Well, I'm a *tad* late to the #NFFD2025 party but never too late to share a brilliant flash, right? 🔥🙌

Just read this! A heartwarming moment across generations—perfectly captured for #nffd2025.

'Monsoon: National Flash Fiction Day Anthology 2025' edited by Karen Jones and Cheryl Markosky, lying on a black and white tarot print blanket. The cover is dark blue with white text, and a slightly abstract image in blues and reds that looks like water flowing between banks of flowers. Cover art by Jeanette Sheppard.

A partial image of the page of the anthology with my story. Text reads: Sarah McPherson; Objects in the Lost Property Box the Day After the Office Christmas Party; This is followed by the first few sentences, not fully visible.

Slightly belatedly sharing my copy of the @natflashfictionday.bsky.social anthology, with my story 'Objects in the Lost Property Box the Day After the Office Christmas Party' - my first time in the anthology! This started life in a @mattkendrick.bsky.social WBTL workshop ❤️
#FlashFiction #NFFD2025

The Write-In 2025: The Complete List 2025 Prompts *   NFFD 2025 Prompt #1: Two Seasons  *   NFFD 2025 Prompt #2: Hunting Season  *   NFFD 2025 Prompt #3: Seasons of Love  *   NFFD 2025 Prompt #4: Off Season  *   NFFD 2025 Prompt #5: Open Season     2025 Responses  * 'A Misunderstanding' by Liz Barclay  * 'The Season of Balsam Flower Dyeing' by Heain Joung  * 'Riches' by Emily Macdonald  * 'If it Ain't Right, it Must Be Left' by Lisa H. Owens  * 'Diary Entries from 2025' by Mina Otsuka  * 'Seven-Foot Bicentenarian Yearns for his Ticker' by David Lewis  * 'The Price of Bread' by Jane Claire Jackson  * 'Mr September through December. Mr January to March' by Karen Walker  * 'Finding Fire' by Alice Monro  * 'Old Spice' by Rachel Burrows  * 'Cocktails at the end of the world hotel' by Jack Morris  * 'All The Warm Things' by Chloe Paige  * 'From way back in 1970' by Karen Walker  * 'One Resort, Two Seasons' by Jane Claire Jackson  * 'Maze' by Abida Akram  * 'Lonely No More' by Jean Feingold  * 'A nimble light' by Mizuki Yamagen  * 'Bright, Stubborn Things' by Cate McGowan  * 'Big Game Hunter' by Scott MacLeod  * 'Skin Flicks, Voted Best Tattoo Parlor in Town' by Debra A. Daniel  * 'A pocketful of quiet' by Alice Monro  * 'Scar Tissue' by Melissa Flores Anderson  * 'Yes Yes Yes' by Sarah Freligh  * 'Time flies' by Scott MacLeod  * 'Dressed for the weather' by Melissa Flores Anderson  * 'Two seasons' by Maria Sanger  * 'The day of the cats' by Jules Goodlet-Rowley  * 'All the way' by Jeremy Boyce  * 'Isaac Newton saw an apple fall' by Jack Morris  * 'Gower Street Bookshop closes at 9pm' by Judy Darley  * 'Wisdom in a Teacup' by Faye Brinsmead  * 'Papas and Beers' by Melissa Flores Anderson  * 'A Huckster’s How-To of Hustling Gulls' by Jude Potts  * 'Skipped' by Bailey Scroggins  * 'To The Person Who Kept My Amazon Package' by Suzanne Hicks  * 'Sealed Envelopes' by Allison Renner  * 'Not Based on a True Story' by Lucienne Cummings  * 'Down and Up' by Michael Pettit  * 'A Nimby Fails to Console Himself with Fake Flowers from Ikea' by D. X. Lewis * 'Scuppered' by Emily Macdonald  * 'Purchase Partners with One Year Warranty' by Marzia Rahman  * 'She Was No Wellspring of Ideas' by Sravanthi Challapalli  * 'Cake Walk' by Scott MacLeod  * 'Home' by Jackie Hales  * 'Calida and Frigida' by Lucienne Cummings  * 'Tis the season of not asking him his name' by Roopa Raveendra  * 'Claude' by Cate McGowan  * 'Fiat Lux' by Willow Woo  * 'A Hunt Reaches a Climax' by Sravanthi Challapalli  * 'The Last Poppy' by Jackie Hales  * 'Rainbow Road' by Alice Monro  * 'You, Change, Me' by Madeleine Armstrong  * 'Protection' by Patricia Bender  * 'The Fifth Son' by Birgit K. Gaiser  * 'My Wife Saw Santa' by Mileva Anastasiadou  * 'Unlevel Playing Field' by Jim Parisi  * 'Bert’s Bus' by Joyce Bingham  * 'One Day, I will Climb a Mountain' by Marzia Rahman  * 'Offerings' by Karin Hedetniemi  * 'The Mystery of the Missing Last Nerve' by Athena Law  * 'Summer of T.V. Dinners for One' by Lisa H. Owens  * 'Pressing Clouds' by Cate McGowan  * 'Thirty seconds after you get on the train' by Philippa Bowe  * 'Dust to Dust' by Emily MacDonald  * 'Crystal Healing' by Julie Cunningham  * 'Fred Number Three' by Bronwen Griffiths  * 'Scattering' by Cate McGowan  * 'Holding Harry' by Jane Claire Jackson  * 'A Trace Of Her' by Abida Akram  * 'Hallowe’en Ball' by Birgit K. Gaiser * 'It’s My Destiny' by Allison Renner  * 'The Waterpark in Winter' by Jane Claire Jackson  * ‘Laughter Between the Lines’ by Alice Monro  * 'Perditus' by Lynda McMahon  * 'Greenwich Mean Time (GMT)' by Chloe Paige  * 'Captain Molasses' by Athena Law  * 'Playing the Boy Scout Outside Aldi in 1975' by D. X. Lewis  * 'Angel wings, boxed. As new.' by Jack Morris  * 'The Empty Slot' by Ida Keogh  * ‘Minus One and Beautiful’ by Alice Monro  * 'Sheila’s Mysterious Gap' by Jane Claire Jackson  * 'What would you do?' by Madeleine Armstrong  * 'When Agatha rediscovered her own love story' by D. X. Lewis  * 'The Perfect Season' by Abida Akram  * 'Fall and Spring Semesters' by Jean Feingold  * 'Sudden Season Change' by Meshv Patel  * 'Mrs Murdoch' by Madeleine Armstrong  * 'Homing instinct' by Jeremy Boyce  * 'Street art of a fox catching a bus at sunrise' by Ida Keogh  * 'When They Walked Out One Winter’s Morning' by Lynda McMahon  * 'Lost, Maybe Forever' by Jean Feingold  * 'The Vixen' by Abida Akram  * 'The Moon in June' by Madeleine Armstrong  * 'The Deepest Part' by Cate McGowan  * 'Joey’s looking for a table' by Katie Willow  * 'When Life Gives You Bitter Hellas Planitia Fruit...' by Lisa H. Owens  * 'A Visit to St Nick' by Lucienne Cummings  * 'Monsoon Season' by Abida Akram  * 'Unknown Overdressed Man Discovered' by Jean Feingold  * 'Let’s Pretend We Didn’t See Each Other' by Gargi Mehra  * 'Drive' by Michele Catalano  * 'An intervention' by Birgit K. Gaiser  * 'Resignation' by Chloe Cook  * 'Four Years' by Allison Renner  * 'Bianca is Happy All the Time' by Jean Feingold  * 'Unclear Cache' by Scaramanga Silk  * 'Never ignore a flashing light' by Alison Wassell  * 'No one sings carols any more' by Chloe Cook  * 'Seasons of sound and silence' by Sarah Oakes * 'Lost and Found' by Jack Morris  * 'Amusement Parked' by John F King  * 'Meditating about a Carp' by Anne Howkins  * 'Lost' by Michele Catalano  * 'Amanita Sapientia' by Birgit K. Gaiser  * 'Got Lucky' by Michael Pettit  * 'A Day In The Life' by Suzanne Hicks  * 'What’s For Dinner?' by Lucienne Cummings  * 'Time Killer' by Dimitra Fimi * 'On the Bench Nearest the Disabled Parking' by Rachel Burrows  * 'Persephone in the Forest' by Birgit K. Gaiser  * 'Fresh Canvas' by Lenny Eusebi  * 'The Last Hunt Before Winter' by Noah McWilliam  * 'Seasonal Defiance Reorder' by Adele Gallogly  * 'Home for Christmas' by Allison Renner  * 'Bitter and Sweet' by Suzanne Hicks  * 'Teddy Bear Picnic' by Melissa Flores Anderson  * 'The Gift of Gab' by Lisa H. Owens  * 'Ria, Ria, Ria' by Vijayalakshmi Sridhar  * 'Would You Rather…?' by Scaramanga Silk  * 'Man’s Best Friend' by Allison Renner  * 'Long Gone, Living On' by Scaramanga Silk  * 'Elapse' by Willow Woo  * 'They Need to Clack' by Philippa Bowe  * 'The News Anchor Read the News, but No One Watched it' by Marzia Rahman  * 'Behind you!' by Jeremy Boyce  * 'Shantay, You Stay' by Elisa Dominique Rivera * 'Missing Note: Wanted' by Kate Axeford * 'August' by Angela James  * 'Check Mate' by Scott MacLeod * 'Suds for Duds' by Lenny Eusebi * 'P.E.' by Melissa Flores Anderson * 'Cleopatra' by Madeleine Armstrong     

