Hampshire Writers' Society

Category: Competitions

  • May 2018 Competition Results – Katie Espiner Adjudication

    The May competition was judged by Katie Espiner, Managing Director of Orion Publishing.

    The brief for this month’s competition was:

    The first three hundred words of a novel for general women’s fiction

    And the winners were:

    First place: Seaheart by Louise Morrish

    Second place: A Beautiful Noise by Sam Collins

    Third place: Scrapbooking by Annie Gray

    Highly commended: Marrying Mother by Rosie Travers

    Highly commended: Lucky Lizzie by George Rodger

    First place: Seaheart by Louise Morrish

    “The writer does an excellent job of evoking both time and place in just a few paragraphs, also setting up a clear dilemma for the narrator and a real sense of intrigue for the reader. Really well done and tricky to manage in only 300 words.”

    The baby sleeps at last, swaddled in the wicker basket, snug as an acorn tucked within a fold of earth. I cannot tear my eyes from the fragile curve of his head, the seashell whorl of his perfect ear. Though he slumbers, his tiny fingers grip my thumb with surprising strength, pulling at my heart.

    An oak sapling requires no mother to nurse it, I tell myself, but still the tree must have light and soil and space in which to thrive. How can I hope that the Sisters of Charity, burdened with so many poor, unwanted children, will give my son the care he needs?

    But I must have faith.

    An icy wind rattles a loose windowpane and I rise to draw the drapes. Across the city, church bells toll, heralding the fast approaching night. Through the misted glass I watch the lamplighter making his way along the street. As he coaxes each lamp to life, I draw my shawl tighter, searching the flood of shadowed strangers hurrying home. But none possess John’s limping gait.

    At the table, I light a candle and contemplate the items before me; an empty sachet stitched from a scrap of muslin, two dozen corked bottles filled with dried herbs I gathered in the summer, and lastly, but most importantly, the book. Though barely the size of my hand, the herbal is as solid as the chunks of drift wood smouldering in the hearth. Each rough-edged page is covered in dense script, and as I peer at the crabbed writing in the sallow candlelight, I breathe in a complex, comforting aroma of herbs and spices; the smell of my childhood. The herbal once belonged to my mother, and my grandmother before that; a treasury of curses and cures, passed down the female line.

    The charm I seek for my son must keep him safe until, God willing, I return.

    My eyes hunt out the first herb.

    Dill: for protection.

    And so it begins.

    Second place: A Beautiful Noise by Sam Collins

    “The writer has a lovely turn of phrase, and the reader is drawn in to the scene brilliantly – we want to know more about Pip straight away.”

    The backfire echoed through Pip’s breastbone and he could still feel the tiny vibrations pulsing his body.  An unwelcome electricity, but not entirely unusual these days when he spent much of his time feeling as if he was plugged into a socket.  The daily low-level buzz through his muscles, the slight ache in his chest, the nagging doubt whether he really could control the movement of his limbs.

    Pip stared down at his clenched fists and for a moment studied each finger as it uncurled from the lawnmower handlebars.  If he concentrated hard enough he could persuade himself that the slow release of tension was deliberate and invest enough significance in that to reassure him he was in control.  Perhaps then he would be able to breathe sufficient calm to deal with this crazy woman coming towards him waving a pencil case and a wooden spoon.

    His life right this moment.  Tragedy and Farce.

    ‘Getting there Pip dear!’  Marilyn Harper called over the thunderous roar of the mower’s engine.  ‘Much better than yesterday, a few more hours and I’m sure we’ll be approaching satisfactory.’

    It had been like this for two days, Mrs Harper standing on the sidelines of her front garden drop-kicking disapproval.  For the last hour or so her insistent commands had been doing battle with a spirited counter attack by that awful man from the Council,  prowling up and down the embankment in front of the house measuring wind speeds, scribbling in his notebook and insisting on quiet.   The whole village just seemed to be full of ‘men from the Council’ lately, and Pip despaired, yet again, what on earth was the matter with this place?  Why did they have to make such a bloody fuss about everything?  And, yet again, he had no idea what he was doing coming back to a place like this.

    Until he reminded himself that choice was a luxury he had not yet earned.

    Third place: Scrapbooking by Annie Gray

    “There’s a terrific sense of place here, and a clear hook to keep the pages turning.”

    Dee smeared a generous amount of superglue in a large cross on the back of the photo and pressed it against the lounge room wall. This was the last room and her arms ached with stretching around  five bedrooms, two bathrooms, study and halls. Montages were now fixed to every wall: her precious babies, holiday snaps from here in Australia and the UK, barbecues on the beach at Christmas. Despite the aircon thrumming at full power, sweat was damp in her hair.  She would not miss the heat.

    Hefting up the last box, Dee kicked open the door into the garden, causing a flock of cockatoos to scream as one black cloud into the sky. As she tipped the contents of the box into the bin, she caught flashes of faces as they tumbled from torn albums. Her daughter with the “my little pony” backpack – first day at Kindy, together feeding the crocodiles in Queensland, her younger self smiling in a wedding meringue of a dress,  gatherings with The Family….

    She slammed the lid down and stared up at the windows on the top floor, all open with flynet ripped – to allow every redback and huntsman spider, bird or beast to enter. Not one cup, chair or bed left inside – shelled out.

    “My home”, said Dee, pressing her fingers against the warm ochre wall.

    Almost as an afterthought, she lit the fire in the dry grass of her garden – then drove away.

    * * *

    Sitting in their London flat, Emma watched the photos load onto his Facebook page, not his fake page but the real one with so many friends. As she reached for her mobile, she noticed her hands were trembling. A text from her sister – finally.

    “What do you mean you’re on your way back?”, she gasped, “No Dee, I’ve booked a flight out – to you – tonight!”

    Highly commended: Marrying Mother by Rosie Travers

    “A great mother/daughter dynamic is introduced in just a few lines, which many readers will find very relatable!”

    I thought I’d trained my mother not to phone after 10.30 pm. She might not need her beauty sleep but I certainly did.

    It wasn’t a total surprise to be disturbed by the familiar ring tone. It was morning in San Diego – The Majestic Oceans would have just docked.  Pearl Gates was back on terra firma and in range of a satellite signal. It was inevitable that she would call. The lateness of the hour would have little resonance when she was bursting to the brim with Latin American anecdotes.

    This particular cruise had been purely recreational. No need for me to act as chaperone to ensure she delivered her lecture schedule and subsequent sales pitch. In addition, eight weeks was far too long for me to be away from the office. Pearl Gates had two novellas due at her publishers before Christmas and so far she hadn’t dictated a word of either of them.  Instead I’d been regurgitating a couple of previous plotlines, hoping her critics wouldn’t complain too much about the recurring themes.

    Not that it would worry my mother two hoots if they did. With nearly sixty bestselling novels under her belt she could afford to be blasé. She had a very loyal fan-base. There was comfort in the familiar. Pearl’s readers didn’t want surprises.

    The phone continued to vibrate on the nightstand. The downside of not answering would be that it would continue to ring throughout the night. If I turned my phone off, she would call my brother, or even worse, rouse a neighbour.

    I braced myself and picked up the phone. ‘Hi Mum, how was it? How was South America?’

    She was as effusive as ever. ‘I’ve had a whale of time. Absolutely delightful, darling, but listen, you’ll never guess what…’

    Highly commended: Lucky Lizzie by George Rodger

    “The writer sensitively conjures the scene and the switch from past to present is handled beautifully.”

