Category: Competition Entry

By Anne Eckersley

HIGHLY COMMENDED in the June Competition.

‘The trouble with research is that there are always gaps.’

‘Rearrange the facts until they make sense, then make your own deductions about the gaps.’

‘That risks turning non-fiction into fiction, doesn’t it?’

‘Creative non-fiction, perhaps. Just double check everything you discover.’

‘What if the evidence comes from a compulsive liar?’

‘That’s harsh.’

‘Really? Take Alfonso’s claim, “I was born in Toronto in one of the worst blizzards ever known in that country and have been in a blizzard ever since.” A phrase he repeated often in interviews. Yet all reports describe the weather on the 9th April 1889 as being unseasonably warm.’

‘He might’ve been lied to about the blizzard himself.’

‘He should’ve questioned it.’

‘It fitted his narrative not to.’

‘He was claiming to be a journalist at the time.’

‘Are you saying he wasn’t?’

‘He’d written two letters to the paper and sold them his life story.’

‘Journalists have been known to stretch the truth.’

‘Alfonso stretched truth so hard it was on the verge of snapping. Take his apparently “inherited” volatile, Irish temper for instance. The only things he inherited from his parents, were a love of alcohol and of spending money. The Bilking cab drivers, wife beating and gambling, can probably be blamed his father, according to various records.’

‘He doesn’t mention those?’

‘He seems proud of his drinking and gambling. And witnesses at his murder trial confirm he was “reeking of alcohol,” “excitable,” “nervous” even “agitated”.’

‘And the violence?’

‘One of the gaps.’

‘So what began as a family history has turned into a story of one mixed-up individual with . . .’

‘A lot of gaps.’

‘Well remember research can give you the plot, places and characters, but make of the gaps whatever you will. The history was his. The story is yours to tell.’

Judges’ Comments: This was a great piece, with flowing dialogue, although it was a tad confusing. Just a few lines of exposition to fix the scene and explain who the characters were would have elevated this piece to excellent.

By Michael Hopkins

THIRD PLACE in the June Competition

Jacob Astin existed for exactly one line.

I found him in a baptism register, neat as a fact: Walter Astin, born 5 November 1852, son of Emma and Jacob Astin.  The ink did not tremble.  The page did not blush.  The curate, or whoever held the pen, had given Walter what the world expected him to have: a father.

Emma was easy enough to find, once I knew how to ask for her.  Emma Astin, born in Southowram in February 1828.  Astin was not a married name borrowed from Jacob.  It was hers already, inherited from her own father, carried from one record to the next through service, lodging, parish, survival.  She left traces because women like Emma usually did, though never enough, and never in their own words.

Jacob did not.

No birth.  No marriage.  No census.  No burial.  No appearance in any other register.  No brother, cousin, husband, widower, or vanished labourer with the right shape.  Every search that should have made him real made him thinner, until at last he was only what he had always been: a name beside a baby.

That was when my research stopped being a hunt and became a question.

Did Emma invent him?  Did the curate know, and choose kindness instead of questions?  Or did some borrowed man stand at the font, lending his name for the length of a prayer?

I shall never know.  The register gives Walter water, Emma cover, and Jacob ink.  Nothing more.

I thought I had found a lie. Then I sat with it a little longer, and thought of my great-great-great-grandmother: twenty-four years old, with a child to baptise and a world that counted shame more carefully than hunger.

Jacob Astin never lived.  But for one morning, in Bradford, he sheltered them both.

Judges’ Comments: I thought this piece was well written and ultimately quite moving. It was also thought-provoking, and made me wonder how many lies have been printed on birth and death and marriage certificates through the ages.

By Philip Evans

SECOND PLACE in the June competition.

“What d’ya mean, he’s not your father? Of course he is.  We’re twins, remember?  If he’s not your father, he isn’t mine either.”

“Not necessarily.  We’re not identical twins.”

“So what?  The two eggs must have been fertilised at the same time, by the same man, and that man was Dad.”

“No, maybe two different men.” 

“Are you implying that Mum might have shagged another man, right after Dad?  That’s disgusting!”

 “Fertilisation doesn’t occur immediately after fucking, you know, and the two eggs could have been released even days apart.  So, it didn’t have to be straight after or before Dad.”

“But Mum was married to Dad.  She wouldn’t have had it off with another bloke, at least not so close in time.  They stayed married, so Dad obviously didn’t have any concerns.”

“Well, he might never have suspected it.  But I’ve wondered about it for a long time.  We’re quite different.  You’re short and dark like Mum and Dad.  Look at me, a foot taller and with a pale complexion. No-one in the family photos has looked like me for several generations.” 

“Did you ever ask Mum about it?”

“Yes, in a general way, before she was seriously ill.  Of course, she just waved the matter away. I couldn’t ask her directly whether she had sex with another man around the same time as Dad.” 

“Well, now she’s gone, and you’re not going to get anything from Dad in his condition.”

“No, but I’ve had DNA tests done.”

“You what?  Hell’s teeth!”

“Quite right! I swabbed Dad’s toothbrush after I cleaned his teeth and sent it with a swab of my own for testing.  You’re not going to like this, but I also sent a swab from your toothbrush, for validation.”

“What, without telling me? I can’t believe this!  You bastard!”

“Yes, well, you’re right about that, too!  The results showed a match for you and Dad, but none at all for him and me.” 

Judges’ Comments: This piece had some great dialogue and a good twist, and
it was written with confidence. It perhaps needed a touch of exposition to
bring the scene more vividly to life.

By Johnathan Reid

FIRST PLACE in the June Competition

After signing the ledger with a false name, Mara followed the librarian down the basement staircase.