ICYMI: The Write-In: The Write-In 2025: The Complete List #nffd2025

'Cleopatra' by Madeleine Armstrong It takes me a day to realise you’re missing, because in the summer you barely come inside, preferring instead to roam the gardens long past dusk. When you don’t arrive for your breakfast, I panic because I’ve known you since your paws were too big for your body, since I was little more than a girl, with everything spread out before me like a feast, and you’ve never disappeared, not even when I moved us hundreds of miles away and that feast started to look more like a picnic, then a ready meal, then a solitary Tesco sandwich.   I print out flyers and stick them through all the doors on the street, pin them to all the lamp posts, while I call your full name, Cleopatra, because this feels too serious for anything else. I imagine the worst: a speeding car; a locked shed; a half-finished building site of a house. I can barely sleep without you on the pillow beside me, where you’ve been for the last 4,550 nights, lulling me with your pneumatic purr. You’re not there the next night, or the next, and the posters begin to curl and yellow, and the darkness begins to creep, so slow I don’t notice it at first, then it’s September and it’s been 91 days without you and your demands for food and belly rubs. I’m just starting to think about donating your Whiskas to a local cat rescue, crying in the garden while I deadhead the roses, when I hear a meow that’s more like a squeak. I turn, not letting myself believe it until I see your face, your green eyes narrowing in a slow blink, then watch you slink across the flowerbeds like you’ve never been gone.

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Cleopatra' by Madeleine Armstrong #nffd2025

'P.E.' by Melissa Flores Anderson Mick sat between Joey Oates and Terence Perez during warm ups. Joey wore short shorts and when they did push-ups the pale white flesh of his upper thighs wobbled as Joey’s body tired toward the end of the 30 count. He wished it was one of the girls sitting next to him in their co-ed class, but the teacher made them line up alphabetically. Said it caused less chaos when the gym was filled with three simultaneous classes of 45 students each. He wouldn’t have minded having Lilly Suarez next to him, to hold her feet steady for her as she did sit ups in the white shirt that showed the outline of her bra. P.E. was the only time their paths crossed because Lilly was in accelerated everything. Mick wasn’t into any of his classes and muddled through with Cs. The teacher whistled to get their attention and told them to start their mile run. Mick knew the route, positioned himself to be near Lilly as they squeezed out the gym door. “Hey,” he said, holding the door for her. “Hey,” she said, brushing her hair back out of her face into a scrunchie.  As soon as they were out on the asphalt, he pumped his legs in his green P.E. shorts. Lilly dropped to the back of the crowd. She wasn’t a runner, and if he slowed to her pace, Joey and Terence would give him shit. Instead, he ran as fast as he could and circled back to where she was at the end of the pack, alone. He paused. He could keep forward and take first in this non-competition, or run the route again and keep Lilly company, not worry about the pace and the opinions of others.  He took a step.

