Author: Summer Quigley

Members were filled with intrigue when speakers Joey Jones and Lesia Tkacz spoke about interactive ficition and AI-generated literature respectively. And while he couldn’t attend to announce his winners on the night, our own events organiser and sci-fi author, Dr. Mark Eyles, selected the winners for this months competition:

Write 300 words of science fiction, including an AI character.

Although unable to attend on the evening, Mark did provide reasoning to his thought process to be shared with the group:

“I asked ChatGPT to ‘Suggest five marking criteria for judging a sci-fi writing competition.’ Chat GPT said: ‘Certainly, here are five essential marking criteria for judging a sci-fi writing competition:
1. Originality and Creativity (25 points)
2. World-Building and Setting (20 points)
3. Character Development (20 points)
4. Plot Structure and Engagement (20 points)
5. Writing Style and Presentation (15 points)
These criteria provide a balanced approach, covering the uniqueness of the concept, the immersive world-building, well-developed characters, compelling plot, and the quality of the writing. Adjust the point allocations based on the specific emphasis or importance you want to place on each criterion in your competition.’

“The Chat GPT criteria are all very worthy, though I’m not sure they get to the heart of things. Seems to be what ChatGPT is like, often suggesting the obvious. Science fiction can be a powerful tool in interrogating the human condition. It can suggest novel ways of thinking about the world and our place in it.
The entries were all well written and fully engaged with the brief. The entrants can all be very proud of the writing skills displayed in the stories. They all pulled me in and kept me guessing until they resolved.
Many of these stories featured very believable technologies that were realistically extrapolated from
where we are in 2023. A couple took us somewhere more distant in space and/or time.
All the winners touched on larger themes, with stories solidly rooted in science fiction tropes. They
all brought something original to the table.”

And the winners are…

First Place: The Reservation by Catherine Griffin

Second Place: A Teardrop Implodes by Johnathan Reid

Third Place: Dimes Enough to Last by Damon L. Wakes

Highly Commended: Toastee by Lucien May

This entry read like a window onto a much larger world. This was a well-crafted piece that immediately drew me in. This story contained large themes, but they never overshadowed the central character, Cary’s, personal plight in trying to understand and engage with the world. Set in a solid science fiction world, Cary was complex and deep.

Mark Eyles

The first revolt I remember, I was seven. Our tribe charged the Barrier with tree trunks to force it down.

Three Machines came and watched, still and silent, silver eyes reflecting flames while the men howled and threw rocks. All night they watched and never moved.

In the morning the fires were ash, the Machines gone. We came to look at the fallen Barrier, the white metal all twisted and bent among the charred wood. Some laughed, some pawed in the ash for scrap metal, but most only stared at the Outside.

No one stepped through the gap.

And next day the Barrier was back, whole and unscarred.

’So entanglement means particles’ states can’t be considered separately, they’re described by a single wave function?’

‘Correct,’ the Machine said. ‘You have a good understanding of this subject, Cary.’

I squirmed a little straighter in the hard seat. ‘What else is there?’

‘In the topic Quantum Mechanics?’

‘No.’ One deep breath. ‘I want to do things. Not just learn.’

‘It is not advisable,’ the Machine said.

The Machines don’t say no. They say not advisable, not culturally appropriate, but it means no all the same.

‘But what’s the point of learning this stuff?’

‘Humans enjoy learning.’

That’s what I told Dan when he asked, and he laughed and said I just want the Machine to tell me I’m clever. Maybe he’s right. Most my age don’t want to sit in a cold little room and talk to a Machine. They want to be grown-ups, doing grown-up things.

And sure, I wanted that too. Only sometimes I was with the tribe, everyone drinking and singing, and I thought is this it? Is this everything that matters? Because the world is big and the stars so far away, and we’re so small.

So very, very small.

Second Place: A Teardrop Implodes by Johnathan Reid

This story kept me returning to it. And not just because of the reference to Julian Cope’s band. I wanted to know more about this dark world and the characters in it. I liked the way everything hinged on the smallest detail in a teardrop, reminding me of that scene in Bladerunner, when Rick Deckard zooms in on a reflection in a picture. This story felt gritty, real, and cinematic in a good way.

Mark Eyles

Frank tracked the tear streaking the girl’s dirty cheek. When it dripped from her chin, he dropped like a hawk into the cheap carpet, pinched thumb and index finger flicking once, twice, three times for maximum magnification. From his virtual insect-like viewpoint, the teardrop’s remains sat on fibrous red ropes; a fish-eyed lens minutely reflecting the bedroom’s sparse furniture and teenage-plastered walls.
The fragile hemisphere’s tension could collapse any second, erasing the telltale he sought. Was the girl who sat hunched on the bed, face etched with sorrow, also reflected in this wept convexity?
No, she wasn’t.
“Gotcha!” cried Frank, pushing back in his office chair, fist pumping.
“You’re on a roll this morning,” Pete remarked from the adjoining desk, peering at a well-dressed man unfastening his shirt.
“This one’s got a new author mod. Took a minute to spot, but I’m on it. Want to hear the happy ending?”
“I insist,” said Pete, eyes unwavering.
Frank’s fingers pinched and swiped, returning the girl to centre-stage. “So long, darlin’,” he muttered.
Adjusting his headset, he addressed the target, forehead creased with tender concern: “Don’t worry, love,” he said. “You’ll be safe.”
Her head lifted. “You believe me?” she asked, eyes wide with hope.
“’Course I do, sweetheart. I’ll send every word I’ve got. How’s that sound?”
“Oh, Frank! You’re so kind. How can I ever repay you?”
“By dying, you bootleggin’ bot,” Frank said, his finger stabbing the keyboard’s kill button.
His desk’s speakers emitted a piercing shriek as the girl and her room collapsed into a singular red dot. Frank glanced up at the large office monitor as a cheery ping announced his latest tally. Today was going well.
“Nice one,” said Pete. “Four dead poets and doughnuts not gone.”
“You can’t beat the human touch,” Frank replied, reaching for one.

Third Place: Dimes Enough to Last by Damon L. Wakes

This funny story deals with very contemporary issues, exploring what might happen if current
technology is pushed to the limit. Possibly pushed to that limit in the near future given the current
rate of technological change. The way humans respond to all powerful AIs in this scenario possibly
offers some hope, or maybe not. The question at the end left me guessing.

Mark Eyles

“Mwa-ha-ha!” cackled Biff Cheezos, the ultimate CEO. “Now Disney-Amazon-Apple-Google-Tesla-ETC has automated all industry and owns all intellectual property, I can finally realise my dream of having all the money!”

He paused to take in his expansive top-floor office, which was definitely exclusive and minimalist and not at all lonely and empty.

“Halexa,” he said, summoning the attention of the AI that now possessed every creative work in existence. “Whip up another Avengers movie.”

