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Per Annum, by Sue Clayton

18/8/2025

 
WINNER 2025 EDINBURGH FESTIVAL CONTEST
“How do I look?”, Miss Thistle twirled her feathery violet skirt, adjusted her spiky tiara.

“You look divine,” Mrs. Dandelion spread bright yellow flowers, opening up white puffballs.

“Miss Clover’s flowerheads blushed pink as she entered on Mr. Blue Morning Glory’s arm. He was already climbing all over her.

Broad green leaves enhanced Mr. Paterson’s Curse bold appearance, his vibrant purple spikes aquiver.

Thousands gathered in the meadow set aside for the Festival of Weeds, a per annum event for the underdog flora species.

‘Weedkillers and the pulling out of weeds prohibited’, read the sign at the gate.

Dancing in the Moonlight, by Glenn Francis Faelnar

17/8/2025

 
SHORTLISTED FOR THE 2025 EDINBURGH FESTIVAL CONTEST
On a cold August night, the town of Millbrook let out a lively roar. Music filled the air, Dancing bodies moved through the streets, and fireworks soared through the sky before exploding in different directions. Food and drinks were shared by all. They ate and drank to their hearts content. Laughter echoed in every corner of the town as they celebrated like there was no tomorrow. But when the midnight bell rung, it signaled the end. The Moonlight Festival finally drew to a close. The townspeople shuffled off and went back into their graves, waiting for another August night.

Chienbäse, by Sarah Samson

17/8/2025

 
SHORTLISTED FOR THE 2025 EDINBURGH FESTIVAL CONTEST
The night revellers carry massive burning bundles of pine sticks on their shoulders. Sparks dance upward and then fall back to Earth to eat tiny holes in winter hats.

“I love Chienbäse!” Hans thinks as he follows them, helping drag a bonfire wagon through the cobbled Swiss streets.

From a window above, his mother watches the annual fire festival. With the noise below, she doesn’t hear the intruder, and no one will notice her muffled screams. Tomorrow, the Polizei will say she had a heart attack, but Hans, already at the bar spending his inheritance, will know the truth.

The Scribe, by Ian Willey

17/8/2025

 
SHORTLISTED FOR THE 2025 EDINBURGH FESTIVAL CONTEST
Mana meets Josh at the festival.

“Did you bring your kindle?” asks Josh.

“Right here,” says Mana, holding up a paperback.

“Then let’s go! The kindling’s about to begin!”

They find a spot near the fire. There’s a whistle, and the crowd hurl their books into the flames. Mana tosses hers and catches another, stashing it in her pocket. Everyone’s taking selfies, so no one notices.

Later, alone in her room, Mana opens the book, and a notebook. Her shelves are stuffed with such notebooks. She starts copying from the first page.

“It was a bright cold day in April...”

Slowly We Let Go, by Keith E Maynard

17/8/2025

 
SHORTLISTED FOR THE 2025 EDINBURGH FESTIVAL CONTEST
As the evenings cool, we feel a change in the air—subtle at first, like a quiet promise whispered, clustered together, we celebrate what has been. There is warmth in our closeness, knowing that the festival now fades with a final burst of intensity.

We recognize the end is near. It lingers just beneath the surface, not heavy or bitter, but honest. The season turns, as it always does, and we—changed by it—slowly let go. We cover the hillsides as humanity honors our ultimate sacrifice. Soon we will float to our demise.

Fear not, we shall return.

Festival Days, by Susan Anthony

17/8/2025

 
SHORTLISTED FOR THE 2025 EDINBURGH FESTIVAL CONTEST
Dashing down the High Street, cobblestones clattering under foot. Comedy show next, symphony later. Fish and chips in Anchor Close, huddled on the steps, tourists pushing past, looking for their next venue. Spit on the Heart of Midlothian at St. Giles’ Cathedral for good luck. Buy a Fringe t-shirt to add to the pile. Raining. Sunny. Better shoes tomorrow. Read the paper, what are the critics raving about? Get those tickets. Swing by the Festival office, flyers for shows pushed into your hand, swear to attend but knowing you are already booked. Mayhem and madness, it’s August in Edinburgh, again.

Jail Break, by Lillibit Ray

14/8/2025

 
After the diagnosis, she felt locked in a cell, bound by sickness, shackled by fear.

Seeking freedom down dirt trails, wilderness was her getaway. Walking forward brought release, and she indulged, step by step, through a festival of waving wildflowers lining the banks of percolating brooks and congregating in open meadow fields. Inhaling the power of sweet nectars offered protection, healing, renewal.

Making camp, she unloaded the burden of her backpack, suddenly feeling ten feet tall. Stepping toward a racing creek, she had the sensation of floating.. She leaned into this experience, sitting, folding her legs, still levitating, freedom hers.

Masquerade, by Teri Wright

14/8/2025

 
The annual Cosplay Convention was in full swing. Lurking in the shadows, he observed the festival-goers: Gandalf chatting to Darth Vader; Jack Sparrow and Glinda flirting in a secluded corner.

