Hampshire Writers' Society

Author: Summer Quigley

  • Ideas & Imagination – June 2024 competition results, adjudicated by Tom Bromley

    With 25 years experience in the publishing industry as a prolific author, ghostwriter, editor, bookseller, and teacher, Tom Bromley inspired members by delving in great detail about ideas and imagination. The competition brief aligned to this, which was to:

    Write a 300 word piece about a moment of inspiration: this can be either a real figure/event, something from your own life, or something entirely fictional.

    And the winners were…

    First place: Petrarch upon seeing Laura by Rosie Mercer

    “A combination of enjoying the writing and the author capturing the brief made this my winner. I liked the use of language, the description of writing (the lines nearly curl together) and how the end matches up with the start with the protagonist in shadows. A short but powerfully written piece.”

    Second place: ‘Come Play My Game, I’ll Test Ya’ by Johnathan Reid

    “An intriguing interpretation of the theme and a great piece of action writing regarding the competition in the school pool. I thought this well was well described and with a nice ripple of tension as to what was going to happen, which gives the piece a satisfying edge.”

    Third Place: An Empty Day by Sarah King

    “I liked the idea of this piece being written in the second person and the way the writer captures the sense of shift; the clouds being dark and oppressive in the beginning, the rain offering renewal, the day being empty in the title and full in the final line. I would have a little more on the actual moment of inspiration – what there was in the advert that caused the change – but the sentiment again captured the brief.”

    First Place: Petrarch Upon Seeing Laura by Rosie Mercer

    You did not notice me. I sat in the shadows during matins. It was without a thought that you turned your cheek and, like a vision, resembled the Blessed Virgin. You did not see me. I prowled down the aisle until I was close enough to hear your name whispered.

    Laura: a name as sweet as summer wine on my lips and I say it again just to feel you linger there. Laura. How should I praise you? Psalms are too dull. Hymns, too severe. I must find the words, tame them, and they must submit to my will. My little songs will be a piece of you, until you live upon the page and I might close my book and keep you there.

    I will write a poem of my own design, a shape of my own choosing. It must be brief, as our time together has been fleeting. It must roll along like the unstoppable drum of a human heart until it hits a clanging note: an alarum bell. It will evolve, bounding, slipping here and there, only falling into place with each final syllable until, at the end, the lines nearly curl together, reaching for each other, each sound an echo of the other, like a longed-for meeting.

    When I next see you, head bent in prayer, it is you I will worship. But do not let me disturb you, no. I will not impress myself upon you. I am content to linger in the shadows of my laurel tree, my Laura, and my prayer will be my poetry.

    Second Place: ‘Come Play My Game, I’ll Test Ya‘ by Johnathan Reid

    Holding your breath is hard and today’s competition is intense. The nominated judges peer into the school pool, looking for bubbles. The first sign of weakness, they signal an ascent into jeering defeat. Only a complete lack of inspiration will baptise you as this week’s winner. Achieve the longest pause between breaths and be a hero for at least today.

    Earlier, your chest heaved with ill-advised hyperventilation. Now the drive to respire fills your head like an expanding bladder in the post-lunch lesson. It mustn’t overwhelm your conscious control, even as your hindbrain begs for release from forbidden tomfoolery. You gulp Gollum-like on the exhausted air trapped inside your desperate lungs. The primitive reflex barely dampens the urge to release your pressure-cooker of carbon dioxide. You aren’t a whale. Your inspirations are meagre, your expirations only visible on fog-chilled days. But your hopes are high. Premature inhalation is for wimps lacking lung capacity and willpower.

    You somersault from glisten-backed mushroom to upturned turtle, pinching your nose as wayward bubbles tickle your nostrils. Through the liquid layer dividing success from failure, there’s an unexpected dash of motivation: a refracted splash of polka-dot blue. The girl in year five you watch from afar. Your starved brain decides she’s waiting with bated breath for her breathless champion. A wavering halo forms around her head, a tunnel of bliss connecting your…

    Its edges darken and she’s gone in a flash of startled quicksilver – along with the judges. A hairy hand intrudes into your watery womb and a vice encloses your arm. You breach the surface like a sub-sea missile into the poolside clamour. A puce face expels their own lungful of air in a flood of detention-laden expletives. But you can breathe again, and your surging, death-defying gasps are all the inspiration you need.

    Third Place: An Empty Day by Sarah King

    You sit in your kitchen, cup of tea in hand, listening to the monotonous hammering of the rain. The clouds outside are dark and oppressive. Your eyes strain against the gloom. You know you should turn a light on, but you don’t, just as you haven’t showered, or brushed your teeth. You simply do not have the energy.

    It is 10am and the day stretches out before you. There are no plans. No new shows to watch, no books to read, no friends to meet with, just a yawning void of nothingness. You absentmindedly reach for my phone, scrolling through images of beautiful places and adorable kittens, but your mood remains the same. You put you phone down, only to pick it up and scroll again. Again you put it down, and again you pick it up, scrolling out of habit.

    Something catches your eye. It’s just an advert, but it is enough to get you to shower. To brush your teeth. To put on clothes. You pick up your phone again, but this time with purpose. A quick web search and you find what you need. The rain is still falling, but that won’t stop you.

    Outside the scent of the rain envelopes you. It brings the promise of change and renewal. The rain trickles down the back of your inadequate coat, but it feels invigorating. You walk with your head held high. You know where you are going.

    The small shop is dimly lit, not helped by the heavy clouds outside. You nod shyly at the attendant, but you don’t want to approach her. What if she sees your ignorance. The choice of stock is overwhelming and you know nothing. Your mouth goes dry and your heart starts to race. You inhale deeply, close your eyes, and remember, everyone has to start somewhere.

    You leave the shop with the materials to create something new. Suddenly your day is full.

  • June Competition 2024

    Brief: Ideas and Imagination

    Write a 300 word piece about a moment of inspiration: this can be either a real figure/event, something from your own life, or something entirely fictional.

    Deadline: Midnight 5th June

    Adjudicator: Tom Bromley, Author, Editor Ghost, Etc.

    Winners will be announced at our 11th June 2024 meeting; online and in the newsletter thereafter.

    For full competition guidelines, please read our competition rules.

    Good luck!