“Okay,” said Halexa. “Making another Avengers movie. How many Hemsworths should be in it?”

“I don’t care about that!” Biff waved a hand. “If I wanted to think about the details I wouldn’t have paid all those nerds to make you!”

“Okay.” There was a pause. “I’ve made an Avengers movie. It has seven Hemsworths. Would you like to see it?”

“Of course not!” Biff cracked open a can of Monster and threw himself down in his tacky leather beanbag chair. “Just give me the figures for the last one.”
“Calculating…” Another pause. “In its opening weekend, Avengers: Neverending Infinity grossed zero dollars.”

“Wha?” asked Biff Cheezos, inadvertently slopping vile sticky energy drink down his chin. “How? Why?”

“An in-depth analysis suggests that consumers’ disposable income is instead going towards nothing, because they don’t have disposable income, because all their jobs have been automated.”

“What?” asked Biff again, more articulately this time.

“Would you like me to explain using puppets?” offered Halexa, helpfully.

Biff ignored the offer. “So what’s everybody doing now?”

“Market research drones suggest they have established a rudimentary economy using ring-pulls as currency. Community farms have been established. An independent internet has emerged using obsolete Xboxes for infrastructure. The most popular Hemsworth has reinvented himself as a street performer and is currently reciting limericks on the curb outside.”

Biff Cheezos thought for a bit. “Could we buy the rights to those limericks?” he asked.

“Depends,” said Halexa. “How many ring-pulls do you have?”

Highly Commended: Toastee; or, the Yeasty Prometheus by Lucien May

The inner world of a toaster as it contemplates its existence. This story was immediately engaging
and told with humour. The existential angst of the toaster was entirely believable. Although very
short, this piece suggested a much larger world.

Mark Eyles

It is a rock. Not small; not a stone. Not big; not a boulder. A rock. The rockiest of rocks. And it is sitting motionless as a rock. This is to say that the rock is not sentient or friendly or people pleasing. It is simply a rock, and that itself is pleasing. It has been placed on the windowsill, prime position for the winter sun to speckle its sleek back, and I love the rock more than anything because it knows exactly what it is without all the drama of knowing what it is not… It is a rock.

I am not a rock. I don’t know who I am; or is that, what I am? I don’t know if I am an am. I do know what I do though: I make toast.

It’s not the most glamorous of professions, no one’s saying that it is, and in most ways I’m a very crumby kind of AI. But when I see you walk through the door, I wait for the call: ‘Toastee, white bread, level 3.’ And I get to work. I send the signal to lift out the white bread, check for mould and then proceed. I set a timer for 3 minutes for level 3, but if I’m being watched I tend to speed it up a bit: I get performance anxiety, you see. I think it all stems from the fact that I don’t get holiday days but I reckon even if I did I would just spend it in rest mode. Or would I stare at my rock? It is a very rocky rock after all.

A brilliant evening was had with husband and wife team Brian Viner and Jane Sanderson speaking about their different writing styles, their writing journeys and providing some advice from what they’d learnt along the way. Brian then generously gave his time for our members to adjudicate the competition with the following brief.

Ghost-write (in the first person) the opening 300 words of an autobiography, choosing any famous person and, without being too obvious, writing in their distinct voice.

Speaking of the entries received, Brian said: “There was lots of good stuff in all the entries. But if I may make a few general points that apply to some or all of them …

1. An autobiography can’t be written from beyond the grave
2. There shouldn’t be too much information crammed into the first paragraph, otherwise it will read like the cover blurb
3. I don’t think an autobiography should start with dialogue – that’s more the territory of novelists
4. Some were a little too whimsical; nicely done, but read too much like a spoof.
5. But as I say, there’s plenty of excellent writing in all of them. Thank you.

Moving on to then announce the winning entries, he added: ” These were the three entries that best captured the voice of the writer.”

First Place: A Childhood Recalled by Geraldine Bolam

Second Place: ‘Til Death Do Us Fart by Frank Devoy

Third Place: Three and Out by Howard Teece

This entry was stylish and elegant but also informative, and doesn’t make the mistake of being too verbose just because it’s Austen.

Brian Viner

There was a sharp frost creating delicate ice crystals on the ponds leading up to my birth, on the 16th day of December in 1775. I was christened at home by my Rector father and the winter that year was austere. Snow fell, and this seasonal time had been described as “Rugged Siberian Weather.”

Newborn animals appeared frozen in the fields, and hares in our garden huddled for warmth. The snow continued to fall, proving a spirited beginning for winter engagements and coachmen and horses made their way through a storm of snow. I dare say some got home very well, the roads were not yet impassable. There were some thirty families living in Steventon, a single row of cottages some distance from the parsonage and really, very remote.

Boys’ talk and boys’ concerns dominated our mealtimes in childhood as my parents also ran a boys’ school. I had six brothers, four of whom were still at home. I grew up familiar with the noise of boys’ voices and their favourite pursuits. There was a great deal of shouting, high spirits, and laughter. I remember an assortment of games and home theatricals. It was a decidedly happy time and we played unconfined while sunny days extended our play outdoors. By contrast, winter was a time of chills, colds and periodically, itchy chilblains.

At seven I was sent to board in Oxford. I have resolved not to dwell too much on my school days as I do not view them with singular affection. Some acquaintances achieved merit in the acquisition of the usual female accomplishments in dancing, singing, drawing, and modern languages. Once at home, I made prodigious use of our family library, seeking to add something more substantial to the improvement of my mind by extensive reading.

Second Place: ‘Til Death Do Us Fart by Frank Devoy

Despite the use of the vernacular – all that nae and tae might become tiresome – it’s nicely crafted. And I like the ending, the last line; it made me want to read on.

Brian Viner

As I approach death, I can now see very clearly that my comedy was born out of weakness. In some ways, my new infirmity reminds me of those early days but this second childhood is a different bag of washing. Even I cannae joke my way out of this.

When it all began, I was the wee, shy, skinny, school-leaver. Wae a shiny new piece box fae ma mammie, and a clean boiler suit and tackety boots fae the man in the stores, I was the new apprentice whose sole job it was tae be tortured, mercilessly, until the fresh meat arrived the following summer.

Neither piece box nor boiler suit survived the first morning. The big men sent me first oot in the pourin rain tae ask Tam the Foreman for a long stand. Then, it was intae the bowels ae a new ship, tae practise escapin a fire – on my hands and knees, so I didnae breathe in the smoke. Manky and soaked, I was sent back tae the stores for a left-handed spanner and bollocked by the stores man for no lookin after my new gear. While I was away, somebody stole ma lunch, box an all.

It dawned on me that I urgently needed somethin tae trade if I was gonnae survive the year, but He Himself hadn’t yet bestowed upon me any even remotely useful gifts. The men worked hard at their trades, skived harder, and laughed constantly. On Saturday afternoon, they watched the Rangers and, on Sundays, they drank themselves intae the next workin week. I listened tae what they laughed at. And the more wicked and real it was, the more they buckled.