With a jangle of keys, he unlocked the imposing door to Archive Room No. 1 and beckoned her in. “It’s rare for someone to ask about Flood records,” he said. “Most visitors research dead relatives.”

“I’m more interested in what survived,” she replied, the smell of mildew and burnt paper filling her nostrils.

The librarian halted by a narrow gap between the stacks. “Yes, here we are.” A smaller key unlocked cabinet H7. A shelf of oven-dried journals greeted her, relics recovered from the Flood thirty years ago; the night Mara’s mother vanished.

The librarian indicated a small desk. “Fifteen minutes. Await my return.” Their measured steps faded away.

Mara worked quickly, grabbing the first journal and photographing each page, feeding the images into her tablet. Fragments flashed before her eyes:

The sirens sounded before the water rose.

The sluice gates were ordered to be opened.

No evidence of an accident.

Her heart beat faster. The inquiry had blamed an unprecedented tide. Her mother, a city engineer, had publicly disagreed days before disappearing.

Another entry scrolled by: Elena Lessing refused to sign.

Mara’s hand froze. Her mother’s name.

Different footsteps approached, but she ignored them, scanning faster: cross-referencing dates with maps she’d stolen from municipal offices, every document another jigsaw piece. The Flood had risen street by street, yet spared wealthier neighbourhoods in a wave of deliberate, controlled destruction.

Suddenly, the lights were extinguished and a voice hissed in the darkness: “You should’ve left history buried.”

Mara backed against the cabinet, clutching her tablet. It glowed with more text: If anything happens, look beneath the Observatory.

Her mother had guessed her fate.

Hope rose within Mara despite fear tightening her throat. Finally, the evidence she sought of her mother’s untimely fate.

But the proof beneath the abandoned Observatory remained dangerous enough to kill again.

The footsteps drew closer.

Judges’ Comments: I loved this piece – the pacing was done very well, it had
believable dialogue, and a thrilling atmosphere, all very hard to achieve in
just 300 words. Above all, I wanted to read on! And the sinister librarian
character clinched it for me.

By Ro Devile

HIGHLY COMMENDED in May Competition

Milly burst into the kitchen breathlessly, her cheeks flushed.

“They tried to kill the King, did you hear?”

I froze, barely daring to breathe, there was so much I needed to ask, and yet I dared not speak.

Cook looked up from the dough she was kneading.

“What’s that dear? Catch your breath and tell us slowly.”

Milly took a deep breath and made a visible effort to collect her thoughts.

“The Catholics,” she said, “a certain Guy Fawkes. They tried to blow up the King, but they failed. Thanks be to God. And now they are arrested.”

Cook had stopped her kneading now.

“Praise be to God” she said. “That’s treason, that is” she continued knowledgeably, “they will surely die.”

I still hadn’t moved. Thoughts of mother and father filled my head, and I formed a silent prayer.

“Holy Mother, please keep them safe.”

I was concentrating so hard, that I had not noticed that the room had fallen silent.

“You alright pet?” Cook asked, “You look dreadfully pale.”

Her hard eyes drilled into me, belying her gentle tone.

For a moment I knew not what to say, but then the Blessed Virgin came to my aid and I felt calm again.

“I was just imagining what would have happened if they had succeeded,” I said, my voice cracking.

Her hard eyes bored into me a moment longer, but then her face crumpled into a relieved smile.

“Yes child, it truly is a blessed sign from God, and proof that our religion is the only true faith,” she said, turning back to her dough with finality.

 “Now hurry along dear, those fires will not light themselves.”

            “Yes Cook” I said, as I fled the room.

My fingers ached to cross myself, but I dared not do so.

Judges’ Comments; I thought this story did a really good job of capturing the jeopardy a Catholic serving girl must have felt on hearing the news about the failure of the Gunpowder Plot. The tension between trying to keep to her faith but not giving her allegiance away was really well written.

By Michael Hopkins

THIRD PLACE in May Competition

By the fifth day of the attack, even the bread tasted of brick.

Anne carried the pail with both hands along the gallery, stepping round glass, splintered frames, and a chair smashed for firewood.  The great house had always seemed too strong to fall.  Its walls were thick, its cellars deep, and all summer the men had said the Parliament men might batter, starve, and curse, but Basing House would stand for the King.

Now the cannon did not stop.

Each shot shook lime from the ceiling.  Smoke drifted where no hearth was lit.  Somewhere below, a woman was praying aloud, not for triumph now, but for mercy.  Anne had heard that change in the voices before she saw it in their faces.

At the nursery door she set down the pail and looked through the crack.  Mistress’s two boys sat under the table, still in their nightshirts though it was near noon, the elder with his arm round the younger as if he were the parent and not eight years old.  On the bed lay the little velvet coat set out for Sunday, grey with dust.  She had pressed that coat herself, three Sundays ago, when pressing things still seemed to matter.

Behind her, boots pounded on the stair.  A man cried that the Roundheads were in the courtyard.  Another shouted for powder.  Then, lower and sharper, came the order Anne had never thought to hear: “Hide what you can.”

She stood with her hand on the latch, listening to the house learn the truth at last.  Not that it was beaten.  Only that it could be taken.

Anne lifted the pail again and went in smiling, because the boys were watching, and servants do not weep before children.

Judges’ Comments; I found this story about the siege of Basing House very evocative. I loved the opening line – “By the fifth day of the attack, even the bread tasted of dust.” This story captured for me what it must have felt like to be trapped in Basing House under constant bombardment from Cromwell’s guns and knowing that the end is in sight.