Category: Competition Entry

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.

By Wendy Falla

SECOND PLACE in May Competition

1562 The Court of Elizabeth I 

     Queen Elizabeth and King Eric’s of Sweden’s respective secretaries of state, desperate to unite dynasties and nations, have spent two years corresponding. Exasperated, Elizabeth personally wrote to Eric, requesting that if his intentions were genuine, he visit her in person.

      Ladies-in-waiting and Lord Burghley’s observers occupy the viewing platform of ‘The Standing’, a hunting lodge of Henry VIII’s design. Blanche Parry and Helena Snakenborg, the eyes and ears of their mistress, complicit in her whims, exchange nervous glances.  Horses’ hooves thrum towards Chingford Chase. Elizabeth and Robert Dudley emerge from the forest ahead of the main hunting party at a canter, urging their horses to a gallop and disappearing through the distant treeline. In a clearing, Elizabeth dismounts, her gloves and gown stained with blood, she’s breathless, exhilarated by adrenaline,

     ‘Did you see pale Eric turn away? I heard him retch,’

     ‘He didn’t expect you to slit the stag’s throat yourself,’ Dudley takes the reigns, leading both horses, ‘even less to gouge into its chest!’ They have arrived at an annexe, Little Standing, half a mile from the larger lodge. Dudley secures the horses to a tree, continues, ‘reaching into the beast with your hand, presenting it to him!’

      ‘Still beating! What more symbolic for my suitor than a heart from a Hart?’ Elizabeth smiles mischievously,

     ‘Come, we have mere moments,’ Elizabeth pushes the door open, takes his hand,

     ‘Moments I live for,’ Dudley follows her inside.

                                            ——————————–

      The rest of the hunting party come into view at The Standing. Courtiers murmur; where is the Queen? Blanche moves closer to Helena,

      ‘They play a dangerous game,’ she says, ‘Elizabeth’s letters to King Eric are fair words and false promises. Burghley is losing patience.’

     ‘And Dudley could lose his head!’ Helena replies.

Judges’ Comments; I loved this story of the love affair between Queen Elizabeth I and Robert Dudley. The way that Elizabeth puts off yet another of her suitors by her behaviour and the way she buys herself time to snatch a moment in private with Dudley is expertly done. I could feel the excitement of the moment and the chemistry between them. 

By Shirley Jackson

FIRST PLACE in May Competition

No Blacks, no dogs, no Irish.

The first time she saw the sign it shocked her. Now she expects it. Margaret has tried to hide her Irish accent as best she can, but still had the door slammed in her face more than once. One more address to try before she’s exhausted her search.

‘Can I ‘elp ya love,’ asks the woman, peering round the half-opened door, cigarette ash dropping off the Woodbine hanging from her bottom lip.

Margaret scans the window and door for the tell-tale exclusion, but for once, it’s absent.  Even so, she tries her best to disguise the last vestiges of her accent.

‘I hope you can. I need a room.’

‘Well, you’d better come in then.’

*

Margaret is greeted with Carol, arms akimbo.

            ‘’ave you ‘eard what your lot ‘ave done now?’

            Margaret has had other concerns than listening to the news recently, though she’s aware the IRA have been stepping up their bombing campaign. She assumes that’s what Carol is referring to, having gone on about the Irish and the IRA in recent days, as if they are synonymous. 

            ‘They’ve only gone and bombed a pub in Woolwich,’ declares Carol, as if it’s entirely Margaret’s fault. ‘‘An’ I’ve been thinking. I’m not sure I can risk you staying ‘ere much longer. It’s getting too dangerous.’

            At first, Margaret thinks Carol means too dangerous for her and isn’t sure how that computes, but then she gets it. Carol means it’s too dangerous for Carol. As if all Irish girls are in cahoots with the IRA. Honestly. She doesn’t know where to start, so she doesn’t bother.

            ‘When would you like me out?’

            ‘As soon as you can, love. You understand how it is. By the end of the week tops.’

Judges Comments; Although the events depicted in this story are within living memory I thought this story did a terrific job of capturing the essence of that time and the impact that the IRA’s activities had on ordinary people both Irish and English. Again, I thought the opening lines were extremely evocative and, sadly, I remember words such as these.

By Michael Hopkins

THIRD PLACE in April Competition

“Number twenty-three,” said the loudspeaker.

Nobody moved.

In the silence, Kev leaned towards Trish and whispered, “That’s the third twenty-three.”

Trish kept her eyes on the shut consulting room door.  “No, that was twenty-two repeated with less confidence.”

“I’m sure she said twenty-three.”

“She did, but she didn’t mean it.”

Kev nodded, as if this confirmed everything he believed about the decline of the nation.  “I got here at eight forty.”

Trish turned at last.  “Luxury.  I was here at eight ten.  There was already a man in front of me coughing like a Victorian orphan.”

Kev glanced at the posters.