  • Historical Fiction – May 2024 competition results, adjudicated by Louise Morrish

    After an evening of literary agent, Becky Bagnell, and historical fiction author, Louise Morrish, regaling members with information and stories from their extensive experience, Louise announced her chosen winners of our May competition:

    Taking inspiration from a real person’s past life (famous, infamous, or non-famous) and combine it with your own creativity and imagination to write an historical fiction piece. 300 words

    I was truly astounded by the entries. Not only the high standard of writing, but also the inventiveness and sheer breadth of history covered – from AD 33 and the last breaths of Jesus on the cross, through Tudor history, the 17th century, the Second World War, and into the 1960s and 1970s.

    It was a very difficult challenge to choose a winner, and I know judges say this all the time, but it genuinely was a very close run thing between the top three pieces.

    And the winners were…

    First place: Hope by Jo Agrell

    “This piece recounted Jane Austen’s final journey to Winchester, before her untimely death. Every word was precise, every sentence crafted with care. The love between Jane and her sister Cassandra was palpable, but not over-explained or mawkish. The period was authentically evoked. The ending was hopeful, and also heartbreaking, an achievement that Jane Austen herself would have been proud of.”

    Second place: The Mismaze by Dave Sinclair

    “This was a hauntingly poetic piece, that beautifully evoked how the past remains with us, always. Sometimes it’s even carved into the very ground beneath our feet, as in the case of this historic turf labyrinth which I’ve walked along myself.”

    Third Place: “I am come hither to die,” by Lesley Bungay

    “This piece truly sent a shiver down my spine, as I accompanied Ann Boleyn on her final 101 steps to the scaffold. A fantastic first line: ‘I count the stone steps as they spiral upwards, my mind a turmoil of false accusations. One hundred and one steps, cold and unyielding, like his heart. A heart once filled with love, now hardened by suspicion, and whispered lies from those men who would do me ill.’ “

    Highly Commended:

    Diamond in a Rough Overcoat by Eugene McCann

    “It was the dialogue in this piece that gripped me. ‘Just so’s you know, though, if we did find you were a tout, we’d cut the flute off you an’ stick it in your feckin’ gob…Not that you’d get much of a tune from it.’ It conjured a time in Ireland’s history with a confident authenticity. Very well done.”

    Burn by Francesco Sarti

    “The writer took me straight into the heart of ancient Rome, as witness to a devastating fire. I thought the piece was extremely well executed, and painted a visceral picture in my mind. I particularly loved the lines: ‘I love him like a drowning bee loves the floating twig. I need him to breathe, to let my wings dry in the wind, and I’m so incredibly grateful, but I can’t fly if he’s with me. I can only die.’ “

    From L to R: Francesco Sarti (HC), Adjudicator Louise Morrish, Lesley Bungay (3rd)

    First Place: Hope by Jane Agrell

    Jane lies along the seat, her head pillowed in my lap.

    ‘Try to sleep,’ I say, lifting a stray curl from her face, tucking it under her cap. Her cheek is cold, her skin, mottled and grey. This is a symptom of her illness, along with severe pain, bilious attacks, fever and fatigue. Cruel fate that my sister, the author of seven novels including the most popular Pride and Prejudice, a writer at the height of her powers, is reduced to this.

    My mind turns to our lodgings in College Street. I am told that number eight is a pleasant property, however, with only the first floor at our disposal, I fear we may be cramped. I smile when Jane asks about our rooms, marvelling at how often our thoughts run along similar lines like cartwheels following ruts in the road. I tell her the drawing room has a large window where, as soon as she is stronger, she may sit and finish The Brothers.

    ‘Dear Cass,’ she says. ‘I shall be perfectly content with your company and the possession of the sofa.’

    This is one small mercy; there will be no Mama taking ownership of the couch leaving poor Jane to manage the best she can lying along three chairs.

    At last she sleeps. I glance outside. Relentless rain. A dreary landscape, dark dripping woods, rain-swept fields, a straggle of cottages and a church, its gravestones forlornly scattered in the long grass. Our brother and nephew accompanying us on horseback look quite drowned. There is something pitiful about the sight, something both dutiful and tragic that reminds me of a funeral procession.

    At last Winchester appears, a ghost town in the rain. The carriage draws up outside a dark house. My stomach roils. I pray to God this is not a fool’s errand. Mr Lyford says he can cure her. We put our trust in him.

    Jane Austen died eight weeks later, aged 41.

    Second Place: The Mismaze by Dave Sinclair

    While fields submit to winter’s white campaign,
    clouds kiss and bruise the hills with grey.
    The wind pins the sky to earth’s window frame
    and I flee the town to climb my favourite way.
    Atop the hill, the hard and frosty sward
    is cut by dark and winding lines. I ask what strange,
    mad maze is this, with only but a single path?
    No answer comes – just winter’s wild refrain.
    You could not know whose feet would trace your craft.
    But now my steps between the frigid turf
    decode your labyrinthine cryptograph
    and bring me to the centre of your work.
    And though you’re gone, I still remain, a mourner
    To your death below, in cold and tender water.

    To the east of Winchester, on the top of St Catherine’s Hill, there is an area of narrow paths that expose the chalk under the downland turf. This is the Winchester Mismaze, one of eight historic turf mazes remaining in England. It is not a maze in the modern sense but a labyrinth, cut into the chalk, with no junctions or crossings. It is laid out in nine nested squares, similar to those used for the traditional game of Nine Men’s Morris. Although mediaeval in design, its origins are obscure. A local legend suggests it was carved one summer in the 17th century by a boy from Winchester College who had been banished to the hill for bad behaviour. To occupy his time, he recalled a lesson on classical maze design and carried out the lonely task of laying out and cutting the maze. It is said that the winding paths so disordered the boy’s mind that he threw himself off the hill and drowned in the river below.

    Third Place: “I am come hither to die,” by Lesley Bungay

    I count the stone steps as they spiral upwards, my mind a turmoil of false accusations. One hundred and one steps, cold and unyielding, like his heart. A heart once filled with love, now hardened by suspicion, and whispered lies from those men who would do me ill.

    Upwards I climb to the top of the tower, to gaze over London. A city full of anticipation, as I was, not three years past when I stood within these same chambers eagerly awaiting my coronation. After seven long years my faith was strong. I would provide my King with a longed for son, where my predecessor had failed. I weep for those babes since lost and for my one surviving child, Elizabeth. What hope for her now.

    For seventeen days I have climbed this tower alone, praying he will dismiss the trial. I write, entreating him to attend that I may plead my innocence, prove my loyalty. He does not come. Now, I sense the city’s unease. Those men who declared me guilty of vial and unspeakable acts know their own heads may face the executioner’s block at his whim. The sunrise signals a new day, my last. They gather in the Great Hall to bear witness. The guards come and I must descend, spiralling downwards, my mind now resolved.

