Showing posts with label 2025 Prompt #4. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2025 Prompt #4. Show all posts

Thursday, 19 June 2025

The Write-In 2025: The Complete List

2025 Prompts

 

2025 Responses 

 

 

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'Home for Christmas' by Allison Renner

The wall of heat smacked me as soon as I left baggage claim to hail a cab. By the time I wrestled my suitcase into the trunk, the humidity had curled my hair. I gave the hostel address and leaned back into the cracked pleather, trying to relax. Trying to pretend I knew what to expect, bunking with a room full of tourists likely half my age.

I’d never been this far from home. And I’d never gone anywhere alone. But I knew it was time. I couldn’t take any more questions: “When will you…?” “Why don’t you…?” or the ever-so-helpful “Have you tried…?”

Because they were there, gathered around the Christmas ham while snow turned the dead grass white. Maybe my empty chair would be answer enough.

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'Amusement Parked' by John F King

– There are two points of view. Minimum.

– No. There is only one.

– Your opinion?

– No the right one. Objectively.

– I thought this was a fun day out.

– It is. I think so.

– So that makes it fun?

– What is your problem?

We were standing at the foot of the statue. Above us The Explorer was looking out to a greying sea, middle horizon, in that 18th century kind of way. It was of its time, as, so it appeared were we.

Kae read the plinth inscription: ‘To strive, to seek to find and not to yield.’

– Enough said, she said. Was something concealed in her parka? A hammer, paint, words? Was she going to destroy everything?

– ‘Discovered!’ She continued reading, a tone of voice I hadn’t heard before. – Wasn’t land there before he went, like all these other continents people like him went to and messed up.

Was she going to regurgitate her chips? Neither of us ate fish anymore.

– Leave it, I said. – Who cares now? It was the way it was.

– Meaning?

Silence, the waves below paused, came in again. The sun low set over the locked crazy golf pitch.

Nothing was meant to be serious. It was still the seaside, sand not stone.

– It isn’t going to stand. I can’t stand it. All it represents. I’ll see to it. And all the other imperialist stuff all over the hemisphere.

– Busy you, I said.

She looked at me as if everything was my fault. –Don’t you care about anything? she said.

I walked alone to the bus station below. Only one bus a day now. A police car blared past me on the way up. I didn’t feel I had anything to be guilty about.

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'An intervention' by Birgit K. Gaiser

Pearl and Amber

Hey P, seen Binks recently?

No, you?

No. He’s been acting weird. Shifty.

On it.


Pearl and Binks

Binks, where are you?

Rovaniemi.

WTF, Binks?

What?

You don’t go to Santa’s Village. Never. Defo not in JANUARY.

Why not?

Why? Because we’re ELVES, Binks. We stay the fuck away.

Why?

You know who works there? Elves. ELVES work there.

And in January, the old bastard is looking for replacements for whomever he’s worked into the ground the previous Christmas season.

But I need to know!

Know what?

How the wooden toys are made.

Why, Binks? Why do you need to know? Why do you care? We don’t even LIKE wooden toys. We PROTECT trees.

But the human children! They’re so happy!

Hold on, Binks. Back with you in five.


Pearl and Amber

They’ve got him. He’s in Rovaniemi.

Fuck.

He’s totally brainwashed. Talking about the workshop. Happy human children, toys, yadda yadda.

How? WHEN?

Online I guess? Forums, subreddits, chat groups? A human boyfriend?

Eww.

Yeah.

I’ll make the call. Keep him busy, make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.

Gotcha.


Pearl and Binks

Sorry, back now.

Binks?

Hey! Binks!

WHAT NOW

What’s wrong?

You’re not being supportive.

I AM! I’m looking out for you!

But I WANT to go.

And do what? Work for the red bastard for mince pies and milk until you die?

He’s NOT A BASTARD!!

Binks…

Hold on, room service. Weird. I didn’t…


Pearl and Amber

They’re at his door

Phew.

Yeah. Thanks, A.

np


Pearl and Binks

What did you do?

Saving your furry arse.

PEARL. WHAT DID YOU DO?

Love you, kiddo. You’ll understand, I promise.


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'Unknown Overdressed Man Discovered' by Jean Feingold

The rangers found his body on a high ledge. Although it was 90 degrees Fahrenheit, he was wearing a ski parka, fur lined boots, padded wool gloves, and snow goggles. 

