#QUICKFIC 14/12/2018: The Winner

We throw a #QUICKFIC curveball, and you all more than rise to the occasion! Thank you, all, for the stories. You gave us dramatic car chases, a retiring santa, terrible families, a spot of framing for murder and other truly heartwarming tales. It’s been an absolute pleasure to read your submissions these past few months, and this week was no exception. Thank you for them all.

One last time, here were your prompts and then on to the winners we go:


Runner Up: Thom Willis

Going to Town

The scents of Christmas – cinnamon, pine, the muted sharpness of oranges – were starting to feel oppressive. He’d lost his taste for mulled wine this year, and the warmed-over dregs of a cheap rioja, with shards of broken star anise floating like driftwood on the surface, disgusted him. The snow settling outside depressed him, made him feel trapped and lonely.

“Humbug,” he muttered, pleased with that at least. His face itched in the glow of the roaring log fire. He had been unable to find his razor, and his fresh beard was irritating him as much as anything else. Soon he would be out in the fresh air, and he relished it. Only good part of the job. A thousand years he’d been delivering presents and still it surprised him how enjoyable that was.

Last year he’d almost died. A slip on a loose tile. He was always so careful but was now overconfident and simply ignored the warning signs that had always kept him safe. Slates were always bad. Slippery at the best of times, this one rattled down the roof and he heard it shatter on the ground long after it fell, even as he was still sliding to the edge.

He’d got to stop. He was old now. No one cared if he came or not. There were no adorable children to restore his faith in Christmas. Not now. This would be his last round. After that, if everyone believed it was their parents, well, they’d be right.

Runner Up: Jane Healey 

Sticks and Stones

Peter’s bones are slowly turning to cinnamon sticks; they crunch when he rolls his wrists, his muscles burning with the fiery heat of the powder seeping from the joints; they jostle against one another with a clattering sound when he breaks into a jog to catch the bus; and when he types the last batch of this year’s emails he does so slowly, carefully, so that the single sticks in each of his fingers do not snap and shatter. It’s Christmas party season now and he can no longer discern between the spice of his own sweat and the breath of those who have gulped down mugfuls of mulled wine, eats every minced pie he is offered gingerly because he fears that the taste means his teeth are turning to cinnamon too and disintegrating in his mouth; and as he stands at the back of the last office meeting of the year, gingerly cupping elbows that are crumbling into shards, stooping so that he cannot feel the scrape of his vertebrae against one another, the hot shiver of ground cinnamon cascading down his back, his manager turns to him and says, what we’re looking from you next year, Peter, is a bit more oomph, a bit more spark, a bit more – she pauses to bite into a slice of the festive cake that Peter’s work nemesis Samantha has made and brought to the meeting – spice. He nods and coughs, swallowing a jagged piece of bark.

Runner Up: Bridget Yates

Cold Shoulder

It was cold, bitterly cold as I expected. But it was working.

I ploughed on, the sun setting behind me and giving an eerie glow to the icy waste that was the road. And he was still there; his headlights clearly visible in my wing mirror.

It had taken planning and my heart fluttered in my chest every time I thought about what I had done, no -what we had done.

He had the body in the boot.

To say the situation had become unbearable was an understatement; she had made our lives a misery with all that crying and moaning . And when she fell down the stairs yesterday morning, well, it seemed a kindness to let her just slip gently away. And he had used a feather pillow .

But I needed the money to be able to keep the house.

So we decided to keep her alive so to speak and we put her body in the boot of his car.

He thought the plan was to dispose of her body by the roadside in the next State and then later abandon the car. But I had a different plan.

When we crossed the State line I would wait until he was close behind me and when there was more traffic around I would brake suddenly.

The cops would be called.

And he had a body in the boot of his car.

The Winner: Roger Evans

Cinnamon Scrolls

One day you may find, lurking at the back of a cupboard, a bag of cinnamon sticks smelling faintly of Christmas, with no memory of their purchase. Tight rolls of spice prompting thoughts of mulled wine and sweet confections. Pay good attention to this bag, as within such a treasure trove of flavour may lie a greater one.

For cinnamon can hold a secret, hidden from sight, waiting for the moment to bestow its fortune upon you. You see, rarely, very rarely, as the bark curls into its quills, the forest spirits bestow their luck upon one piece.

So hold each one gently before you consign it to the recipe, and see if will unfurl gently in your hand.  And read the message written within.

Good fortune.