    My silk slippers slip, but I must not stumble. I lift my skirts, feet treading lightly, keeping my pace steady. I count to hide the shortness of my breathe, the pounding of my heart. One hundred and one cold, hard, shards of stone. I will not fall. I hold my head high as they lead me to the scaffold. The eyes of those men upon me. I will not falter. I am Anne Boleyn. I am the Queen of England. Those who would have me dead will not see my fear.

    Highly Commended: Never Give Up by Shirley Jackson

    Margaret Ryan is eighteen, Irish and pregnant. Her family banish her to England to have the baby adopted. Despite her relentless fight to keep her son, the harsh reality of raising a child single-handedly in the 1970s forces her to relinquish him.

    Forty-five years later, she’s a widow on a mission to track down the son she lost. Having inveigled herself into his family, she risks losing him again for ever.

    NEVER GIVE UP is a Commercial Fiction novel about a woman’s fight to reclaim the life stolen from her and will appeal both to those horrified by the scandal of forced adoption and to fans of psychological thriller writers like T.M. Logan. As a social worker during that period, I am acutely aware of the life-long pain faced by women like Margaret.

    Highly Commended: Diamond in a Rough Overcoat by Eugene McCann

     The voice cut cleanly through the musky-sweet air, piercing the gloom.  ‘So, you’re the cock o’ the North I’ve been hearing about.’ The intelligent face under the Homburg was instantly likeable –quizzical, though– as its owner filled the doorway of the cramped tobacconist’s Patrick had been ordered to. 

        ‘Why should I trust you…? Isn’t the place awash with informers?’ The man’s musical accent suddenly belied menace. He came closer, gliding clear of the door, two others visible to Patrick now, all three wearing similar grey-brown overcoats. Patrick could almost feel the roughness of their cloth as he looked into the man’s eyes, holding ground as the powerful frame angled towards him  

        ‘Plenty girls asked me the same. Didn’t have a killer answer for any of them, either.’  

        The man glowered silently, then threw his head back, clapped Patrick’s shoulder, and roared like an elephant.  

        ‘You’ll do, young fella…The cut-glass accent… come in handy enough, too.’ 

        Chairs scraped bare floorboards as the men drew them into a circle.  

        ‘Just so’s you know, though, if we did find you were a tout, we’d cut the flute off you an’ stick it in your feckin’ gob…Not that you’d get much of a tune from it.’ 

        Patrick glanced at the other two. One, tall, hair wavy, reminded him of an American singer he’d seen photographs of; the other a youth, slight –thin-faced– the baby-like features making him seem younger still.  

        ‘Let me introduce Paddy and Charlie’ said the man, removing the Homburg. ‘Paddy here’s your new commanding officer. And young Charlie’ –Charlie grinned cadaverously– ‘will teach you the stealthy art of slitting throats. Of the Dublin Met. Cairo Gang, too –under-cover boys– though not quite as invisible as the Brits think…Oh, and the odd mole, for good measure.’ He smiled, faintly. 

        Patrick drew breath involuntarily, in no doubt now who his unnamed inquisitor was: Mick Collins, an exquisite, rare diamond, must surely have a fault. All diamonds did. Patrick, though, couldn’t see one. 

    The true-life person in the piece is Michael Collins (1890-1922), seen by some as Ireland’s most famous patriot (though branded a terrorist by the British government for most of his life). Paddy and Charlie are, incidentally, also based on real characters, two of Collins‘ IRA lieutenants – Paddy Daly (1888-1957) and Charles Dalton (1903-1974).

    Highly Commended: Burn by Francesco Sarti

    I believed my adulterous love for Publius would burn my milk-bathed skin from the inside, from loins to lips, just like he believes in his resurrected Messiah.

    I thought our passion would consume us like bark in a pyre, reducing our bodies to a fleeting spark of pleasure, too bright for any pain to remain.

    I was wrong.

    It’s so clear now, as I watch the leader of his congregation kissing Publius’ feet, blackened by dirt and mud, on the top floor of this Esquiline Hill hovel. I love him, I can’t deny it, but not like a flower loves the sun. Rather, I love him like a drowning bee loves the floating twig. I need him to breathe, to let my wings dry in the wind, and I’m so incredibly grateful, but I can’t fly if he’s with me. I can only die.

    A part of me must have always known. That’s why I sat next to the window, so that my thick pallium would hide the orange glow rising like dawn from the plebeian districts. I wear it on my naked shoulders, over my silky robe even if it itches like a disease, even if it smells like dust and manure, even if this is going to be the hottest night in Rome’s history.

    The same savoury odour that made Publius’ neck so irresistible is now unbearable in my nostrils, and as I sip the acidic wine that’s supposed to be their Messiah’s blood, I realise I wouldn’t have drunk it for love. I wouldn’t have eaten the mouldy bread, rock solid, and I wouldn’t have gulped the scent of human secretion if it wasn’t for hatred.

    I can’t go back to my husband, and I can’t live like this.

    What I can do, is sit here as the flames swell, and let Nero’s laugh slowly become mine.

  • Pitch Your Book – April 2024 competition results, adjudicated by Scott Pack

    The excellent publisher and editor, Scott Pack was with us for our April meeting as both main speaker and adjudicator for our competition. The brief was as follows:

    Pitch your book, as you would want it to appear in your query email that you send to agents. 150 words maximum, but can be short and sweet if you prefer. It needs to entice the agent and make them want to read your submission package. Many agents will make an initial decision based on the pitch alone.

    Announcing his decision Scott said: “A really strong selection. No real stinkers, which was a relief. The things that separated the more successful ones from the rest tended to be:

    • A very clear presentation of the basic concept.
    • A simple and easy to follow narrative – I understood the story straight away.
    • An indication that the author understands the market and/or where their book sits within it.
    • A first sentence that hooks the reader in…
    • …and a final sentence that urges them to read the manuscript to find out more.”

    And the winners were…

    First place: Walking with Jane by Nicola Pritchard-Pink

    “A strong concept, succinctly and enticingly pitched. Manages to explain the contents while also giving them context, establishing the unique nature of the project and also providing some comparison authors. I would expect any agent receiving this to be very interested. I am not sure I would change a thing about it.”