No one had been looking for him. He had not been reported missing despite it having been months since his clothing would have been weather appropriate. The day he was found, the rangers were on a routine patrol, one of several routes through the national park they checked out regularly. On their last pass along this trail two weeks earlier, the dead man had not been there. Nor had they seen him in all the months since winter. 

The coroner’s examination determined he’d died of exposure. Whether it was exposure to heat or cold was unclear. There had been little decomposition. 

When investigators checked their computer for the name on his drivers license, there were no other records of him. Fingerprints also led nowhere. His pockets contained only some beef jerky. There was no notebook, no map, no computer, no cellphone, no keys, nothing with info on how he’d arrived in the park. It was as though his body had sprung into existence and then mysteriously deposited itself on the ledge after being hidden in some other place, perhaps in cold storage. 

The detectives had a million questions. They could answer none. 

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'Monsoon Season' by Abida Akram

Between jobs and bored. Blindfolded, I stuck a pin in a map. It was the Punjab in Pakistan.
 
I had two weeks, the last week in June and the first week in July. I packed my lightest summer clothes and a cotton scarf to cover my hair. A room at the Ramada hotel in Lahore and an Emirates airline ticket booked online were an expensive shock. 

On the flight from Heathrow, I was the only white person, the others – Pakistanis going back home. Would it be too hot? Hopefully everyone would speak English. I only knew one word ‘Shukriya’. 

Landing in Lahore, walking down the steps to the tarmac, every bit of moisture in and on my body evaporated instantly. It was 42 degrees centigrade! The smell was of dry dust. The sunlight was so brilliant, it hurt to look.

The hotel’s air-conditioning, a relief, and siestas were a must. I visited tourist sites early in the morning and in the evening due to the heat. The Fort and the Badshahi Masjid, where cool marble floors eased my feet with shoes left outside. The walled city and red buildings were a delight. The markets in the evenings seethed with the chatter of people. 

Children and women followed, fascinated by my red face and blond hair. When the monsoons came in July, the sheer force was new to me. I went out to the hotel gardens and terraces when the warm showers began, whilst everyone else ran inside.

The joy of having a warm shower in the open air and the massage of pelting fat, heavy drops on my skin and cotton dress was heaven. The staff shook their head in bemusement at my Bollywood wet scene. It was glorious and I was so glad that I had come.
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'A Visit to St Nick' by Lucienne Cummings

Not a creature was stirring.

‘What the hell is that?’

‘An elf… I think.’

The statue’s crazed yellow eyes stalk us into the silent park. 

I should never have compromised – yes I got my June holiday, but my Christmas-obsessed boyfriend got his pick of the destination. 

Santa Claus’s village, Lapland.

At midsummer.


The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a lustre of midday to objects below.

A muzak Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree seeps from the midnight-sun-drenched speaker system.

‘I swear that fibreglass snowman just grinned.’ I reach for Alex’s hand.

‘Don’t be daft.’ He pulls me into Santa’s Square. ‘Look!’ 

‘It’s just a signpost.’ 

‘To everywhere! London, Melbourne, Bali…’ 

‘Bali’s a lovely holiday destination...’

My stomach growls. I survey the haunted concession stands, empty mulled wine urns, and– 

Alex’s scream curdles the air.


I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

‘That signpost bit me!’

I examine Alex’s hand. ‘It’s just a splinter. I’ll get it with my eyebrow tweezers later.’ 

We follow a jolly sign for Santa’s House and Burger Cafe.

I’d kill for a bowl full of jelly.


He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

The plastic cottage is (of course) made to look like gingerbread and candy canes. Spotting a case piled with cakes, I creep inside. 

I reach towards a bun.

‘Ho ho ho!’ 

Santa, cowled in the dark, is down on one knee. 

I faint. 


“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day tinkles from sun-drenched loudspeakers above our deckchairs. 

‘I love Bali in December!’ Alex raises his glass as I admire the sparkle of my engagement ring.

‘Here’s to compromise,’ I toast.



— includes extracts from 'A Visit from St. Nicholas' by Clement Clarke Moore

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'The Moon in June' by Madeleine Armstrong

Go to the moon, they said. It’s got a great atmosphere, they said. What no one told me is that the moon is fucking dead in June. No wonder this trip was so cheap. Everyone’s got somewhere better to be at this time of year, except the Plutites, and they’re even more boring than Canadians. I guess anything’s exciting when you live on a cold, dark rock. Pluto, not Canada.