CHECK YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE.

TRY THE NHS APP.

BE KIND TO RECEPTION STAFF.

“You tried the app?”

“It told me to contact my GP.”

“This is your GP.”

“Yes.  Welcome to the future.”

Across the room, a child was licking the arm of a plastic chair.  His mother was watching a video about air fryers at full volume.

Kev lowered his voice.  “What are you in for?”

Trish sniffed.  “I don’t discuss my organs with strangers.”

“Fair enough.  Mine’s a rash.”

She looked him up and down.  “Where?”

“I’m not showing you in a waiting room.”

“That’s a pity.  It would improve morale.”

The loudspeaker crackled again, as though the signal was coming from much further away than Reception.  “Number seventeen.”

Kev frowned.  “We’ve gone backwards.”

“That’s the system resetting itself,” said Trish.  “Like the government.”

At Reception, Sandra was typing with the resigned fury of a woman under siege.  Somewhere behind the frosted glass, a printer screamed.

Then every light in the room flickered blue.  The doors slid open.  Three tall aliens stepped into Reception.  Sandra looked up from her screen.

“You’ll need to ring tomorrow at eight,” she said.  “We don’t take walk-ins.”

By Maggie Farran

SECOND PLACE in April Competition

I was watching TV with my Mum, curled up on our lumpy, grey Dralon sofa, my head against the Saphire blue cushion, the only bit of colour in the room.

‘Mum, I’d like to go to the youth club tomorrow night, the one at the church hall.’

My Mum looked at me with a shrewd look, her eyebrows raised and her lips thin.

‘There’s no way you’re going to the youth club, young lady. You’re far too young. Another couple of years and I’ll think about it.’

‘But, Mum, all my friends are going. I’ll be the only one stuck at home on a Saturday night.’

‘Well, too bad, you’re not going and that’s the end of it.’

I was quiet. I knew my Mum well enough to give her time to reconsider. She got out her knitting and began to clatter away in her annoying fashion.

Neither of us was concentrating on the television, until there was a newsflash

John Kennedy, the American President, has been shot in Dallas

We both sat bolt upright. I liked John Kennedy. He was handsome and had a beautiful wife and two little children.

‘How could that happen in America, Mum? I thought they had all kinds of cameras and security.’

Mum looked shocked. ‘I don’t know, love. Just let’s pray he’ll be alright.’

We watched in silence, as the television reporter picked up the phone at his desk. I shall never forget his words.

We regret to announce, that President Kennedy is dead.

I moved over to Mum and cuddled up to her. I didn’t feel thirteen anymore. I felt like a child.

Mum squeezed my shoulder gently and I could see tears trickling down her pink cheeks.

By Francesco Sarti

FIRST PLACE in April Competition

‘I’ll have the waffle, thank you.’

‘No he won’t.’

Margaret quickly scans today’s specials.

‘Black coffee for him. Tea for me.’ She reaches for the sugar bags and hands them over to the waiter together with the menu.

‘Jesus,’ Paul says. ‘I thought the point of the checks was to make me live longer, not make me wish I was dead.’

‘When will you take your health seriously?’

‘Mental health is health.’

She ignores him. Behind her back, a 5-year-old is not touching his waffles.

‘Look at that. I can smell the whipped cream from here.’

‘You’re not a child, and we’re not celebrating.’

‘My score was pretty high.’

‘You’re talking about your fucking cholesterol.’

Margaret never swears. That’s enough to make Paul freeze.

She sighs, looking out the window, far into the city.

‘You think I want to see a tiny paramedic struggle to load your limp body into an ambulance again?’

Paul’s cheeks and ears burn. His wedding ring is stuck in place, buried under decades of bad diet. He doesn’t ask where Margaret’s ring is.

‘Maggie,’ he says, but then stops. She’s weeping.

‘It doesn’t mean I forgive you,’ she says. ‘But listen carefully because I’m not going to repeat myself.’

A blinding flash wipes away her words, and squint at the horizon. Where the city was just a moment ago, they see a gigantic mushroom cloud.

The families around them scream and run in all directions, but they’re too old and tired and shocked to move.

Paul gasps. Margaret doesn’t. Slowly, deliberately, she grabs the waffles from the table behind her, now deserted, and shoves them under Paul’s chin.

‘To be fair, your score was pretty high,’ she says, and they both laugh.

Judges Comments: I chose this as the winner because I thought the dialogue between the two characters was believable and fun. The unexpected ending certainly was about as unexpected as it gets, and I liked how twisted their reaction was to it.

By M J White

HIGHLY COMMENDED in March Competition

I’m forty years old and hiding in a cupboard. I must be mad…What am I doing?

Ever since I was a child, I’ve believed in the tooth fairy. Even as an adult, I still place a lost tooth under my pillow to find it has vanished in the morning, and I believe now more than ever—the tooth fairy is real.

