The Monkey Puzzle tree
I introduced the prompt, asking the writers to write in ‘slow prose’, perhaps the opposite of the familiar ‘breathless paragraph’ type of flash fiction. Thank you to everyone who entered. There were many interesting and inventive stories, which our regular judge, writer and co-director of National Flash Fiction Day, UK, Diane Simmons selected from. I have pictured The Monkey Puzzle tree at Trinity College, Bristol the in-person Flash fiction venue, as trees, although sometimes fast-growing, are often slow. I think this tree has been growing in the grounds for over 100 years.
All three brilliant stories, by first prize winner, Mack Mckenna and the two runners-up, Beth Sherman and Emma Phillips are copied below and Diane’s comments are under each piece. The winners receive books published by Ad Hoc Fiction, free entries to Bath Flash Fiction Award and publication in the 2026 festival anthology as well as here.
First Prize by Mack Mckenna
Snow Blind
No one knew where the markings came from. Perfect circles etched into the frost-hardened snow. First down by the docks, and then each day, street by street, moving further inland. Always exactly one foot across, always exactly six foot apart.
Rose from the corner blamed the new family. Said they weren’t like us. Said the man had looked at her weird. Big Jim told her to quit talkin’ tripe. Said the new guy was a good bloke. Said accosting your neighbour with a welcome-to-the-road geranium at 7am was what was weird. Said it’d just be kids havin’ a laugh.
Neither mentioned that there were no footprints. Not near the pavement circles. Not near the wall circles. Not near the roof top circles. By midwinter the markings had wrapped the town in a perfect circle of their own.
Six months later and the snow remained. Holidaying families took their ice creams in the diner, enjoyed their seaside fish and chips indoors, huddled beside over-worked radiators.
Rose wrote to the papers. Rose wrote to the council. They ignored her accusations, her warnings. She kept her curtains closed, a bulwark against the newcomers. She trudged the long way through the snow to the high street, looping a mile round town to avoid that other end of the street.
As Christmas approached, news broke that Jenny Fairburn had gone missing, her snow-sodden purse and half-smoked cigarette all that remained. And then another resident vanished. And then another, and another. Emboldened, Rose made placards, took up position on the Town Hall steps, called for a cull of all inhabitants of less than 10 years’ standing. She gained a crowd, a following. Others repeated her calls for action, passed on half-remembered tales, stoked fear.
But then word came that the new neighbour’s child had disappeared.
Rose considered this unforeseen development, considered its ramifications, considered her shoes, considered the smug look on Big Jim’s face. A loose cable slapped against the Town Hall roof, echoed off snow, beat time as the seconds passed. Finally, even as first her fingers and then her toes began to vaporise, she nodded, resolute. “Well,” she said, “now isn’t that just what they’d want us to think.”
Bio coming soon
Diane’s Comments:
I loved the originality of this flash and it stood out for me immediately. The story of the mysterious goings on and of the subsequent blaming the new family in town for everything, cleverly mirrored the xenophobia that is present in some many news stories today.
Runner Up: Emma Phillips
That Winter
That winter, we became snow; we were almost snug. Look, you said, your voice fogged; it tugs the rooftops like a blanket. We folded ourselves to the shape of the bay, iced the brow of the hill. You lugged your many-seasoned coat into each fresh whiteness. The familiar plod of your feet; a nod when all was still. We hid our slog inside the children’s joy at snow angels. The North wind gnawed our fingers. You didn’t see it coming, you said. Between our sheets, a debt collector shivered. Tomorrow flinched; the sky hung low. Clouds wore bruises.
That winter, I became snow; each dusting sugar in the trudge for work. A jack of all trades, you laughed. Few jobs, less hugs. Everything shuttered, I prized boards loose, dragged abandoned tables towards once-stocked cupboards. Hunger fugs. On a shelf with rat shit, a can of chicken soup. Back bent to a comma with the weight of us, my heart splayed out of reach like a glove dug from ice. Tomorrow shook us awake and we ached with it. That crunch. That bite. Gulls fought over trawlers for scraps of fish. Go, go, go their advice.
That winter, you became snow; your breath mist on a distant window. Drifts like froth in coffee. You bet the city was nice. Shift work dragged the nights out, so I wore the moon on my skin like milk, shoved light into narrow bunks. Slugged bourbon. Broke ice. The stink of industry clung to me; I held every star in the sky for you. Over the chimneys, Manhattan. Money: a drug in the shadow of Wall Street. Tomorrow a slice of pie. Frost could be diamonds, you told me. Savor it. I tried.
Bio: Emma Phillips lives, writes and teaches by the M5 in Devon, which sometimes lures her away in search of adventure. Her words have been placed in the Bath Flash Award, Free Flash Fiction Competition, NFFD Micro Competition and appear in print and online in various places. She can sometimes be found @words-outwest.bsky.social.
Diane’s comments
This was a beautifully written flash with some wonderful descriptions and images. I particularly enjoyed the language in the second paragraph, thinking the phrase ‘On a shelf with rat shit, a can of chicken soup’ so effective in painting a picture of poverty.
Runner up: Beth Sherman
Snowy Morning
Daybreak. Decision made. The slap of frigid air as he walks these familiar New England streets. No longer a stranger in town, renting a dingy two-room flat, but a man with friends, neighbors, a job he’s loved. After today, he’ll be a spoonful of gossip. A story told by guys in the diner, with a grin and a rueful chuckle. Some fellow has been up before him, clearing a path, scooping fresh snow aside, like vanilla ice cream no one wants to eat. Faded paint on the pastel houses remind him of half-eaten candy. He must be hungry. The harbor a blue speck, distant as summer. The sky an angry bruise.
He sees Helen waiting outside her house. Helen with her snaggle tooth and ample bosom. Her voice silkier than a jazz LP. She takes off her wedding band, tosses it in a snowbank, and he has to resist the urge to dig it out because they only have $59 between them and it’s a long way to California. He wants to stroke the back of her neck, to run his hand under the waistband of her girdle. But the windows of the yellow house gape above them, watching. So, he only mutters, Pick you up in an hour and goes past her, ignoring the neediness in her eyes. The tree branches bare as an empty cupboard. The telephone poles bleak crosses in the snow.
He’s parked his jalopy outside the diner and is about to go in for a last order of fried eggs when an arm loops around his neck. Martin. His boss, his best friend. Join me for breakfast, Martin says. You’re coming over later, right? Helen is making pot roast. He nods. Yeah. Sure. How many nights spent at the Millers, while Helen flirted and Martin gazed at Helen with a love so pure it hurt to watch. He tries to picture Martin without Helen but the canvas is blank. Martin would die of loneliness. I’ll only be a minute, he says. My car needs an oil change. The cold hurts his cheeks and the tips of his ears but that’s not why he’s shaking. He waits till Martin is seated at the counter before getting in the car. He drives south. The jalopy skidding on icy roads, passing the familiar yellow house, all the silent storefronts. The town still asleep. The quiet weight of snow.
Bio: Beth Sherman has had more than 200 stories published in literary journals, including Ghost Parachute, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and SmokeLong Quarterly, where she’s a Submissions Editor. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and 2026 and Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on social media @bsherm36.
Diane’s comments
This is a touching flash with a satisfying ending. The sentence ‘After today, he’ll be a spoonful of gossip’ is a perfect description of how the town’s view of our protagonist is set to change.