    When she was four years old, Lizzie Brayshaw pushed her hand through some diamond-mesh fencing and into a tiger’s mouth. This tiger was no man-eater. Only half-grown, it had been transported from Lusaka Zoo, where they couldn’t afford to feed it. It lived in an enclosure the size of four tennis courts abutting the back of the farmhouse in Zambia where Lizzie’s family were visiting for a barbecue. She was pulled away before the astonished tiger realised that it was enjoying the taste of the warm blood that was trickling into its mouth.

    They were beyond lucky in that Kitwe hospital hosted two Cuban microsurgeons on site that month, working on a Medical Diplomacy Aid Project. They lifted her hand from the bucket of disinfectant where it had been submerged during the headlong drive into town and stitched the wound with Harley Street precision before sending her home with an interesting scar and a lifelong story to tell.

    * * *

    Thirty years later and living in England, Elizabeth Bourne rubbed the faded scar on her wrist and watched her sons playing on the lawn through the open French windows. The lawn stretched down to the river, a hundred yards away. There was a background drone; the gardener manoeuvring the drive-on lawnmower around the trees that dotted the grounds. Andrew and Jack were up from boarding school. They were kicking a ball around and shouting but the mower’s engine dampened the noise.

    She tried to concentrate on the novel she was reading but eventually put it down and surveyed the panelled drawing-room where she was sitting. For the daughter of an expatriate coppermineworker, she hadn’t done badly at all. After the tiger incident, she’d been christened “Lucky Lizzie” by her parents. Years later, when she’d landed the very eligible Metals Trader, Michael Bourne, following a blind date, she’d begun to believe the mythology herself.

    Now she noticed idly that the mower had stopped and the boys’ clamour had suddenly ceased.

  • January 2018 Competition Results – Robin Iles adjudication

    Robin Iles, who works for Hampshire Cultural Trust as Venues and Learning Manager, kindly agreed to judge our January competition. Given his extensive history knowledge he was well-suited to adjudicate this month’s competition:

    Write a fictitious scene based on an historical event

    On making his decision, Robin said: “I really enjoyed reading all the competition entries. What a hard job to choose between them!”

    Robin’s adjudication was as follows:

    First Place: Damon L. Wakes – One Small Step

    Second Place: Amanda McCarthy – All in a Day’s Work

    Third Place: Maggie Farran – Jack

    Highly Commended: Phyllis Bennett – The Maid of Shaw

    Highly Commended: Barbara Needham – Changing Habits

    Jan2018winners
    L to R: Barbara Needham, Phyllis Bennett, Robin Iles, Damon Wakes and Amanda McCarthy

    First Place: One Small Step by Damon L. Wakes

    “I really enjoyed the way the author played with the well-known conspiracy theory that the moon landing was faked, and a realisation by Nixon that they’d have to go to the moon after all, in a scene filled with humour.”

    “That’s one small step for man…one giant leap for mankind.”

    “Aaaaaand cut. Neil, the line was ‘one small step for a man,’ but that works too.”

    Armstrong popped his helmet off. “Are you sure? I can take another shot at it if…”

    “No, it’s fine. A minor slip-up here and there will add verisimilitude.” Kubrick took a drag from his cigarette.

    “So…that’s it? We’re done?”

    “Yes,” Kubrick sighed. “All done.”

    “Not a moment too soon!” Nixon stormed in. Again. A similar interruption had rendered the scene of Buzz with the rocket-boots completely unusable. “This production is way over budget!”

    “Well,” said Kubrick, “the set had to be a perfect reconstruction of a specific lunar landscape. Also, we needed very particular lighting to mimic the Sun’s unfiltered rays. And there was the trouble we had reducing the studio’s gravity to 16% normal. Still, it’s done now. I’ll splice in this footage and you can have it on air by the weekend.”

    “Not quite, Mr. President.” Nixon’s aide bounced over, wielding a clipboard. “I’m afraid we’ll still have to actually launch a rocket: the hoax would be pretty obvious if we didn’t.”

    “Well.” Nixon waved a hand. “We’ll send something up.”

    “The rocket will also have to actually touch down on the moon, to produce the expected landing site. Plus we’ll need to develop a remotely operated machine capable of deploying and positioning a photoreflector: the Soviets are planning something similar. Also, we’ll have to take soil samples. And those are going to have to make it back here somehow.”

    Nixon mopped his brow. “How much money are we saving by faking this, again?”

    “Ooh.” The aide winced as he checked his clipboard. “We’re not.”

    There was an awkward silence.

    “I still get paid, right?” asked Kubrick.

    Second Place:  All in a Day’s Work by Amanda McCarthy

    “I liked the way the story of the preparations for the execution of Queen Ann Boleyn is told through the eyes of a worker at the Tower who is just rather annoyed at all the extra work.”

    It’s all very well, but nobody cares how much extra work something like this creates.

    All the sawdust to clear up, as if I haven’t got enough to do. Extra men to keep in line, soldiers coming later.

    And I hardly slept a wink last night, what will all the hammering and swearing.

    I’ve had the Keeper of the Ravens in here, riled up because he has found some dead birds. Bad omen he says. It’s true when we were piling up all the straw we found a couple more dead ones. But by the end of this business nobody’s going to be counting dead ravens.

    When you think that it’s only three years since the same parties were here before, different sort of occasion of course, very different rooms to get ready for them then. Nothing was too much trouble. No finery too great. No comforts denied. I was busy then with swags and ribbons, flags and garlands.

    Different story now, keep everything in the shadows. Her ladies were asking to see daylight, not her, she didn’t ask, but I said “It’s more than my job’s worth”.

    The usual bloke is a bit miffed of course. Well this is a bit of a speciality of his. Now there’s this stranger come specially from France. Handy with a sword they say. I’ll have to take him his beer in a minute. The sun’s coming up on the river, things will get moving any time now.

    Sounds like the carpenters have finished, hope it’s good and strong. Of course it will all have to come down again afterwards. Nice bit of firewood. On the other hand, it might be better to keep it stored, just in case we have to do anything like this ever again.

    Third Place: Jack by Maggie Farran

    “They say everyone remembers where they were when they heard JFK was shot. I thought this scene cleverly imagined the many thoughts passing through the mind of Jackie Kennedy as she sat beside her dying husband on that day.”

    ‘Jack, Jack, can you hear me? I love you, Jack.’

    I stare at the bright red blood stains splattered down my strawberry pink suit like a painting by Jackson Pollock. Jack is silent. I cradle his head in my lap. I cover the hole made by the bullet. I try to hold his brains inside his head. If I press hard enough I can keep him safe. I know this is not true. Deep inside I know that he is dead. I am a widow and I’m only thirty-four. I think of my two children, Caroline and John, safe in the White House. They are too young to be without a father. I think of my baby, Patrick, who lived such a short life. I felt that my life had ended then, back in August, when he died. I’ve tried to keep going for the sake of Jack and the children. I’ve only been half alive for the last few months. It was a struggle for me to escort Jack on this campaign, but I knew how important it was for his career.

    My beautiful red roses lay crushed on the seat. I think of how much Jack has hurt me in the past. I adored him and he did love me I’m sure of that. He was incapable of being faithful. I never felt he belonged to me except now with his poor wounded head in my lap when for a moment he is mine alone. Clint Hill, our secret service agent places his jacket over Jack’s head and I give him to someone else for the last time.

    We reach the hospital and Jack is pronounced dead. I glance down at my suit stained with the blood from my precious Jack. I’m going to wear it with pride.

