'Future Passed' by Amy Wilson

Everyone knows the place.

It was the inspiration for the opening scenes of ‘Blade Runner’, with its sleek futuristic pipework and its flames that shoot into the sky whenever it the chemical plant needs to burn off excess gasses.

It was the inspiration for generations of workers around here too; men who thought that they would follow their fathers into jobs, fathers who thought their sons would be secure.

The truth is that the place has been dying for years, but none of us want to admit it. The latest bailout has failed, and our skyline is about to change forever.

The old chemical works. A symbol of both the future and the past, but soon to be erased from our present.

'Who are you looking at?' by Grace Palmer

The mermaid, merman, merperson, is groomed and gilded, plays on the steel ropes, eyes set to the sea.

They are not waiting to be rescued, nor discovered, and not hungry to entrap. When one weary shopper sits beneath, stroking a phone, the golden one remains impassive, but anoints with a smile.   

But at night she / he / they slip off the climbing frame, flips upside down to explore their fishiness, slaps the pavement, throws chips to the gulls, cradles the drunks and whistles to the crowds who mistake them for sunset and sea-mist.   

'Flash Walk' by Amanda Davies

Here is a picture of St Davids Cathedral in Pembrokeshire. St Davids is the smallest city in Wales, and indeed the U.K.  This was the city where I grew up. I still live in Pembrokeshire but 25 miles away in the more industrial part of the county.

There are only 3 clocks  on the tower as legend states the people who faced that part of the building refused to contribute to the cost of putting a click face there.

In the background, towards the left is the ruins of the Bishop’s Palace.

If you ever visit ask a local resident where the devils footprints are. Most will know, especially if they had an awesome childhood like I did.

'Rosemary for Remembrance' by Maggie Seren

The sun is a fading flower hanging low over the bay, casting its apricot petals over the waves. I trace the well-worn track that skirts the cliff.

Picking my way through the staring, scattered flock, I tread the same worn path that pilgrims for centuries have trod. I linger at the tiny church, with its whitewashed walls and low slate roof, its bell gable recalling sun-bleached island chapels of the Mediterranean. Here it sits, nestled in the foothill, against the onslaught of the westerly winds, a shelter for troubled souls and sheep. 

The track bends and narrows as it rises. It weaves through bracken, high now in late spring, with its aromatic verdant smell and hairy, coiled crosiers which reach out, hirsute tentacles, to stroke me as I pass.

You join me here and hand in hand we climb the gentle hill. Tenacious heathers spring up here and there, springy cushions on the stony track. Sea pinks hang on in jagged crooks, their soft blooms buffeted in the wind.

As we near the summit, the gusts pick up, stealing your words away. You grip my hand still tighter and lead me to a low flat rock. Your hand rests gently on my shoulder and I inhale you, bergamot and leather, as you lean in. Your cold cheek brushes mine as you point, far into the bay, where, in the golden haze, a pair of dolphins leap and wheel and dive. Joy warms my very centre, flushes on my cheeks, and I’m a child, giggling with glee, as I turn my face to yours.

I turn my face to yours and face the bare, grey weathered rock. My stomach lurches as the sea below me churns. My fingers, blurry through the tears, unfurl and reveal a single sprig of rosemary.

'My Thursday Morning Walk, One Week Later' by Emma Louise Gill

Pushing the pram along grey pavement speckled with old black gum and dull crisp packets, I pass beige houses with skeletal ash trees where wind has shaken all life from their limbs, crowding each other, nodding over neighbours, gossiping with rattling boughs on gravel driveways, curtains twitching but it’s just a cat, greedy eyes watching me from its judging windowpane as I bump, bump, bump over root-wracked cracks and my arms tense on the worn handlegrip, pushing me forward, trainers leaving muddy tracks when a kid riding on his bike—who should be in school, what’s he doing, don’t his parents know—barely misses me and I flinch, gasp, then cough at smoky air inhaled and I panic that this time I’ll pass out, did I take my medicines or forget with the alarm call and the fog and the cold of the icy morning, its daggers gnashing at my lungs, telling me I should stay home I’m supposed to stay home but I didn’t, I won’t, I walk with the pram and the ravens cawing harsh comment at my frozen face buried in mum’s stringy scarf, pushing past the cemetery and the closed shop and the empty field where cows used to low at me but now they’ve gone, moved on like the world, and down to the brown slow river where someone left a washing machine, its open maw swallowing water forever without getting anywhere but rust, and a couch for the fishes who can barely breathe, and my empty pram screaming at me as I push it in.

NFFD 2021: Prompt #17

Flash Walk

When National Flash Fiction Day was first founded, many of the annual celebrations took place in Bristol. (We celebrated in Coventry in 2019, and have been online-only for the past two years.)  One lovely event that happened a few times in Bristol was the Flash Walk in which anyone interested could join a walk around Bristol to hear actors read flashes between 40 and 400 words that were inspired by physical places in Bristol or the theme of Urban Landscape. 

While we aren't holding in-person events this year for obvious reasons, there's no reason why we can't hold our own virtual Flash Walk this year.

Write a flash based on a place near you (or one from your hometown if you prefer).  If you can, send us a picture that we can publish alongside your flash.  (It needs to be your picture, or one that is in the public domain or licensed for us to reuse.)

If you're looking for some inspiration, Judy Darley ran the 2018 Flash Walk and has recorded the stories with some photos on her website, SkyLightRain.

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 17: Flash Walk.

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 27 June 2021 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.

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Photograph of Bristol viewed from Windmill Hill (30 April 2011) by Nick via Wikimedia Commons. (Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.)