Many congratulations to Thom, Jane, Bridget and Roger. Here’s to all of you #QUICKFIC writers, to the rapidly approaching new year, to the holidays and to all the brilliant flash fiction pieces you’ve written and have yet to write.

Happy Holidays! See you next year!

For a look back at our previous #QUICKFIC flash fiction competitions, click here.

#QUICKFIC 14/12/2018

Welcome welcome, to the last #QUICKFIC, Faber Academy’s Flash Fiction competition of 2018. I merrily skip off after this week and wanted to give you something a little bit different to celebrate the season and the end of 2018.

Now under normal circumstances here is where I’d go through the rules and most of you nod impatiently because you’re old hats by now and know what you’re doing. This week there’s a twist, so pay attention!

  • You’re about to see three different prompts, numbered 1, 2 and 3.
  • This week you can pick whichever prompt you like the look of the best and write a piece of flash fiction 250 words or less on it.
  • You can only choose one though, so choose wisely! No multiple entries please.
  • Give your piece a title, copy it into the body of an email and tell me the wordcount and which number prompt you wrote the piece based on (this is important!)
  • Send that email to academy@faber.co.uk no later than 2:50 pm today

At 3:30 we announce the winner of this bumper crop of books:

Got it? Three prompts, choose your favourite, write a piece and we’ll choose our favourite, then all our days will be merry and bright. Here are your prompts:





Go go go! Write away!

By entering Faber Academy’s flash fiction competition #QUICKFIC , you’re granting us non-exclusive worldwide permission to reprint your story on our website should you win.

#QUICKFIC 07/12/2018: The Winner

Thank you, lovely writers! I asked you for silliness, and silliness you did provide. Thank you everyone, for making me laugh hard enough that there was nearly a small incident involving a very full coffee cup and electronics. Here’s your prompt once again:

A quote from Jan Austen's "Emma" reading “Silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way.” against an image of a tree in the process of losing its leaves, with the contrast turned up and the image overlayed with a pink and orange colour gradient until the trees look like etchings - Faber Academy's Flash Fiction Competition #QUICKFIC

And without further ado, here are your #QUICKFIC Flash Fiction Competition winners:

Runner Up: Sarah Nash

A New Woman

“Enough is enough,” Jane says to her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Thirty years in the same firm and never noticed. I am fifty tomorrow. Time for action. I shall take the morning off.”

“Never see you on a weekday,” says Tracey at Cut and Dried. “Same as usual?”

“I rather fancy going pink,” says Jane.

Tracey nearly drops her scissors, but seasoned pro as she is, rallies immediately.

“All over or just a touch?”

An hour later Jane strides, pink-rinsed, down her local high street. To her surprise, no-one laughs.

She decides (who is this new woman?) she needs a new face to go with the new hair and finds herself in the cosmetics hall of her local department store.

“Can I help?” asks an elegant woman.

“I wish I knew,” answers Jane honestly and submits.

On the way out, mascara-laden, she feels as if two spiders have landed on her eyes and tries not to blink in case they wreak havoc over her face. She pauses in shoe sales and remembers a survey (French of course) that stated women are more successful if they wear lipstick and heels. She licks her shiny lips and shops.

At noon precisely, Jane strides into Mr Carter’s office. (In reality, she teeters.)

He looks terrified.

She is Modesty Blaise, Wonder Woman, Buffy the Vampire Slayer. She is unstoppable.

“I want a promotion and a raise. Enough is enough!”

He surrenders.

Winner: Mary Thompson

John Coltrane, he is not

My beau’s penchant is the saxophone, and every Friday, after dinner and a small glass of Malbec, we retire upstairs where he extracts his instrument and begins to play. I want to be seen as a supportive lover so I perch on the end of the bed and murmur words of encouragement while he balances his sax on his extended belly, blowing into it as though it were a breathalyser. John Coltrane, he is not.

One day I’m on the top deck of the 133 with a banging hangover when he calls.

‘Not feeling well,’ I murmur. ‘Mixed my drinks and didn’t eat.’ And my head lolls back on the seat.
‘Hang on a second,’ he says.

Almost immediately I hear the sax. Its nail-hammering tones are so loud a baby starts wailing at the back of the bus. I try to switch the phone off but drop it under the seat and the screen smashes.

’Fuck!’ I scream, but he keeps on playing, even after I’ve exited the bus and staggered the five minutes to my flat, run a bath and watched the bubbles rise, dropped the phone on the floor again, submerged myself in the bubbles, lowered my head under the water so I can’t hear the damn thing any more, only I can as the crazy, fucked-up noise reverberates right through the bath tub.