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'P.E.' by Melissa Flores Anderson #nffd2025

'Suds for Duds' by Lenny Eusebi The ladies of the East Wilmington Crocheting Guild always assembled on July the 23rd, the possibly apocryphal anniversary of their founding (no one actually remembered founding the guild, but this didn't bother a membership that had mostly ceased serious attempts to recall what they'd had for breakfast), as they hosted a car wash in the Church Street lot to raise money for yarn and scones. "Slide on in here, big boy," called Sheila Masters to the driver of a dusty old Buick, running her thumbs up the spaghetti straps of that lipstick red bikini her daughter had called "garish" when photos of last year's fundraiser enjoyed a brief notoriety online. She could perhaps be forgiven for not recognizing the vehicle, as it spent time in the Kingsleys' garage, while she spent time elsewhere. But forgiveness was of little interest to Betty (written "Mrs. Charles Kingsley" on the return address labels in her roll top), whose suspicions had been fueling feverish scarf-and-mittens work, when Charles cranked the window and blurted an overly cheery hello. The silence frothed as wrinkled bikini babes began to scrub at years of neglect. Charles hastily reversed the window crank. Betty and Sheila locked eyes. Betty, smoldering with the fire she usually reserved for those who dared suggest a cane, eventually closed the distance, bringing them nose to nose. "The hat you presented on Tuesday," she said sweetly, "Was loose and sloppy." Sheila's cheeks reddened. "Well," she replied airily, "I found a large head to fill it."

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Suds for Duds' by Lenny Eusebi #nffd2025

'Check Mate' by Scott MacLeod Her profile said independent. Well was that just talk? She’d spoken at length during the meal about various exploits at work. Defeating gender-based expectations. She’d actually mentioned her bonus, which if he was being honest was a bit of a turn on, but he was relieved when she did not mention the amount. The point is it certainly seemed like she could swing it. Half, that is, he wasn’t asking for the moon. He understood conventions. But he worried about setting a precedent.  His profile talked about traditional values. Respecting women, but also protective. Alpha dog. Throwback. That appealed to her. He certainly seemed in no hurry to get out of here. That too was a good sign.  But as for the current situation, she needed him to get off the pot. Equality is non-negotiable, but who doesn’t like being treated once in a while. He didn’t get that watch at Kohl’s.  Meanwhile the little leather folder holding the bill sat in the middle of the table. Untouched. The dishes had been cleared. The wait staff circled uneasily. 

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Check Mate' by Scott MacLeod #nffd2025

'August' by Angela James My stepson, Caleb, has corralled his friends for a weekend of celebrating his 25th birthday. I can almost see the steam radiating from their bronzed limbs in squiggly little cartoon lines as they burst through our entranceway.  Sweaty night air, pungent with plant gametes, infuses the space. “Close the door, boys,” my husband, Keith, calls out to them. “You are letting out the cold.” He doesn’t attempt to rise from the padded upholstery of his automatic sitting-to-standing armchair as the boys make their procession over to greet him.  The boys detail weekend plans of beaches, bonfires and barbecued meat. Keith smiles and tells them we have plans too. Dateline on tv tonight. Paul and Dianne’s 40th anniversary party tomorrow at the new Italian restaurant downtown.  When I was 30, Keith was my debonair 50 year old fiancé. Did I truly have a thing for older men then or had I enjoyed the currency that came with being younger? Now, at age 50 myself, I can’t say I’m sure. Keith urges them to enjoy the heat, the sun and whatever shenanigans the summer has to offer. When the boys leave, he reminisces about how it wasn’t that long ago that he adored soaking in the summer himself. Breaststroking against the lake currents. Boating through the channels. His skin browning under the sun. “That would have been a while ago,” he says. “Back when I was a lot younger.” Back when he was still older than what I am now. 

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'August' by Angela James #nffd2025

'Missing Note: Wanted' by Kate Axeford It wasn’t the headline, Woman Freed After Getting Head Stuck In Bin In Auchtermuchty that stopped me searching for your note, saying it was over. It wasn’t an ASBO from the council promising prosecution if I didn’t refrain from  playing ‘Your Song’ by Elton John on a loop at full volume that stopped me broadcasting.  If you’d heard it, you’d have rushed home to give me my note in person.  It wasn’t the café owners who chased me away down the tree-lined boulevard where couples sip coffees and shoot the breeze that made me desist from handing out fliers sporting your photo. Reward paid for information leading to this owner of a missing notebeing found and brought home, alive. It wasn’t the shrink who gave me a felt-tip and instructions to draw two clear circles. One, I had to fill in with all the worries I couldn’t control, the other with ones that I could. It certainly wasn’t her — that witch wrenched her pen back complaining the court just paid her for an hour. It wasn’t my adoptive mother that stopped me looking.  ‘Things often turn up when you least expect them to.’   She’d wise-owled after I’d festooned her drainpipes with your underpants. Vast grey flags of surrender waving in the wind. If only you’d seen them, you’d have brought my note back. No, it was the fireman, that handsome brute, Bill. Bill held me in his arms. Bill felt my heart beating.  ‘Stop howling like an orchestra of mating cats, hinny, and get your heid out that bin.’    Bill asked if I was OK – if I needed help again, not to hesitate, just dial the three nines. Now I don’t need your stupid note, I’ve got Bill’s number. I’ll call if I start to feel lonely.

