cho uamhalta ’s a bha e. Ach bha a mhàthair cinnteach gum biodh e na b’ fheàrr dhaibh agus bha i toilichte airson a’ chiad uair mus do dh’fhàg ’athair iad nuair a bha e na phàiste. Taobh a-muigh, bha ceò na mara a’ tighinn a-steach agus fad às chluinneadh am balach caoirean ìosal na conacag ceotha aig a’ chala a’ putadh tro fhuaraidheachd an sgleòtha liath a bha a-nis ga shuaineadh mar phlaide air an talamh. Dh’fhalbh an cadal leis. * * * Lean am Prìosanach an t-slighe sìos gus an do ràinig e an loidhne-rèile. Bha e eòlach air an turas ghoirid a ghabhadh iad air an trèan aca gach latha a dh’fhàgadh iad am prìosan, dol seachad air an tràigh leis na dùin-ghainmhich mhòra, mus tionndadh e gu teann tro bhealach cumhang fon drochaid far am biodh clann a’ smèideadh riutha, agus an uair sin beagan suas an cnoc gu ceann na loidhne agus latha fada eile ag obair anns a’ chuaraidh. Ruith e air an loidhne gu ruige na drochaide far an do shreap e suas a’ bhruthach agus falbh thar na mòintich. Dè cho fada gus am faiceadh iad nach robh e ann? Cò aig tha fios? Dìreach cumail a’ dol. Lean am feansa uèir ri taobh an uillt. Tha am bothan faisg air làimh agus bidh biadh ’s motor-baidhg ann agus... * * * Na aisling, bha e anns an sgeulachd a thòisich a mhàthair air leughadh dha na bu tràithe. B’ ann air a’ mhòinteach cheòthach ann am marbhan na h-oidhche le Pip a bha e nuair a theich prìosanach às an t-seann phrìosan ann an Dartmoor. Bha bruadaran buaireasach ag èirigh agus a’ seòladh tro inntinn a’ bhalaich agus dhùisg e na shuidhe san leabaidh ag èigheachd air a mhàthair. Le ceud cabhaig, ruith a mhàthair suas an staidhre a thoirt cofhurtachd dha. “M’ eudail! Tha e ceart gu leòr.” Ach aig an aon àm, mar sgian gheur, gheàrr caismeachd a’ phrìosain tron oidhche. Bha am balach a-nis air chrith agus bha deòir a’ ruith sìos a ghruaidhean. Gu h-obann, thàinig gnogadh air an doras. Sgreuch am balach aig àrd a chlaiginn! “Na gabh dragh a ghràidh”, ars’ a mhàthair. “Is e d’ athair a th’ ann.”
Congratulations to the Winner of our Gaelic Flash Fiction Competition!
We’re delighted to announce that the winner of this year’s Gaelic Flash Fiction Competition is Donnchadh MacCàba – congratulations!
Judge Andrew Templeton had this to say about Donnchadh’s winning story Tàrr Às:
“Intriguing and suspenseful, with a wonderful description of a wild setting. A clear narrative, alternating between two scenarios, given equal weight and moving forward steadily towards a gripping resolution. More than a hint of mystery to keep the reader guessing, which worked particularly well. Strong emotions as the story builds. Leaves you wanting to know what happens next.”
Well done to Donnchadh, and thanks to everyone who entered and helped make this year’s competition such a success!
Tàrr Às: English language version Escape In a remote corner of the country an old prison, lonely, isolated and eerily forbidding, hugs the rugged headland appearing as ancient as the craggy cliffs themselves. The Prisoner stands beside the great gate examining his surroundings, as he has done for almost every day of the past five years he has been incarcerated, with the words of the judge still in his head. “Thirty years – with hard labour!” But this time, it was different – he was free. It wasn’t armed guards that surrounded him now but the dense haar, which kept the sea to the east, the moorland to the west, and he himself, completely hidden. * * * Awake still, the wee boy lay quietly in his bed. He was not yet used to the remoteness of this lonely place. His mother though was sure it would be better for them, and she seemed happy for the first time since his father had left them when he was just an infant. Outside, the sea-mist was pushing inland, and far-off in the distance he could hear the low plaintive moaning of the foghorn at the harbour, pulsing through the cold enveloping dampness which wrapped itself like a shroud over the land. * * * The Prisoner followed the path until he reached the railway tracks. How well he knew the short journey which they would take on the train every day that they left the prison, passing the beach with its huge sand dunes, before turning sharply through the narrow cutting under the bridge where the children would wave to them, and then up the wee bit hill to the end of the line and another long day of work in the quarry. He ran along the line as far as the bridge where he clambered up the bank and away across the moor. How long until they realised he was gone? Who knows? Just keep going – follow the wire fence beside the burn. The cottage isn’t that far off and there’s food there, and a motorbike and… * * * In his dream, he was in the story that his mother had started to read to him earlier. It was on the misty moor with Pip in the dead of the night that he was when a prisoner escaped from the old prison on Dartmoor. Turbulent visions arose and sailed through the boy’s mind before he awoke with a start, sitting up in his bed shouting for his mum. His mother raced up the stairs to comfort him. “Fit a dee ma wee bairnie? It’s aricht.” But at that very instant, like a sharp blade, the prison siren cut through the stillness of the night. The boy, tears running down his cheeks, shook uncontrollably. Suddenly, there came a banging on the door. The boy screamed at the top of his voice. “Dinna fash yersel ma dearie”, said his mum. “It’s yir faithir.”