Until finally, eventually he stops.

‘How was that?’ he asks, as I pick up the phone with a soapy hand.

Congratulations to Mary and Sarah! With that, I’ll send you all on your way for another week.

Until Friday!

For a look back at our previous #QUICKFIC flash fiction competitions, click here.

#QUICKFIC 07/12/2018

Goodbye November, hello December and hello to a new #QUICKFIC, Faber Academy’s Flash Fiction Competition!

It’s Friday at (roughly) 9:50 am, so get your typing fingers ready and your brains warmed up because I’m about to hit you with a prompt at the bottom of this post. You should take a look, then write out a 250 words or less story inspired by it. Give the story a title, then gently deposit it into the body of an email alongside your wordcount and email it to academy@faber.co.uk no later than 2:50 pm today.

At 3:30 we announce our winner, in with a shot of getting these three wonders:

- Faber Academy's Flash Fiction Competition #QUICKFIC

And here’s your prompt:

A quote from Jan Austen's "Emma" reading “Silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way.” against an image of a tree in the process of losing its leaves, with the contrast turned up and the image overlayed with a pink and orange colour gradient until the trees look like etchings - Faber Academy's Flash Fiction Competition #QUICKFIC

May the silliness now commence until 2:50 pm!

By entering Faber Academy’s flash fiction competition #QUICKFIC , you’re granting us non-exclusive worldwide permission to reprint your story on our website should you win. 

#QUICKFIC 23/11/2018: The Winner

a quote from H.G Wells' "The Time Machine" set against a background of a cloudy sky as the sun is setting. The clouds are all coloured in various gradients of pink, white and black. The quite reads "It sounds plausible enough tonight, but wait until tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning."

Common sense isn’t typically what we go for in Faber Academy — we’re more on the whimsy and reaching for the sky and achieving your dreams side of things — so why would we take H.G.Wells’ advice here? No waiting until the morning for us, here are your #QUICKFIC flash fiction competition winners for this week:

Runner Up: Annie Bien

Sensing the Night

The crickets stopped their night strumming, a hiccup of silence. Then the bullfrogs stopped belching, two alligator seconds. She recognized the tiny feet of a friend scrambling across the grass and dirt, followed by larger feet pressing down the brush. Car tire sandals.

Car tires sandals were cheap and left no trace of a poacher’s foot size or shoe style, just another tire track on the road into the conservancy. She picked up her rifle, nudging her companion who nodded. They edged out, following the footsteps. Her eyes easily adjusted under the moon crescent. She lived here now, breathed the bush. No one would treat her charges the way her ex-husband had treated her.

She saw the back of a man putting the small ball of scales into a sack. She placed the rifle in the poacher’s neck.

“Drop the sack. Hands up. No pangolin for you.”

“Evelina? Is that you, darling?” Her husband asked, unafraid. “Come home, you’re tired. The children miss you. So do I.”

That singer’s voice, cooing at her. The sack was still. She cocked the trigger.

“Wait. You know I love you. There’s never been anyone else. Come home. A good night’s sleep brings a fresh start in the morning.”

Her companion put the cuffs on her husband. She never spoke to him again. Tenderly opening the sack, the pangolin unrolled and ran into the dark.

Runner Up: Alex James


The sky was turning the colour of a bruise, of an inflamed gum. I stroked his head in my lap. He was shivering, his jaw working on nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked.

“It’s okay.” We were leaning back into a pile of dirty duvets, a few reinforced shopping bags. Everything we had, soaking up the cold from the ground.


The cars passing overhead were deafening. I had to shout.

“I said its fine.”

For a while, we just sat like that, watching the sun duck from cloud to cloud. Our stomachs growled. He picked at a scab on his hand and looked up at me. Under the grime I could still see the lines of his cheekbones. His eyes were hot, wet.

“I’ve got a plan. We can hitchhike to Stockport; post up at my uncle’s place for a while.”

This again. I said nothing. I knew he hadn’t talked to his family in a decade, maybe longer. Why did he say these things? Always at dusk, when he knew we weren’t going to go anywhere, or do anything.

“I know you don’t believe me. Doesn’t matter. We are going to get out of here,” he said. “Out of this life. I promise.”

“Sure, babes. Wait ‘til tomorrow morning, yeah?”

