The stories have been read and re-read, the judging has taken place and final decisions made, and today we’re delighted to announce the short list and winners of our final ever Short Story Wr…

Fiona McKay ‘Cars these days don’t have a spare,’ the man says. Kate, looking in the boot of the car, is startled, her heart a flock of sparrows. The empty country road, her flat tyre. Where had he…

Pumpkin spice everything. The smell of bonfires in the air as the darkness surprises me, like it does every year. Kids roaming the streets as polyester ghosts and vampires, knocking on doors, gathering sweets. Fireworks going off at random, scaring me shitless, because I always think they’re bombs or gunfire. Still can’t get used to being safe, even this far from home, in this city of trees and spires. I meet you in the union bar, another mature student, on the edge of things like me. Your eyes are blue as the Danube, yet you approach me, just to talk you say, which makes me think you want something else. I assume you’ll be like the others, but a month passes and you’re still around. No one’s ever stayed, I tell you. I’m different, you say. I shrug. Let’s see. Daffodils. The smell of cut grass. Kids wearing bunny ears, baskets slung over their arms, searching the park for chocolate eggs. Ducklings on the pond, chasing their mothers with panicked cheeps. Somehow, you’re still here. Each morning you bring me coffee, strong and black like you’re used to. We study together, testing each other, and I’d keep working through the night but you always know when to stop. You kiss my head and put on a record, pour me a glass of wine. At nights you hold me, shielding me from the nightmares I can’t shake. It’s love, you say. I’m not so sure about that, but we’ve made it through the darkest days and the light is coming, the sun shining like a beacon as we walk towards it, hand in hand.

Enter our monthly writing competition on Bluesky! This month's #WriteCBC task comes from debut novelist Abigail Johnson.