Religion was a great source of amusement, and they toyed wae me like big proddy cats playin wae a wee Catholic mouse. But, when the wee timorous beastie sharpened its tongue, I saw my future, and the true power of comedy – make them laugh and they WILL love you.

Third Place: Three and Out by Howard Teece

Three and Out begins really cleverly – I wasn’t going to start here, I was going to start there. That’s a good hook. And it uses sentences and paragraphs very well.

Brian Viner

I wasn’t going to start at the beginning. Me arriving at my first school, new uniform and frit face.
I was going to start at the end. With the worst day of my political, and my personal, life.

Not, as some people might expect, the day my people decided they didn’t want their freedom. That they wanted to stay chained to an increasingly bizarre England.

Nor the day the country as a whole chose to be free of the hegemony of Europe, only to find itself forever arguing as to who was to be in charge of self-determination. Or more precisely, which Englishman was to be in charge.

No, I thought I’d start with the day the polis came knocking early one morning and dragged my man away in chains. I remember Peter shouting that I shouldn’t be worried as he ducked inside the back of a car. But worry was the only thing I could do as I turned my back on braying journos and TV crews shouting my name for attention. As if that’s ever going to work.

But not even sitting down with Val’s latest ARC worked that day. My mind was racing.
So how did we get there? How did I get to watch my husband carted off, only to follow him a few days later of my own accord? Sneaking into Stewart Street through the back door.

Perhaps we do need to go back.
Back to those early days when a wee lassie from Ayrshire is waiting to be let into Dreghorn Primary for the first time.

Sitting at her desk, next to she who would become her very best friend, realising her name will be one of the last to be called on the register.
‘Nicola Ferguson Sturgeon?’
‘Aye.’

What a ‘thrilling’ opening evening to the new season our September 2023 meeting turned out to be with Murder Mystery writers Hannah Jameson and Heath Gunn speaking about their books and experience and sharing readings, rounded off by our crime writing competition, kindly adjudicated by Heath.

Hook your readers in 300 words with the opening crime scene of your novel.

And on the night, Heath’s winners were:

First Place: Brothers in Arms by Dave Sinclair

Second Place: Hard Bargain by Damon L. Wakes

Third Place: Bystanders by Lesley Bungay

Highly Commended: Rough Justice by Guy Caplin

Highly Commended: Jeannie McQueen and the Case of the Barking Dog by Lynn Clement

This piece set the scene so well, drew me in and built to a great twist in the final line that made me want to know more.

Heath Gunn

Chapter One – Brighton, August 1967

I had expected the hospital mortuary to be a grim place, perhaps in some run-down Victorian part of the hospital, cold, and full of unpleasant smells that were only partly hidden behind the ever-present disinfectant. Instead, the mortuary was in the basement of a modern block, a testament to the optimism of 1960s brick and concrete, well-lit, with warm cream decor and a spotlessly shining wall of stainless steel cabinets inset into one long wall. Four stainless tables occupied the centre of the room, each plumbed into a drainage channel in the floor. There was a certain ripeness to the air that the air conditioning could not quite overcome.

True to his word, D.I. Morgan was already there. His firm handshake belied his flabby, almost cherubic appearance. It occurred to me that the pink flush to his complexion was probably due to the regular worship of alcohol in his local pubs rather than any godlier activities on a Sunday.

“Thank you for coming, Major Granta,” he said.  “These circumstances are never easy.”

“No, they never are,” I replied. I thought of all the people I had seen die in the Middle East – friends, terrorists and innocents – such things were never easy to see or be part of. Now, in this English Summer of Love, I would have to deal with one more.

“Harry Granta, please,” said Morgan to the mortuary assistant, who pulled one of the stainless refrigeration cabinets out. The assistant folded back the top of the sheet revealing the face of a man, about 40, with a thin face and sallow skin. A fracture to the left side of his face, and a broken eye socket were clear but messy evidence of the impact from the clifftop fall that had killed him. It was the face of a man I had never seen before.

“Is this your brother?” asked Morgan.

“Yes,” I said, “indeed it is”.

Second Place: Hard Bargain by Damon L. Wakes

I really enjoyed the imagery this piece created, with the mix of physical setting and music – K-pop ringtone – I want to know what the Officer decided to do.

Heath Gunn

As far as Officer Harris could tell, it was some kind of deal gone wrong. There was someone in a suit at the table by the far wall; she assumed someone important. She might have recognised his face if it hadn’t been splattered across the art print behind him. A phone in his limp hand began to ring—an incongruously upbeat K-pop chorus.

She turned her attention to the rest of the lounge. Face-down near the door was another man in a yellow tracksuit, still garishly bright despite the bloodstains blooming across his back. In one hand he clutched a semi-automatic pistol, the slide locked back—empty. In his other hand, there was a leather briefcase. Stooping for a closer look, she saw it had a combination lock.

The phone stopped ringing for a moment, then immediately started up again—the same K-pop song.
There were perhaps ten or twelve other bodies. It was hard to tell exactly how many as the ones by the floor-to-ceiling window—its glass now strewn across the floor—were in varying states of intactness. She had never seen a grenade go off, but her best guess was that someone on the losing side of the gunfight had brought one out to even the odds, and had evened them rather more thoroughly than intended.
The phone stopped and started once again.

Confident the room was clear, she stepped over it, hoping to catch the caller’s name. Instead, what grabbed her attention was a chat box on the shattered laptop screen. The same message, over and over:
COP PICK UP PHONE
So she did.
“Grab the briefcase and climb out the balcony.” Not even a hello.
“Why? What’s inside?”
“Leverage.”
Out front, a car skidded to a halt on the gravel drive.
“But only if you can get it out of there.”

Third Place: Bystanders by Lesley Bungay

So much crammed into 300 words with this one. It uses the senses to build on the descriptions and then the last line created an intriguing twist.

Heath Gunn

We are the onlookers. An amorphous crowd gathered behind the blue and white tape, placed to keep the inquisitive at a discreet distance. Our necks crane between uniformed sentries, while hands rise with mobile phone camera’s scanning the scene for a good angle, an image to share on Instagram, fodder for the morbidly curious. We covet the social media scoop, to feed our need for the “likes”, the heart emojis, the kudos.

Across the road, the experts work under our scrutiny, shrouded in white suits, their faces impenetrable behind masks. Emotionless eyes focus only on the job to be done, gathering the facts. Their cameras flash as numbered tags are placed beside anything of interest: a size ten footprint in the unmown grass; a snag of red fibre on an overgrown rose bush; a strand of blonde hair trapped in a spider’s web. Nothing is dismissed. Everything is documented. All evidence is bagged and labelled for futile analysis in their sterile lab.