There’s not much to do here right now. The dust park, with its lunar flumes, is shut. The moon mall can only entertain me for so long. So I resort to day drinking at the local pub, One Small Step, chatting to the cute barmaid. I say cute – she’s got six eyes and four tentacles, but after a few Gagarin garglers and shots of Buzz juice she looks just fine to me.

I suppose this trip has had its moments. I’ve seen the dark side of the moon. I’ve been crater hopping. And Earth looks pretty sweet from up here, with those blue and green swirls. Sweet enough to make me wish I could go back. But there’s even less atmosphere down there nowadays than there is up here. 

So I don’t think I’ll be coming to the moon again. Next year, I want a bit more sun. I’ve heard Venus is the place to be.

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'When They Walked Out One Winter’s Morning' by Lynda McMahon

It was insanity but this was the only time they could get away. A friend offered them a cottage in the middle of nowhere in the middle of winter. Sal didn’t think they’d get much use out of the chic, cast iron garden furniture. She could imagine being welded to it like when she’d licked the icy metal lamppost egged on by her older brother.

In the morning they awoke to that particularly dense silence which connotes a heavy snowfall. They drank their tea in bed taking in the virgin landscape and worried about what to do with themselves. Later, in the cupboard under the stairs, they found scruffy wellingtons and wondered if they dared. Sal’s were a size too big but two pairs of socks solved that. Tentative at first, they entered the almost silent world the squeak of untrodden snow the only sound. Even the birds were dumb anticipating further precipitation. Mike and Sal were totally alone. They held hands for the first time in ages reassured by the proximity of another warm, human being in that strange new world. The woods were alien but heart-breakingly beautiful, other-worldly yet familiar. Time no longer existed and it was only hunger which sent them hurtling back to the cottage. They drank steaming hot cocoa and ate tinned soup as if it was champagne and caviar. They laughed and talked and made plans. Tomorrow they would take throws outside and have their morning coffee at the pretty table before they strode off into the woods.

Back home, when people commiserated with them on their poor holiday, they looked at each other and could still see the magic of snow-filled woods and the solitude to find each other again. They had been so lucky.

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Wednesday, 18 June 2025

‘Minus One and Beautiful’ by Alice Monro

Billy liked to forest bathe. 

He would find a local forest (he knew all of them without having to look up directions), pack up his lunch and a flask of tea in an old-fashioned tartan thermos, and spend the day on his back- staring at leaves.

He’d heard about it years back, from his father – who had a habit of sharing anecdotes about other cultures no one asked for: “In Japan, they don’t just sunbathe, they forest bathe, Billy.”

Whether this was factual was irrelevant, it had lit something up inside of Billy – reminded him of his childhood. The idea of staring at trees but on the ground, watching the trunks slightly sway and the leaves flutter and blue-sky peer through the canopy – all of it had sounded right.


Today, however, there would be no leaves. It was minus one degree and Billy had to de-ice his windscreen and blast hot air through the car before he could even leave. 

It was nearly Christmas; a grey bone-cold day and Billy had decided on forest bathing. 

He arrived at the local forest commission. He could see his breath and thanked his late wife for the thick jumper he was wearing. He took the usual path – the main forest stretched on and undulated with beeches. They were elegant skeletons, architectural sculptures posing in the deep dark woods. 

Billy managed to get himself on the ground, with some difficulty thanks to his age and love of biscuits, and stared straight up.

Beautiful. Just beautiful he thought. 

The spindly twigs were so delicate. How foolish, thought Billy, are the folks rushing around buying presents and organising food and making last-minute calls. They could be here; in the mysterious, cold and beautiful winter woods. Looking up.

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'Greenwich Mean Time (GMT)' by Chloe Paige

One of the two watches on my wrist tells me it’s five AM her time. It’s bubblegum pink and always running on Greenwich Mean Time. The other watch, with its silver band and sharp hands, reminds me it’s three PM here at Melbourne Airport.

Screens flicker with arrival and departure times. My steps echo on the tiles, all ache and ache and ache, the sound slicing through the late January quiet, through rows of empty chairs and baggage carousels.