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Missing Note: Wanted' by Kate Axeford #nffd2025

'Shantay, You Stay' by Elisa Dominique Rivera The Drag Race audition was buzzing with queens: Sequins, make-up, flesh-coloured stockings with sheen all mixed with excitement and my demophobia, I pushed on for my son trying out as Meghan Lo Mania. Frantically walking, barely seeing through the crowd when I felt a stabbing pain on my toes and howled. “Shit, sorry are you okay?” said a frumpy lady with ash hair and a woody grin.  Then I saw the damned heels she was wearing, and rued the day Louboutins became an “in” thing. I swore under my breath, she said she was only trying it for shits and giggles. We locked eyes and guffawed. She introduced herself as Sonia. That was Season 43. Fast forward to Season 46 my son’s turn for his third audition soon. I searched for him before he threw a queen’s tantrum, but when I found him he’s already made up, “Mom, I had to borrow makeup from Princess Dye Verging!” I thanked Sonia who’s proud as punch with her Princess who’s become my second queen since we met in S43. I rolled my eyes while our queens preened each other. Sonia handed me a flask, as we sat down amongst the multi-coloured and multi-textured costumes. “Vodka?” Sonia nodded, “Next time I’ll bring soju.” I giggled and was thankful that I found a co-Drag Mum. We sighed, muttering under our breath, “Shantay, you stay.”  

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Shantay, You Stay' by Elisa Dominique Rivera #nffd2025

'Behind you!' by Jeremy Boyce I was sitting at my desk, trying to write, something, anything, didn’t matter, but my fingers couldn’t hit the keys striaght. See what I mean ? Couldn’t hit them straight, couldn’t put one word after….. It just wasn’t...  It wasn’t the beer, wine, spliff, the energy bills, price of petrol, wars, the end of the world as we know it or any other shit that was happening at that moment.  “Will dinner be ready soon, Dad?” She didn’t actually speak, but she was there, her cold back on the wintered-up radiators, mobile texting and whatnot, behind my back, not in view, present, in my space. Out of sight is out of mind? Out of sight is out of my mind. “What’s she doing? Why is she there?  Do I have to speak? Is that what she wants? What do I say? What if she doesn’t hear, or answer? Would it be worth it?” She moves in silence, a ghost of a ghost of a ghost, like mist, suddenly fogging your vision. Unheard footsteps tip-tap occasionally, but no creaky floorboards or staircase to warn you in this land of stone and tiling. “What does she want, can’t she see I’m busy with this, that, and the other?” It’s always been like that. Finding.The.Time.To.Fit.In.Some.Of.The.What’s.Wanted.Between.The.What.Needs.To.Be.Done. “I’m here, Dad, and when will dinner be ready?” She didn’t actually say it, but I could feel the words creeping and crawling across the open and closed space between us, like a ground frost. “Are you going to talk to me, Dad?”  Probably, but only when you stop asking, just leave me be and let me hit my keys striaght then I’ll live and love you forever more. Or at least ‘til next dinner time.

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Behind you!' by Jeremy Boyce #nffd2025

'The News Anchor Read the News, but No One Watched it' by Marzia Rahman except a couple of old men and an Italian Greyhound in a suburban old home who watched the news not because they enjoyed watching it, but because they had nothing else to do.  It was Sunday, and the old men woke up early forgetting who they had been. They didn’t bother much, knowing memory often played tricks on them. Often, they could remember only half of their lives, the other half remained as elusive as Mars.  After putting on hearing aids and false teeth. After swallowing hordes of pills. After a vegan breakfast and a non-vegan walk outside, they settled in front of the television and watched world affairs and the weather forecast.  The dog sat nearby, wagging its tail.  They had a fondness for the weather broadcaster. They called her ‘Weather Girl’. A young pretty woman whose red lips and white flashing teeth reminded them of lost youth and sun-soaked summers.  The pretty woman always smiled, but not today. Today, she wore a semi-black dress and looked super-sober. She looked like a forgotten guest at a late-night funeral.  She announced that all life on earth would go into extinction very soon. Humans, animals, plants, reptiles, flowers, birds, butterflies …all might die out. As she said this, she shed a few tears. Her blue mascara smudged. Tiny purple veins popped under her eyes, and she looked almost poetic. They felt bad not because the world might end or not but because the young pretty woman with red lips and white flashing teeth was sad. The world could go to hell. As their midday bowel movements bothered them more, they rushed to the toilet. The dog barked at the weather girl.   [First published in Red Ferm Review, Fall 2023]

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'The News Anchor Read the News, but No One Watched it' by Marzia Rahman #nffd2025

'They Need to Clack' by Philippa Bowe Teeth do. Make that satisfying sound, clack clack clack. Shows you’re alive. So what do you do when you’ve got hardly any left? Fallen, cracked and crumbled. No dentist wants to go near your mouth. Dusty with the breath of decades.  I’m not putting up with it. I want to clack, I want to crunch nuts. Gums aren’t doing it for me. I try Jeff next door. A winked excuse, toilet’s blocked, can I…? He knows about bladders. I rifle through his bathroom cabinet hoping for a spare denture. Nothing but pills like smarties. I shove some in my pocket. I sway along the high street with my trusty cane. A pirate surveying the seas in search of bounty. A fine pair of choppers.  A couple of incursions into charity shops and I’m still empty-mouthed. But here comes the number 69 and I set sail for the old codgers’ home. Sure to be a treasure trove. I creak off the bus and the first thing I see is a man lounging against the wall. Natty fellow wrapped in a greatcoat like the ones they issued us in ’39. Smiling at me, teeth so bright I’m nearly blinded. ‘Harold,’ he says, ‘I have what you want.’ I spot the forked tip of his tail below the heavy wool. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to hand over your soul. I’ve got enough of them. Just a little helping hand.’ I’m tempted and he grins with those shark teeth. But then I see the boys in the trenches sharing everything, my darling Molly stopping me killing even a fly, a million dazzling kindnesses flying round the world. I don’t want teeth so sharp they’d shred them. ‘No, sir.’ I walk away and try clacking my gums. I like the sound of it. 