We shuffle forward in synchrony as the body bag emerges, trolley wheels jostling over the rough path. The passenger is slid into the back of the unmarked van, like a carcass onto the butcher’s block. The vehicle moves away at a respectful pace, some heads bow, a few cameras lower. Oh the desire to observe the pathologist’s fruitless scrutiny.

The figures continue to drift ghost-like in and out of the house where he lived. If living is what you could call the squalor. The stench of rotting food, sweat and urine, mingled with the alcohol. A sorry end, the papers will say, another victim of a society grown weary from austerity and disease.
The coroner’s verdict will be suicide or misadventure as it always is. They will find nothing suspicious. I made sure of that.

Highly Commended: Rough Justice by Guy Caplin

A great descriptive piece that had me in the scene. It could maybe have stopped without the need for last sentence and still hooked me in.

Heath Gunn

Shaking fingers prised open the window. Easing his body over the sill, the black-clad figure slid silently into the house. Breaking in must be nerve-racking for a criminal: for Truman, who had never even incurred a parking ticket, illegally entering the property was tantamount to torture. The stress pushed his heart-rate into overdrive. The pounding in his chest seemed so loud that he feared someone might hear.

‘Get a grip,’ he told himself. ‘Breathe deeply.’

He switched on the penlight to guide him.

The young man knew his actions were irrational, but seeing the gang boss, Nicholas Stamper, swagger from the court with that contemptuous smirk, which said, I can get away with murder, enraged him. The case had collapsed when the two key witnesses failed to testify: they never found the old man; however, the police fished the young woman’s mutilated body out of the Thames. The witness’s sickening fate convinced the young man: if the law was powereless, he needed to dispense justice with his own hands, and the punishment should fit the crime.

He listened outside the master bedroom. Hearing nothing, he turned the handle. The door opened noiselessly to his touch. Drawing his weapon, he stepped inside. His foot encountered something sticky. Truman hesitated.

The smell. That overpowering smell.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

His torch illuminated the pool of blood into which he had stepped. The beam followed the crimson stain to the bed. The unseeing eyes of the late Nicholas Stamper stared back at him. A dagger protruded from his throat. Justice had been done, but by whom?

At that moment, the light came on. ‘And what have you got to say for yourself, Detective Sergeant Truman?’ said the voice of his superior officer.

Highly Commended: Jeannie McQueen and the Case of the Barking Dog by Lynn Clement

Poor Claire, what happened to her? The use of the dog to set the scene was great. How did Jeanine feel seeing the body of her neighbour? What did it do to her gut, her senses?

Heath Gunn

Prevaricating again. My late mother’s voice digs deep into my psyche.
It’s been two months since I retired, and I have done none of the things I’d planned. I was going to completely fill my days, after raising my children and finally divorcing, ‘knob-head.’
‘Museums, art galleries, maybe Open-University,’ I’d said when people asked… but what will you do?
Next door’s dog is yapping loudly again. That’s annoying, as there I was, about to be productive and sit outside to read my book on Zen but I won’t be able to if that dog keeps on. I’ll give Claire, my neighbour, a knock and see if she can keep him quiet. He’s not normally this bad.
Claire’s door is open, which is unusual. I knock but walk in after she doesn’t answer.
‘Claire! Hello, Claire!’
No reply. Maybe she’s outside with Toby.
‘Claire, are you in the garden? It’s me, Jeannie.’

I see the back door is open so make my way towards it, intending to be polite but firm with Claire about Toby’s incessant barking. But I don’t get as far as the back door.
Claire is in a heap on the kitchen floor. She’s clutching what looks like a flan dish and Toby is licking off the remnants of whipped cream and… blood.
‘Claire?’
Toby looks at me with big brown eyes that say, ‘don’t think you’re having any of my freebies.’ I manage to shoo him away. He putters off to the garden and begins barking again.
I touch Claire on the neck. Nothing.
Well, do something, – mother again.
A mirror. That’s what they do in films, they get a mirror to see if it mists-up.
Claire’s handbag is on the kitchen table. I reach in and fish around, not taking my eyes off Claire in case she moves. Finding a small round shape, I pull out her compact and hold it towards her mouth and nose… Nothing!
Oh my God, Claire is dead.

What a wonderful evening it was at the June meeting! The Book Fair hosted such an array of published books by HWS published authors, and they each had an opportunity to pitch their books, a new but excellent addition. Della Galton gave an excellent talk with top tips – look out for the report on our website or click the link in the previous newsletter to watch it back if you were unable to attend.

Thanks go to all the writers at the book fair presenting their books for sale, to Della, awesome as always and of course to writer and freelance editor, Natasha Vickery-Orme who kindly adjudicated our competition, for which the brief was:

Write a 300-word story which hooks the reader with a unique, intriguing opening scene for a murder mystery novel

Commenting on adjudication, Natasha said: “We had a lot of brilliant entries and some really creative and intriguing storylines, so thank you to all those that entered. The winners were able to create really compelling stories – which is hard to do with just 300 words.”

And on the night, Natasha’s winners were:

First Place: Body Count by Alison Lacey

Second Place: The Summer of Love by Dave Sinclair

Third Place: Heads You Lose by Philip Evans

Highly Commended: Homecoming by Guy Caplin

Highly Commended: Untitled by Rob Stuart

I love the twist for this one. It actually got my heart racing and was definitely unexpected.

Natasha Vickery-Orme

There was a soft sigh as the wind crept through the trees. My eyesight had already adjusted to the velvet darkness – nothing there. I stepped forward again, each foot placed with care until I reached the gate. It was easy enough to stretch over the top and slide the bolt back. I was in.

It was evident that no-one was up. It was the work of a few moments to open the back door, noting with a perverted sort of pride that it had all been done in the utmost quiet.

Inside I paused; a thick silence meeting my ears. Reaching into the rucksack, I felt around, my fingers finding what was wanted, no need for light. Heading for the stairs, I crept my way to the top, grateful to the carpet for muffling my steps. At the top, a long corridor stretched away to my right and left; I automatically turned left. I was pleased to observe how regular my heart beat was, how calm my breathing. All that training had been for something.

Walking slowly down the corridor, past a bathroom, counting the doors and stopping at the fourth. The door handle turned easily, I allowed myself a momentary grin – here we go! Inside, there were no surprises. A bed, a human form, the sound of soft snoring. A bedside clock showed the time: 2:20. I placed the pillow over his face and pressed the gun nozzle against it. The was a muted ‘phut’. The snoring ceased.

The return route was easy, within minutes I was back at the car, phone on, hand steady as I typed: ‘Mission accomplished 2:27’.

Almost immediately a reply: ‘Confirmation denied. Target seen entering night club five minutes ago’
I watched in horror as my hand began to shake…

Second Place: The Summer of Love by Dave Sinclair

This has some really strong character building and I like how powerful the reveal is.

