The challenge: write a story of up to 750 words over a weekend based on a set of prompts that we release at the start of the competition. Thank you to our alumni from around New Zealand and the world who raced against the creative clock to craft their stories to the 2026 48 Hour Flash Fiction Competition. A big thank you once again to our judge, crime writer extraordinaire, Vanda Symon. The results are in and the winner of this year’s competition is Craig Cliff with his story Keeping time.
Keeping time by Craig Cliff
‘Left here,’ Paula says.
‘You know the map system is pretty good these days,’ I say.
She tuts. ‘Another example of technology providing cover for staffing cutbacks. Next they’ll be arguing one person per ambulance is tenable.’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘It’s dire, P., I’ll give you that.’
‘You’re lucky I’ve stuck around past retirement.’
‘How could I forget?’
‘Keep right here for the overbridge.’
‘I’ve got this.’
‘I know,’ she says.
It’s five years since our first shift together. Paula was in her early sixties then. Swore she didn’t smoke but had all the hallmarks. The rattle in her voice, quotation marks either side of her mouth, the lack of meat on her bones.
Before we’d even climbed in the ambulance, she asked me, ‘How many people have died in your arms?’
‘In my arms?’ I replied. I was a qualified EMT, but only partway through my 1,000 hours of clinical placements before I could become a fully-fledged paramedic. I’d been part of crash-cart teams that failed to resuscitate patients. I’d arrived at scenes where the pall of death had already settled on bodies. But in my arms? She could see it on my face.
‘You never forget the first one,’ she’d said.
Boy, did she make sure of that.
‘What’s the time?’ Paula is asking now, over the din of our siren.
‘It says on the screen right there,’ I say, but she’s not listening.
‘I must have forgot to put my wristwatch on this morning.’
I’ve given up reminding her she can’t wear a watch anymore. Anything metal.
‘Analog,’ she’s saying. ‘That’s the way. All this digital nonsense. I’m old enough to remember when digital meant “with your fingers”. Digital exam, anyone?’
We pull up to the address on upper Stafford Street. It’s a cluster of three Edwardian townhouses.
‘That one,’ Paula points. ‘With the ivy.’
A young man bursts out of the front door.
‘How about you take the lead on this one, Junior?’ Paula says.
I nod.
Inside the townhouse, there’s a young mother on the floor performing CPR on an infant, a YouTube how-to playing on the phone next to her.
‘How old?’ I ask.
‘Almost one,’ the father says.
‘AED with pediatric pads,’ Paula says.
‘I’ve got this,’ I say to all involved.
The mother won’t look up. Transfixed by her routine, the voice on her phone.
I place my hands on her shoulders. ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I will take it from here.’
‘Why is there only one of you?’ the father asks, panicked.
*
That first shift together, Paula and I were on our way to Outram. Elderly couple, non-urgent. She had fallen. He’d managed to get her onto their bed, but thought we ought to come check her out.
Paula was driving until she wasn’t. Near the model airplane club her foot came off the accelerator. Her head slumped over the wheel. Somehow, she kept the truck on the road. I pulled the handbrake, killed the ignition, hit the emergency lights, checked for breathing, a pulse. I radioed in. Status One, R33 – Additional Ambulance Required. I unlatched her seat belt, undid my own, checked for traffic, opened my door and ran around to Paula’s side. I hauled her out, around to the back doors, placed her on the floor and prepared the defib.
All my training, all those check boxes.
What more could I have done?
As I work on the infant, Paula whispers instructions in my ear. Wisdom from the dozens of babies she ushered back from the brink over her career.
She doesn’t like it when I don’t acknowledge her. I try to keep her happy without unnerving the parents. They could see her, hear her, if they had the bandwidth for such things.
I pull Paula’s watch from my kit bag and place it on the floor. ‘Help me keep time,’ I say to her.
‘Why is there only one if you?’ the father repeats.
I want to tell him there isn’t. That at the start of every shift, cosmic dust motes coalesce in the passenger seat and there she is: all the memories from her life and nothing from what came after. That none of the EMTs want a bar of Paula, but management is happy to fudge the paperwork, let me do my shifts alone to save on payroll.
Instead, I say, ‘Look, he’s breathing.’
And, beneath my breath, ‘Thanks, P.’