First Place:

Harvest Protocol

By Shriya Pandey

Autumn was deprecated decades ago. Fall no longer suits the Earth’s thermal equation.

You should feel nothing.

Still, a chill pulses down your spine each dawn.

Legacy code, the therapist says. Genetic hangover.

The techs who patch your neural interface repeat the same lies.

But you know better.

You dream of smoke and hay, of fire-colored trees.

And wake with the taste of grief in your mouth.

Today, a breeze slipped through the seal of your window. It carried something sharp.

You whispered: “Fall?”

And the world trembled—but only slightly this time—before returning to eternal summer.

Second Place:

The Descent

By Kirsty Nottage

“She’s fallen for this new man,” they said, when she stopped replying to messages and was never seen without him. “It’s totally normal at this stage. It will even out soon.”

“No-one’s seen her—she must have fallen ill,” when they questioned where she was and how she was doing.

“They must have fallen out,” they said, when they saw her tear-stained face, and noted the silence that descended when they questioned her.

“Broke her neck, falling down the stairs,” they cried, when they heard of her death. “A terrible accident. No one could’ve seen it coming.”

Joint Third Place:

Beauty is a Bounty

By Lin Whitehouse

I watched something red fall from the top floor balcony. It floated downwards, like a dead leaf no longer useful to the tree, then settled on the pavement. It was forbidden, in this part of the neighbourhood, to dry clothes in public view. Signora Bianchi didn’t care for regulations, had never walked the line. The shawl I retrieved was unmistakenly hers. 

In her prime she’d been a beauty, escort to the finest noblemen, and for years lover of the mayor. But she’d fallen from favour, her paramour sought a younger lover. The red silk shawl was fading, like the Signora.

Joint Third Place:

Falling Stars

By Sally Tate

The billionaires are falling back to earth. We watch their rockets fizz through the atmosphere, vaporising clouds and staining the sky.  

“Star,” you cry, tracing your finger across the fractured glass, “star!”

I shake my head, but I cannot explain.

At night, I clutch the monitor and watch your levels fall. At eighty percent, your chest becomes a piston and you pant in your sleep. I hold your small hand, wait for the light.

Tomorrow, their faces will float on our screens, nostrils flaring and eyes softly closed,“Breathe in,” they’ll chant, “breathe out. Know you are connected with love.”

Joint Fourth Place

Et Tu

By Sarah Turner 

On our second date, he tells me how Rome fell. When he mentions the invading tribes, his grip tightens on his sundae glass, its layers of ice cream like striated rock, and for a moment, I’m worried he might cry. Desperate for levity, I say, “What cut the Roman Empire in half?” He looks up from the archaeological dig of his dessert, slightly stunned, as if he’d forgotten I was there. “A pair of Caesars!” I say, miming a cutting motion with my fingers. At his expression, my hand falls back into my lap. Visions of our third date crumble.

Joint Fourth Place

Supermarket Love

By Ann McGonnell

They fell in love beneath the garden peas

He liked her stockings, wrinkled at the knees

She smiled shyly, while reaching for the custard

Their hands touched at the English mustard

She admired his hair with its greying wisps

As he dithered at the bacon crisps

Their trolleys bumped. She whispered, “I’m so sorry”

He blurted, “Let me take you for a curry”

With scarlet cheeks, she nodded, played along

But at the till the flirting all went wrong 

His face fell as a young boy scurried over

Saying, “Hurry Nan. Grandpa’s waiting in the Rover”