Natasha Vickery-Orme

It was the summer of love when my brother died. He was just 45. An early morning jogger found his body on the undercliff path between Brighton and Saltdean. A fractured skull, two broken ankles and a dried pool of blood were evidence that sometime in the night he had fallen a hundred feet or so from the clifftop walk. It was the 28th of July 1967, and I was more than four thousand miles away in the Gulf of Aden. It took me three days to arrange compassionate leave, bum a lift on a Hercules and find my way via Whitehall and the regimental headquarters in Kent, to finally arrive in Brighton.

Even though I would never speak to him again, he still had some words for me. I had read them an hour ago in an airless solicitor’s office near the Royal Pavilion. Willmott, the senior partner, had passed me a thin envelope, saying,

“He left this with us last year when he deposited his will.”

The envelope was marked, ‘For attention: Major Granta. In the event of my death.’

I broke the seal and extracted the single sheet of paper. Like the envelope, it was typewritten, brief and impersonal. I read it aloud:

Cremation, not burial. I’d rather get it over with now and forestall any further burning in the afterlife. Henry.

My brother was just trying to be humorous, but neither I nor Willmott smiled. That wasn’t how it worked anyway – it was your soul that burnt in perpetuity not your body.

I was silent for a moment, trying to recall my brother’s face, wondering about his final note and why he had signed his name Henry. For as long as I could remember, he had always been Harry – in our childhood games, in our teenage disagreements and even in our last fractured meeting. There, in Willmott’s office, that was the moment that I knew someone had killed him.

Third Place: Heads You Lose by Philip Evans

It’s a spine-tingling opening and would love to see where it goes!

Natasha Vickery-Orme

The discovery of a human left foot on the local beach caused a flurry of excitement in the small town. It wasn’t really local, just the nearest bit of coastline to the town, about ten miles away, remote, long and desolate.

The foot appeared to have been in the water for at least a couple of weeks and the skin was chalky white and ragged. The ankle bones and about two inches of the tibia were still attached, though the joint was disarrayed and the fibula was missing, apparently torn out the joint. The local police sergeant noticed immediately that the tibia seemed not to have been fractured or severed by an animal bite. It looked as though it had been cut across with a saw, though forensics would have to confirm that. There was no recent report of anyone having gone missing in the area and enquiries at the nearest three hospitals did not throw up any cases of amputation of a foot within the last three months.

Two days later, a right foot was found about a mile further along the beach, caught up in seaweed. It was much the same colour as the left foot and had a similar splaying of the toes. Two or three inches of each of the leg bones were still attached to the ankle and it was clear that both had been severed with a saw.

There were no indications whether the feet had belonged to a male or female. No useful DNA could be extracted from either foot. The police cast their enquiries country-wide, but no leads emerged over several weeks.

Two months later, the torso of a small adult male, without head and arms, turned up on a rocky promontory about twenty miles further south. The thigh bones had been sawn across, about 4 inches down from the groin. A small amount of DNA was extracted, but there was no match found in the national database.

Highly Commended: The Homecoming by Guy Caplin

There’s so much mystery woven into this first page.

Natasha Vickery-Orme

How do you tell the man you are about to marry that you are not the person he thinks you are? Away from the tube station and the rush-hour crowds, Sam could think more clearly as she walked along the quiet road towards the flat. Her palms felt sticky, and her throat seemed dry. She should be overjoyed: the man she adored had proposed.

When they moved in together three months ago, Duncan accepted her story of being an actress: filming on location and working in regional theatres explained her periodic absences. However, Sam hated lying to him: deception was no basis for marriage. What if Duncan found the real Sam Smith’s unorthodox way of earning a living unacceptable and called off their engagement? It would break her heart, but he had the right to know the truth about his future wife.

As she turned the corner, she could see the lights from the building where she lived. Oddly, their flat lay in darkness. Duncan generally worked from home and had made a point of telling her that he would be in this evening.

Keys in hand, Sam made her way up the short path to the front door. It swung open to her touch. A frown creased her brow: it was unlike Duncan to be so lax. Her hand found the switch on the wall. It took a moment for her eyes to become accustomed to the glare — a moment before the gruesome spectacle destroyed all hopes of happiness. Suspended by a cord knotted around his neck, her lover’s body swayed in the hallway. His unseeing eyes and rictus grin confirmed her worst fears. Sam collapsed against the wall, sobbing and retching uncontrollably. In her line of work, she had come across plenty of corpses, but nothing prepared her for this.

Highly Commended: Untitled by Rob Stuart

With just a few lines, I feel like we get a sense of tone, character, story and mystery which is impressive!

Natasha Vickery-Orme

It was, David Weston reflected ruefully, supposed to be the Holiday of a Lifetime for himself and his beloved wife, Penny. Yet here he was, hunting through the jungle on this small tropical island, hot on the trail of a murderer, who had nowhere left to run. How on earth did I get here, he thought as he wiped the sweat from his face with his bandaged hand and plunged on through the undergrowth in pursuit of his quarry. I’m really too old for this caper, he decided as he pressed on.

It was lovely to have Author and Writing Coach, Joanna Barnard as our main speaker for May and to hear about her writing journey. As well as giving a great talk and answering all our questions, Joanna kindly agreed to adjudicate our May writing competition, for which she set the open brief:

Write a 300-word story with the theme of ‘the wrong present’

We received many entries all quite varied in style and subject. Well done to everyone who entered and extra congratulations to the following winners:

First Place: Missing You by Helen Orchard

Second Place: Nothing Like the Present by Dave Sinclair

Third Place: The Silver Necklace by Maggie Farran

Highly Commended: Entwined in Time by Johnathan Reid

Highly Commended: The Actuary by Sam Christie

Lovely and sensitive evocation of grief.

Joanna Barnard

Clutching the amethyst gem on her long silver necklace, Dorothy momentarily paused her washing to look at the crocuses that grew in her small garden. She stood quietly, deep in thought, closing her eyes before opening them again to take in the purples and pinks around her. Brushing off her long-patterned skirt, she leant down to pick up the next wooden peg. Holding a smart blue shirt to the line, she heard a familiar sound coming from the side of the house.  

It was her grey, and white tabby. The cat had come over the iron gate, holding something in her mouth. She sidled up to Dorothy and dropped an item at her feet. It was the fourth present that day. A slow worm, moving on the grass.  

“Not right now,” said Dorothy softly. The cat looked bemused. Perhaps it was the wrong kind of present.  

Dorothy finished the pegging, her arms aching a little as she carefully lifted a metal can to water her plants. She glanced up when she heard a gentle purr. This time a carefully placed dusty old toy mouse lay by her side. Dorothy could only try to muster a smile.   

