Our 2025 Flash Fiction Competition Winner is Harry Humber!
Harry lives in England with his wife and children. He squeezes short stories into the increasingly theoretical gaps between work and family life. So far, writing has proved considerably cheaper than therapy.
“Twenty-Six Steps” by Harry Humber
By March, Martin’s father had started using the handrail on the stairs to the flat. Only when he thought Martin was looking elsewhere.
The flat sat above a shuttered travel agent’s on the ring road. Dust filmed the windows now, but the old holiday posters still glowed faintly through the glass: white sand, blue water, a woman in sunglasses smiling into a warmth that felt a world away.
Each Thursday, Martin parked outside beneath that impossible weather and watched the passenger seat become harder for his father to reach.
Thursdays had become hospital days.
His father had lung cancer. Stage four by the time they found it. Martin remembered little from the consultant’s room: only himself nodding at appropriate moments, asking questions in a voice that sounded increasingly unlike his own.
What remained was his father folding a leaflet into quarters.
Then eighths.
Then something too small to read.
Outside, rain silvered the hospital car park. His father stood by the ticket machine, turning wet coins in his palm.
“Well,” he said. “No point renewing the boiler cover.”
Martin laughed because his father had.
His father dressed properly for every chemo session. Shirt tucked in. Hair combed with care. Proper shoes polished the night before.
“You could wear something comfortable,” Martin said once.
His father glanced around the waiting room.
“I might meet a wealthy soon-to-be widow.”
The nurse behind the desk laughed.
Martin did too, a second late this time.
His parents had divorced when he was twelve. There were no brothers, no sisters. So Martin learned:
Which cupboard held the tablets.
How many sugars needed in tea when food tasted metallic.
How long a walk could be before it became something to recover from.
The illness spread quickly.
By April, even soup hurt his father’s throat.
One night, he admitted the only thing he craved was the soothing cold of a Slush Puppy.
Martin drove to six different garages before he found one.
The girl behind the counter handed it over without looking up from her phone.
After that, the pull-out sofa stayed open.
One Thursday, rain followed them home. Halfway up the stairs, his father’s shoe missed the lip of a step.
Not far.
But enough.
His shoulder struck the wall. His hand clamped the rail.
Martin was already there.
“I’m alright,” his father said, too quickly.
He stayed there a moment, breathing carefully through his nose.
Then, slowly, he lifted one arm.
Martin stepped beneath it.
He weighed less than memory suggested.
Together they climbed the stairs, his father’s hand resting lightly on Martin’s shoulder.
That night, rain ticked against the travel agent’s sign below.
Through the wall, his father’s cough carried through the flat.
Martin held his breath until the next one came.
And beneath everything he had learned to carry — medicines, appointment letters, the twenty-six steps up to the flat — something small and frightened waited for an adult to enter the room.