My daughter lost her first tooth today, and through the crack in the cupboard door, I can see her bedsheets slowly rising and falling. The light in the hallway casts a long shadow across the room, slicing it in half. Then I hear a tapping sound. A clink, clink, like the chattering of teeth coming up the stairs, and then the sound of something scraping along the wooden floor. I freeze. The room suddenly feels cold, and a stench crawls in, like the rotten breath of a rabid animal. Something is the room now. It stays in the shadowed half, dragging its weight slumbenly towards my daughter’s bed.

The figure is humanoid, its body glistens white. It enters the light, a body made of human teeth. I feel sick. Every inch is an enamel nightmare. It’s hideous. I fling open the door, and the creature turns on me. It has no eyes, no nose, and a huge tongue made up of more teeth that flicks out from a mouth hole. ‘God, what are you?’ It holds up a teeth-studded hand, and an invisible power pulls me forward. I try to resist, but it’s too strong. A toothy arm wraps around my waist. His hand of tiny, white shields hovers over my face. I can feel my teeth being sucked out from my gums, one by one they go, pop, pop, pop.

Judge’s Comments: Visceral descriptions and a truly chilling image. The choice of subject and approach felt like an innovative choice.

Please click the link to view the piece of art that inspired the piece –

A life sized sculpture made entirely of human teeth : r/pics

By Eleanor Marsden

HIGHLY COMMENDED in March Competition

The Pasha’s  price for me was a mere telescope, a brassy contraption that promised the gift of seeing through the heavens. That was the moment in which everyone stopped seeing me.  

I had fully lost my sight by the time I was sold for a trinket. I often wonder if I did it to myself, looked inwards a little too often until my best visions were merely those in my mind. I couldn’t watch my body age and decay, see the pity and contempt in the eyes of those who had been my devotees when I glowed like ripe wheat. No, it was easier to turn inwards, re-treading my memories like the temple mosaics – deliberate, full of colour, the stories revealed step-by-step.

Perhaps it was a blessing that I couldn’t see the Englishman. I certainly couldn’t tell you what the he saw in me that made him wish to buy me from the Pasha. Perhaps it was still the myth of me: even then, I was a legend reduced to a curiosity. The once-fabled Dimitra! Perhaps the Englishman had to find out for himself if the whispers of my past were true. Perhaps he wanted to show me off. Or save me; it helps me, to cling on to that hope.

The Englishman left me here. I don’t believe he ever returned once he had placed me in my mausoleum.  The museum is quiet, full of shadows and dreams. I haven’t looked upon a field or the sky for centuries. Nobody wanted to look at me as the Englishman thought they might, not even as a curiosity – I don’t need eyes to know that they all walk blankly by.  I am invisible, petrified in my body with a thousand memories.  It doesn’t take a telescope to see that.

Judge’s Comments: Felt like Dimitra had such a fully realised inner voice and real strength of character. Some lovely turns of phrase.

Please click on the link to view the piece of art that inspired the piece –

https://fitzmuseum.cam.ac.uk/explore-our-collection/highlights/GR11865

By Michael Hopkins

THIRD PLACE in March Competition

It was raining steadily, and the parking in Chaldon was dreadful.  He had come for a committee meeting, his shoes already wet, but he was grateful for the promise of tea in a building that looked too small for eternity.  Before the kettle boiled, someone suggested they see the Doom painting.

The church was colder than he expected.  The stone held the chill of centuries.  To see the painting properly, he had to stand on the pew.  The image rose above him, narrow and crowded, its dark red and yellow ochres still vivid against the plaster.  Figures climbed a ladder toward light; others were pulled downward, limbs twisted, mouths open.  Judgement was not gentle.  It was decisive.

He had not known it had once been hidden.  Whitewashed over, its terrors erased, some figures hacked away beyond recovery.  Devils lost.  Human forms broken.  Only later had colour re-emerged from beneath the lime, stubborn as a bruise beneath skin, the red returning where it had no right to remain.  Even then, it had needed cleaning, conserving, hands patient enough to save what remained from damp and neglect.

He stayed longer than he meant to, aware of his breath clouding faintly in the air.  The lines had softened with time.  Faces blurred.  The certainty the painting once proclaimed had thinned, yet the image endured.  Eight hundred years earlier, someone had stood where he now stood, close enough to the plaster to touch it, grinding pigment and fixing this vision of consequence onto a west wall.  Others, centuries later, had believed enough to uncover it again.

When he stepped down from the pew, the meeting would begin as planned: welcome, prayer, business.  The rain still tapped at the windows.  But beneath the faded ladder of souls, judgement felt less like threat and more like memory; and survival, quietly, like grace.

Judge’s Comments: Great specificity. The writing felt self-assured and conveyed a sense of place, as well as capturing the process of making art and conservation.

Inspired by Doom painting mural, Church of St Peter and St Paul, Chaldon, Surrey