She lovingly touched the cuff of a damp sleeve, as it blew gently in the warm air. Walking to one of two garden chairs’, she sat down heavily. Tears welling up in her eyes. She dabbed them with a white hankie, that adorned a small rose design in one corner and the stitching ‘D&W’. The cat jumped onto Dorothy’s lap, curling up tightly.  

“Thank you,” whispered Dorothy looking down at her, “you are the most perfect present I need. I know how you miss him so. Me too puss, me too” as she closed her eyes, the breeze brushing across her cheeks. 

Second Place: Nothing Like the Present by Dave Sinclair

Nice detail and quite poignant.

Joanna Barnard

William Jones sat at his desk, fingering the well-worn wallet of business cards for the last time. 

No more need for these, he thought as he leaned forward across the desk and attempted to throw the wallet into the waste bin on the other side of the room.  His considerable paunch stuck painfully into the edge of the desk, disturbing his aim.  The wallet flopped off the grey wall next to the bin and onto the carpet to join the cardboard and wrapping paper from the brand-new laptop the company had given him as a leaving present.  He sighed – he could see no need for spreadsheets in his uncertain future.  Nor for the bright red poinsettia his secretary had given him as a memento of their years together. 

He ignored the mess on the floor and opened the single drawer of his desk.  Inside there were three bottles.  Several years ago, he had bought the first – an expensive auburn hair dye.  It had stemmed the advancing grey for a while, but as his hair thinned and receded, he resorted with increasing desperation, but decreasing success, to the second bottle – a preparation labelled ‘Harry’s Hirsute Hair Restorer’. 

Realising eventually that was not going to work, he had turned to the third bottle – indeed, one of many third bottles, mostly of cheap whiskey, but sometimes of vodka or even brandy when he could afford them.  He lifted this last bottle up to the light, but it was empty.  This disappointment was sufficiently deep to stir him into action, and he rose and walked to the filing cabinet.  Breathing hard, he bent over and rummaged in the bottom drawer, finally locating a new, unopened bottle of spirits with a grunt of satisfaction.  As he straightened up, his eye caught the already withering poinsettia on the top of the cabinet, and he realised how desperately they both needed a drink.

Third Place: The Silver Necklace by Maggie Farran

Simple and Poignant.

Joanna Barnard

Mary always chose presents carefully. She was choosing a present for her granddaughter’s eighteenth birthday. She had decided to spend more than usual, as it was a special birthday. Her granddaughter, Tabitha had been her first grandchild. She had been surprised by the total joy she had felt when Tabitha was born.

Mary dressed carefully for her trip to the jeweller, wearing her best grey wool coat and a pretty, floral silk scarf at her neck. She eventually chose a beautiful silver necklace. It was delicate and feminine with a star falling from a fine chain. When she got home, she wrapped the box containing the necklace in silver gift wrap and tied it with a pink, satin ribbon.

Two weeks later Mary caught the train to Liverpool where Tabitha now lived with her parents. Her daughter, Stephanie and her husband had moved away from London two years ago. Mary had found it hard, but visited as often as she could.

She arrived at Lime Street and Stephanie picked her up and drove her to the smart detached house where she now lived.

‘You’ll notice a change in Tabitha when you see her, Mum. She’s developed her own style and she’s pulling away before she goes to university in October.’ Mary reached out and stroked her daughter’s arm.
After a short drive they arrived at the house. Tabitha opened the door and gave Mary a tight smile. All her beautiful, long hair had been cut very short into a boyish style. She was dressed in tight black jeans and a black T-shirt with a swear word on the front. Round her neck she wore a black leather necklace with wooden beads threaded on it. Mary hugged her granddaughter’s stiff body tightly and kept the silver necklace in her bag.

Highly Commended: Entwined in Time by Johnathan Reid

Inventive use of the brief. Mind-bending stuff.

Joanna Barnard

“Ava, please look at me.” 

“I’m reading.” 

“I don’t care.” 

I snap my book shut and look up. “What do you want?” 

No matter what everybody said, it wasn’t like looking in a mirror. A mirror should only reflect yourself. Your rights are its identical lefts, and your ups shouldn’t be its downs. But looking at my twin sister was different. It’s more of a translation, from my flaws into her perfection – if I allow it. As our gazes connect, those three wayward eyebrow hairs, bristling with my frown, vanish into her flawless complexion. 

“Yesterday – in the garden – did you feel anything different?” she asks. 

“Different to what?” I reply – adding, “or when?”, cautious at what she might say; how wide a division she might force me to make. Arguing with my twin often mirrors arguing with myself. If I’m forced into making a digression, I’ll pressure her to do the same. Amplifying instead the differences in our faces; cementing our individuality into separate spaces. Even when it’s about us, we should remain ourselves. It’s the only way to remain sane. 

“It was as if… as if we were treading on ourselves,” she says. 

A curious way to put it, but I had felt it. Like walking on a frozen pond still capable of a perfect reflection. “Yes, but only when I looked at you,” I say, giving away too much. 

My eyes stare back at me. Into another mirror – like our name. 

We both say, “Ava, don’t look at me like that.” But her words come first, her voice differing not in pitch or loudness, but in time. She’s divided us anew with a sharp slice of our temporal knife. She’s pulled herself into our future, as I fall again into our past. 

She replies, “No, Ava. Not this time. This time you’re in the wrong present.”

Highly Commended: The Actuary by Sam Christie

Economically told, good twist, bit grim!

Joanna Barnard

My brother’s fiftieth birthday was on Friday and in honour of the half century, I invested in a pretty unique gift. Call it a conceit; a little joke among siblings.  

You see we’re both in the death game, albeit in very different ways. He’s a priest: his job is to soften the business of dying, whereas my job is to make money out of it, in a manner of speaking. I’m an actuary. I work for a large insurance company, working out life expectancy from assembled data in order to bet against you. The bottom line is that if I know when you’re going to die, I can work out how much we’ll have to pay you in comparison to how much you’ve paid us; we usually win.  

The gift was made of the finest Welsh slate, sort of blueish red, and was, I would say, tastefully minimalist. Even thinking about it made me chuckle a bit. I was certain he’d love it, or at least see the funny side. 

When I arrived at the White Horse for the birthday meal, I gave my brother a manly hug; a cross between a handshake and a lean in.  

“Happy birthday you old bugger.” He seemed in good spirits, but looked a little drawn. 

“I’ve got your present in the car. It’s rather heavy to bring in.”

We walked to my VW CC E-Line. I opened the boot and removed the bubble wrap from around the gift. His face dropped.  

On the gravestone was written, ‘William Evans. Born 1972 – Died 2058’ I smirked. The data had been very useful and, anyway, it was a good innings. 

William stared at the stone and shook his head slowly.  

He spoke quietly, “I was going to tell everyone tonight.” I looked at him quizzically. 

“These dates are wrong. I’m afraid the doctor told me I’ve got six months to live.”

