Bath Flash Fiction cover

Bath Flash FictionRestore to Factory Settings

Our fifth yearly anthology contains microfiction by writers from all over the world. It contains 136 stories covering many subjects and themes—some focussing on dramas within family relationships, some politically themed or about war, others spanning whole lifetimes and longer. All are 300 words or under—the real, the surreal, and the experimental. There is so much inventiveness and so much to read and enjoy.

Reader Reviews

Reading the fifty long listed flashes I received, I knew these stories were – are – loved by their authors. But they were also so much more than that. Each story had its own distinct quality, its own voice, its own style and structure. Each had sentences I underlined and words I circled. Not knowing what I was looking for, I found everything.

Santino Prinzi, author of This Alone Could Save Us

… I read a lot of flash and when I read the BFFA long list I thought there had to be some mistake, I must be reading the short list instead of the long list, so high was the quality of the work I was looking at. This made the judging process incredibly enjoyable on the one hand – to see so much variety, so much stimulating and original work, a wonderful willingness to experiment, and on the other hand, so difficult to choose.

Mary Jane Holmes, author of Don’t Tell the Bees

It’s been a pleasure reading these pieces, the quality indicates how well contributors craft their stories, producing shining gems of literature that demonstrate this genre is not alone alive and well, but thriving. The range of topics and styles on offer show practitioners of this form can still find something fresh, or interpret ideas in a novel way.

Nod Ghosh, author of Filthy Sucre
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Other Stories by Rae Cowie

Bonus Story

Hush, Hush, the Storm has Swept Through

Dylan was born in a rush, seven weeks early, jaundiced, brought on by shock. Mum held my hand as his nostrils flared with each breath. Doctor Esson says there’s nothing to worry about. Dylan’s fine now.

Floppy, his toy rabbit, slouches on a pile of Connor’s t-shirts which lie folded at the end of the table, waiting for him to shift them. Last night’s casserole bowl has grown crusty. Instead of filling the sink with suds, I grab the stuffie and tuck it in my backpack. The TV weatherwoman predicts haar, but I know the beach like I know each wrinkle in Dylan’s wide forehead. Mum looks in twice a day, wittering on about how that rabbit has caused nothing but suffering, how all the walking is getting out of hand, how the watery air is bad for my baby’s chest.
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