by James Montgomery HE’S SWEPT AWAY SUDDENLY. After a one-hour car journey became four. After two emergency toilet stops for their three- and six-year-olds, plus one more to refuel with bags of gia…

Congratulations to the twenty authors who have made our Award short list (titles listed below) selected by judge Alison Woodhouse. Author names are yet to be announced, so while it is fine to share…

Congratulations to all the authors who have made our Award long list and huge thanks to all who entered.Author names are yet to be announced, so while it is fine to share that you are on the long l…

Bob Weir’s vocals lilt from a second floor window, sibilating shhhhugar magnolia as the needle vibrates across a scratch in the vinyl. Naked in the August heat, Diana shelves her breasts on the windowsill, leans out to watch a couple of cubiches slapping dominoes with rhythmic clacks on a small folding table that belongs to the grocer downstairs. She smiles, takes a long, slow drag on the joint trailing from her fluid fingers, inhales deep. This summer has been her flowering, eyes open to the world: America’s involvement in Vietnam dwindling as Watergate hits the fan, revelations of secret bombing raids against Cambodia in ‘69 and ‘70, a looming energy crisis. Light and shadows. Scandals and war. Everything different, everything the same. --- Prompt #17 involved choosing five words from a FlashFlood story. Source text: 'Magnolia' by Emily Devane

The magnolia comes into the room and asks me what I’ve done with her new shoes.  I shake my head, because no, I haven’t seen the magnolia’s new shoes and just how many shoes does a tree need, and do they have laces or buckles, and is there a specialist shop for that? The questions keep coming until the magnolia scratches her crown and flounces out of the room, trailing petals in her wake.  I feel bad when that happens, because the magnolia’s blossom is so lovely. Each flower is an elegant pink cup, the shape of a champagne flute, tall and proud, and when they fall, the flowers resemble tears, and the magnolia’s limbs look naked. I follow the trail of petals, picking them up as I go, and I place them in the fruit bowl. I lay them out delicately, so that they resemble a living thing once again, and the magnolia, who is sulking by the kitchen door, acknowledges my effort.  ‘It was silly really, buying shoes,’ she says.  ‘Not at all,’ I reply. ‘Together, we’ll find them. They’re probably in the cupboard under the stairs. Everything ends up there.’  The magnolia nods. ‘I can sense the wind,’ she says. ‘My petals are almost gone.’ I discern her mouth and eyes in the twisted bark of her trunk. She smiles sadly. This flowering is short, always too short. I wish I could pause time, somehow, but I know she must leave. When she goes, the magnolia casts a shadow that stretches across the rest of the afternoon, covering everything.  Later, I find the shoes were in the garden where the magnolia used to stand. I try them on, but they do not fit. --- Emily Devane is a writer from West Yorkshire. She has won prizes, including the Bath Flash Fiction Award, a Northern Writers' Award and a Word Factory apprenticeship. Emily teaches creative writing and works at The Grove Bookshop in Ilkley, where she runs the writing group and helps with events. 

The magnolia comes into the room and asks me what I’ve done with her new shoes.  I shake my head, because no, I haven’t seen the magnolia’s new shoes and just how many shoes does a tree need, and do they have laces or buckles, and is there a specialist shop for that? The questions keep coming until the magnolia scratches her crown and flounces out of the room, trailing petals in her wake.  I feel bad when that happens, because the magnolia’s blossom is so lovely. Each flower is an elegant pink cup, the shape of a champagne flute, tall and proud, and when they fall, the flowers resemble tears, and the magnolia’s limbs look naked. I follow the trail of petals, picking them up as I go, and I place them in the fruit bowl. I lay them out delicately, so that they resemble a living thing once again, and the magnolia, who is sulking by the kitchen door, acknowledges my effort.  ‘It was silly really, buying shoes,’ she says.  ‘Not at all,’ I reply. ‘Together, we’ll find them. They’re probably in the cupboard under the stairs. Everything ends up there.’  The magnolia nods. ‘I can sense the wind,’ she says. ‘My petals are almost gone.’ I discern her mouth and eyes in the twisted bark of her trunk. She smiles sadly. This flowering is short, always too short. I wish I could pause time, somehow, but I know she must leave. When she goes, the magnolia casts a shadow that stretches across the rest of the afternoon, covering everything.  Later, I find the shoes were in the garden where the magnolia used to stand. I try them on, but they do not fit. --- Emily Devane is a writer from West Yorkshire. She has won prizes, including the Bath Flash Fiction Award, a Northern Writers' Award and a Word Factory apprenticeship. Emily teaches creative writing and works at The Grove Bookshop in Ilkley, where she runs the writing group and helps with events. 