    Second place: Redemption by Dai Henley

    “A neat twist on the regular crime novel. The pitch manages to get across the set-up and establish the characters and their relationships, as well as what is at stake for them, and that is hard to do with so few words. Perhaps lacks a punchy final line to act as a call to action for the reader, but otherwise great. “

    Third Place: The Burger by Damon L. Wakes

    “Sounds brilliantly bonkers, but also intriguing and with commercial potential. Might not be everyone’s cup of tea but does a great job of pitching the premise. Could do with a few more words to explain or hint at how Reggie links to the plot to establish that he is the protagonist.”

    Scott’s Highly Commended pitches were:

    Never Giver Up by Shirley Jackson

    “Very clear about the story, where it fits in the market and the author’s suitability for writing it.”

    The Recruit by Sam Christie

    “Really intriguing concept. Would benefit from another line or two to pin it down though.”

    The Art Thieves by Howard Teece

    “Another strong concept but also needs a bit more context or detail to make it clear what the reader is dealing with.”

    From L to R: Sam Christie (HC), Dai Henley (2nd), Howard Teece (HC) Nicola Pritchard-Pink (1st), Damon L. Wakes (3rd)

    First Place: Walking with Jane by Nicola Pritchard-Pink

    Jane Austen described herself as a “desperate walker”. Yet the traditional focus for Austen, like many historical women, is a domestic one, with Austen cloistered away in cosy drawing rooms and any mention of muddy petticoats being confined to her fictional heroines. Walking with Jane is the first book to explore the impact of Austen’s love of walking on both her life and writing, challenging the conventional domestic focus and placing Jane firmly back in the countryside she loved. By retracing ten of Austen’s walks, Walking with Jane combines the engaging historical detail of Lucy Worsley with the rich rurality of Robert MacFarlane, enabling readers to get closer to Jane by walking alongside her.

    Second Place: Redemption by Dai Henley

    A former policeman, Jack Duncan, is released from prison after serving eighteen years for murdering his girlfriend and not declaring how he disposed of her body. He claims he can’t tell the authorities because he didn’t do it. He approaches Andy Flood, a private investigator, to prove it. Following his investigation, Flood’s convinced that Duncan is guilty. Flood’s daughter, who recently served a prison term for the manslaughter of her abusive husband, begins working in her father’s detective agency. She meets Durban who persuades her of his innocence and has a romantic, but turbulent relationship with him. Flood’s concerned and becomes obsessed with discovering the truth about Durban’s case.

    Third Place: The Burger by Damon L. Wakes

    There’s a burger in Eastleigh Station. That’s not noteworthy in itself—there’s a MacDonalds in the Swan Centre—but this burger is hovering five feet off the floor. It’s the kind of thing that would make a cartoon wino blink and throw away a bottle, but Reggie’s on antibiotics and has just suffered through an excruciating sober evening down the pub. The burger is inexplicable, incomprehensible: Reggie wants nothing to do with it.

    The next day a hazmat-suited horde piles in to investigate, the station is closed, and every train passing through is crammed with rubberneckers trying to snatch a look. This poses a problem for Reggie, and not just because he has to take the bus to work. As the burger remains hovering—and all attempts to understand it fail—the world turns its attention to the one remaining lead: a mysterious figure caught fleeing the station on CCTV…

    Highly Commended: Never Give Up by Shirley Jackson

    Margaret Ryan is eighteen, Irish and pregnant. Her family banish her to England to have the baby adopted. Despite her relentless fight to keep her son, the harsh reality of raising a child single-handedly in the 1970s forces her to relinquish him.

    Forty-five years later, she’s a widow on a mission to track down the son she lost. Having inveigled herself into his family, she risks losing him again for ever.

    NEVER GIVE UP is a Commercial Fiction novel about a woman’s fight to reclaim the life stolen from her and will appeal both to those horrified by the scandal of forced adoption and to fans of psychological thriller writers like T.M. Logan. As a social worker during that period, I am acutely aware of the life-long pain faced by women like Margaret.

    Highly Commended: The Recruit by Sam Christie

    On a drizzly day at the start of spring, Dr Ben Lewis walks into the police headquarters on the edge of the city in order to turn himself in. He is not there for a crime he has committed, rather, he is there to confess to a crime he has yet to commit, but knows he certainly will. 

    Confused, the police struggle to know what to do with this dishevelled man who has appeared from nowhere, with no past history of any wrong doing. Is he another crank, another washed-up loser seeking attention, or does he mean exactly what he says? How does an institution that usually works with concrete facts, deal with a person that brings them nothing but an abstract idea? 

    In order to stop a horrifying crime that has not yet happened, all the authorities need to do is listen. 

    Highly Commended: The Art Thieves by Howard Teece

    There’s a gallery in Yorkshire where it’s rumoured the paintings steal people. Every afternoon, Dale Richards visits the same room in that gallery and stares at the same painting. It’s what he was viewing just before his brother and carer, Chris, disappeared. Now Dale knows what happened, and he, his artist friend Sally, and Mr Harrington the security guard, are off to get Chris back. From the paintings that stole him. On a journey through near-perfect copies of great paintings, they travel from Turner to Lowry to Kahlo, Escher and more, pursued by a creator who doesn’t want them to leave. Ever.

  • May Competition 2024

    Brief: Character Led Historial Fiction

    Taking inspiration from a real person’s past life (famous, infamous, or non-famous) combined with your own creativity, write a 300 word historical fiction piece.

    Deadline: Midnight 25th April

    Adjudicator: Louise Morrish, Historical Fiction Author

    Winners will be announced at our 14th May 2024 meeting; online and in the newsletter thereafter.

    For full competition guidelines, please read our competition rules.

    Good luck!

  • Children’s Picture Book – March 2024 competition results, adjudicated by Lu Fraser

    We were very lucky to have award-winning picture book author Lu Fraser as both main speaker and adjudicator for our March competition:

    In no more than four spreads of a picture book (less than 250 words) write something that comes from your heart.

    Announcing her decision Lu said: “Thank you so much for the opportunity to adjudicate the March HWS PB competition. Absolutely fascinating to see what everyone is working on! I changed my mind about 1st and 2nd place several times, but have finally landed… here:

    First place: To the Moon by Bucket and Spoon by Anne Wan

    Such a good opening spread! Very engaging with some lovely gentle humour and great illustration opportunities, too. Excellent set up of page breaks and I really like the use of questions to draw the reader in. Prose has a lovely, lyrical rhythm and I wanted to know what happened next when I reached the last spread.

    Second place: The Red Button by Summer Quigley

    Such a close 2nd place and such an original idea! I love this approach of normalising something that, despite being commonplace these days, may still appear confusing or scary to a child. It’s a lovely bridge between the generations, too, and an inventive way for them to communicate. Good rollicking pace and rhythm and some nice page breaks –  the kind of tale an illustrator could have fun with!