    Highly Commended: The Maid of Shaw by Phyllis Bennett

    “I enjoyed this tale of a girl driven to end a war by trying to kill the King, and it made me want to find out more about the history of Shaw House during the English Civil War.”

    ‘Kill the King – never! ‘Tis not against the King I fight, but for the King and Commons’ Right.’

    ‘That is but a battle cry, Dickon, and we have had over many of them. You fought the King at Newbury but a year ago, and are like to fight him again within the next few days. What will it all achieve, but more blood and brains spilt, more widows and orphans left to starve? But if the very head and fount of our troubles be cut off, then peace would return to the land.’

    Dickon stared at Moll, wondering if her grief had crazed her and how she had managed to find him in the encampment. She was a hoyting maid to be sure.

    Moll saw that the case was hopeless. ‘Well let’s not quarrel. See, I have brought you bread and wine.’ She watched him swig the bottle. ‘I’ve been studying the King’s musketeers billeted at Mr Dolman’s house all day, and warrant I can load a musket as well as you now.’

    Before Dickon could stop her, Moll seized his equipment from the pile. ‘See,’ she laughed, ‘am I not the very model of a musketeer?’

    Dickon did not reply. He was already snoring gently. Moll smiled and tipped the rest of the wine on to the grass.

    Back at Shaw House, Moll eased open the little door to the kitchen garden. The guards, who had enjoyed her hospitality earlier, were also sleeping soundly. She settled down to await the King’s morning stroll, but at dawn it started to rain heavily.

    He would not come now and soon the guards would recover from the sleeping
    draught. Then she saw the pale face of the King at an upper window. Hastily she took aim and fired.

    Highly Commended: Changing Habits by Barbara Needham

    “I liked the way the massive changes brought about by the Dissolution of the Monasteries are reflected in one monk’s memory of the day the commissioners came and his reflections on where he is now.”

    Years later it is still a recurring nightmare: sounds of approaching horsemen, loud menacing voices … and finally the destruction of everything I held dear.

    I was working in the physic garden after Mass, when a score of rough-looking men thundered in, laughing and jeering.

    ‘Who are they?’ whispered Brother Andrew. ‘What have they come for?’

    ‘Let’s creep round to the gatehouse and see what’s going on.’

    Lord Cromwell’s commissioners had visited our priory months earlier, probing, sneering, threatening, but we never imagined it could actually happen.

    The swarthy man in charge shouted orders, ‘ Round up the senior canons.’

    Appalled, we saw the burly ruffians lock up our leaders in the prior’s house and charge into the church. We couldn’t understand what was happening at first. Raucous voices were yelling, ‘Down with the Pope!’ and ‘Long live King Henry.’

    Brother Andrew went pale. ‘I can’t believe it. They’re the smashing the statues of the saints.’

    ‘Look, they’re bringing out the great silver candlesticks.’

    ‘And those men are carrying the altar cross … and our chalice.’

    We watched aghast, as precious, holy things were tossed carelessly into a wagon.

    *                              *                                  *

    I am Brother John no more, simply John Clerk who works for an apothecary.

    I could not bear to visit Mottisfont now. They tell me the priory is unrecognisable. The king gave it to Lord Sandys, who is converting it into a Tudor mansion.

    There is no-one left in the village to care for the sick and the poor. No priest to shrive the dying. No singing of the ancient psalms in praise of God.

    I often wake in the night in a hot sweat, crying out to Our Lady to help us.

    She does not answer.

    My pillow is bitter with tears.

    .

     

     

     

  • December 2017 Competition Results – Cecily O’Neill adjudication

    Cecily O’Neill, writer, dramaturg and author of several influential books on drama education was our adjudicator for the Jane Austen themed December meeting. Having brought some of Austen’s most startling characters to life in her play collections inspired by the Juvenilia, she was perfect to judge our entries this month.

    Cecily’s adjudication was as follows:

    First Place: Phyllis Bennett – Captain Muncaster’s Legacy

    Second Place: Jo James – A Perfect Gentleman

    Third Place: Wendy Fitzgerald – Common Knowledge

    Highly Commended: Miriam Coley – Dance of Change

    Highly Commended: Angela Chadwick – A Sign of the Times

    P1080049
    Cecily O’Neill (far left) with some of our winners, L to R: Angela Chadwick, Miriam Coley and Jo James


    First Place: Captain Muncaster’s Legacy by Phyllis Bennett

    “This encounter was very ably written. A backstory – with appropriate historical references – was cleverly included and tension arose through a brief misunderstanding. Interesting future developments were hinted at.”

    Captain Muncaster’s Legacy

    Hebe wished she did not see Dick’s face so clearly as Lord Melchester bent over her hand.

    ‘I have long desired your acquaintance,’ he said.

    ‘I trust you will not be disappointed by the reality, Sir’, she replied.

    ‘Far from it. Do you care to dance?’

    ‘There is such a crush now, that I fear for my toes, and I really must find my mother and sister. They will be thinking me quite lost.’

    Lord Melchester was not to be deflected. ‘I promised your mother that I would take care of you. We are after all bound together by the greatest sacrifice that a man can make and –’

    ‘I have always thought’, said Hebe desperately, ‘that a ball is a perfect confection of art and artifice and its gossamer perfection crushed by seriousness of any kind.’

    ‘My dear, I beg but a few minutes. I would have called upon you before, but for the seriousness of my wounds, and must speak to you of Richard before I return to the Peninsula campaign.’

    He steered Hebe gently but firmly into an alcove, where they were screened from the dancers and handed her into a seat. He remained standing and gazed down into her face for a moment.

    ‘You remind me very much of your brother,’ he said. He sacrificed his life to save me and I would devote the rest of mine to the happiness of those whom he loved. As you know, I am a widower – no, I am not such a cradle snatcher as you fear, child – but perhaps you did not know that I have a son. He was at Eton with Richard. I think you might deal well together. Would you consent to his calling on you on his next shore leave?’


    Second Place:     A Perfect Gentleman by Jo James

    “A very original and imaginative scene. The dialogue was convincingly of the period. An interesting plot possibility opens only to dissolve when we discover that Miss Austen’s perfect dancing partner exists only in her imagination.”

    ‘You dance most gracefully, Miss Austen.’

    ‘You are kind, Sir; I believe I dance only tolerably. You have arrived recently in Bath?’

    ‘Yes, my mother is unwell. We have come so she may take the waters.’

    ‘I trust she rallies.’

    ‘Alas, she does not. The leeches grow fat on her pale blood while she becomes weaker by the day. But, excuse me, Miss Austen; I fear I have distressed you.’

    ‘No, indeed! I think only of how you must suffer.’

    ‘I confess I find great comfort in reading. Do you like to read?’

    ‘I do, Sir, although I’ve heard it said one can be too fond of books, that reading addles the brain.’

    ‘You must not listen to such nonsense, Miss Austen. I have been wondering if I might prevail on you to advise on furnishing the library at Worthington. But I see you are surprised! You cannot yet be acquainted with the fact that I recently had the good fortune to inherit the property. Worthington is not so very far from Chawton.’

    ‘No, indeed. It is but three miles.’

    ‘I wonder, when you return home, if you, and your family, would do me the honour of visiting. The lake walks are quite splendid in the spring. But, I see Mrs Austen; she appears quite agitated. I think she would have your attention.’

    ‘Yes, I believe she means for us to leave.’

    ‘So early? Perhaps your mother tires.’

    ‘She does not tire. She is pained that her daughters have been passed over for the likes of Louisa Milton and Lydia Blythe.’

    ‘You puzzle me, Miss Austen, for I have danced only with you.’

