Flash fiction hall of fame

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Emma Hulance

A giant hand strikes through grey cloud amassing in the west and drops a globule of lurid, blood orange sun. It drips, a vivid and diseased yolk, through a rip in the rock. Falling water turns to ash. The solar bead tumbles down the rough, salty cliff face like wax. Its warmth and hope corral underground, flaring until one day the earth will crack like an egg and spit fire. But now, the creek shuts. All is malignant and putrid. Final gasps of flame fall on skeleton trees and bodies below. It is the end of days. 


Annie Macdonald

She hadn't expected to feel like this. No neurological Instagram of a life well lived shoots through her freshly windowlened consciousness. Regrets...She's had the lot. But, it's not just me you fuckers. It's all of you. The sneerers, the boasters, the passive aggressive bullies. Even the self-proclaimed alphas. The face-aching optimists pondering the redundancy of their basic cupcake memory making and the hearse chasing pessimists choking on their last I told you sos. Protective goggles thrown to the ground. Face to the great orange. You've been Tango-ed. Trump's stupid head. Terry's chocolate...and it's over.

Caroline Bradbury-Cheetham

The journey had taken days, scaling the treacherous surface of the south face. Finally I arrived at the summit, my hands grappling with the loose surface, struggling to make purchase. Hauling myself up onto the ridge, I could feel the pressure growing deep in my body. The burning and heat of the day’s exertion catching up with me. My head started to throb, a dark foreboding rhythm, the temperature searing. Suddenly my nose exploded with the pressure - I watched horrified as molten lava spewed into the abyss below.