The magnolia comes into the room and asks me what I’ve done with her new shoes.  I shake my head, because no, I haven’t seen the magnolia’s new shoes and just how many shoes does a tree need, and do they have laces or buckles, and is there a specialist shop for that? The questions keep coming until the magnolia scratches her crown and flounces out of the room, trailing petals in her wake.  I feel bad when that happens, because the magnolia’s blossom is so lovely. Each flower is an elegant pink cup, the shape of a champagne flute, tall and proud, and when they fall, the flowers resemble tears, and the magnolia’s limbs look naked. I follow the trail of petals, picking them up as I go, and I place them in the fruit bowl. I lay them out delicately, so that they resemble a living thing once again, and the magnolia, who is sulking by the kitchen door, acknowledges my effort.  ‘It was silly really, buying shoes,’ she says.  ‘Not at all,’ I reply. ‘Together, we’ll find them. They’re probably in the cupboard under the stairs. Everything ends up there.’  The magnolia nods. ‘I can sense the wind,’ she says. ‘My petals are almost gone.’ I discern her mouth and eyes in the twisted bark of her trunk. She smiles sadly. This flowering is short, always too short. I wish I could pause time, somehow, but I know she must leave. When she goes, the magnolia casts a shadow that stretches across the rest of the afternoon, covering everything.  Later, I find the shoes were in the garden where the magnolia used to stand. I try them on, but they do not fit. --- Emily Devane is a writer from West Yorkshire. She has won prizes, including the Bath Flash Fiction Award, a Northern Writers' Award and a Word Factory apprenticeship. Emily teaches creative writing and works at The Grove Bookshop in Ilkley, where she runs the writing group and helps with events. 

The magnolia comes into the room and asks me what I’ve done with her new shoes.  I shake my head, because no, I haven’t seen the magnolia’s new shoes and just how many shoes does a tree need, and do they have laces or buckles, and is there a specialist shop for that? The questions keep coming until the magnolia scratches her crown and flounces out of the room, trailing petals in her wake.  I feel bad when that happens, because the magnolia’s blossom is so lovely. Each flower is an elegant pink cup, the shape of a champagne flute, tall and proud, and when they fall, the flowers resemble tears, and the magnolia’s limbs look naked. I follow the trail of petals, picking them up as I go, and I place them in the fruit bowl. I lay them out delicately, so that they resemble a living thing once again, and the magnolia, who is sulking by the kitchen door, acknowledges my effort.  ‘It was silly really, buying shoes,’ she says.  ‘Not at all,’ I reply. ‘Together, we’ll find them. They’re probably in the cupboard under the stairs. Everything ends up there.’  The magnolia nods. ‘I can sense the wind,’ she says. ‘My petals are almost gone.’ I discern her mouth and eyes in the twisted bark of her trunk. She smiles sadly. This flowering is short, always too short. I wish I could pause time, somehow, but I know she must leave. When she goes, the magnolia casts a shadow that stretches across the rest of the afternoon, covering everything.  Later, I find the shoes were in the garden where the magnolia used to stand. I try them on, but they do not fit. --- Emily Devane is a writer from West Yorkshire. She has won prizes, including the Bath Flash Fiction Award, a Northern Writers' Award and a Word Factory apprenticeship. Emily teaches creative writing and works at The Grove Bookshop in Ilkley, where she runs the writing group and helps with events. 

As babes, you toddling with the cleaver, your Ma yelling. As fresh pupils, you whispering the answer, us caned by Sister Adele. As fourth graders, you taunting Bhavani-the-Bully who gave us horsey bites that stung for days. As first formers, you daring us to drink our chemistry experiment leading to a glorious sickie together watching Rage, our hands thigmotropic on the couch. As third formers, you passing the joint to me, us semi-comatose on the rug, a flash of your caramel-soft midriff. Yesterday, me finally finding your lips with mine:  you finally finding a line you wouldn’t cross. --- Sumitra Singam is a queer, neurodiverse Malaysian-Indian-Australian coconut who writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). You can find her and her other publication credits on Bluesky: @pleomorphic2 & sumitrasingam.squarespace.com