    ‘She cannot see you, Sir.’

    ‘Your mother’s eyesight is poor?’

    ‘No, but since you live solely in my imagination, it is only I who can take pleasure in your acquaintance. Mama will not approve; I have not the smallest hope of it. She deeply regrets my fanciful inventions. She fears I will never marry.’


    Third Place:     Common Knowledge by Wendy Fitzgerald

     “This piece swiftly creates a social setting and an interesting heroine – a bookish, plain girl, courted by a rich man who is thought to be in need of a wife. Can we believe him? Clearly complications are about to develop…”

    Those overheard words burned her cheeks …

    ‘Not like her sister, is she?  She was quite the toast of last Season.’

    ‘Oh no, too small and plain.  A veritable blue-stocking too, I’ve heard.  Quite a hop-out-of-kin!’

    … but if she begged go home, Mama would be cross.

    ‘Lady Alice?  Our dance I believe?’

    ‘Your Lordship; perhaps you would you excuse me?  I am a little too overheated for another set.’

    ‘Perhaps some air on the terrace may help,’ he demurred.  ‘Come.’

    She put a small unwilling hand on his impeccably attired arm, accompanying him out onto the terrace.  Coloured lanterns bobbed gaily against the inky darkness of the gardens beyond; it was cool and peaceful.

    ‘You do not enjoy yourself then?’  Was that amusement in his usually clipped tones?

    ‘I am not so fond of balls,’ she countered.

    ‘So how does the Lady Alice prefer to spend her time?’

    She flushed.  ‘You are making fun of me, I know.’

    ‘Indeed not.  I have scant love for them either.  My question was sincere.’

    She looked down at her feet.

    ‘I like books, my lord; museums and … and science.  It is common knowledge I believe.’

    ‘Ah; so you have let the old tabbies’ prattle upset you.  But some men like a bookish woman.’

    ‘Now you are teasing me.’

    ‘You think I do not mean it?  That feather-brains, like your sister, are more appealing?  Now you wrong me.’

    ‘But … she was a success.’

    ‘Well, if that is what you want, then tomorrow you will drive with me in the park and I will make you a success.  After all, am I not ‘rich’ and ‘in need of a wife’?  We can confound the gossips together.’

    But would he still respect her?  She edged a look at him from under her lashes.  He was an interesting man.

    ‘Perhaps I’d like that,’ she said.


    Highly Commended:     Dance of Change by Miriam Coley

     “The scene and characters are quickly established and the dialogue is well handled. An interesting future is suggested but perhaps not the one the heroine, and the readers, expected.”
    “You are looking well, Miss Lavinia.”  Arthur Fitzpatrick says, leading Lavinia onto the dance floor.  She scans the room, Arthur is heading for the farthest corner.  There will be a brief few minutes of opportunity; waiting.  The musicians are warming up.

    “You too, Mr Fitzpatrick.  The Atlantic Ocean breezes must have suited you.”

    “You mean I am red and sun-peeled, but thank you Miss Lavinia.  And thank you too for your many letters.  I read and treasure them.”

    “I hope I did not bore you.”

    “No.  Tales of home lifted my heart as I sat under the savage sky or did battle in the markets…  I did not mean to say that, rather I meant to introduce a new theme; that of change.”

    Lavinia wonders what has changed.  Her feelings, not at all. Except perhaps a growing impatience, surely a proposal could not be too far in the future?  She holds her face expectantly, her finger tips in their white lace gloves resting on the back of Arthur’s freckled hand.

    “In your letters I found much to admire.  You compel me, like a compass needle finding its lode stone.  But one thing has changed.  I can no longer see my future within the market of commerce where human beings are sold like cattle.  No, I have dedicated myself to the struggle to end it, and will be a pamphleteer.  And Miss Lavinia, if you would honour me by being my muse and letter writer, I would be the happiest man alive.”

    “But your allowance, and your profit from the plantation in Antigua?”

    “I cannot take it.  But we will be on the side of right, standing with the angels.”

    Miss Lavinia studies Arthur’s face.  A long, low note sounds from the strings in the consort.  The dance of change begins.


    Highly Commended:     A Sign of the Times by Angela Chadwick

    “The two contrasting characters are effectively sketched in and their profoundly opposing views produce some powerful dialogue. There is no place for romance in this strongly political piece.”

    Mary looked up with interest as Mrs Marchmount appeared dragging a tall, dark, young
    man along. This one had promise. He had hair, teeth and walked unassisted.

    ‘Oh Mary, my dear! This is the nephew of my sister’s second husband’s cousin (twice
    removed), Mr Philpot. He is just back from the West Indies where has extensive plantations! Poor soul, he knows practically no-one here. I would think it a kindness were you to talk to him whilst I am gone!’

    Mary smiled and offered her hand. ‘The West Indies! How exotic! What tales you must have to tell! Tell me, Mr Philpot, were you there to emancipate your slaves after the
    recommendation of the great orator, Mr Wilberforce?’

    ‘Ah Miss Lee! That would be doing my slaves a great disservice. They are like helpless
    children and would not long survive were I to set them free. They do much better under my strong regulation and discipline.’

    ‘Indeed. They seem to manage well enough in their own countries!’

    ‘A common misconception,’ Mr Philpot shook his head. ‘My suppliers tell me had they not
    had the kindness to buy these slaves they would have been killed in their barbaric cultures.’

    ‘A kindness, surely, compared to enslaving them, and their children and their children’s
    children, generation upon generation, to eternity. After all, here in our own great country, all men are free and if your slaves were ever to set just one foot on British soil, all shackles would fall away. What is right and proper in Britain, must also be right and proper in all our territories. Or they are not truly British!’

    Mr Philpot nodded and moved away. Mary reflected that she would rather have a man who was bent on the outside than one who was bent on the inside.

  • November 2017 Competition results – Mitchell Symons’ adjudication

    Adjudicating our November competition was our main speaker for the evening, Mitchell Symons, writer broadcaster and journalist.

    Mitchell found the stories interesting and said it was hard to pick just five.

    The adjudication was as follows:

    First Place: Jordan Dean Ezekude  – The Phoenix And The Butterfly

    Second Place: Maggie Farran – Revenge Is Sweet

    Third Place: Peter Hitchen – Every Dog Has Its Day

    Highly Commended: Colin Johnson – A Stitch In Time

    Highly Commended: Damon L. Wakes – Do Unto Others

    ipp
    Speaker and Adjudicator, Mitchell Symons, with 2nd Place award winner, Maggie Farran

    First Place:The Phoenix and the Butterfly, by Jordan Dean Ezekude

    “This was the only real story and it really answered the brief. It was so good that I found myself wondering whether it was actually a real fable.”

    Long ago, on an ancient island in the far east, there lived two guardians blessed by the sky and sea. The first guardian was the brave Phoenix of the Sun who would shine his light of day for everyone. The second guardian was the gentle Butterfly of the Moon who would help the stars glow and the flowers bloom. They were close friends, watching over the island every day. But they didn’t always get along, so the legends say. The Phoenix was short-tempered especially at the sight of crime while the Butterfly was timid and hated seeing humans fight.

    One fateful day, while defending the animals in the woods, the Butterfly was wounded by hunters up to no good. “How dare you hurt my friend!” roared the Phoenix enraged. To punish the hunters, he set their entire village ablaze. But not only were the hunters caught in the flames; so were the innocent children and every husband and dame. “What have I done?” the Phoenix tearfully gasped before burning himself out and becoming a pile of ash. Having lost her best friend, the Butterfly cried a rainfall to put out the village fire once and for all.