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'They Need to Clack' by Philippa Bowe #nffd2025

'Elapse' by Willow Woo I fell into a platonic limerence with my nephew at his high school graduation. He’s only three months away from moving across the country to Bowdoin College. Paxie was born in 2007, the same year I moved to San Francisco to start anew, reluctantly leaving my beloved hometown, LA. I wanted to be the present auntie. My sister told my mother, “He’s my son, and now she (meaning me) gets to take him to the park for playdates?” So, I became the absent auntie. I saw him on holidays, the same as his aunties, who flew in from the east coast. But I was local, and the distance felt the same. As Paxie grew from a baby with lungs that could nearly shatter glass, to a funny toddler, to an introverted middle schooler, and an athletic and focused high schooler, I meandered. I was a bored paralegal, laid off, and was surprisingly diagnosed with Autism, ADHD, and OCD. I became a tired pastry chef who worked at 3.30 every morning. Now, I’ll graduate with my MLIS in December and become a librarian. Why didn’t I find this path sooner? I could have read to Paxie and shared my favorite stories. But no, I wouldn’t have been allowed. As I look at Paxie head out into the world, poised, sweet, and tall, I can only say, “I’m proud of you. I know you worked so hard.” But I want to say, “Paxie. I’m sorry I wasn't a better auntie. I’m sorry I let your bully of a mother push me away. I know that whoever gets to spend time with you, your new college friends, will be lucky in ways that I wasn’t.” I wish I had gotten to know you, Paxie. Oh, how I wish.

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Elapse' by Willow Woo #nffd2025

'Long Gone, Living On' by Scaramanga Silk All of his old records were long gone. Along with his wife. And the cats. Mind you, he still had the radio and the internet for music. Recently, he’d noticed that Bill Knightswoon’s ‘Baby, come on home’ never gets played over the airwaves anymore. Even on his Golden Oldie stations. How he yearned to hear it again. He’d looked online for it too. Nothing came up on Spotify, YouTube, or that new Claude fella. The song hadn’t been released on a major label and only appeared on a 7” vinyl. Yet, it was a hit for a short time back then. Alas, nobody had transferred the classic to computer. In the town, one record store remained. “I doubt you’ll have it or even know it but I’m looking for an old copy of ‘Baby, come on home’. It’s by—“ “Billly Knightswoon! The most underrated singer of his generation. You’re in luck. We just took in a collection and that gem’s in there. What a voice!” The assistant wonders out back and rifles through boxes of dusty records. A few moments later, he returns. “That’ll be $3.” The elegantly dressed, softly spoken gentleman purchases the record and thanks the chap for his help. That evening, in his toasty and comfy home, he spends hours staring at the cover, reading the sleeve notes, and admiring the black wax. But he doesn’t set it on his turntable. Early the next morning he returns to the store before they open. Upon arrival, he posts the record through the letter box and leaves. Yesterday’s assistant notices the 45 on the doormat and stumbles before picking it up. On the front of the picture sleeve is some handwriting that wasn’t there previously. It reads, ‘To the great kid on the counter. Thank you! Best, Bill’.

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Long Gone, Living On' by Scaramanga Silk #nffd2025

'Man’s Best Friend' by Allison Renner The boy struggled as the dog pulled against her leash. His dad had said once around the block, not across the street. “Please,” the boy whispered, trying to convey confidence as he rounded the corner, hoping the dog would give up and follow. Instead, she yipped and jumped, strong enough to pull the boy a few steps sideways. “Want a treat?” a gentle voice asked. The boy looked, but the old man wasn’t talking to him. He held out his hand, a tiny brown treat in his palm. The boy could barely see it—how would the dog? But she did, and came bounding up and settled at the old man’s feet to chew it to bits while he scratched behind her ears. “For you, too,” the old man said. The boy shook his head automatically. “My dad said don’t take things from strangers.” The old man smiled. “I’m Charles, so I’m not a stranger anymore. And these are more dog treats, so if she tries to steer you wrong, you can keep her on track.” The boy thought about it. Would his dad be madder if he chased the dog across the street or took something from a stranger? He wasn’t sure, but he knew one thing: he loved this taste of freedom. Being away from home, with his dog. When it was okay to be alone, when no one thought he was strange for not being surrounded by other boys his age. He took the treats and pocketed them. “Thank you, Charles.” The old man nodded once, and the dog stepped closer to the boy, acting like his shadow as they continued down the block.  At the next corner, the boy glanced back. Charles was offering a treat to another dog walking by.

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Man’s Best Friend' by Allison Renner #nffd2025

'Would You Rather…?' by Scaramanga Silk The choice had been offered. “Either, an exciting short life. Or, a boring long life.” This made a big change from reading my horoscope in The Metro every morning, stuck on the commute, between BO Bobby and Handsfree Helen. Sam had discovered the Would you rather…? game and insisted on us playing it when he boarded our packed train at Clapham Junction. “Go to jail BUT keep the money OR Don’t go to jail BUT lose all the cash. One night with your dream girl OR Ten years with someone less attractive BUT she’ll worship you.”