Tomorrow morning, we would wake up and hike into the centre of town, as we had done every day for a year. Tomorrow evening, we would be here, making our plans all over again.

The sun dropped, readying itself.

The Winner: Cait Gillespie

Nobody is Watching

She moved about the darkened room, following her hips as they beautifully crashed from east to west. It was past midnight. Her head turned like a hunting owl, catching my gaze before twisting back round in the opposite direction. Her fingertips caught the music and held it solid, pushing it in pulses through her belly and into the ground.

I was in my mother-in-law’s kitchen, and she had shape shifted into an Egyptian dancer. I liked routines and exercises that could be repeated neatly, with more accuracy each time. My mother-in-law didn’t do routines, and repeated nothing that wasn’t commanded by emotion. I had to shake off my Scottish cladding of self-consciousness, and move with her, to somewhere else.

I was now standing beside her, a veil swept across my shoulders. She starting moving her elbow in delicate circles, her forearm poised at an angle that suggested things unseen.

I was now the centre of gravity, as she passed the pulse to me. The tempo of the drums quickened and my hips started to twitch. I closed my eyes and pictured nothing. The drums tapped faster and faster. I listened to my joints, tested out my muscles. They were in agreement. They moved. I kept my eyes shut, and started to move my feet. They were ready, and stepped out a quick pattern, pushing the pulse back to her. I was caught in the dance now, and couldn’t stop until every possibility had been explored.

Congratulations to Annie, Alex and Cait. Many, many thanks yous to everyone that entered this week; that beautiful sky and reprieve from my nonsense made you produce some beautiful pieces!

Lovely weekends all. We’ll see you next Friday.

For a look back at our previous #QUICKFIC flash fiction competitions, click here.

#QUICKFIC 23/11/2018

Good morning, flash fiction fans!

We’ve got another stunning #QUICKFIC prompt for you, but first, the rules. If you already know How to Play, then keep on scrolling:

  • We’re about to show you a prompt.
  • Look at the prompt and, by the power of my photoshop skills and the wise words of another author, you should be granted the inspiration to write a fiction piece of 250 words or less.
  • Send us that piece in the body of an email with the title and the word count included to academy@faber.co.uk by 2:50 pm today
  • Because if you do, you’re in with a shot of winning these books:


That’s it for the How To’s, and, for once, I’m going to keep quiet and let someone else’s words take center stage for this week’s prompt. See you back here this afternoon at exactly 3:30 pm!

a quote from H.G Wells' "The Time Machine" set against a background of a cloudy sky as the sun is setting. The clouds are all coloured in various gradients of pink, white and black. The quite reads "It sounds plausible enough tonight, but wait until tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning."  

By entering Faber Academy’s flash fiction competition #QUICKFIC , you’re granting us non-exclusive worldwide permission to reprint your story on our website should you win. 

#QUICKFIC 16/11/2018: The Winner


Runner Up: Laura Riley

The Illusion of You

I was always a little bit in love with you. I know it’s crazy to say. We never exchanged a deliberate word. And until that day I didn’t know your last name.

You were just Simon: head down, earphones in, always on the move, portfolio case banging at your side. Like a shark, forever in motion. That red hat, your crown whatever the weather; the blush of my cheek matching its hue, whenever you rushed by.

I sat behind you in art class, and would often lose half the hour, watching as your hand danced across the page, silently creating beauty I knew my paintbrush could never express. I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage to speak up; to tell you how great I thought you were; how your talent almost made me cry.

I learned your surname on the first day of our final year. My final year. The Head said you’d passed away over the summer, his face grey and long as he fumbled for the right words. Gasps of ‘drugs’ and ‘suicide’ filled the air as we left the assembly hall; but nobody really knew the answer to why you were gone. Just as we hadn’t really known you when you were here. The illusion of you took precedent over who was really inside. Not a loner, but lonely; not aloof, simply shy.

You were just the boy in the red hat; and how I wish I’d stopped to speak to you, before you went by.

Runner Up: Jose Varghese

Caught on Camera

Omar looked up, as Ron gave instructions to the light boys.

The room is stuffy. He wondered whether Ron was capable of adding even the rancid smell to the frame. He would be excited if that was possible, but all Ron works with now are the various elements of light.

‘Shut all the windows and switch off all the lights except the zero-watt bulb above him. We need to highlight the redness of his cap.’

Omar felt reduced to colours and contours Ron made tangible, with his craft.