Families are already back at work after the holidays, loved ones sent far away to help send other loved ones home. Some are sent to build radio towers all over the country. Towers that carry voices through the air and across oceans so vast and blue and distant, just like magic, to find the pilots waiting to hear them. And these pilots carry our loved ones through the air back to this island so big and red and lonely, just like magic, to find me waiting in the Arrivals terminal here at Melbourne Airport.

There she is, with her dad. My girl, her hair tied with ribbons, shouldering an oversized backpack, bubblegum pink, and inky shadows under her eyes because it’s five AM her time.

She’s running to me, jetlagged beautifully, running on Greenwich Mean Time.
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'The Waterpark in Winter' by Jane Claire Jackson

Perched atop a metal staircase, I survey the area with beady eyes. The ground in front is white from recent snowfall, making it easy to spot approaching dangers. More difficult if they emerge from the dark woodland behind. That's not my problem when I'm on front guard duty.

I call across to the next post, “See anything?”

“No, nothing.” comes the reply.

I move my feet to prevent freezing to the cold metal. I’d have preferred a spot on the blue plastic, but they were already taken when I arrived. The plastic isn’t as cold to stand on but it can be very slippery. Once, I lost my footing and slid all the way down the blue spiralling chute, out of control until I shot out of the tube at the bottom, landing beak first into cold wet snow. It took ages to dry my feathers and restore my dignity.

It's a strange structure we’re occupying. I've heard humans use it in summer. They fill those tanks on the ground with water and people splash about, laughing and shouting. Personally, I don’t see the attraction.

It’s far too cold now for parading in bathing costumes. Some of the migratory visitors speak of similar structures further South swarming with humans. There’s a serious risk of getting soaked.

Crazy installing one here though. I know climate change has made it colder and there’s a lot more snow nowadays, but still, who wants a play-area that’s closed for months on end? Anyhow, it's great for us birds. It's the perfect lookout post for the colony, taller than nearby trees. And the empty tanks are great traps for small rodents, insects and grubs who fall in and can't get out again.

“See anything?” comes the call from my left.

“No, nothing.” I reply. 

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'Scattering' by Cate McGowan

Rita books the volcano tour for November. Not for the novelty. Not for the view. But because it’s empty.
Dormant, the guidebooks say. Resting, say the locals, with a particular squint. The air smells rusty. The path up is cracked and steaming in places like the earth’s thinking hard beneath her boots.

She hikes slowly. Not from fatigue, but because it feels rude to rush. At the rim, she sits. Unclips the jar. Glass, with a metal clasp and his hand-written label still smudged on the side: Sugar (Raw).

She waits. The volcano hisses faintly. It’s barely tolerating being a mountain.

“You liked to say fire was honest,” she says to no one. “Which was your way of making bad decisions sound like principles.”

The wind presses against her. Not comforting. Just there.

“You never climbed a thing in your life. Ladders. Stairs. Emotional heights. But here we are.”

She taps the jar once on her knee. The ash shifts inside.

“You’d hate this. You said nature was too theatrical. ‘Always fog or wind or birds screaming like unpaid extras.’”

A bird screams on cue. She smirks.

She opens the jar. The ash is lighter than she remembers him ever being. It eddies in small, uncertain whorls, then dives into the crater in a rush.

“Don’t make this a habit,” she mutters. “No haunting. No smoke signals. Stay in the magma like a grown-up.”

The volcano exhales steam.

She lingers, her hands warm on the jar. The sky is pinkening with effort.

She leaves the label behind. Tucks it into a crevice in the rock.

Sugar (raw). Feels about right.

Then, she begins the descent. Lighter, but not absolved. Just slightly less full of him.

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'Summer of T.V. Dinners for One' by Lisa H. Owens

When his wife died, Cedric had a yearning that caught him off-guard. Never in a million years would he… Or would he? For Pete’s sake; what harm would it do?

So, he stood at the backdoor, key in hand. He turned. Surveyed the parking lot. Only his shit Yugo—parked in his usual spot. No one to witness his illicit actions, the result of frozen dinners for one in a never-ending summer… Quit ruminating. And tie your shoe, dear! Alma. Still nagging from beyond.

He opened the door to a blast of heat and annoying chirp of crickets. In broad daylight, too, which was odd. He’d only ever noticed them at home when he was ensconced in something that required complete silence—like sleeping… or he and Alma watching Matlock. But only the original, dear.