He scanned the room, glimpsed a hooded figure in black amongst the multitude of colourful costumes.

His target in sight, he glided over to the buffet table and filled a plate. Deliberately bumped into the unsuspecting character.
“Interesting outfit,” he said grim-faced.
“Thanks mate! Yours is pretty good too.”

He offered the plate, smirked as his victim choked on a poisoned sausage roll.

“I am Death,” he hissed before vanishing.

At the Licence Application Office - A Homage to Ronnie Barker, by Remmie Thomas

14/8/2025

 
(Pen poised) “Your plame, knees?”

“My what?”

“Your plame, knees?”

“Ah, right. ‘Your name, please’.”

“That’s sot I wed.”

“Singh. Raj Singh.”

“‘Sarge, Ring’. And why do you geed to net a licence?”

“Er, for a community fireworks display during the Festival of Light.”

“Ah, the Least of Fight. That’s like our Nigh Gawks Fight, I believe.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“I would never make the tickey, sir. It’s just the spay I weak. Don’t ruse your lag.”

“That’s it. I’m going to see your manager.”

(Knocks on the Manager’s door and enters)

“Sallow, her. Ban I key of assistance?”

A Dream Festival, by John M. Carlson

14/8/2025

 
The festival was bright and colorful and ALIVE! Brian, who was fourteen, was there with a friend. A friend? What friend? What festival? And--

Brian woke up. He was alone in his room for the first night since his suicide attempt. The festival was a dream. The friend definitely was a dream. He had no friends.

He thought of the dream, feeling crushing sadness.

It was six, but he’d get up. He didn’t want to sleep and dream of going to festivals with friends he didn’t have. Waking up and returning to his lonely reality was too hard.

Acts of Terror, by Bill Cox

14/8/2025

 
“Are you going to the hangings, Jon?” Katie asks me. “I heard they’re making a festival out of it. Lots of stalls, with food, games, music and stuff.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “They’re parading the terrorists through town first. You can through rocks and stuff at them if you want. Me and some of the guys are going to see if we can hit them!”

“Sounds like fun! Can I join in?”

“Sure. More the merrier,” I grin.

It'll be good to see the terrorists get their just desserts. Serves them right for holding up placards criticising the government!

Orange, by Roberta Beach Jacobson

14/8/2025

 
We exported Orange to Scotland. No tariffs were involved. We assumed it was permanent, so we took to the streets and frolicked in festivals across the land. Alas, all he did was golf. Soon Orange returned to us. Needless to say, our celebrating ceased, as it seemed it was never his wish to remain in Scotland. No golden airplane was on offer, plus he believed some unfinished business was waiting for him back home (pushing the American experiment ever closer to doom). Although there are no offers on the table, we anticipate the next opportunity to bid him adieu.

The Waiting, by Haley Carter

14/8/2025

 
While festival-gatherers grouped around criptas in the panteones, she traipsed beneath the wooded canopy, stealing through the overgrown path to the isolated resting home. Up stone steps the old woman climbed, her knees aching, offerings clutched in her apron, candlelight guiding her way.

Miguel followed, curious.

She slipped inside the leaning gate and knelt before a mossy headstone, the letters time obscured. Clearing leaves, she arranged her ofrenda: a candle, photo, two sugar skulls, and bundled sage. She bowed in prayer.

Miguel approached, breathing deep, remembering.

She opened her eyes, gasping as their eyes met!

His great-granddaughter smiled.

Encore, by Michael T Schaper

14/8/2025

 
A gifted pianist, debilitated by stage fright. That’s how everyone saw Danny, after he fled midway through his first public performance.

His career declines thereafter. Danny retreats to his bedroom as contemporaries audition, perform at concerts and festivals, succeed. Years pass. He waits despondently for another opportunity.

On his twenty-fifth birthday, his mother buys tickets to a mystery concert at the festival hall. “It’s a surprise,” she says.

They make their way inside.

It’s completely empty.

There’s a piano centre stage, waiting for him.

“Your turn,” she says.

After all, dreams don’t always require an audience to come true.

Just Peachy, by Kathryn Jenkins

14/8/2025

 
Welcome to my home in the Okanagan Valley, British Columbia.

The sun is hotter this year, the soil drier. Still, my neighbours and I are out in the orchard all day. The season will end soon and we will take a well-earned break before the long-standing family tradition begins again next spring.

Over the festival’s five days, our name will be on many tongues - “Redhavens!”

Perhaps we’ll win that coveted prize for the best-tasting peach in the valley at the annual Penticton Peach Festival.

Wouldn’t that be something to tell the folks still ripening on the tree!

The Knock-Off Houdini, by Angelica Jimenez

14/8/2025

 
There’s a man above the tank, and he’s waiting for the signal. A festival sign advertises the great Houdini, but he is just the average Joe with loose swimming trunks and an extra twenty or thirty pounds on his belly. The crowd cheers him on, and the man gives them a cocky smile as the sharks wait for him below. Finally, the whistle blows and the man dives in. He’s shackled and defenseless, but still, the sharks don’t attack him. I blink again and realize he’s immune: he’s one of them.