    The flames were gone and the village was safe once more. The hunters were deeply sorry for all the damage they caused. They swore that they would never hunt animals again. Instead of hunting animals, they would treat them like friends. “I forgive you,” said the kind Butterfly as she smiled. So did the Phoenix who was born again and alive. Thus the humans and animals started working together as friends. And there hasn’t been another village fire since then. Thus the Phoenix and the Butterfly kept this lesson in mind: and eye for an eye makes the world go blind.

    Second Place: Revenge is Sweet, by Maggie Farran

    “The best written of all the entries.”

    She picked up his shirt from the floor where he had dropped it the night before. It reeked of ‘Angel’ perfume. She examined it closely. There was bright red lipstick smudged across the collar. She shook with anger. Who did he think he was to betray her like this and then leave the evidence on their bedroom floor? She had suspected something was going on for a while. Now she had proof.

    Angrily she gathered up all his white work shirts and shoved them into the gaping mouth of the washing machine. She rifled through her underwear drawer until she found her red satin bra, the one he had liked so much. It was exquisite, a delicate mixture of red satin and lace. He had bought it for her for Christmas last year from La Perla. It had been wrapped in black tissue paper inside a La Perla gift box. This was the bra that used to turn him on. This was the one he used to so enjoy unfastening.

    She pushed the bra into the heart of the shirts until the bright red was hidden. The boiling hot water whirled and teased those pure white shirts until they blushed. The beautiful bra bled painful tears into the white cotton.  When the cycle was finished she opened the porthole. The pale pink shirts gave her an embarrassed stare. The scarlet bra gazed at her without a hint of shame.

    Third Place: Every Dog has its Day, by Peter Hitchen

    “Also really well written and which, of all the entries, made me want to read more.”

    She’d only nipped out for Bill’s lucky dip so hadn’t bothered with make-up, choosing instead to slip on a pair of sunglasses to hide the black eye.  Now, as the car bounced back along the potholed track towards their static caravan, she wondered if she was just imagining that things didn’t seem quite normal.  Kenny was going frantic at the window.  Bill would never have let him bark like that, the dog wasn’t even allowed in the living room.  And Bill hadn’t said he was going out, and he wouldn’t have gone out anyway, he’d already been soaked on his way back from his morning walk.

    When she opened the car door the dog yammered even harder. ‘What’s wrong, Kenny?  Bill… Bill.’  The dog heard the oddness in her voice and fell silent tilting his head, the throb of condensation from his snout misting on the window.

    Bill’s bottom half was in the living room, his shoulders and head in the kitchen.  He wasn’t exactly blue.  His face, she thought, was closest to the colour of an April storm, like a fresh bruise that had blossomed from the sombre part of a rainbow.  She wondered if the rest of him had gone the same colour too; had his chest’s fat folds altered from their usual mottled ivory?  Would his V-shaped weather bib, as permanent as any tattoo, have changed as well?  She got Kenny’s lead off the hook and the dog bounded down from the windowsill and over the barrel of Bill’s breathless torso in two elastic movements.

    Bill always said a walk made things better.

    As Kenny strained down the slope towards the river she pushed her free hand into her coat pocket and felt the still sharp edges of Bill’s lottery ticket nestling amongst the empty laburnum pods.

    Highly Commended: A Stitch In Time… by Colin Johnson

    “This had a great ending.”

    Elsie can’t forget that summer.

    ‘Uncle Jack, why are we doing this?’ she hears Micky ask while they take apart the chair, to glue the joints.

    ‘It’s got a bit wobbly recently – best to fix it before it breaks.’

    You learned that, in the War, and afterwards. You looked after what you had, you made it last. Things were scarce then. Even now, Elsie thinks, why buy something new, if you can mend the old one?

    She sees Jack smile when Micky comes, remembering a joke to tell, finding a packet of sweets in his jacket. Then they get started, painting a window-frame or mending the catch on the back door. Micky always brings his transistor with him. He turns up the sound for every Beatles record.

    Whenever she asks Jack to do a job, he never says no. Sometimes, she thinks he does too much. He looked so tired when she mentioned fixing that stair carpet, where it’s coming loose. She said it could wait. It can, but not too long – someone might slip on it.

    Elsie decides she’ll ask Micky to change that flickering bulb in the front room, after dinner. Jack has taken to having a snooze on Saturday afternoons.

    ***

    At the end of August Jack finally finds time to go to the doctor’s, when he gets too tired to go to work. Then it’s straight into hospital. Operation, the following Monday.

    At visiting time, Elsie sees how he’s changed. The angle of his jaw stands out sharply; his neck hangs loose like a turkey’s. His cheekbones are high ridges below dark hollows. His eyes are still bright, but there are no jokes now. Jack reaches for his glass – his pyjama jacket falls open, showing the surgical dressing down the middle of his belly.

    At the weekend, Jack dies. Before they’ve even taken out the stitches.

    Highly Commended: Do Unto Others, by Damon L. Wakes

    “It would have placed if the writer had put Sadist instead of Masochist as the last word.”

    Robert stepped into his new workplace to find a generic sea of cubicles and water coolers. It couldn’t have been more of a cliché if it had that “hang in there” cat poster on one of the walls.

    In fact, wait…wait…

    Yep. There it was.

    Suddenly, Robert found an arm around his shoulder.

    “We do things a little differently here,” said the guy who Robert was certain was one of those buzzword-spewing middle management people. “We’ve established a dynamic new workplace paradigm that allows us to leverage a great deal more synergy going forward.”

    Robert turned and stared in horror.

    The man laughed. “Just kidding. We don’t do any of that: there’s just one rule.”

    He pointed to a huge banner hanging right along one wall.

    Robert read aloud: “Do as you would be done by?”

    “That’s the one! Just keep it in mind and you’ll do fine here.” The man shook his hand. “My name’s Craig: the guy from the emails. I’d give you a tour of the office, but I never like being paraded around when I’m new somewhere so instead I’ll just leave you to it.”

    And he did.

    Robert found his desk, hung his jacket on the back of the accompanying swivel chair, and—figuring he might as well make an effort to adhere to the office’s one simple rule—decided to say hi to his neighbour in the next cubicle.

    “Hi,” said Robert.

    “Hi,” said the guy in the next cubicle over. And then he reached out and twisted both Robert’s nipples with considerable force.

    “Ow!” yelped Robert. “Dude, what gives?”

    Craig came running back over. “Yeah,” he said, grimacing. “Kind of an unofficial Rule Number Two around here: stay away from Larry the Masochist.”

  • October 2017 Competition Results – Mick Jackson’s adjudication

    Mick Jackson, award winning novelist and screenwriter, who spoke on the evening about Finding Inspiration kindly adjudicated the October competition – write a story inspired by an unusual object. 300 words.  He had his work cut out with a 25% more entries than usual.

    Mick’s adjudication was as follows:

    Joint 1st Place: Peter Hitchen – My Incredible Word Mining Machine

    Joint 1st Place: Georgina Lippiett – The Japanese Puzzle Box

    3rd Place: Barbara Needham – Measurement Technology

    Highly Commended: Margaret Jennings – Clinker

    Highly Commended: Maddy Dorobantu -The Carcass

    Prizewinners October 2017
    L: Margaret Jennings, Highly Commended and R: Peter Hitchen, (joint) first place

    Joint 1st Place: Peter Hitchen – My Incredible Word Mining Machine

    Mick Jackson: ‘Inventive and arresting – an original idea delivered with great wit.’