Chirping aside, he proceeded with his plan and stepped onto faded linoleum. The smell hit him right away. Notes of chalk dust and industrial-strength cleanser, stale coffee and fresh baked yeast rolls—like Mother baked when he was a young boy and company visited on holidays. 

His Converse Chucks squeaked, one shoelace dragging, as he surveyed his kingdom and twenty-five years slapped him like a jilted lover. Echoes of locker doors opening and slamming shut, uproarious laughter… and, of course, nonstop running in the halls.

Sure, there were hard times, and Admin had all but sucked the life out of the job; but there were great times too. That lightbulb moment when a kid finally “got it.” That made it worthwhile. 

Cedric wandered down hallways, stopping to peek into his classroom. Desks formed a perfect grid and white chalk alongside erasers lined the tray beneath the blackboard. His final words, still there in all caps! 

ENJOY YOUR SUMMER, KIDDOS!

(& your summer reading—Mr. Smith)




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'My Wife Saw Santa' by Mileva Anastasiadou

She says she saw him on the ferry, and I think it’s because she loves Christmas and all and she had too much to drink as well, because Santa doesn’t hang out on ferries or Greek islands, he probably spends summers asleep. I see him too next day, he hides behind dark sunglasses but we recognize him, he’s a celebrity after all.

He rides the waves, only he doesn’t know how to surf, and he almost drowns. He drinks ouzo, but he’s only used to hot chocolate, and he’s drunk most of the time. He sits in the sun, only he doesn’t wear sunscreen, and his skin burns. He parties all day long, only he’s not used to heatwaves, and he wipes the sweat off of his face, he passes out, and we’re concerned, because he doesn’t know summer, not like we do. 

He claims he wants us to respect his privacy but we don’t believe him. All celebrities say so but never mean it. He claims he needs rest, he’s only here for a few days, then he’ll move back north, and we suspect that’s a marketing trick, because he plays tired and exhausted, but he only works only one night per year, that’s privilege, if you ask me, and perhaps this Christmas business doesn’t go well lately.

He’s all over TikTok now, Santa and his new girlfriend, that weirdo stole my wife, and she says that she will follow him to the North Pole because she can’t stand the heat. I saw my wife kissing Santa, like that kiddo saw mommy kissing him, not under the mistletoe, but under the shade of an olive tree and he didn’t even leave a present behind for me, and if I complained, I’d be the one on the naughty list. 





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'The Last Poppy' by Jackie Hales

The solitary poppy waved its scarlet head in the February breeze, searching for companions like a guest arriving too early for the party. Up here on the field, its world was once safe, but now confusion reigned in the soil below. 

“Is it time?” said the dandelions to the buttercups. 

“Is it time?” the birds screeched on the trees.

None were sure, now, when they should force their way into the air. February should be cloaking them in soft white snow, but the sun grinned through wispy clouds and the poppy was too keen.

Once, there had been a season for all things. Man had labelled them long ago – Spring was time to awake to the promise of sunshine and warmth, after a long rest in the winter’s cruel cold. April brought showers to help them grow.  Summer was gentle here, not like the searing heat of the desert. Autumn was when the trees dropped their energy-sapping leaves, retreating to the safety of their inner selves. 

The drought had come, creeping across the land like some midnight thief, stealing the water to feed their roots. Withered stems gave the lie to the notion of the old familiar round. Here, they had cursed the rain, and the sun had heard them, revelling in its triumph. They would pay the price, as the earth warmed and the seas swallowed the ice. They said the reservoirs were empty, drowned villages surfacing like menacing ghosts to haunt protesters who once mourned their disappearance. 

The poppy hung its head, too heavy now. Footsteps shook the ground, and it felt the rip of the stalk from its base.

“Oh, Poppy,” said a gentle voice. “So beautiful. I’ll take you home, collect your seed. There will be more of you soon. You have given me hope.”