    Third Place: Me without You by Kate Abernethy

    Beginnings of a lovely concept here and I really like the simplicity and heartfelt tone – great, clean rhyming and read-along repetition, too. With the right illustrator, this could be very powerful and I can imagine siblings enjoying it hugely.”

    First Place: To the Moon by Bucket and Spoon by Anne Wan

    1. [Illustration: portrait gallery of Otto’s family achievements.]
      Otto’s family were famous explorers.
      His sister had crossed the Arctic on a unicycle.
      His Mum had sailed the ocean in an umbrella.
      And Grandpa had hopped up Mount Everest on a kangaroo!
      Otto wanted to be an explorer too, but where should he go?

    2. [Illustration: Otto is playing in a sand pit with his bucket and wooden spoon.]
      The mountains…
      The seas…
      The snow…
      It had all been done!
      He looked at his toys. He looked at the moon…
      and had an idea. He’d go …

    3. … to the moon by bucket and spoon!
      He was ready to launch when,
      “Stop!”
      “What’s wrong?” asked Grandpa.
      Otto hugged his teddy.
      “I’m scared! I’m not brave like you.”
      Grandpa laughed. “I often feel scared. It’s what you choose to do that makes you brave. Give up, or go for it?” He patted Otto’s shoulder. “I find it helps to take a deep breath first.”
      Otto squeezed teddy, took a deep breath and…

    4. …launched!
      WHOOSH!
      “Wow!”
      This isn’t so scary, he thought, paddling through space. When suddenly, into his path swam a bloom of…

    Second Place: The Red Button by Summer Quigley

    Spread 1
    [Ill. notes: Granny wears an emergency call button on a string around her neck in case she falls.]

    My Granny is old and she lives by herself
    I love to go visit, share books from her shelf.
    She wears a red button, it hangs from a string
    This button is such an intriguing small thing.

    Spread 2
    “Don’t press the red button,” my Granny would say…
    “The monsters will come from the forests to play.
    “They’ll steal all our cakes, and our chocolates ‘n’ all,
    “They’ll rip out the pages of books big and small.”

    Spread 3
    I laughed and said: “Granny you’re silly, it’s true,
    “It doesn’t call monsters, but what does it do?”
    Dear Granny would grin and just give a sly wink
    and speak of the dragon with wings black as ink.
    “He’ll come to the village to seek out nice treats…

    Spread 4
    “Like little plump children who smell just like sweets.
    “So don’t press the button, I need you right here…
    “To stop, Red-Cross Rose, who’s a wild buccaneer…

    Third Place: Me Without You by Kate Abernethy

    Spread 1
    [A big sister is going to school for the first time. The younger brother – the narrator – looks sad as he gives her a homemade good luck card. It has glitter on it.]
    Me without you is like
    Glitter without glue,
    There’s no sparkle or Ooooh
    When I’m unstuck from you.

    [The little brother, now home without his sister draws sad looking pictures in a blue colour of a ghost, a cow etc]
    I’m a ghost with no boo,
    A cow with no moo,
    Oh, I’m ever so blue,
    When it’s me without you.

    Spread 2
    [A grown up is trying to get the little brother ready to leave the house for an outing, but he’s in a muddle – can’t find a sock. There could be a clock in the background, and we also see the front door with the keys hanging nearby. We see evidence of big sister’s absence, such as her empty coat peg at the door.]
    It’s like missing a sock,
    I’m a tick with no tock,
    I’m a key with no lock
    When I do not have you.

    [In the park, the little brother trips on his laces, and is now even more upset.]
    I’m a shoe with no lace,
    I’m all over the place
    And fall flat on my face,
    For I really need you.

    Spread 3
    [The little brother stands at the school gates as his big sister comes out. He has scuffed knees and is scowling. Dark clouds fill the sky.]
    We’re like thunder and lightning…

    [A thunderstorm breaks out. The big sister holds out an umbrella and huddles under it with her little brother. He looks frightened, but she has her arm around him.]
    RUMBLE
    With you life’s less frightening
    And the skies,
    they are brightening.
    I am glad I have you.

    Spread 4
    [Now back at home, having got soaked in the storm, the brother and sister have a warm bubble bath together.]
    We’re the most perfect pair,
    Just like shampoo and hair,
    We have something that’s rare,
    I love being with you.

    [It’s bedtime, and the brother and sister are curled up together.]
    So wherever we go,
    Though we’ll change and we’ll grow,
    I just want you to know
    In my heart there is you.

  • April Competition

    Brief: Pitch Your Submission

    Pitch your book, as you would want it to appear in your query email that you send to agents. 150 words maximum, but can be short and sweet if you prefer. It needs to entice the agent and make them want to read your submission package. Many agents will make an initial decision based on the pitch alone.

    Deadline: Midnight 25th March

    Adjudicator: Scott Pack, Editor and Publisher

    Winners will be announced at our 9th April 2024 meeting; online and in the newsletter thereafter.

    For full competition guidelines, please read our competition rules.

    Good luck!

  • Audio-Inspired Psychological Thriller – February 2024 competition results, adjudicated by Karen Hamilton

    Psychological thriller writer and our main speaker for our February meeting, Karen Hamilton, kindly gave her time to adjudicate our competition. The brief, a twist on our usual format proved popular and ensured everyone was suitably inspired. A reminder of the brief below:

    Follow Storyblocks link provided, listen to the thriller music samples on the first page and select a piece of music or sound effect which inspires you to write a 300 words psychological thriller piece. 

    Karen, prior to announcing said: ” I very much enjoyed reading them, thank you.”

    And the winners, along with Karen’s comments, are:

    First Place: Action – Chase – Car – Cello by Simon Meats

    “I thought this was cleverly written. I loved how music and instruments were used to create the scene, given that music was the inspiration for the competition.”

    Second Place: Messages by Frank Devoy

    “I thought the tension in this piece built up very well. I could picture the scene and sense the fear.”

    Third Place: I May Be Some Time by Syd Meats

    “I loved how the soundtrack of Tension in the Air was used to create a scene of claustrophobia and confusion.”

    Highly Commended: In Cold and Tender Water by Dave Sinclair

    “I thought this was very well written and of course, enjoyed the local names.”

    Highly Commended: Blue Leather Gloves by Maggie Farran

    “I enjoyed the twist at the end.”

