Hampshire Writers' Society

Author: Molly

  • A Disparate Situation

    A Disparate Situation

    By Johnathan Reid

    SECOND PLACE in December Competition

    The log cabin was too small for all the lives it held inside. Five saved souls, one rescuer. All female, half human. Only one had voiced their need for help. Only one could give it.

    “I’m here now,” their rescuer had said, voice as soft as her smile. “You’re no longer alone.”

    Bags and boxes filled the other bedroom, fragments of shattered lives and unwanted memories.

    “What should I do with this?” asked the daughter.

    “Just…put it down. Anywhere,” the mother said. “We’ll make space later.”

    Their rescuer asked for nothing in return, though exhaustion clung to her like a second skin. She drew strength from a stubborn mind and the unconditional love of her three dogs. Her weakness was a heart that clutched onto too much as it tried to conquer the uncaring world outside. She hid the cost even from herself.

    “You need to eat too,” murmured one of the saved, food now a comfort.

    “I ate earlier,” lied her rescuer, eyes averted and hand trembling as she cleared their plates.

    Mother and daughter exchanged frowns. “You said that yesterday.”

    An ancient phone buzzed once, twice on the stained table.

    “Is that him again?”

    “I can’t let that ghost back through the cracks.”

    “Just keep breathing. Keep yourself alive inside.”

    More silence stretched taut between them. A dog jumped from the sofa to the floor, nails tapping on the wooden floor.

    “Will you give me back?” asked the child.

    “Not to someone who never deserved you.”

    “Can he take me away?” The question pushed them all into cold, deep snow.

    “Only if you let him.”

    She paused. “Is he outside?”

    “Somewhere, yes. But he doesn’t decide your story now. You do.”

    The darkness encroached on their thin shelter of fragile hope. The world might yet split them apart, but in that moment they held on.

    Judge’s Comments: ‘A story fizzing with energy and atmosphere. There is a keen edge to this, as well as all the essentials for a short story – before, now and after.’

  • Scholarship girl, 1937

    Scholarship girl, 1937

    By Miriam Coley

    FIRST PLACE in December Competition

            Grandma calls it ‘The Parlour’. A mantlepiece holds photographs, a parade of absent males:  a wedding picture of May’s parents, Carys and Arthur, her smiling father in Kitchener’s khaki, her mother touching her pearl necklace. Another shows baby May, a crocheted bundle in her grandmother’s arms, her grandpa cradling them both. His unhandled pipe stands at the end of the shelf.

              The table is right under the window, to catch the light. May stands wearing the unfamiliar blazer.

              “It might do.” Carys says, pulling the fabric down at the back.

              “It’ll have to do.” Grandma announces, moving May around and placing her arms in an arrow shape. The form of the previous owner inhabits every pulled stitch  and hanging button.

              “Right!” Grandma says, squinting through glasses, a pin between her teeth. She begins to fold one sleeve under. 

              Then a shudder of disgust as Carys’s fingers discover an antique toffee in the blazer’s pocket. Fluff coats it, as if it is a hibernating field mouse. 

              Carys begins to cut the whole sticky pocket out, her heron shaped scissors eating the fabric. Then she picks out some material, smooth as a magician’s scarf, to create a new pocket and make the whole blazer anew.  Her hopes for her daughter live in every stitch. But, can this work?

              “May, help your grandmother peel the potatoes, please. I’m popping into town.’

    Grandma and May leave the blazer in the August sunshine.

    *

              An hour later a brown paper parcel sits on the table.

              A saucepan lid clangs from the kitchen.

              “May!” Carys calls.

    May, pink from hop-scotch, sees the parcel and also Carys’s neck, now missing the pearl necklace.

              “It’s like magic, mummy.” May says.

              “That’s a better start.” Grandma says from the doorway and squeezes her daughter’s hand.

    Judge’s Comments: ‘Lyrical yet perfectly contained, with a clear arc and resolution as well as taking place within a defined and distinct chronology. A beautiful sense of past, present, and future, and a journey of hope.’

  • January 2026 Competition

    January 2026 Competition

    To enter, and for full competition rules, see: How to Enter

    Brief:  Write a short story (of 300 words) somehow inspired by the image of the hollow tree above (as obliquely as you like!).

    (max 300 words)

    Deadline 16th December 2025 11:59 PM

    Adjudicator: Vanessa Gebbie

    Winning Entries

    FIRST PLACE ‘The Tree of Life’ by Steven Pratt

    SECOND PLACE: ‘The Husk’ by Philip Evans

    HIGHLY COMMENDED: ‘Prey’ By Rachel O’Neill

    HIGHLY COMMENDED: ‘Tree’ By Mike Sedgwick

  • A New World

    A New World

    By Rachel O’Neill

    FIRST PLACE in November 2025 Competition

    I hurry towards the Great Hall, The November wind stinging my face. I should have had the litter and horses readied,  it never does does to deal with King Henry with red-rimmed eyes. The gossip of the marketplace is that he admires me. I confess it appeals to my vanity, that is, until I heard the words, ‘The Jewish whore does more than lend the King money, she lends her body too’.