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Tuesday, 17 June 2025

'Papas and Beers' by Melissa Flores Anderson

We crossed the border on a Sunday, five days shy of a college degree. I’m not sure how I got invited. Maybe because I had the old blue Nissan that was reliable enough to make it the three-hour drive to Rosarito. Maybe because they needed one more person to cover the rental fee on the condo that overlooked the beach. Everyone was paired off that weekend except for me and Carley so we lucked into the room at the top of the stairs, with the wooden doors that opened to a balcony. They’d all been at different times, but it was my first time across the border. My grandmother was born in Baja, but no one had ever gone back. My friends talked about a famous bar that had been featured on MTV Road Rules. It would be our first stop, the highlight of the trip. We arrived midday to see the famous sign with the white letters and the green ampersand stood high above us. The parking around us the first sign of something off—empty save for our three-car caravan. Closed between the traditional spring break and the start of the summer season on Memorial Day. Now the place is open 365 days a year, but back then party season had a limit. We ate instead at some nearby restaurant with lobsters and watered-down margaritas.

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'All the way' by Jeremy Boyce

Car parked, they hurried down narrow streets of closed cafes and kiosks, hands clasped and elbows locked, pulling close and enjoying the feel of each other’s body pressing in. The drive over hadn’t taken long, no holdups but steady traffic, heavy inner-thigh hand traffic both directions, light a joint to avoid getting carried away. Across flat fields the seafront tower erection was clearly visible, an irresistible everse lighthouse magnet for fun-seekers.

Waiting to cross to the promenade they strong-tongue kissed. Cheap music drifted by from the half-opened funfair as they reached the balustrade and looked into the wind at the vast flat low tide beach stretching to meet the blanket of cloud at the thin strip of water on the horizon. Pulling woolly hats well down they skipped down stone steps onto the cold hard sand. The tide would be back soon, and when it came it would be flat-sand fast.

From their top deck front row seats of the cold rattling seafront tram, all the way and back, they took their eyes and hands off each other long enough to enjoy the view, and the ride, late afternoon dark skies twinkling the distant lights for their return.

At the tram stop they lit the second joint in the shelter, sharing blow-back kisses, then crossed the empty road to the big red brick pub. Sipped pints and brandy-macs in the bright nicotine- stained half-empty light, glowing cheeks squeezed tight on the bench seat, enjoying the pickled eggs, tide back in.

Heavy inner-thigh hand traffic on the drive “home”, her parents’ place, she was back for the weekend.

Polite dinner, then rampant naked living room everything sex after parents safely snoring.

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'Cocktails at the end of the world hotel' by Jack Morris

Here at the hotel at the end of the world they can get you anything you want. I lounge by the infinity pool and ask for a drink that tastes of sky. It comes in a tall glass, deepest blue. It tastes a bit like mouthwash.

‘Is that it?’ I ask the waiter.


He bows and leaves. Stars crash and collide above me, reflected in the still water.


‘I hope this will be more to your taste?’


I sip. It’s soft sunny days and fluffy white clouds, with a hint of afternoon rain. I nod. He puts another drink on the table.


‘I don’t want another one yet.’


‘For your guest.’ The drink is deep pink, with crimson undertones. It smells of sunsets and silver sand.


‘I’m not expecting anyone.’ I don’t want anyone to join me, not even at the end of the world. Not anymore.


‘Ah, but Madam,’ the waiter says. ‘Sometimes the hotel doesn’t provide what you want. It gives you what you need.’ He slips off his waiter’s jacket and sits in the seat next to me. 


We clink glasses and watch the universe explode.


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Saturday, 14 June 2025

NFFD 2025 Prompt #4: Off Season

 


 Prompt #4: Off Season

Welcome to The Write-In!  This year, we're celebrating the 2025 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology theme of Seasons. Throughout National Flash Fiction Day, we'll be posting one prompt every six hours from 00:00 until midnight (BST), for a total of 5 prompts in all.  You have until midnight on Sunday (BST) to submit your responses for possible publication here at the Write-In.  We'll start posting responses on Tuesday, 17 June 2025....

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For the fourth challenge of 2025, write a story in which at least one character has gone somewhere at an unusual time of year.  A beach holiday in winter, a ski lodge in high summer, a holiday destination outside the tourist season...or a more unusual or bizarre scenario.

To make this prompt extra challenging, avoid the following themes: illness, memory loss, revisitings of a place with happy memories.  Optional bonus points are available if you make us laugh or smile.

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 4: Off Season 

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 15 June 2025 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.

You can claim the badge for this prompt by visiting our badges page.


Photo by Wade Tregaskis on flickr (CC BY-NC 2.0).


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