Emmanuel, by Charis Kim

14/8/2025

 
It teased him, flying in different directions, then,
“Yes! I finally got you!”
The boy looked up: an unfamiliar environment.
People singing in white robes, families laughing, food plentiful on the table.
The boy dug in. Bursts of flavors exploded in his mouth.
A man sat beside him.
“This is the most amazing festival ever! How long does it last?” the boy asked.
The man smiled. “Forever,” he said.
The butterfly flew down, down, down.
On the cold streets of London, a boy lay dead, smiling.
Although hungry and cold, he had died the happiest boy in the world.

Back Again, by Charis Kim

14/8/2025

 
The large pill was swallowed.
The room started to spin. Then, in front of her eyes.
A merry-go-round, kids dancing in circles, popcorn stands, a popsicle melting in her hands, white lights circling her.
Her favorite memory: the festival.
“I found you!” the voice shouted. She turned and saw him, her brother.
“Where were you?” she asked.
The lights started turning red, then blue.
She was in the room again. Strangers around her, then a familiar face.
“Dreaming again about little brother?” the doctor said.
“The pill will not bring him back.”
“Yes, but I’ll be with him,” she said.

God's Will, by Robert Martin

14/8/2025

 
“The fire isn’t high enough! The Festival God requires a fire that reaches all the way to Him in the heavens. He needs warmth to bless us with plenty. Get anything that burns!”
“We’ve cut down all the trees!”
“If the fire doesn’t reach Him, He will take everything from us. He wills it!”
“There’s nothing left but the house.”
Axes flew against the uprights. First the living room, then the bedrooms. The fire thundered.
“Did we reach Him? Will we be blessed?”
“Look how high it is. He will bless us with plenty.”
“But the fire took it all..."

Festival Canceled, by Angela Lam

13/8/2025

 
No one attended the festival. Not Father Aaron or Brother Jon or my son, Gabriel. Sure, the parishioners advertised the event, and tons of tickets were sold. But on the morning of the festival, after the setup crew arranged everything from the face painting booth to the raffle, the sky opened. Rain fell and flooded the parking lot. No one was more disappointed than Sister Sara, who had flown from Ireland to California to support her friend’s Catholic church. Only the river rats were happy, floating on their backs and eating crumbs from the pie booth that had tipped over.

2030 AI-Human All-Genre Micro Festival, by Lynn Kozlowski

13/8/2025

 
The Micro Society announces the 2030 AI-Human All-Genre Festival of 100 Word Micros. Submissions should pertain to celebration. Each genre will be judged separately. Measured AI assistance of 40% to 60% is required. AI evaluates remaining submissions for similarity to the 30 most popular stories by genre of 2020 to 2029, giving an originality score. Micros scoring in the top decile of originality will be posted and judged by three top AI programs. Each program will rank finalists for “genre excellence.” Rankings are announced two minutes after submission deadline. The micro with the lowest average rank wins in each genre.

Festivals of Life, by Paula Nicolson

13/8/2025

 
I traced your silhouette against a curtain of festival fireworks. While shoulders jostled and people cheered, we never touched or spoke as wafts of roasted chestnuts turned bitter. In a crowd of joy, I was crying inside.
As I walked home that night, alone, I thought I was going fucking crazy for seeing you: two days after I’d buried you.
A year later, I’ve returned to the same fireworks: you told me to create my own festivals of life. And although you remain a glimpsed shadow or shiver, you’re now a sparkler I can’t extinguish in a crowd of joy.
​

Mixed Blessings, by Clive Oseman

13/8/2025

 
Extremely nervous for his first appearance on the spoken word stage of a small but well regarded music festival, Alan didn't expect a large crowd hanging on his every word. In the searing heat, he froze. Could not remember his words and panicked into gibberish. Luckily, his assessment of the likely numbers listening was spot on, and the two people who were listening thought he was an experimental comedy act. His dream gig had become a nightmare, yet to this day he boasts of having his entire audience entranced at a popular music festival. It looks good on his CV.

Sweepstakes, by John O’Keefe

13/8/2025

 
Lucky this morning, I got the Loaf of Bread, the second highest prize in the festival’s random drawing. (First place, the Festival Medal is beautiful artwork but who can eat copper?)

The raffle is rigged that every attendee end up with a knickknack; this way all feel part of the Community. Still, I can read those jealous eyes, most wanted the Loaf of Bread.

My idiot brother has only received the Law. He shows me what it says, Thou Shalt Serve Those Superior To Thee.

“Cheer up, man,” I tell him. “At least you also got something.”

All That Jazz, by David Minor

13/8/2025

 
As the music flowed through the crowd, James McCallister could not keep the grin off of his face. Sweet, smooth jazz filled his ears and warmed his soul. The drive from Richmond to Washington D.C. to attend the DC Jazz Festival was indeed well worth it. Since his divorce almost seven months ago, he had fallen into a certain level of melancholy. However, jazz music seemed to help lift it.


Josh enjoyed the sense of community with his fellow attendees, and found that he did not want the hot and sweaty June night to ever come to an end.
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