    I invented a machine that can extract the words that get trapped in walls or under the surfaces of tabletops and windowsills.

    You see, when people speak their voices hit things, but instead of rebounding they’re absorbed, trapped forever like layers of sedimental rock.

    No amount of drilling  can extract them.

    Scraping is useless.

    Yet the words prevail with half lives infinitely greater than that of plutonium.

    Fossilised sound, irrecoverably locked away

    Unless

    You’ve got a machine like mine, to reconstitute the trapped sound and turn it back into intelligible words.

    I tried it out for the first time this morning while everyone was out.

    Hooked it up in the bedroom, put the mic next to the wall and turned the machine on.

    It worked perfectly.

    Turns out, the walls of my house are storyboards and play scripts for psycho thrillers and porn shoots.

    By the afternoon, I’d smashed my word mining machine.

    Joint 1st place: Georgina Lippiett – The Japanese Puzzle Box

    Mick Jackson: ‘A puzzle in itself, all the better for remaining unsolved at the story’s conclusion.’

    Once he’d gone out I would slip in to the hush of his study, drawn to the box as if by a siren. My jittery hands would be calmed by tracing tiny fingers over the patterns, feeling the edges and changes of surface, cool and smooth. Could this really have come from something so enormous, so vital, as a tree?

    Like starlight in a jam jar.

    I would lie on the floor and place the box next to me in the afternoon puddles of sun. Mesmerised by the fingertip-polished colours of autumn captured in its surface, willing the answer to shine out. I remember thinking I could just stop. Be satisfied with the promise of an answer without pushing for any more, without committing any more, without risking any more.

    But inevitably I found myself stroking each of its six sides, searching for breaches in its armour. Despite the slight shift in the surface, the whisper of hope, the spike of excitement, the box always held firm. Clutching at his own words for justification (‘failing to try, is trying to fail’), I would shake the box, pushing its edges, corners, fractures. Heart racing, time running out, my temper snapping with my fingernails . . . stopped only by the sound of the front door, the signal to retreat. Defeated for a few months I would wait, patiently, until the mystery weaved its magic and curiosity claimed me once more.

    * I stand in his study for the first time in years. The box is now tiny but its secret still has power. Holding the box to the light, I feel the old pull of longing. The certainty that to understand the puzzle of this box would be to understand him. I shall not fail to try.

    3rd Place: Barbara Needham – Measurement Technology

    Mick Jackson: ‘chosen for its confident navigation towards the final revelation and the weighty object at its heart.’

    In his bedroom Alfred deposits three items on a battered chest of drawers: an official letter, a notebook and a large, retractable tape measure. This last item has a special significance for him. It has a heavy embossed leather casing, worn with use, a brass button to release the tape back into its holder and the initials A.P. engraved on it.

    Alfred stows his suitcase neatly under the bed. He is a man who appreciates order.

    He eats his evening meal alone as he does not want to socialise at the bar. They might ask him why he has come to Germany and he contemplates their distaste if he tells them. Lying does not come easily to Alfred and he lacks the imagination to develop a convincing cover-story. Still, if they think he is a taciturn Yorkshire man abroad on government business, that is not wide of the mark.

    Head against the iron bedstead, Alfred contemplates the coming day. He picks up the letter and reads it over again with quiet satisfaction. He has been specially chosen and he is confident that he will discharge his duties with total efficiency.

    Alfred was appalled at the incompetence of his predecessor. The man was a complete bungler who could not have applied any scientific principles to the job. Nuremberg was a shambles.

    Alfred appraises the tape measure and cradles it in his stubby hands. He caresses the leather. It is an old friend, a tool of his trade. Height, weight, physical condition, that’s what you must assess, then the length of the rope, the type of trapdoor and the drop.

    Satisfied, Alfred Pierrepoint, hangman of England and instrument of retribution, settles down and sleeps soundly.

    Josef Kramer, The Beast of Belsen spends his last night on earth.

    Highly Commended: Margaret Jennings – Clinker

    Mick Jackson: ‘Chosen for its drama. Displayed great potential – and made me want to see what the writers would do next.’

    His breath smells like the wine Grandpa used to drink.

    The smell transports her to a swing in a garden on a sunny day; mushrooms growing in the grass, the smell of cooking wafting, the happy banter of the grown-ups coming like music from the house. The sky is a blue cocoon and she is a tiny chrysalis safe in its care.

    The man shouts, pushes her shoulder. She holds the clinker tighter. The pain of it digs into her hand, distracts her from the fear.

    What is going to happen? So many things have happened. Now she is centre stage.

    Grandma said she was an actress. I do not need to have the flounce and flare of an actress now, he likes wine I have no wine I should sing I am shaking too badly, I, I, I, smaller and smaller and smaller her soul quavers and searches and cannot find and the sky is glowering the world shrinking filled with shouting and where is Grandma snap where is Grandpa and where is Mummy snap and where is Daddy snap and when I am going to be away from this man and will the dreadful things…

    The child clutches the clinker fiercely. Blood.

    The gun has clicked bulletless three times. The man throws the gun, laughs, marches off.

    A hand drags her away.

    ‘You are bleeding child, what have you done to yourself?’ The woman opens her hand, reveals the clinker.

    ‘See, what did I tell you, that clinker from the chimneys is your grandma and your grandpa come to make you safe, you are safe now, breathe child.’

    Later another woman asks, ‘Why do you lie to her?’

    ‘Because when truth shall not keep her safe, we shall give her lies. It is all we can do.’

    Highly Commended: Maddy Dorobantu -The Carcass

    Mick Jackson: ‘Chosen for the raw energy. Displayed great potential – and made me want to see what the writer would do next.’

    The flames burn reds and oranges and blue. The air fills with the heavy smoke, coming from the burned tyre. Generations of motorcycles before it sense the intense heat. The smoke sits on the tip of the tongues of the passerby, in the eyes of the rushed firefighters , on the drew of the early morning grass. Blacked grass, just a puddle left to see, and the empty skeleton of a yesterday bike, the noise of the revved engine still lingering in the air. You see heat , you smell the orange of the fire, lying on its side in the grass like a fallen empire.

    The boy looks vaguely at the empty carcass, yet to be collected in a van by the council. The park is dark, only the light of a full moon hanging overhead. He hears the sudden rush of a lonely cricket through the darken grass. The wind blows through the hollowness of carcass, the emptiness of his heart and his breath catches the silent smell of the man in the leather jacket. The man is close now and looks rapidly around him, taking in the panoramic view of the park, judging the exits and measuring every step.

    The saviour is close, his steps clear in the stillness of the park. The boy trembles and his hand reaches the man’s just in time.

    A firm handshake, a stern look. The man lights a cigarette.

    ‘You did well, mate! You can now be part of the GANG! ‘

    The man hands him the package and disappears in the shadow of the trees.

    The lonely, burnt bike tells the tale of his initiation. He is now a man, a brother. As the wind staggers through the empty shell, he dreams of becoming the man in the leather jacket one day.

  • September 2017 Competition Results – Anne Gibson

    A perfect fit to be our September adjudicator was Anne Gibson, literary therapist to residential homes for the elderly. Our first competition in the 2017/18 season was to ‘Write about an elderly person performing one item from their bucket list’.

    “I’d like to say what an enjoyable experience judging these entries has been, all of them varied and entertaining, and on a subject close to my heart as I regularly spend time as a volunteer visiting two care homes, and I am involved with the Alzheimer’s Society.

    “What was I looking for? First and foremost, the entries needed to fulfil the brief. A few of them, though very good, did not in my humble opinion really do this. So I would urge all entrants to this sort of competition to first READ THE BRIEF!

