The lovely Damian Kelly-Basher set and adjudicated our March competition:
Brief: Write about an animal. You can write from the viewpoint of the animal, yourself, or another person/thing.
But you cannot use the letter ‘e’ anywhere in your work. (300 words)
And the winners were…
First place: ‘Woof’ by Viv Smith
Sniff. Run, run hard. Run with stick. Bark, bark again, mad, bark loudly. Sshhh!
Man looks cross. Wait, wag. Wag lots. Told to sit. Sit. Twitch a bit. Pant, pant hard, drool. Anticipation is good. Ball thrown far away; watch it land. Told to go. Run fast and swift to ball, sniff, grab, turn, go back to im. Man happy patting, rubbing, wag lots. Drop ball. Fun, sit. Try not to twitch too much. Wait for throw two, it lands a long way away. Run hard.
Brown dog on grass, not good. Big brown dog grabs my ball, runs to his man. His man says “No!” Brown dog should drop ball, but brown dog runs backwards and forwards, not dropping it, but crouching down, wants to play with man.
I wait, bark, wag, look around hoping for my man to act, but still too far away, chatting. Want him to talk to brown dog’s man. Pant, drool a bit, worry. Brown dog knows it’s my ball, runs around in front with it in his mouth, wagging, taunting, still gripping it in his jaws, not putting it down. Knows this is annoying. I crouch, could I fight him for my ball? Try a growl with a bark, if brown dog barks back ball could fall. Is brown dog that stupid?
Brown dog is dumb. Ball drops barking back. I zoom in to pick it up and dash to my man for back up support. My man is still chatting to a lady, but stoops to pat and rub fur. Both happy now.. Wag lots.
Man stops talking, grins, turns, walks across grass, I run and sniff. Walking along path I think of food from man soon, good thought, wag again.
Second Place: ‘Val and Anna’ by Wendy Falla
My provision from Mum’s will didn’t hold much worth,
‘What was it?’ you may ask,
Ah … with conditions and instructions, two long living and robust, grumpy old Torts! Known
as Val and Anna (mum’s aunts), a fourth birthday gift and now my priority to spoil. Inhabiting
an orchard run, built by dad from old scaffold planks and long nails, days pass munching
Marigolds and pink Marshmallow blossom, oblivious to world chaos. Dinosaur jaws of horny
rims clamp around young tomato plants and spinach sprouts, rich in iron, trailing from grow
bags.
A book from mum, noting habitat, habits and traits, instructs that a shallow warm oil bath
(Virgin no doubt!) is a must in spring to sooth crusty limbs post a dormant six months. A
vitamin shot prior to a coming out party and contacts for torty pals to ask along.
Dusk brings both along a grassy path to an old quail shack on stilts, slowly up a ramp, in
through an archway to a straw clad cocoon. Slow blinking at sundown, grunts turn into faint
snoring, torty bliss. In Autumn, as days grow cold and with a chill in the night air, I must stop
this pair burrowing into Ash and Poplar roots at our boundary, fast work for scaly nails
digging through claggy clay soil – or Val and Anna will vanish on to common land, God
forbid they should drown in a pond or pool!
Flourishing and vigorously tackling anything blocking paths – cats, dogs, plant pots, humans
– ploughing right on through with gusto! Mum (gran) is watching and waiting to haunt us,
should Val and Anna pass away during my acquisition. My adult sons pray I outlast Val and
Anna – although big son wants my piano and young son my sports car
Third Place: ’A Stick, Stuck’ by Jacob Watkins
I sprawl, stuck in this mud. A stick, stuck, so soon unstuck from that stout oak standing almost within touch of my spindly twigs, though also agonisingly afar. Afraid, I was, of such biting wind that blows through our park – and still I did strain outwards, gloating at low, land-plodding louts, till a strong gust brought a snap –
What is that sound drawing in? A sniff, a scratch, purporting a snort. A shaking in my dirt, a shifting through this rusting mulch; thrumming, four fat paws, swishing scimitar-tail, pink, sloppy limb lolling from drooling mouth; I must run! But it is not a stuck stick’s lot to run.
Hush – I should stay still, praying that vulgar snout won’t find out I am at risk. Old oak, why art thou so disloyal? My growth was in your honour, my triumphs your own – but now I rot amongst your roots, as this Satan-born thing of fur and fury draws towards my limp form.
Good lord, I whiff its guttural panting. What foul concoctions must this glutton gulp down? Stay firm, my tumultuous bosom, hold fast, salvation still may show. But it shan’t! For its body has struck out sunlight and shrouds this land in dark! All is lost, within my assailant’s cold, murky domain, as it bows its skull and unlocks its nightmarish maw – my world is now fangs and spit –
I pass out, for how long I do not know, but a touch of flowing air brings back our blissful world. Although, I am not hanging from my oak, but racing rapid as a brook across grass and rock, with only a slight pinch from my saviour’s thoughtful jaws holding my body tight. Now, I do not simply grow, but fly – I, a stick, and from mud I am truly unstuck.
A huge congratulations to our winners and thank you to everyone who submitted!!
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