 However, it was his current conundrum that was the real crux of the crescendo. “A one-hit wonder with a Number #1 single OR a steady BUT unremarkable musical career.” Sam wasn’t aware of what I did before this job. Sam didn’t realise how I had lived this scenario. Sam couldn’t have known how painful things had gotten. We worked for a publishing company on the edge of London. They had transitioned to digital and were all about the data. Nice bunch of people… if you wanted your soul to die. I’d been there for four years now and desperately missed the recording studio. Yet, late nights, travelling the world, and partying, were not compatible with the life my wife and kids needed. So here I am. Sam didn’t know I was at breaking point. Sam didn’t know that I had my solicitor’s card in my wallet. Sam didn’t know about the unfinished letter to our boss. What example would I set to my kids if I didn’t follow my dreams? What sort of father and husband would I be if I was miserable? “Either, be someone who makes sacrifices and provides OR risk everything for an unrealistic goal BUT at least know you tried…”

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Would You Rather…?' by Scaramanga Silk #nffd2025

'Ria, Ria, Ria' by Vijayalakshmi Sridhar She walked in as Diya and Dodo welcomed her with short barks that turned into squeals and a lot of head-butting. “Arey. Andhar to aane do,” she rolled her brown eyes and admonished them, sounding like a dadima. Lakshman was Debu kaka’s replacement and Ria was Lakshman’s niece who had come to stay with him for the holidays. Dum aloo posto, keema curry, tomato borta and rice- all of a sudden, I was in the mood for a festive dinner, Ria smiling-approving my hukum. As Lakshman busied himself in the kitchen, Ria she recited A,B,C, 1,2,3, ka,Kha,ga, when I asked about school and cooked and served me breakfast, lunch, dinner on the glass-topped dining table, her imaginary kitchen.  “Aaj Dhoru ki Shaadhi hai,” she made up a ready-made context, started singing a Bhojpuri ghana, urging Sri to repeat after her in his deep teacherly baritone. He followed that up with tumkhas, hip-butting with her. After Sri left to work, she sat me down on the maharaja vintage chair Sri and I had picked up from an auction in Kolkata, that was still as shiny as new. “Beena ki shaadi hai,” she announced, rubbing her palms and started braiding my colour-streaked hair like she was my Ma. Later, twinning in pigtails, we side-cheeked and smiled wide for the selfie, showing a lot of teeth.  When Debu returned from his break, I took his help and made Chicken Rezala- an instagram recipe I had wanted to try for a long time. More postos and curry dums and bortas followed. Like two monkeys, Diya and Dodo trailed Ria, jumping up and down with her and catching crispy bits of the Goloroti or bhatura I was feeding Ria like I was her Ma. 

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Ria, Ria, Ria' by Vijayalakshmi Sridhar #nffd2025

'The Gift of Gab' by Lisa H. Owens “Benny, do you still love me?” “In response, sweetheart, I’ll answer your question with a question. Once there was this kid, let's call him Rupert, who asked Santa for a puppy, and knowing he’d be good all year, he was certain he’d find a puppy under the tree on Christmas morning, therefore, to save money to buy things for his soon-to-be pet, he worked all summer—mowing lawns, pulling weeds, washing neighbors’ cars, until one day he cracked open his piggy bank and took a wad of cash to Pet-World, where he purchased food and water bowls and a medium-sized bed, because he knew puppies wouldn’t stay little forever, then hid the stuff under his bed, because if his parents found out he’d talked to Santa about a puppy, they would sabotage his plans since his dad was allergic to animal dander, but his dad didn’t just have an allergy, but would actually go into anaphylactic shock if exposed to fur and dander, especially dog fur, so had he known that, he wouldn’t have accepted a puppy from a lady in a parking lot who was giving them away—for free—saying the runt was the last in a litter of eight, which was his lucky number, and he wouldn’t have taken the pup home, who wouldn’t have jumped in Dad’s recliner…for just a second—but apparently long enough, and when Dad sat in his favorite chair, his airway wouldn’t have closed and the ambulance driver wouldn’t have gotten in a wreck while rushing to get Rupert’s dad to...” Benny paused to glance at Glenda, fast asleep on the couch, “...my question is, do you think Rupert jumped the gun?” Benny smiled and hopped up to silently moonwalk and perform celebratory jazz-hands. No answer was always the right answer.

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'The Gift of Gab' by Lisa H. Owens #nffd2025

'Teddy Bear Picnic' by Melissa Flores Anderson Lilly strips the bed of its sheets and the comforter, tosses each stuffie to the far corner of the room. Jack is whining about Blue Bear, the one she and her mother made while she was pregnant, from the leftover remnants of her own baby blanket. The blanket she’d brought to college, to graduate school, that she’d only folded and put into the shelf of her old bedroom at her parent’s place when she’d moved in with Mick. Because Mick wasn’t sentimental. Her something blue on her wedding day had been a piece cut from the cloth and sewn into the inside of her dress by the seamstress who tailored it to her exact measurements. As the dress hung from the bride’s suite at their reception venue, she searched through the layers of satin and tulle to find the swatch, rubbed her fingers on it, silently spoke to her dead grandmother to ask if she was making the right choice. Jack formed an attachment to the bear around age 2, when he carried it down stairs in the morning, back to bed at night, to her mother’s house for sleepovers. Blue Bear went everywhere with him. But now on the one day he could take it to school for the Teddy Bear Picnic, she couldn’t find it. She’d thrown off his routine by getting home late last night, missing dinner, rushing him to bed. Because she had stayed for a reception after work, talking with Charles, not quite flirting, but almost.  Lilly searches under Jack’s bed, her room, the upstairs bathroom, the playroom. Nothing. Downstairs, she crawls into the fort Jack erected with Mick, of throw pillows and folding chairs, and there in the dark is Blue Bear, waiting for Jack.