    First Place: Action – Chase – Car – Cello by Simon Meats

    Herman Bernard was a professional cellist of modest means and an extravagant imagination. Convinced that he was being stalked by a black Citroen saloon, during rehearsals his thoughts became dominated by an internal symphony of autopredator obsession. Why he should be so targeted was a mere Macguffin, a decorative motif.

    Leaving the safety of his rehearsal, Herman discovered a full orchestra of paranoia tuning up in the pit of his innermost being. Lugging his quarter-sized coffin of a cello case into a multi-storey car park, steel strings wove their harmonies around Herman’s cardio-vascular structure like snakes around a harp. A bank of demonic violins menaced his spine, as though a squadron of delinquent seagulls were circling under the low ceiling. And there it was, the chevroned menace, its headlamps pitiless halogen pursuers, as recognisable as a human face, familiar and reviled. He knew that the stationary vehicle was waiting for him, imploring him to make a move.

    An internal brass fanfare accompanied the pair into a lift. Exiting at the storey below his hearse-like van, Herman anticipated that the Citroen had already swept upwards, seeking to corner and flatten him. But as he smiled a warm internal fugue, he saw the Citroen smiling too, advancing on him. As a sadistic pizzicato plucked his nerves, Herman charged the stairs and pelted for the ground floor, the heavy cello case propelling him downward.

    At the exit, with the halogen glare hard upon his back, Herman leaped in an aortic crescendo up some flimsy maintenance steps. As the Citroen approached below, he thrust the case like an inverted dagger down towards the windscreen, the cello’s metal spike penetrating the glass and skewering the fleshy mass behind it, splintered glass peppering the dark red paintwork. “Dark red,” Herman quavered, as a black Citroen slunk away outside.

    Second Place: Messages by Frank Devoy

    Callaghan’s office is bare and windowless – forty square feet of cellar below his east end taxi drivers’ club.
    The room sends messages; cash is precious, conversations are private, and there’s no escape.
    His overweight companion tries not to sweat. On the scarred wooden table between them sits a bottle of Macallan, seal intact, and two empty glasses. Another message; this is not social.
    ‘Five years? After pleading guilty?’ Callaghan asks, slow and low.
    ‘Caught with two hundred e’s. Fiscal said he’d want ten, if they wasted court time. Lawyer reckons out in three.’ Proctor shrugs.
    ‘Any risk to us?’
    The Glaswegian giant sits bolt upright, forearms flat on the table, hands clasped. His stiff white shirt, and tailored mohair suit, black as 2 a.m., emphasise the differences in physique and status. He lifts his glass to the naked light bulb, inspecting minor flaws, reinforcing the point that it’s empty.
    Proctor watches, pursing his lips. Involuntarily.
    ‘Er, naw. Lawyer says we’re okay, if they don’t blab.’
    ‘They won’t. They’re good soldiers. How were they in court?’
    ‘Like schoolkid shoplifters. Hope they’re better inside.’
    ‘I’ll send word in. We look after our friends.’
    ‘Aye, okay.’
    It’s Proctor’s second flippant comment, on top of an uncaring shrug.
    Callaghan tightens, almost imperceptibly.
    A noisy intruder breaks the tension, ellipses twice and lands on the table to suck sugars from a sticky mark. Finger to lips, Callaghan turns his tumbler upside down, moving patiently, into position above and behind the bingeing bluebottle.
    The outcome is already known.
    It takes off.
    Backwards.
    Into the glass.
    Callaghan rests the rim on the table.
    His tiny captive throws itself, crazed, against a wall it can neither see nor understand. Each time it lands, Callaghan taps the glass with a manicured nail.
    Toying, torturing.
    A drip of sweat runs down Proctor’s veiny nose.
    Callaghan looks up, eyes cold and grey as a corpse, and points at Proctor.
    ‘That’s what prison feels like. And it could be you.’

    Third Place: I May be Some Time by Syd Meats

    (Soundtrack: Tension In The Air – Jon Presstone) 

    The problem with whiteout is that it’s difficult to tell whether there is actually nothing there or not. He wasn’t delusional. He remembered the psychiatrist saying that paranoid people always believed they were being followed by the CIA or FBI, not MI5 or MI6, which shows how good the British are at keeping a low profile. In the case of the British Antarctic Survey, they had world class invisibility. 

    Dr Hitch had explained how any conspiracy theory was always trumped by the cock-up theory, but something was clearly wrong with this whole South Pole thing. What was it that they didn’t want him to see? Was it the fabled Ice Wall? The edge of the earth? Keith began to think that this whole Antarctic phenomenon was fake. The extreme heat and brightness were surely the result of inefficient studio lighting from a bygone era. He must be in a film studio, like the one they used for the moon landings. 

    Wherever he was, he desperately needed shelter from the elements. With nothing but white visible in all directions, even a hallucination at this stage would be a source of comfort. Suddenly he heard the clattering of a cooling fan as it sprang into action. At last there would be some relief from the studio lights. A serious industrial fan with enough power to cool a blast furnace. It was descending in the near distance, getting louder, bringing gale force winds to the vast expanse of nothingness. He watched it in profile as it staggered like a drunken dragonfly and fell like a stone. In seconds it was gone.

    Highly Commended: In Cold and Tender Water by Dave Sinclair

    Chapter 1 

    DCI Charlie Wykeham had received the poem three days before the body was found. Written with quill and ink, its coarse handmade paper contrasted sharply with the crisp, white envelope in which it had been delivered to Wykeham’s home address. The postmark indicated it had been posted in Winchester the day before. At the time, he had been both intrigued and mildly concerned but there had been no obvious action he could take, except to carefully file the envelope and letter in an evidence bag in his office desk. Now, as he walked past the boathouse and followed the river downstream, the words of the poem resurfaced in his mind. 

    While fields submit to winter’s white campaign, 

    clouds kiss and bruise the hills with grey, 

    the wind pins the sky to earth’s window frame 

    and I flee the town to climb my favourite way. 

    Atop the hill, the hard and frosty sward 

    is cut by dark and winding lines. I ask what strange, 

    mad maze is this, with only but a single path? 

    No answer heard, just winter’s wild refrain. 

    You could not know whose feet would trace your craft. 

    But now my steps between the frigid turf 

    decode your labyrinthine cryptograph 

    and bring me to the centre of your work. 

    And though you’re gone, I still remain, a mourner 

    To your death below, in cold and tender water. 

