"...my skin sloughs off, my own name silt in the riverbed."
Such lyricism.
Collab flash with my person @pleomorphic2.bsky.social
For the @natflashfictionday.bsky.social erosion prompt, i’n which every sentence has fewer words than the last.
TIAC are one of my faves, send them good stuff
🔥🔥🔥
Another @pamthepoet.bsky.social creation. This one made me 😂 because it’s so very, very real.
Megan @ Sugar Pig
Kathryn Rw Reese
Kathryn Rw Reese
“… grant me this wish: turn down the cuffs, slide your fingers along the embroidery, and walk outside.”
@mynachang.bsky.social in Commuter Lit commuterlit.com/2026/06/mond...
Dream Team! ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Aussie/Asia-Pac writers (+ UK early birds), I'm doing 2 workshops in Jul/Aug at hopefully "friendly" times.
A Snow Globe on an Iceberg: World-building in short fiction (Sat 11 Jul 9amBST)
What is Learnt in the Cradle: How our childhoods affect our adult selves (Sat 8 Aug 9amBST)
Links in thread 👇
Collab flash with my person @pleomorphic2.bsky.social
For the @natflashfictionday.bsky.social erosion prompt, i’n which every sentence has fewer words than the last.
The Write-In: 'Wet Season Lament' by Sumitra Singam and Kathryn Reese #nffd2026
"I am carried with the flood, fingernails crescents of mud, swept into sidestreams that do not bear any name, and my skin sloughs off, my own name silt in the riverbed."
Lyrical and lush flash from @kathrynreese.bsky.social & @pleomorphic2.bsky.social - oh those driftwood babies 💔
Kathryn Rw Reese
Kathryn Rw Reese
I start in the monsoon when the river was swollen with silt and the debris of broken tea trees, crushed lantana and the dropped unripe fruit the orchard shed before the seed could be viable.
I am carried with the flood, fingernails crescents of mud, swept into sidestreams that do not bear any name, and my skin sloughs off, my own name silt in the riverbed.
My babies, too, driftwood children, submerged, emerging, finding lodging in the rock then working their way loose, twisting like a compass needle, yearning not for north but for sea.
Can I call them babies if I did not birth them, but merely allowed them to fall from my pelvis, ignored sloughings, the detritus of meaningless life?
What if I let them subsist on whatever they could grasp and they grew up half-salt, half-scavenged sugar and just a little fish?
Perhaps a line will hook them, give them meaning through a swift blow, gutting, scaling, guts thrown to their brothers.
Perhaps they will find themselves homed in mangrove muck or in some amphibious god’s estuary haven.
My dreams mean nothing - children propel themselves on their own tides, breathe their own air.
Listen: the thunder is summoning the drenching, that storm’s coming for the mountains again.
The river in spate, I swim helpless, rainsick, to the source.
Had such fun choosing 10 flash for @mattkendrick.bsky.social #Mondettes.
In honour of summer & playing hooky, I've chosen #games as my theme. Shout out to @erinvachon.bsky.social for sending me down this theme with their prompts for @smokelong.bsky.social
Bonus: 3 witing prompts!
National Flash Fiction Day
Pam Makin (she/her)
The Write-In: 'Wet Season Lament' by Sumitra Singam and Kathryn Reese #nffd2026
Pat Foran
Matt Kendrick
Cole Beauchamp 🏳️🌈 📖
I start in the monsoon when the river was swollen with silt and the debris of broken tea trees, crushed lantana and the dropped unripe fruit the orchard shed before the seed could be viable.
I am carried with the flood, fingernails crescents of mud, swept into sidestreams that do not bear any name, and my skin sloughs off, my own name silt in the riverbed.
My babies, too, driftwood children, submerged, emerging, finding lodging in the rock then working their way loose, twisting like a compass needle, yearning not for north but for sea.
Can I call them babies if I did not birth them, but merely allowed them to fall from my pelvis, ignored sloughings, the detritus of meaningless life?
What if I let them subsist on whatever they could grasp and they grew up half-salt, half-scavenged sugar and just a little fish?
Perhaps a line will hook them, give them meaning through a swift blow, gutting, scaling, guts thrown to their brothers.
Perhaps they will find themselves homed in mangrove muck or in some amphibious god’s estuary haven.
My dreams mean nothing - children propel themselves on their own tides, breathe their own air.
Listen: the thunder is summoning the drenching, that storm’s coming for the mountains again.
The river in spate, I swim helpless, rainsick, to the source.
The Write-In: 'The Quick Brown Foxes' by Pam Makin #nffd2026
Last to be posted but the first I submitted. Seems fitting.
The prompt: Write a flash of no more than 100 words that starts and ends with the same sentence. The opening and closing sentence should feel different in meaning by the time we return to it.
Thanks @natflashfictionday.bsky.social