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Teddy Bear Picnic' by Melissa Flores Anderson #nffd2025

'Bitter and Sweet' by Suzanne Hicks In winter we showed up to school with thrift store snow pants, cheeks smeared with Vaseline, and when someone saw the beige handle of the plastic grocery bags Mom used to line our leaky moon boots sticking out, everyone laughed at us.  At home we cried, and Mom told us a story about some girl who stunk so bad no one wanted to sit next to her at school, so she did because of how you could always see where tears had streaked her dirty face. We didn’t understand her point because we had squeaky Noxzema-clean skin, and all the girls at school smelled like Love’s Babysoft. When the snow melted in spring, Mom grew rhubarb along the side of the house, which she made into just about everything she could. Jam, dumplings, pie. One time Nicole from class came over after school and we plucked some out of the dirt, dipped the stalks in sugar and chomped on ‘em. The next day after we found out she only used us to make Jessica jealous, and she made fun of us in front of everyone at recess saying rhubarb was poor people food because it grows like weeds. But when the notes about the lice outbreak got sent home in everyone’s backpacks, we all were itching our heads, sharing stories about the shampoo and tiny comb. Nicole showed up to school with a bob because her hair got so tangled up, and when the other girls made fun of her, we sat down next to her at lunch, spread out the contents of our three lunchboxes, and had a big buffet. 

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Bitter and Sweet' by Suzanne Hicks #nffd2025

'Home for Christmas' by Allison Renner The wall of heat smacked me as soon as I left baggage claim to hail a cab. By the time I wrestled my suitcase into the trunk, the humidity had curled my hair. I gave the hostel address and leaned back into the cracked pleather, trying to relax. Trying to pretend I knew what to expect, bunking with a room full of tourists likely half my age. I’d never been this far from home. And I’d never gone anywhere alone. But I knew it was time. I couldn’t take any more questions: “When will you…?” “Why don’t you…?” or the ever-so-helpful “Have you tried…?” Because they were there, gathered around the Christmas ham while snow turned the dead grass white. Maybe my empty chair would be answer enough.

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Home for Christmas' by Allison Renner #nffd2025

'Seasonal Defiance Reorder' by Adele Gallogly Since December, Essie’s brother Cal has been calling her shifting moods “she-asons,” dragging out the she. He means this as another insult, a way to needle her for weather sensitivity. But she leans into it, tips it sideways as only she can. Shivering down the wooden stairs on face-meltingly icy February mornings with a full grin becomes an act of war. She treats even the white coated wheat squares in her cereal bowl like rafts of sweetness, signs of winter’s sustenance. When two of the rectangular pieces stick together like waterlogged pages in a book, like soggy Ten Commandments tablets, like milky conjoined twins, she gobbles them up.  April eventually melts everything into thick mud and birdsong. Bud-lined branches slap the kitchen window. One morning, Essie greets Cal near the toaster dressed in a rough wool sweater the colour of asphalt (screw pastels!). Smoke starts to ribbon up from his slices, and he yells and stomps, a teenager in the dumb clutches of a tantrum. She stays as cool as the first frost, as silent as the iceberg roses in the yard spotted with pink fungal rot. All days are hers, now – me-asons. She’ll tease him about his outburst later. Plan her words while slurping steaming cider. Tell him to stop being so goddamn temperament-Cal. 

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Seasonal Defiance Reorder' by Adele Gallogly #nffd2025

'The Last Hunt Before Winter' by Noah McWilliam Roars echoed as I trudged through the lush, green forest. The sun blazed through the canopy, UV rays stinging my eyes. I scratched at the trees as I swirled through the woods, the light blinding and wild. It was hot, buzzing with insects and bursting with the smell of life. To cool off, I waded into the river and caught fat catfish with my sharp, deadly claws. I tore into them, scales flashing, water splashing. Then I stumbled back toward my cave, tripping over roots and rocks, belly full, fur dripping. But the warmth didn’t last. It was freezing now. The air turned sharp, biting at my nose and ears. The forest that once buzzed with heat was quiet, covered in frost. Leaves, once green, had turned brittle and brown, crunching under my paws. My breath came in thick clouds. I moved slower. I needed food and fast. I lumbered from bush to bush, gobbling up the last of the berries, their juices cold against my fur. I plunged into the icy river once more, my claws flashing through the water, catching fish while I still could. The trees creaked. Wind slipped between the trunks like a whisper. The forest had changed becoming quieter, older, ready to sleep and so was I. My belly was full. My body was heavy. I crawled into the cave and curled into myself, the cold pressing at the entrance but never reaching me. Outside, the last leaves danced. Inside, I was still. Season to season. I slept.

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'The Last Hunt Before Winter' by Noah McWilliam #nffd2025

'Fresh Canvas' by Lenny Eusebi We stride through the shuffling leaves, letting their crunch and shoof speak into our silence. Our eyes travel up the path, each on our own side, sliding along the trunks to puffs of color. Dabbed on leaves that remind us both of our sponge work that time we tried PaintNite. No need to mention it or even share a little wink or nod, but we dwell in the memory. For several paces it hangs between us with its thick paints and brushes like day camp supplies, its layered canvases and smocks as we dipped into each other's palettes. Then we crest the hill and a checkered spread of reds and yellows rolls out below us, pricked with evergreen flourishes. We sigh in unison. Stretching legs and backs, we linger there at the top, admiring the climb behind us as much as the valley ahead. To one side, the well-marked trail leads to parking lots and her packed-up bags; to the other side, a vague break in the leaves meanders down below that gorgeous layer.  And now I stand atop another hill, boots caked and heavy from the trudge. The canvas below has been brushed with fresh white, deep and thick enough to remove all trace of prior art. Up here there are no paths, no single obvious way except the one line of boot prints I brought with me. The rising sun glitters across the slope with the cold beauty of unsold diamonds. Soon it will be crushed and plowed by hundreds of toboggans, inner tubes, and laughing children, but for this one moment it hangs below me, steep and fast, a blinding rush. I lay out my bit of plastic sled and tumble awkwardly inside, my rear in the air as I gather speed, breaking a new trail.