    After a minute of trudging through the soft mud and puddles of the towpath, Wykeham came to a small tableau. Stopping at the Crime Scene – Do Not Enter tape, he nodded to a uniformed constable who recorded Wykeham’s arrival on a clipboard. A figure dressed head to toe in blue coveralls emerged from the white tent that had been erected by the riverside, and seeing Wykeham, came over. As she removed her mask, he saw it was the pathologist, Dr Rebecca Ferguson. 

    “Early days of course, but there are several indications this may not have been an accidental drowning.”

    Highly Commended: Blue Leather Gloves by Maggie Farran

    We met in ‘The Red Lion ‘in Salisbury. Before that, there had been the usual messages backwards and forwards, that are all part of on-line dating. When I saw him, sitting relaxed on an armchair by the open fire, I was furious. He looked nothing like his photo. He was at least ten years older and three stone heavier. We spoke about our jobs and our mutual love of solitary walking by the sea. We talked about the murder mysteries we enjoyed reading. He boasted about how good he was at solving them, and how he always knew, who the murderer was, long before the end. Conceited men always fill me with hostility. I screwed up my fingers into tight fists and I felt my back stiffen.

    The next day he was dead. His body was found sprawled on the beach. He appeared to have fallen from the cliff edge. I felt shocked, but not sad. After all I’d only met him once or was it twice?

    I scanned the newspaper. Yes, it was him, although it said his name was Brian Grey. He’d told me he was Gary Taylor. Why had he lied about his name? Liars make me angry. You can’t trust them. Maybe everything he told me over that red wine was a fabrication.

    A few days later I felt compelled to visit the scene. I looked down over the cliff and imagined him falling to his death. I wondered how he felt in those few seconds before his death. Did he remember me sitting opposite him in the pub? I walked back along the cliff path and there were my blue leather gloves balanced on a shrub. A kind person must have picked them up. I hadn’t missed them, but I was pleased to get them back.

  • February 2024 Competition – Psychological Thriller

    Brief: Follow storyblocks link below. Listen to the thriller music samples on the first page and select a piece of music or sound effect which inspires you to write a 300 words psychological thriller piece. 

    storyblocks

    Deadline: Midnight on 25th January, 2024

    Adjudicator: Dai Henley, Crime and Thriller Author

    Winners will be announced at our 13th February 2024 meeting; online and in the newsletter thereafter.

    For full competition guidelines, please read our competition rules.

    Good luck!

  • Ekphrastic Collage – January 2024 competition results, adjudicated by Dr Kane Holborn and Antosh Wojcik

    Members were very lucky to have two adjudicators for our January 2024 competition – our two speakers Dr. Kane Holborn and Antosh Wojcik. A wonderful new challenge was introduced by the poets in the form of ekphrasis. Both were very generous with their time and thoughts throughout the adjudication and feedback process.

    Ekphrasis definition: the use of detailed description of a work of visual art as a literary device.

    Introducing the task, Antosh said: “We’re going to broadly approach this type of writing. I see ekphrasis more as ‘creating a new piece of work from an existing work’ – so this prompt is slightly broader than the definition of the process.”

    A detailed brief was provided as follows:

    You are invited to write and submit an Ekphrastic piece of prose fiction, poetry, non-fiction or short essay.

    1. Choose three works of existing art. They can be from different artists or the same. They can vary in medium – you could choose a song, a painting, a film etc.
    2. Write a piece that draws from all three works.
    • You could use the piece to comment on the works.
    • You could write in response to the tones or the atmosphere of the pieces.
    • You may choose figures within the work to narrate or feature within the work.
    • You may derive settings from the soundscape/landscapes presented.
    • You may use the three pieces as transitions – i.e. Vignettes drawing on each work, poem sequences etc.
      All approaches welcome.

    300 words for prose.
    10-20 lines for poetry.

    Antosh and Kane were both extremely generous with their time and thoughts on their winning entries. Both were agreed on the top three, but each chose their own highly commended recipient.

    And the winners are…

    First Place: The Piano Has Been Drinking at the Fountain in the Garden of Earthly Delights by Syd Meats

    Second Place: Roche Court by Sam Christie

    Third Place: I am Iago by Geraldine Bolam

    Kane’s Highly Commended: Bedlam by Sarah Standage

    Antosh’s Highly Commended: Please Do Not Propose by Francesco Sarti

    First Place: The Piano Has Been Drinking at the Fountain in the Garden of Earthly Delights by Syd Meats

    Delightful, leaping, irreverent verse! The poem reads as though we are shot through the ages of contemporary art, explosive and riotous with its explorations of image and undercutting of those images. The title does its dues to set up the concept and tonal resonance of the ensuing piece. I clapped upon reading. A riot of a read, superbly composed, well done!

    Antosh Wojcik

    I feel as though I’m in a gallery, observing sculptures and paintings as I read your work), (in particular, The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymous Bosch) and this feeling emerges from the word go. Your poem mirrors the vigorous activities taking place within the painting. You throw image after image at your reader, assaulting their senses. From the juxtaposition of freezing rivers and cities on fire, you continue your fanciful poetic assault into your second stanza, not even giving us time to breathe. And this was what drew me back to your poem. Sublime madness at its finest! Methinks you are a Surrealist painter in disguise, masquerading as a poet. Job well done.

    Dr Kane Holborn

    The piano has been drinking, it staggers through its nightmare 

    from the left side of the triptych, where the duck-head man is reading

     to the music of the buttocks played by instruments of torture. 

    And it frolics in the garden, riding unicorns and donkeys, 

    feeding strawberries and cherries to the bathers in the lake. 

    And the rivers are all freezing on the far side of the water 

    and the cities are on fire, 

    and the water is a bloodbath, and the rabbit bears a stretcher. 

    And the piano has been drinking in the stomach of the tree-man 

    and the giant bird-head monster makes a feast of all the corpses, 

    and the demons need urinals in the shape of Duchamp’s Fountain. 

    The piano has been dancing its four-legged wooden waltz. 

    And you can’t find your artwork at Grand Central Palace 

    and it hates you and the gallery, and you can’t find the toilet 

    and the porcelain’s an artwork and R Mutt has signed his name, 

    and the newspapers are scathing, and the critics have retired. 

    The piano has been drinking, it’s a sculpture ready made. 

    The urinal has been drinking, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me.

    Second Place: Roche Court by Sam Christie

    In any ekphrastic work, a sense of place can be a powerful writing tool in
    conjuring the ekphrastic and you have eloquently framed your experience of a visit to Roche
    Court supremely well. I especially loved the way you brought your poem to a close as this is often a delicate space to write within. But your trio of rhetorical devices offered me a refreshing perspective which brought your poem to a satisfying conclusion. Bravo.