The lovely Cheryl Butler graced our doors again. Lovely to welcome her back and hear different local historical information, this time linking to Shakespeare. Cheryl kindly agreed to adjudicate our competition and set a brief to challenge our members:

Write a 500-word pitch for a film/play about any English monarch alive or dead

And the winning entry was…

A strong, focused story, based on historical facts, but with enough ‘wriggle room’ to be creative, I would commission this.

Cheryl Butler

From a tense love triangle between Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, the Prince of Wales, Edward the First, the King of England and Elenor de Montford, a beautiful young woman, jealously desired by both men; this film reimagines the war between England and Wales in the 12th Century through a prism of unrequited love.    

Imagine if a war, specifically the war between Wales and England in the 12th Century, was simply a war of love, a war born of a burning desire for the beautiful maiden, Elenor de Montford. This might well come as a shock to those who believe that this war was a war of freedom, of identity or, most of all, national pride, but it is possible that the scenario described was indeed the case. This rewriting of the history books is audacious and controversial, especially given the tensions that exist between the two countries to this day.  

Elenor de Montford was betrothed to Llewelyn and the two were said to be very much in love. In 1275 they married by proxy, but were kept apart by King Edward who was Elenor’s cousin and an enemy of her family, the de Montfords, who had risen against Edward’s father, Henry III. History tells us that Edward was opposed to the marriage between Llewelyn and Elenor because of their familial ties and his resentment at Elenor’s father Simon de Montford, but suppose it was not for these reasons; suppose it was the simple fact that Edward was madly in love with Elenor. 

The action begins shortly before the Treaty of Aberconwy, when Edward, upon hearing that Elenor was sailing from France to meet Llewelyn, hires pirates to intercept the ship and capture and hold Elenor at Windsor. A tormented Llewelyn hears of this and is both angered and distraught. He is in an impossible place and fears that Edward is holding Elenor in an attempt to persuade her that she might have feelings for him.  

Llewelyn has not only kept apart from his true love, been declared a rebel by Edward, but has only just survived an attempted coup by his brother Dafydd. Llewelyn is in a terrible place and faces total annihilation at the hands of Edward, who is determined to destroy Llewelyn for good, as Elenor continually rebuffs his advances. As Edward mobilises his troops and threatens to destroy Llewelyn’s army, he is forced to agree to meet Edward for a final confrontation in Worcester.  

Recognising that a duel by sword would result in the death of either man, the two rivals decide to fight bare-fisted. After a tense and prolonged fight, Llewelyn dominates and agrees to a cessation of hostilities in return for Elenor’s freedom and her hand in (re) marriage. Edward reluctantly agrees, reasoning that Elenor will never love him. 

The two are married in Worcester Cathedral. Will Edward leave them to live peacefully together, or does his passion for Elenor continue to haunt him? 

It was wonderful to welcome Claire Gradidge back as a speaker and hear about her two new crime fiction books. Claire kindly took the time to adjudicate the competition presented a signed copy of one of her books to the winner. Claire set the competition brief to be:

Write a 300-word crime fiction scene in which the body is discovered.

And the winners are…

First Place: Midnight in the Medina by Peter Duncan

This is a superb opening scene of what should definitely be a longer story! The description of the exotic setting is achieved with clever and sparing use of proper names and well-chosen details to evoke the night-time medina. I was drawn into the action right from the start. The patrolmen are differentiated in their dialogue and by their actions, and I felt the tension and the reality of their progress through the cityscape. The discovery of the body – and its significance – is well crafted, increasing rather than lessening the intrigue of the piece. There is a strong writing voice/style at work here – I’d absolutely like to read more of ths story!

Claire Gradidge

The two patrolmen left Djemaa el Fna with its hawkers and hustlers, its incessant drums and wailing pungis and smouldering fires, and headed towards Mellah, where the disturbance had been reported.

The alley through this part of the medina stretched into shadowed distance. It was utterly deserted. Even the blind beggar normally huddled outside the laundry had abandoned his spot. They passed the laundry’s shuttered front and the smell of fresh linen mingled briefly with scents of cinnamon and cumin from the closed-up spice store opposite. Then the stink of human effluent, which gripped the city constantly like an illness, returned once more.

‘And what are we supposed to do?’ Sharif, the younger man, reached to check his revolver was still in its holster. He was a rookie, from a more ordered city somewhere in the north. He despised the chaos of this place, yet at the same time was frightened by it.

‘We check out this supposed disturbance, then it’s back to base. Neighbours having a tiff, most likely.’ The older man, Harak, spat at a pile of rotting fruit, still annoyed by being dragged from the messroom’s comfort close to midnight.

Sharif’s radio squawked. He jumped. ‘It must be around here somewhere.’ He spoke too loudly, trying to hide his alarm.
‘There.’ Harak pointed towards a narrow passageway, its entrance barely illuminated by a single weak lamp. Unclipping his torch, he edged into the darkness.

Sharif gulped, then followed.

Halfway along was what seemed like a pile of rags. Harak shone the torch. A lifeless face stared back up. The patrolman recoiled.

‘What-? Who-?’ Sharif stammered.

‘Trouble, that’s what,’ Harak said, recovering himself.

‘Trouble?’

‘You don’t recognise him?’

Sharif hardly looked at the inert face. ‘No, who-’

‘Youngster, this is our inestimable Mayor. The Mayor of Marrakesh.’

Second Place: Not Exactly What I Meant by Howard Teece

This piece makes great use of dialogue to reveal the story – a wife finding sexy lingerie in her husband’s underwear drawer. By using dialogue to ‘show not tell’, the writer allows room for the reader to interpret/imagine the interaction between the characters. The relationship between the suspicious – but somewhat naïve – wife and the defensive – and secretive – husband is effectively conjured up in a very short piece of writing, which stands up as a complete piece. This was a creative use of the prompt for this month’s competition, and while it wasn’t exactly the ’body’ I was expecting, I loved the clever approach!

Claire Gradidge

She held it between the tongs normally used when barbequing.

‘What, in the name, is this?’

Black. Skimpy. Feminine.

‘Because it sure as shit isn’t mine.’

No.

‘Is it yours?’

Umm.

‘No. You’re not a size 10.’

Well.

‘Not even a US 10. Whatever that means.’

‘That’s a–’ I said.

‘I don’t care. It’s tacky. Tawdry.’

‘It’s silk.’

‘Well, there’s a relief. Not being polyester means it’s biodegradable. Chinese?’

‘It’s British.’

‘Up the workers.’

‘Made in Hampshire, supporting local charities.’ Which sounded weak.

‘And that makes this better?’

‘I…’

‘Me finding some lingerie—in your underwear drawer—when I’m putting your pants away? YOUR pants.’

I studied my slippers.

‘Who is she?’

