The winner of the 2012 Flash Fiction competition was Mark Wagstaff.

Rich pickings in empty houses. Packed out his pockets: took everything found in the rubble. Enough for one more shot. Found this: held it to the light. Not seen one of these in years. Like dad’s slides on winter nights, huddled in the glow of summers’ past. When it was good, with dad.
Police emptied those pockets, found crushed in the road. Bad junk - cut with poison. The young constable picked a celluloid oblong pressed in cardboard: held it to the light. A centipede jetty on a velvet sea. The old detective took a look. “Scalasaig,” he smiled. “Colonsay.”