‘Omar. What the hell are you waiting for? Switch on the phone and hold it exactly at the middle, below your chest.’

‘Oh, yes. I’ll do that. Is this right… or higher?’

‘No, man, keep the phone closer to your body.’

The phone. The body. Two objects Ron needs for this five-second shot.

What happens to Omar after that low-lit moment is trapped on camera? Ron would spend an hour more on it in the editing room for sure, to get things right in his perfectionism of visual language merging seamlessly with the story.

Omar would have to leave, as they make space for more important things.

He wouldn’t make it to the posters. No one would remember the random man in the bar’s dark corner where the hero has a fight later.

Even the bar is a major character. He’s just a part of the setting.

Do I get some dialogue later? – He swallowed that thought, scared of what cameras capture.

Winner: James Atkinson

Losing sight of you, gaining insight

Your red hat and your height have always helped.  I could always pick you out in a crowd, even before my eyes began to fail.

After they told me I began to memorise every part of you, linking sight to touch and smell, learning to feel changes to alter that memory, keep the image up to date.  And where I couldn’t, I studied your tattoos, the formations of your unraised moles until they were as familiar as my own.

“I won’t ever forget a single feature.”

As the black curtain began to draw in, I ramped up my efforts to recreate you perfectly when I closed my eyes.  I tested myself frequently, described you to yourself while seated in another room, drew pictures, wrote stories.  Created an avatar to serve in your stead.

“You won’t ever want another creature.”

“I don’t want to.  But what if I do forget?”

And now that I cannot even see your entire face at the same time, my hands and fingers trace your face evermore desperately while you kiss me to reassure me, tell me not to worry.

“I will be here.  By touch, by smell, by ear

Memory does not matter once love has beget.

(And when it doesn’t need to make sense.)”

I knew I feared the unknown more than anything, that an avatar was never needed when I had you.

Your worn hat full of your smell will always help.  And I’ve always been pleased that I am taller than you.

A mysterious figure in a hat, and you sure did come up with some intense backstories for this one! Congratulations to Laura, Jose and James. And well played to everyone who entered — I will be leaving this office with a deep suspicion of red beanie hat wearers from now on.

Happy weekends all, and I’ll see you next week!

For a look back at our previous #QUICKFIC flash fiction competitions, click here.

#QUICKFIC 16/11/2018

Hello there lovely #QUICKFICers,

Can I entice you into writing a piece of flash fiction for me? I can?! Brilliant.

It’s fairly simple; you’re about to be hit with a prompt. Using that prompt, write a short story of 250 words or less. Paste your offering into the body of an email, including the title and the wordcount, and send it to academy@faber.co.uk by 2:50 pm today. Here’s what’s up for grabs this week: 

a stack of books "The Red Haired Woman" by Orhan Pamuk, "Leila" by Prayaag Akbar and "Caroline's Bikini" by Kirsty Gunn -Faber Academy's flash fiction competition #QUICKFIC 

Without further ado, here is your prompt:

A face looms form the darkness. Only the top half of this face is visible, with the mouth and 80% of the face shrouded in darkness. The only bright colour in the image is a plain red knitted beanie, perched atop the person's head. We can also just see a tuft of hair peeking out from the brim of the cap. The rest of the image is plain black. - Faber Academy's flash fiction competition #QUICKFIC 

Chop chop! We’ll be back at 3:30 pm with your winning entries.

By entering Faber Academy’s flash fiction competition #QUICKFIC , you’re granting us non-exclusive worldwide permission to reprint your story on our website should you win. 

#QUICKFIC 09/11/2018: The Winner

Runner Up: James A

Walled Garden

Sat in the dark, dank shadow of the garden’s wall, Tom pressed his ear against its damp, cold face.  He listened to the sounds beyond, imagined the actions that made them, wondered how it was possible to do likewise.

Tom did not understand summer.  He knew about it, saw people getting excited about it, don shorts, go outside, listen to their summer soundtracks, cook meat and drink outside… while he remained outside that walled garden, listening, imagining.  

He thought of it as a music service he couldn’t afford, and so could only listen to snippets of songs.  Or film teasers that were never replaced by trailers, let alone the full feature. He knew these things but did not know them.

In his heart and mind, Tom knew he would sit there always.  The darkness within the wall would confirm his insecurities and keep him there, listening, waiting for the winter when he would be alone again, the revellers’ noise gone until the sun returned. 