    “After that, it was about authenticity, inventiveness, and a good command of language. And a little twist at the end of the tale is the icing on the cake. It is SO nice when a word or a phrase makes you sit up and think “YESSS”! And even within such short entries there were moments when that happened. Lovely also to be made to laugh out loud, which did happen for me with several of the entries. With so few words allowed, it’s also very clever if the writer can make the title  count.

    “Picking out the 5 entries below was one thing, but much harder was having to place those 5 in ascending order.”

    1st Place: Rosie Sutcliffe – A Drop in the Ocean

    2nd Place: Rosie Travers – Taking the Plunge

    3rd Place: Gill Hollands – To Fly

    Highly Commended: John Quinn – That Wasn’t on the Bucket List!

    Highly Commeded: Louise Morrish – The End

    Our September Winners
    Our September Winners

    1st Place: A Drop in the Ocean by Rosie Sutcliffe

    Anne Gibson: A vivid bit of writing, told in the first person. Without taking the reader away from a sense of really being “present” at the scene, the writer packed a surprising amount of heft into this short passage. No twist, no laughs, but very well imagined.

    People have told me that at my age I should slow down, relax, enjoy an easy retirement, tend my garden and watch the world go by.

    To these people I say, “I’m an octogenarian, I don’t have much time left on this earth, so I need to speed up not slow down and squeeze as much excitement out of each moment as possible.”

    That is how I came to be off the coast of Mafia Island, Tanzania, in a RIB, rigid inflatable boat that means apparently. The RIB was hitting the choppy waves in a series of short, violent spanks that reverberated through my aged frame, causing me to wonder if I had indeed over-reached my capabilities this time.

    I was making unsuccessful attempts to focus on the horizon when the skipper shouted and pointed ahead, slowing the boat to gently undulate towards a huge shadow beneath the waves.

    The creature was massive, moving with a quiet grace and elegance alongside us now as I fumbled with snorkel, mask and fins and unceremoniously plopped into the water.

    I was too exhilarated to feel fear, too awestruck to do anything other than take in the sheer magnificence of this beautiful creature. Zebra stripes decorated with leopard spots and sleek, sinuous lines, gliding past me with slow, powerful precision. The whale shark, largest fish in our oceans. Great gaping maw in broad head, with followers of fishes trailing in its wake, immensely strong, yet gentle and unthreatening, I, felt humbled and ashamed to be human.

    It was just a few minutes before with slow, graceful swipes of it’s massive tail the creature powered away into the murk, leaving me small and insignificant, full of wonder.

    At eighty my bucket list grows longer the more I tick off.

    2nd Place: Taking the Plunge by Rosie Travers

    Anne Gibson: I liked this very much. Told with a light touch and promising to be a conventional treatment of the brief in a conventional setting, but the last few lines revealed both a tragedy that had haunted the main character for most of her life, and a squaring up to this tragedy. I found it moving, tender but leavened with a touches of dry humour.

    Grace hadn’t even heard of a bucket list until Bill had shown them his brother’s photographs.

    ‘Bunging jumping in New Zealand,’ he said. ‘What do you think? Something to cross off the list, eh?’

    Grace wasn’t sure what to think at all.

    ‘What’s the one thing you’ve always wanted to do?’ Bill said, as he shuffled around the community lounge of Sunflower House, proudly regaling his brother’s exploits to anyone wide-awake enough to listen. ‘Nobody should die having regrets about things they haven’t done.’

    Grace didn’t want to think about dying, but she had plenty of regrets, although missing out on the opportunity to dangle mid-air at the end of a long rope was not one of them.

    Molly Atkins wanted to go to Disneyland, but she’d never get the medical insurance; Bob Davis wanted to ride a Harley Davidson, difficult with only one leg.

    ‘Gracie? What about you?’

    Silence. She wasn’t going to tell them the one thing she regretted not doing the most. Like the others, she’d left it too late.

    But that was the whole point of a bucket list wasn’t it? To reach the Pearly Gates and look St Peter in the eye and declare je regrette rien. It wasn’t too late. When she was re-united with Steven, when she could pinch his chubby cheeks, ruffle his halo of blonde hair, and admire his ethereal wings, she could tell him that if it ever happened again, that awful day on the beach, this time she could save him.

    Taking the plunge, at her age. They’d call her daft. She didn’t even have a costume.

    ‘So Gracie,’ said Annie, her carer, ‘you want to go shopping?’

    ‘Yes please,’ Grace replied. ‘And then can we go to the leisure centre? I want to book a swimming lesson.’

     3rd Place: To Fly by Gill Hollands

    Anne Gibson: This totally fulfilled the brief. I liked the sense of affinity between the elderly woman and the young man, and the grandmother’s exhilaration was beautifully conveyed. There was some very nice writing in this short passage. “My face pleated, flapping in the wind like my suit” was particularly nice.

    Birdsong swirled in the thin air above the canopy. I caught silver glints through the misty cloud far below.

    ‘Oh!’ A hand caught my arm, making me jump. Gazing down from the rickety platform, I was closer to God than I’d ever been in 86 years.

    ‘You sure about this Nan? You can change your mind, you know.’  My grandson’s puppy dog eyes looked bigger than ever. He couldn’t feel my thundering euphoria.

    ‘I’ve wanted this all my life! It’s what I came all this way for.’ I grinned, mopping my forehead with a soggy tissue. ‘We’ve practised, haven’t we? Easy peasy!’

    ‘Well, if you’re sure…’ Sighing, he helped my stiff old legs into the suit, fastening the zips. ‘Wish I’d never told you my hobby.’

    ‘I’m glad you did. We have an affinity, you and I.’ I caught sight of an eagle circling below.  ‘Look!’

    ‘Ready?’ He nodded, grinning, a flush of excitement on his cheekbones. ‘Let’s chase him!’

    I stared over the edge, heart thumping, my legs suddenly quaking.  I clamped my teeth together, pulling down the goggles.

    Ben tipped us over the edge with a whoop.  My heart stopped. I plummeted, breathless. My face pleated, flapping in the wind, like the suit. I recalled the wind chamber. Keep straight, spread out, relax. I dug deep.

    The eagle’s cry rang above the roar of the wind.  It was just below us, soaring effortless.  As we began to glide, it came alongside, curious. I looked into its golden eyes, connected in my soul.

    As the world spun and grew around us, my eagle followed until the parachutes snapped open, wrenching us upward.  Then, we were thistledown, floating among spectacular views.

    Bumping to land, the parachute shrouded me. Lying in the long grass laughing, I cried.

    Highly Commended: That Wasn’t on the Bucket List! By John Quinn

    Anne Gibson: An elderly widow fulfils a bucket list wish by going on a luxury cruise and in the process finds herself fulfilling a wish she never knew she had. This had a subtle twist, and was both tender and original.

    Julie half-woke in her ‘deluxe balcony cabin with shared butler’ on the Queen Mary 2 and, in that lovely, unsettling space somewhere between sleep and consciousness, couldn’t quite recall the events that had brought her there.

    Yes, she was sure she was on the liner, crossing the Atlantic, three days out of Southampton. And yes, she had booked the cruise to New York, finally fulfilling a promise she had made to herself as a teenager, oh-so long ago.

    It was tragic that it took the death of husband Alan to make it happen: he ‘wouldn’t be seen dead’ on a luxury liner full of ‘know-it-alls in their long frocks.’