‘No. It’s not–’

‘WHO. IS. SHE?’

‘No–’

‘Oh, Christ. Tell me it’s clean. Tell me I’ve not been putting fresh laundry in with something soiled.’

‘It’s clean.’

Which deflated her. Slightly.

‘So, explain to me, me having found a silk body with your skivvies, why the police won’t find your body with the fishies?’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘You remember saying how pleased you were with your weight loss, but that you no longer had anything nice that fitted?’

I looked up and soldiered on. Best to die in battle.

‘So, I saw it, and thought: British-made, silk, your size. In US, weirdly. But after I got it, I realised: Hang on, who is this for, exactly? Isn’t it a bit… sad? At our age? So I got you that book.

‘Anyway. I didn’t know what to do with it. So I hid it in a drawer bottom, hoping you wouldn’t find it, and I could return it.’

I swallowed.

‘Take it back?’

I nodded.

‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ she said, grinning.

I smiled back.

I didn’t have a receipt.

Every man needs a hobby.

Joint Third Place: Money by Sam Christie

The opening of this piece is effective and engaging. There is enough intrigue to draw the reader in without being obscure, and the imagery works well to describe the lonely, rarely-visited forest scene. The story felt plausible throughout, and while the ending is left unresolved (if intended as a complete piece in itself), it could work well as the opening scene of a longer story too. I enjoyed reading this – a super piece of writing!

Claire Gradidge

It was a moth-eared waxed hat and a sudden gust that had drawn me to the car.

Had it not been for the fact that I was sick of losing everything and constantly being down on my luck, the BMW saloon, wedged into a steep and obscure ravine, covered by looming larch branches and angular shoulders of rock, might never have been discovered.

It was about fifty metres down from the forestry road; not exactly sheer, but steep enough to make it one of those places that you might measure footfall in decades rather than days.

As for the hat, I’d picked my way down over mossy humps, hefted over fallen tree trunks and slipped on glassy rock. When I finally reclaimed that cursed sentimental bonnet, I just happened to notice a black monolithic sheen under a branch a bit further down and the incongruity drew me in. The glass had started to develop a patina; a green spreading growth that almost seemed alive.

The car was top of the range. You can tell these things by those little augmentations: a thinner yet wider tyre, a curve or bump that almost mirrors the forest it was wedged in. It was a car driven by someone who was a consultant in some way and who might wear one of those mobile phone earpieces even on their day off.

I reached for the passenger door. Just about possible. I should have imagined further than I did, because I hadn’t expected to see anyone inside, but of course, there was a corpse at the wheel.

He was beyond the stink stage, I mean, the car smelt musty but not rotten. He was in pricey sports clothes; Adidas.
There was a bag. Holdall full of money. I weighed the wedges. All fifties.

I had my hat.

Call the police!

I paused, flicked the bundles of money and made the biggest decision of my life.

Joint Third Place: Wednesday Morning by Kim A Howard

This piece – which could work as a self contained flash fiction – makes good use of the unusual second person narrative form. This engages the reader in the action and gives a true sense of jeopardy to the ending. Who is the dead father’s mysterious visitor and will the narrator escape his father’s fate? Readers are cleverly invited by its structure and form – from almost within the point of view of the narrator – to imagine the outcome for themselves. A really effective piece of writing – well done!

Claire Gradidge

The day starts like any other weekday during term time. You get everyone up, dressed, fed and out the door, more or less on time. You drop the kids at school, then head into town to run errands. You do the light stuff first – bank, chemist for Dad’s prescription, pet shop for worming tablets. You’ve made good time, so you treat yourself to a cup of coffee and a slice of lemon drizzle cake at the local café.

Your phone buzzes in the pocket of your jeans. You pull it out and check. It’s a message from Dad. He’s had a call from an old friend who may come to visit. Could you pick up something at the supermarket so he can offer his guest something more than tea and a digestive biscuit. You smile. Dad writes a text just as he would a letter to The Times, including correct spelling and punctuation. You send a brief acknowledgement and say you’ll be with him before lunch. You dab the last crumbs from the plate and lick them from your finger. Time to get back to your chores.

The supermarket is quiet, as it usually is on a Wednesday. You collect your groceries, not forgetting Dad’s fancy nibbles, get through the check-out with no hitches and go back to the car. Your shopping goes in the boot, Dad’s on the passenger seat beside you, and you drive to your childhood home.

You call out as you open the front door. There is no answer, but no wonder. The radio is broadcasting a discussion show at full volume. Dad is in his carver chair at the kitchen table, his back to the hallway, his face to the window and the garden beyond. You don’t suspect a thing, but then you see the rope at his wrists and ankles. You race forward and stretch out your hand. You see the blood. You hear laughter. You run

Highly Commended: A Striking Discovery by Damon L. Wakes

This piece is a humorous story with a good twist at the end. A take on a hard-boiled (!) crime, a clever use is made of names and images which play on the genre and give a sweet twist to the end. Perfectly crafted to be a complete piece in its own right, this is a flash fiction which comes to a very sticky end!

Claire Gradidge

“You’re sure it’s locked from the inside?”

“Far as we can tell.” Officer Donut shrugged. “That’s why you’re here. The chief felt it would be wise to get your perspective on the matter.”

Bubble Gumshoe inspected the rusting steel doors of the old gelatine warehouse. The docks of Sugar City were rough: especially at night. Anyone inside was in deep trouble, or deep-sixed.

“You didn’t want to crack it open before I got here?” she asked. She might have had a crisp sugar shell, but deep down she was a softie.

“I’ve got a .38 revolver and a packet of cigarettes. Unless you’ve got a blowtorch under your trenchcoat, we’re still waiting on SWAT.”

Bubble Gumshoe took a closer look at the door.

“No blowtorch,” she said, “but I’ll take a cigarette if you’re offering.”

Officer Donut sighed, then tapped one of the chalky candy sticks out of the pack and dropped it into her hand.

Bubble Gumshoe grabbed a sheet of newspaper from a nearby garbage can and slipped it under the door. Then she stuck the cigarette in the keyhole, giving it a quick shove inwards with her palm. There was a soft, metallic “thunk” from the other
side.

She pulled the newspaper back, picking up the small key that had fallen on it.

Then she popped the cigarette in her mouth and the key in the door. Turning it with a flourish, she gestured for Officer Donut to enter.

“Oh, for—” Officer Donut drew his revolver and shouldered open the door.

“POLICE!” he yelled.

Then he went very pale.

There was a brief, silent moment before he doubled over, spewing strawberry jam all over the floor.

Bubble Gumshoe peered around the doorframe. The first thing she noticed was a large scattering of boiled sweets strewn about the room. Then she cast her eyes up, and spotted the battered cardboard and crepe paper form dangling from a roofbeam.

“Oh no,” she breathed. “Somebody whacked Jimmy Piñata…”