     I am used to their envy. I could buy Winchester, its buildings, and its inhabitants many times over and they know this.

     Rounding the corner, towards the West Gate, I am deliberately jostled by two sniggering men.  I should have had one of my sons with me, or my maid, Alice. Though she is a servant, as a Christian, she is often afforded more respect than myself.

     I recover my balance and my dignity, and with deliberate slowness, I approach the Hall.  Inside the courtyard, a sudden eddy of wind pulls leaves and dust into a whirl. They dance, dervish-like. I shield my face, but when the wind drops, I am no longer outside the Castle. And the noise deafens me.  Metal carts career down the centre of the road without horses, huge stone buildings tower above me, and people clothed in strange garments walk past. They ignore me.  I am outside The Jailhouse, and it has transformed into a convivial place with men drinking ale in the pale autumn sunshine.

     What is this place? I look around and see a sign, ‘Jewry Street’. What is this new mockery? The crowd of strangers parts briefly and I see…I see a statue of myself!  I am holding the hand of my youngest, Asser. I am striding, purposeful. Strong. If this is the world I used to live in, it has changed. It has changed.

    Judge’s comments – “An enjoyable read. I particularly liked the contrast between new and old. The way Licoricia was ignored also invoked something of her medieval surroundings and the modern world.”

  • Karma

    Karma

    By John Quinn

    SECOND PLACE in October 2025 Competition

    To the bored guard, disinterestedly waiving his flag, to the woman clearing cups in the now-empty cafeteria, it was clear what they saw: the usual mixture of bored and sleepy commuters onboard the 6.14am Waterloo express as it punctually pulled out of Poole station.

    At the edge of the platform, I stood stock-still, frozen by the intense certainty of what I was witnessing. Pathetically I raised my hand to acknowledge the train and my journalist ambitions disappearing from sight.

    On Monday, December 12th, 1988, my dream was stillborn.

    My great-uncle Michael, a sub-editor on the Daily Express, had got me the job interview and given me two instructions: ‘Don’t be late and don’t mention you’re an Arsenal fan. Pete Stephens, the news editor, will be interviewing you. He’s ex-military and a huge Spurs fan. He can’t abide tardiness or Gooners. Remember that and the job is yours.’

    OK, I wasn’t to know I’d wake to a flat tyre, that there be an accident shutting the A350 flyover or the traffic lights would fail on Serpentine Road… But I’d still blown my big chance. And after seven years on the Bournemouth Echo, covering council meetings and fetes, I wasn’t likely to get another one.

    With the traffic even worse and with no other option, I trudged into the Echo’s office. Bob, the paper’s rotund and perpetually harassed News Editor, greeted me. ‘Chris, where have you been – doesn’t matter! The Press Association are just reporting that the 6.14 Waterloo Express has ploughed into another train at Clapham Junction. At least 30 dead and hundreds injured. This is massive for us! Grab any photographer and get there now… Well, what are you standing there for? I want 400 words, no, 600, for final edition. Tomorrow we’ll go cover to cover on it.’

    Judge’s Comments – “Chosen for its ability to invoke not only a moment witnessed, but simultaneously the witness of self by an internalised other. A delicate rendition of interiority/exteriority, keenly felt.”

  • A Breath of Imagination

    A Breath of Imagination

    By Rose Politi

    FIRST PLACE in October 2025 Competition

    The day unfolded in radiant light, the sun gilding the rooftops while a cool breeze slipped across flushed faces. I sat on a low wall along the pedestrian street, resting as my gaze wandered to a group of girls who laughed, danced, and sang. Opposite me, a grey wall adorned with graffiti—red hearts and colorful flowers—had been transformed into a painted frame, a stage for their moments.

    The girls posed before it with that unstudied grace only youth possesses. Passersby slowed their steps; some smiled, charmed, while others watched in silent disapproval. But who can draw boundaries around the joy of the young? I wondered.

    Two olive-skinned boys, teenagers observed them from across the street. They tried to approach, speaking a mix of French and broken English. The taller one, with dark hair, bright eyes and a tattoo on his arm, proudly showed it to Emi—the girl with long blond hair and green eyes. She cast him a cutting glance and tossed her hair so sharply it nearly brushed his face. Yet he did not retreat; he kept calling her name, as though he had been waiting for her all along.

    The sun was sinking, and shadows stretched across the wall of hearts. The girls strolled up and down the walkway, the boys moving in the opposite direction. Then, as if by secret accord, Emi stepped forward a few paces, and he, with a steady stride, passed close by her. For an instant, their shadows merged inside the painted frame. Two figures leaned toward one another, as though their lips were meeting.

    And for a single breath, imagination became real.

    The End

    Judge’s comments – “Chosen for its ability to seize upon the many framings and layerings of a moment, from the play of light to the peculiar sounds of voices comingling in the air. I love the piece’s ‘secret accord’ as – to me – this speaks to the heart of what it means to witness and not merely to see.”