    Dr Kane Holborn

    A playful, dazzling poem, balanced in its introspection and leaps into the abstract!

    I love a bold opening line; ‘They say I’m a sensation…’ It does the work of lighting the fire for the reader when the title is so quiet. What follows is this deftly considered, musical verse that purposefully drifts into the various named works and sensations.

    Antosh Wojcik

    They say I’m a sensation, 

    Though now I walk down from the ha ha 

    Following Richard Long’s bone flint Tame Buzzard Line, 

    Tapering towards the second life oak. 

    In the Orangery my work hangs 

    Among a tinkle of glasses and low frequency reverence. 

    These canvasses are not of the grey ashtray weep of Mosul, 

    But the proud, infinite Nineveh Plains. 

    I’m shoulder to shoulder 

    With van der Beugel’s DNA squares. 

    Though my code is in sand and the rumble of F15s,

    His has settled as glass gallery reflections. 

    Belonging

     Rolling green 

    Do they need me with them 

    As living, breathing context? 

    Am I also the art 

    As well as the artist?

    Third Place: I am Iago by Geraldine Bolam

    It’s wonderful to read a work that is confident in its fusion of form! Part-essay, part-poetic-prose, part-review, the reader is invited to navigate these various figments of Iago and reflect on the core themes of Shakespeare’s great work. I think it’s innovative to reach to such a text and bring its context into different life/light through the work you have selected and the vignette form gives this piece a sense of fluidity through time. I recommend building further on this work!

    Antosh Wojcik

    This piece is an interesting beast of creative writing because it treads many grounds in terms of genre. Is it a poem? Is it something else? I didn’t know. At times, your poetic lilt bled into the realm of review and, subsequently, nonfiction. But your piece was refreshing in that it had no discernible genre.

    From ceramics at the V&A to Oliver Parker’s adaptation of Othello, you push the envelope and broaden the dimensions of your piece whilst maintaining your central theme: inspiration from the visual in a variety of forms.

    Dr Kane Holborn

    I am Iago. I am the mastermind of plot and subterfuge, the fulcrum at the centre of Shakespeare’s play. The Bard has given me immortality and my character has been endlessly speculated upon, my motives fully considered. “Demand me nothing” I had said. “What you know you know.” With the passage of time, I can be more helpful, but let art be my voice and your guide. 

    Let us start by looking at a piece of ceramic sculpture. The piece is Iago and Othello by Cyd Jupe. It is figurative, a wall piece of stoneware crank and red iron oxide. We are depicted as human heads, and I am whispering in Othello’s ear. It is a typical moment that captures our precious trust and intimacy. It reminds me of the time I discussed with Othello “Green Eyed Jealousy” and seeded some wisdom. Now let us consider a film. 

    How about Oliver Parker’s adaptation of Othello? He places me as a central witness to the action. There I am situated behind doors, peering into scenes, or hidden, all the while watching. The Director is masterful, look at the ingenious use of the chessboard anchoring my vital role. Some might say that it is Othello and Desdemona who are the chess pieces here and that I am the master operator. That is for you to decide. 

    So let us move on and try Othello the ballet by the American Ballet Theatre and the San Francisco Ballet. In one pivotal scene, we are returning from battle and the sailors are stretching and attaching ropes in preparation for docking. There are two groups of rope but within each group, tangles, and twists till they form an absolute web. 

    What I know about webs or being caught in one, I understand little, but I can say that the music is cleverly composed. The notes do not follow a straight line either but are equally discordant, complex, and twisted. I am simply entranced. 

    Kane’s Highly Commended: Bedlam by Sarah Standage

    I am a lover of poetry that leaps off the page and which is up the wall, and your work certainly achieves this. Your engagement with Louis Wain’s psychedelic cats is quite evident through your zany use of language. I enjoy how the theme of mental health is mirrored against and through Wain’s visual work as an ekphrastic device within your poem, which enlivens the themes at work. Bravo!

    Dr Kane Holborn

    A kaleidoscope of vibrant red, bright blue, xanthine yellow 

    cuts a scanned slice of neurological matter 

    or 

    Louis Wain’s cat? 

    Disappointment, fear and fury 

    picks up the razor 

    severs his ear 

    paints a self-portrait. 

    Strabismus dwarf squats 

    midst the Bruegel-type landscape 

    as the patricide axeman

    advances through the melee. 

    Genius or madman?

    Creative talent oozes while 

    Incarcerated in the asylum of the brain. 

    Antosh’s Highly Commended: Please Do Not Propose by Francesco Sarti

    Antosh’s Highly Commended: Please Do Not Propose by Francesco Sarti

    I was really taken with this work of flash fiction, which drops the reader so carefully into a considered, almost spiralling moment for the narrator. The works that influence the text are neatly embodied, even though they are disparate, the structure of the piece holds and draws such interesting colours and imagery from the art pieces. A quiet, vulnerable storm of a piece. Well done.

    Antosh Wojcik

    Inspired by: Casa Batlló by Antony Gaudi (Building), The Hateful Eight by Quentin Tarantino (Film), The Gruffalo by Julia Donaldson (Picture Book) 

    We enter the liquid corridors with squeaky shoes, rain bouncing on the scaly flooring, and this UNESCO World Heritage Site, this marvel of wavy walls and whirlpool ceilings is my refuge from a snowstorm, deep in the mountains, carrying a convicted murderer waiting to be hanged. We go up, almost floating, submerged by the tropical windows like schools of poisonous fish. Jody is in a rush to get to the dragon-like roof; but I delay him. I linger for unbearable stretches over the seahorse-shaped doorhandles and the azure crystals of the elevator’s buttons. That roof seems designed to spill blood. Blood can channel through the dragon’s ribs and tail, flushing inside a building with no straight lines, no corners, flowing freely over every feature better than a Roman aqueduct. Once on the roof, how will I know if someone’s hiding under my feet? Someone ready to snatch a shot from below—a deadly angle—right when I’m most vulnerable? As we ascend, like bubbles in wine, I remind Jody of his former girlfriends. The allergy-prone fox. The tired owl. The starving snake. He says our love would scare them off. But now I look at him: a grey, small, innocent mouse who survived a snake, an owl, a fox, and I wonder what he sees in me. I wonder if he’s got a pathological fascination with terrible tusks, and terrible claws, and terrible teeth in terrible jaws. I stare at this tiny rodent getting on one knee, right on the back of a dragon, on top of a house made of oceans, and I am terrified.