APR-MAY WINNER!!!
Judith Younger
You should have been pearl, snow, chalk, milk
I am going to need a boat. To find the island of floating algae and flapped egrets and wonder how it would have been if I had kept you. Because what had I been thinking? My hair still holds the scent of bitter ash from the stretched night we scraped through thorns and I prised you from me. The echoing tree frogs laughed in conspiracy. In the last months we had together I watched your pooled mahogany eyes play with stars, but they were not those of your father. Your deep skin shimmered as you moved, refusing to lighten before his return. So there was no choice. This is what I had said in my panic. It had to be like before. When the rainstorm turned dust rusted pebbles white clean. I gave the river our secret. It took it into its acid heart, swirling with black leaves, woody stems, bruised fruit. Dragged it down to the dark silt bed where blank fish stared. But as the sun flames weakly on this fifth morning my mist lifts, my chest aches and pulls me up gasping. I need to bring you back. I will search between reflections of solid seeded trees in the flooded creeks. Perhaps they will have dried and new beaches will show my running footprints in clay parched shame. Perhaps the waters will have risen and your small face will be held high in the thin branched canopy. While I bluster to the harbour a tangle of electric cables spark in the wind. Shutters gun-crack on peeled plaster walls. The storm splinters planks, smashes them into crumbling foam blocks, sucked bottles, shattered plastic, rinsed out cloth. The boats are gone. I lie defeated on the scrubbed floor where your honey toes had played on my smoothed stomach. Now all I can do is imagine a stranger's tears splashing over your limp left body and folding you into new life. Soon I can feel his feet on the brick path outside. I smell his sweat, hear his flab tongue swell into demands. You fade into green wrapped light. Perhaps one day you will learn to build a boat.
FEB-MAR WINNER!!!
Morag Kiziewitz
No Suspicious Circumstances
Jenny watched a group of teenagers playing in the car park. Two girls swung round the ‘pay here’ sign. One girl in tartan pyjama trousers was trying to attract the attention of an older boy, she flung her arms around him and playing it cool, he showed no interest at all. She moved forward and leant on his shoulder and he stroked her back and kissed her. Five minutes before the store closed, Sunday and the grey sky was getting darker. One lad finished the last of his caffeine kick drink, screwed up the can and threw it in the bin. Jenny sighed and moved her trolley to the top deck of the car park, hiding behind a van to keep herself out of sight from youths and cameras. She knew she would have to wait until the kids left, defeated by the cold, and the car park closed. An elderly woman in a large coat with a shopping trolley in a supermarket car park, she was almost invisible. Jenny shivered and struggled into her second coat, pulling it over the old duvet jacket she was already wearing. In her trolley she had water bottles and what little food she’d found hidden under a pile of clothes and blankets. Longing to get in to the relative warmth of the lift, she had to wait until everyone had gone to avoid attracting any attention. The temperature was icy, the sun had set, the night would be freezing. Someone had said something about emergency cold weather shelters, no one had offered anything to her. Shrieks of laughter came from the group of youngsters. Jenny shifted position trying to find shelter from the bitter wind. She was so cold she was going to sleep, entering a dazed state where she could forget where she was. Could forget everything. Voices of abusers, harsh words came into her mind, “y’er just a waste of space, get out”. Sometimes memories of comfort and people who cared about her echoed, “honey let’s have a cuppa.” Jenny shook herself awake, her fingers curled up, it was painful to move. She had to get in to the lift. Using her trolley like a walking frame she dragged herself to the entrance. It was dark inside, by feel she spread the cardboard and blankets on the floor and lay on them pulling all the remaining clothes and cardboard over the top. The lift door closed and she drifted in and out of consciousness. Frank, the car park attendant found her first thing on Monday morning. “Eeugh!” he barked, “Come out of there.” Disgusted he kicked out, but Jenny’s cold body did not move. By the time the first customers arrived for their milk and newspapers, Jenny’s body was in a mortuary ambulance, any sign of her existence tidied away.