Jane would often sit and look across the park, watching the lovers walk by, the dogs chase balls, the children running and playing… and a curious man across the way would always catch her eye.  Always sat alone, he would stare as if unseeing, as if there were a wall between him and everyone else.

If she had more confidence, perhaps she would have gone to talk to him.  She guessed everyone had their own walls they would not cross; and certainly she knew her own.

Runner Up: Simon Yates


“I’ve got to get home.” Peggy said. “He’s waiting for me.”

“Don’t go.” I said.

She laughed and it broke my heart. A laugh shouldn’t carry that weight of misery.

“Don’t laugh.” I said. “You can stay with me.”

“And your parents will be OK with that? They’ll let me sleep in your room?”

I looked away. I didn’t want to say the word that was forcing its way up into my mouth. I’d said it once and she hadn’t spoken to me for a week.

“It’s not his fault.” She said. “It’s the whiskey.”

“He needs help.”

“I’m helping him.” She hugged her schoolbooks tighter and clenched her jaw even harder, daring me to argue.

“Professional help.”

It was too close to the word that could never be said. She whirled away, her ponytail whipping after her, and strode along the pavement.

“Peggy! Don’t.” I called. “Please?”

She didn’t listen. Every step took her further from me in every way. I just watched, as usually useless as always. She didn’t look back.

That night I didn’t sleep. Every time the wind blustered or the bed creaked, I imagined the worst. I played scenarios through my head where I was always the hero, the rescuer, the lover. But I was fourteen. My bedroom stayed safe no matter what I imagined. So different to Peggy’s.

The next morning Peggy still wasn’t speaking to me.

Winner: Daniela Azzopardi


“We should head back. Don’t wanna get lynched.”

“Daft boy,” Old Nate barked, fighting with the gear stick. “They’ll all be giddy to see you.”

“I doubt that.” Matthias clutched his knapsack. “On my last visit I sent e’eryone to the ‘backwater hell’ from where they had spawned.”

Old Nate wiped the sweat from his brow with a chequered handkerchief as Matthias looked out of the truck at the familiar landscape.

He missed it; the countryside, childhood friends, grumpy grandparents. Being that close to home had made him tumble to the nearest train station after his concert was done, forgetting the sourness which had ended his last visit.

As the train got closer to his destination, memories had rushed back with astronomical force. Before he could catch another train out of there, Nate accosted him, recognizing the child Matthias used to be, and dragged him to his truck, insisting on giving him a ride into town.

A soft summer breeze blew as they got to the main square and Nate’s truck ground to a halt. Matthias’ smiling face greeted them from a canvas poster almost as tall as the council house first floor.

Castledale – Home of Melodious Matthias

“Got ‘er up in time for the concert.”


“You’re a downright talent, Matt. Bit stubborn, but you’ll do great.”

Matthias’ voice faltered. “Does Sam think so too?”

Nate scoffed. “Sam? Who do think drew that darned poster?”

He turned to light his pipe, allowing Matthias some privacy with his emotions.

Thank you for playing along with the odd turn this week’s prompt took! Congratulations to James, Simon and Daniela, and thank you to everyone that sent a piece in. Keep them coming!

Have a wonderful, music filled weekend and we’ll see you again at 9:50 am next Friday.

For a look back at our previous #QUICKFIC flash fiction competitions, click here.

#QUICKFIC 09/11/2018

Happy Friday! Welcome back to Faber Academy’s flash fiction competition #QUICKFIC

Quick fire refresher:

One prompt. One 250 word story from you. Send it in the body of an email (including title and word count) by 2:50 pm today to academy@faber.co.uk. You might win these books: 

"The Book of Chocolate Saints" by Jeet Thayil and "In My Minds Eye: A Thought Diary" by Jan Morris -Faber Academy's flash fiction competition #QUICKFIC

The days are getting shorter, it’s dark and cold and everyone is reaching for the tissues, but not in the Academy office! We’re bringing back that summer feeling and switching  things up a little. This week your prompt is not a picture, or a first line, or even an extract. It’s a playlist full of cheerful songs designed to make you think of warmer, golden days gone by:

Have a listen, get inspired and see what words you can produce.

One more programming note before we go though. Thanks to copyright, we can’t re-print any of the lyrics to these wonderful songs. Please don’t include them in your story, as that means it can’t go up on the website and that means you won’t win.

Until 3:30 pm! 

By entering Faber Academy’s flash fiction competition #QUICKFIC , you’re granting us non-exclusive worldwide permission to reprint your story on our website should you win.