We are delighted to announce the winners of Lucent Dreaming’s 2021 Flash Fiction contest. The winning stories appear below, and will be published in our upcoming 10th issue next month. Highly commended stories will appear in issue 10 of Lucent Dreaming which is available to preorder. 1st Place Jeffrey Skinner, ‘Mission Creep’ 2nd Place Julia Clayton, ‘Dacre Must Fall’ 3rd
We are delighted to announce the winners of Lucent Dreaming’s 2021 Poetry and Short Story contests. The winning poems and short stories will appear below, and in our upcoming 10th issue. We would like to thank everyone who entered this year’s poetry and short story categories. We had a very difficult job narrowing down our top pieces in both categories.
Pinocchio and Thumbelina are sitting down to supper. It’s the first thoroughly cooked fish in days, but neither of them are very hungry. They need to feed themselves with something, though, or they’ll go crazy. So, they have a misery contest to chew on. “I’m breakable—my bones won’t heal back,” says Pinocchio proudly. “I’m misplaceable. I almost got baked into
They were born from a flower deep in the pine forest of the Highlands, hiding in the earth, gasping for air. Angry from years of imprisonment, they pushed the stem above ground, erupting rough through mud like air from a geyser. We called this flower the creeping lady’s-tresses, and its flowers spiral around the shoot like stairs, itching to feel
I sit with my back to the wall and stare at the last spot of dying light on the floor. I follow its path as it creeps like the spiders, moving with the sun as it hides for another day. The shadows in the room finally chase out the last rays, and I am once again shrouded in darkness, seeking
I am a good person. This realisation didn’t dawn on me quickly, it was a lengthier process than that, slow and drawn-out. I suppose I always knew. Though it took longer to come to the surface, and only when I had more to compare with did I get clarity. I was probably the best person I knew. I don’t mean
Celebrities bemoan the drawbacks of being rich and famous but being poor and famous is far worse. Derek Mackintosh had, for a few years, been the former and was now very much the latter. That was why he was standing outside Costcutter, waving his arm at an approaching W7 bus to Finsbury Park, rather than hailing a taxi. As the
Amidst the black granite laden with salvers of boiled white rice, spiced okra, and seasoned mint chutney, he reiterates, “Right, Neha? Right?”and for the third time this week, I withhold the acid and concur, “Yes, daddy. I heard you the first time.” A glower simmers at the back of my throat as my mother shoots me a hardened look, “He’s
My dead grandfather visited me as a bird once. I ignored him at first. I’m not so used to bird callers, much less a dead grandparent posing as a bird, that just made a weird thing even weirder. Even before I knew it was my gramps, there was a strange intelligence about this bird. I was hastily brushing my teeth
I remember some thingsI am happy to not remember everythingMy name is GregI remember her name tooAnneshe is my motherI call her MotherI say, “it’s me Mother, Greg,” but it doesn’t come out rightshe pats me on the head and puts the leash on. Suddenly, in the street, she gives me a hug and cries into my furI know why
