Slowly We Let Go, by Keith E Maynard

The Edinburgh International Book Festival, often called the Edinburgh Literary Festival, is one of the world’s largest and most celebrated literary gatherings. Held every August in Edinburgh, Scotland, it brings together hundreds of authors, poets, journalists, illustrators, and thinkers from around the globe for readings, discussions, debates, and workshops. Founded in 1983, the festival has become a cornerstone of the city’s broader Edinburgh Festival season, drawing audiences of all ages to explore ideas, discover new voices, and celebrate the power of books and storytelling.

While the Edinburgh International Book Festival itself does not run a formal writing contest, writers can take part in flash fiction competitions timed to coincide with the festival, most notably the Friday Flash Fiction competition. These events offer great opportunities for writers to showcase their work during one of the world’s premier literary seasons.

This year, as in the past, I entered two of my 100-word stories and waited.

The email read:

Hi everyone

You'll be delighted to learn that one of your stories has made it to the Short List for this year's FFF Edinburgh Festival Contest. Well done!

When it comes to voting, you'll find that we have a special rule for nominated writers. We know that some people are embarrassed to vote for their own story, but that shouldn't be. However, we also want you to judge the other stories.

So... if  – and only if – you vote for one of the other stories, two further votes will be added to your own count at the end. Clearly, then, it's in your interests to nominate the next best story after your own!

Congratulations once again! Enjoy.

Gordon

Gordon Lawrie

Editor

Friday Flash Fiction

Six of us waited for the final vote—waited, and waited—until at last the winner was announced, followed by the five runners-up. I didn’t win, but I was ecstatic just to be on the shortlist. My entry is as follows:

Slowly We Let Go, by Keith E Maynard

“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.”