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Fresh Canvas' by Lenny Eusebi #nffd2025

'Persephone in the Forest' by Birgit K. Gaiser Spring For now, I sleep. When the days grow longer, I will meet her, wrapping my arms around her, welcoming her, basking in her life, her light, as plants bloom and birds sing. I smile: A red squirrel excitedly pokes its head around a tree, wondering where its nuts might be stored. Its whiskers quiver as it smells the air. A wildcat, eager to fill its belly with unsuspecting prey, patrols the borders of its realm. The seasons are too short to waste a single day. I feel it, too: Too soon, the world will be cold and brown, lonely and sleepy. A final rebellion of reds and yellows, of spiders carried on the wind, trailing silk like old women’s hair. Too soon, always too soon, she will leave. I wait. Autumn I wait. Too soon, always too soon, she will leave. A final rebellion of reds and yellows, of spiders carried on the wind, trailing silk like old women’s hair. Too soon, the world will be cold and brown, lonely and sleepy. I feel it, too: The seasons are too short to waste a single day. A wildcat, eager to fill its belly with unsuspecting prey, patrols the borders of its realm. Its whiskers quiver as it smells the air. A red squirrel excitedly pokes its head around a tree, wondering where its nuts might be stored. I smile: When the days grow longer, I will meet her, wrapping my arms around her, welcoming her, basking in her life, her light, as plants bloom and birds sing. Now, I sleep.

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Persephone in the Forest' by Birgit K. Gaiser #nffd2025

'Joey’s looking for a table' by Katie Willow It’s the last one he needs. Matty ‘The Bump’ Richards was bragging again, ‘bout how he had the top score on Flintstones (Williams, 1994) and Joey just can’t stand the way he says I’m Top, I’m Number One and bangs his pint down on the table so it sloshes over the side and everyone grabs for their smartphones and curses him for being a wanker and won’t he just shut up about pinball because nobody cares. But that’s how The Bump gets when he’s had one too many. Joey’s the quiet one. He never tells a soul about his quest but ever since Matty got on the IFPA (International Flipper Pinball Association) player rankings he’s been boring the tits off everyone. Joey’s not ranked but he’s beaten every one of the scores The Bump has mentioned, even if his fingers felt sore for days and the change machine swallowed more than one of his twenties without plinking the quids out below. He doesn’t know if Matty has noticed, that’s not the point. He’s doing this for himself. Joey’s not flash but he keeps going until the job is done. That’s his power. He just needs to find that last table. It’s not in the big arcade in town where most of the tables can be found. He doesn't want to ask Matty. He doesn’t want to set that prick off again, on one of his stories about stance, finger position or hitting the ramp six times in a row. He trudges into another bar, Cathy from work thought she might have seen a table there but she doesn’t know which one it is, why? There’s a glow of lights in the corner. Owe you one, Cathy, cos it’s only a matter of time now. Yabba dabba doo.

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'Joey’s looking for a table' by Katie Willow #nffd2025

'No one sings carols any more' by Chloe Cook We share a meal across speakerphone because you still cannot centre yourself in the camera for longer than three seconds and I refuse to be the only one on screen, sharing an intimate conversation with the ceiling or a flower frozen in bloom on wallpaper. You’ve made honey roasted turkey, mothering an empty nest. You joke about the leftovers you’ll construct your meals from during my absence. I send you a photo of my seat on the balcony, the sun heavy in the sky, crystalising sea. I have never spent Christmas in a strappy dress before or been alone for it. But I needed this. I needed to not force a smile. He is smiling, I am sure, another woman being called love. After you say goodbye, I will go to the beach and swim until I feel free. The sea wind medicinal, rattling palm leaves, anointing head. I think I might be healed here. Christmas in London is like living in a pocket. Streets stagnate, dust builds. My girl on the beach whilst I roll amongst lint. The heating in my flat has run out and I have opened every window to enlarge my self-pity. Body itching and bulging in wool. I watch my breath curl out the window and imagine it turning through the winter sky until it reaches summer in Chile. I wish my body could follow. I wish my arms were wrapping her in a hug. Instead, egg sandwiches turn stale on the table behind me. I smoke a cigarette for warmth even though I haven’t smoked since I was in my twenties. It is instant peace. This time of year, for most people, is instant peace: family returning home, everything paused. I take a drag, another second closer to reunion. I live inside an interval.

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'No one sings carols any more' by Chloe Cook #nffd2025

'A Visit to St Nick' by Lucienne Cummings Not a creature was stirring. ‘What the hell is that?’ ‘An elf… I think.’ The statue’s crazed yellow eyes stalk us into the silent park.  I should never have compromised – yes I got my June holiday, but my Christmas-obsessed boyfriend got his pick of the destination.  Santa Claus’s village, Lapland. At midsummer. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave a lustre of midday to objects below. A muzak Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree seeps from the midnight-sun-drenched speaker system. ‘I swear that fibreglass snowman just grinned.’ I reach for Alex’s hand. ‘Don’t be daft.’ He pulls me into Santa’s Square. ‘Look!’  ‘It’s just a signpost.’  ‘To everywhere! London, Melbourne, Bali…’  ‘Bali’s a lovely holiday destination...’ My stomach growls. I survey the haunted concession stands, empty mulled wine urns, and–  Alex’s scream curdles the air. I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. ‘That signpost bit me!’ I examine Alex’s hand. ‘It’s just a splinter. I’ll get it with my eyebrow tweezers later.’  We follow a jolly sign for Santa’s House and Burger Cafe. I’d kill for a bowl full of jelly. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. The plastic cottage is (of course) made to look like gingerbread and candy canes. Spotting a case piled with cakes, I creep inside.  I reach towards a bun. ‘Ho ho ho!’  Santa, cowled in the dark, is down on one knee.  I faint.  “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!” I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day tinkles from sun-drenched loudspeakers above our deckchairs.  ‘I love Bali in December!’ Alex raises his glass as I admire the sparkle of my engagement ring. ‘Here’s to compromise,’ I toast. — includes extracts from 'A Visit from St. Nicholas' by Clement Clarke Moore

ICYMI: The Write-In: 'A Visit to St Nick' by Lucienne Cummings #nffd2025