    She remembered the council’s pay-out for ‘death in service’ being very generous. And then feeling desperate that it took such an event to achieve her longed for, suppressed ambition: a life free from a man who had grown both boring and boorish.

    She recalled the excitement of her adventure being replaced by the feeling of isolation once on board. How, in the restaurant, each beautifully presented dish was accompanied by intimidation from waiters and couples on her top table. How the only people who bothered to speak to her – no one made the effort to listen – were those showing-off their success or worldliness.

    And last night, when she’d been brave enough to have a post-dinner cocktail alone in the bar, that nice lady, a divorcee wasn’t she, starting a conversation. Helen, that’s her name, also alone on the voyage.

    Now, with the sun squinting around the blinds, more memories returned: God, how many different cocktails did we try; the barman politely asking us to quieten down so passengers could hear the quiz!

    Julie didn’t jump when she felt Helen’s gentle touch on her shoulder or heard ‘Wake up, sleepy head.’

    Highly Commended: The End by Louise Morrish

    Anne Gibson: Humorous, original and very nicely told. I loved the sentence “The story of her long life was written on her body.” It genuinely made me laugh out loud at The End with a twist that was both funny, thought-provoking, tender and ultimately a little melancholy. To tick all those boxes is clever writing.

    ‘You’ll probably bruise,’ the young man said, his gently worried expression at odds with the vicious looking studs and spikes that pierced his face.

    ‘I’m a tough old boot,’ Maud replied. Besides, she thought, who would see her bruised behind? Only the undertaker, when the time came.

    ‘What made you want a tattoo now?’ the man asked, snapping on latex gloves.

    ‘Why not?’ Maud smiled. The story of her long life was written on her body, in all the wrinkles, grey hairs and stiff joints. The two short words she wanted inked on her buttocks were a last laugh.

    ‘Tattoos are on lots of people’s bucket lists,’ the man said, opening a packet of enormous needles. ‘You’re sure about this?’

    Maud nodded. ‘Is mine the strangest request you’ve had?’

    ‘I’ve been asked to ink things you wouldn’t believe,’ the man muttered.

    Oh, I think I would, Maud thought, as the man helped her lie down on the table. She had experienced more in her ninety-nine years than this boy would ever know.

    True, she had never learned to swim, or ride a bike, or drive a car. But that hadn’t stopped her from living life to the full.

    She felt the cold press of an antiseptic wipe on one cheek. ‘Now this might hurt…’ the man said, as the needle whirred.

    Maud’s eyes closed at the first stab of pain. Her mind opened, memories tumbling free.

    She had survived the Spanish flu epidemic, pneumonia and breast cancer; given birth to twin boys, in an air raid shelter, in the middle of a war; travelled the world, by plane, train, ship, even once by hot air balloon.

    She had seen governments rise and fall; witnessed people make the same mistakes, over and again.

    Now the story of her life was drawing to a close.

    She was so tired.

    Soon it would be time to close the book and sleep.

    It didn’t take long for the man to finish inking…

    THE END.

  • June 2017 Competition Results – Adrienne Dines

    It was a pleasure to welcome back Adrienne Dines, author and Creative Writing Tutor as our adjudicator for June. Our last competition in the 2016/17 season was to ‘Write a scene in a rose garden’. As always, Adrienne was willing to share her wisdom as a writer and as a tutor. Her accompanying comments offer HWS members valuable tips.

    Adrienne was also kind enough to comment on all of this month’s entries. I will forward these individually via email shortly.

    1st Place: Louise Morrish – Sub Rosa

    2nd Place: Rosie Travers – A Beheading

    3rd Place: John Quinn – Another Day on the Front Line

    Highly Commended: Wendy Fitzgerald – The Rose Garden

    Highly Commended: Claire Gaudry – Memories of the Roses

    Commended: David Lea – The Colour of Blood

    1st Place: Sub Rosa by Louise Morrish

    Adrienne Dines: Beautifully paced. Good use of Rose names. The hints are carefully laid so there is plenty of space for the reader. Uses the setting skilfully.

    ‘I never knew this was here,’ Charlotte said, as James led her through a doorway in the stone wall. Winding paths stretched away, meandering between beds of roses and through arbours covered in blossom.

    ‘The locals call this place Sub Rosa,’ James told her. ‘It means ‘a secret’. From Roman times.’

    How apt, Charlotte thought; Ben had no idea she was here.

    The garden was only open to the public for a few weeks each summer, James said. They began to walk, and Charlotte breathed in the scented air; a blend of perfumes. They were alone here, no sounds but their crunching footsteps and the hum of bees.

    ‘Have you heard of the Language of Flowers?’ James asked.

    She hadn’t, and told him so.

    ‘White roses,’ James began, as they ducked beneath an arch of Rambling Rector. ‘They signify innocence, marriage, new beginnings.’

    Charlotte thought of Ben; what would her husband do if he knew she was here? The thought caused a flutter in her belly, like a trapped bird.

    ‘Red roses,’ James said, as they passed a border labelled: Precious Time. ‘They mean unconditional love.’

    Reaching a junction, they paused. ‘We could get lost,’ James half joked. ‘There should be a map, or a signpost…’

    There was no map for where she was heading, Charlotte thought. James was Terra Incognita.

    They passed a shrub bearing the sign: Nostalgia. ‘White and red roses,’ James said. ‘Unity and togetherness.’

    At the end of the path was a bench, partly hidden behind a lemon-gold tea bush; Welcome Home. They sat, the bird in Charlotte’s belly thrashing now.

    ‘Yellow roses,’ James said. Their knees touched. ‘Shall I tell you what they mean?’

    ‘Perhaps,’ Charlotte smiled, ‘some things are better left a secret?’

    He kissed her then, and she felt the bird soar free.

    2nd Place: A Beheading by Rosie Travers

    Adrienne Dines: Love this! It’s a very sinister voice and there is great use of deep point of view. The writer refers to the mother’s psycho-geriatrician but doesn’t labour it so we almost miss the clues. Clever play on words (particularly like the link with ‘hips’). This writer is in control.

    One swift, brutal cut was immensely satisfying. No wonder Henry the Eighth had enjoyed beheadings so much.

    ‘You have been looking after the roses for me, haven’t you?’ David had asked on the phone from Singapore. Not how are you, or what have you been up to, not even a polite enquiry into the outcome his mother’s appointment with the psycho-geriatrician. Just concern for his roses.

    A vigorous shake of a stem and more fragile blooms fluttered to the floor. It was probably best to take off anything that showed the merest sign of weakness whilst she was here, relishing her role of jolly executioner. In fact, even the tightest bud would only blossom to fade and weep within days. She could save it the effort; put it out of its misery right now.

    Gauntlets at the ready, Imelda made a grab for a wayward branch. It was very easy to get carried away.

    ‘Be careful with the Darcey Bussell,’ David had said before he’d left, ‘she’s a prolific bloomer.’

    Two weeks later and the Darcey Bussell was a profusion of blood red rosettes.

    ‘Deadhead regularly,’ he’d instructed, ‘and the flowers will keep on coming. I don’t want to come home to a garden full of hips.’

    Felicity Ramsay had hips, and boobs. Imelda could remember meeting her at the Christmas Party. ‘This is Flick, my new assistant,’ David had said, like an indulgent father. Felicity had a laugh reminiscent of a performing sea-lion. Imelda would have recognised it anywhere. Even over a satellite signal from Singapore.

    What was she thinking of? She took a step back, put down her secateurs, removed her gardening gloves and headed back to the shed.

    A delicate decapitation was too good for the Darcey Bussell. A chain saw would do a much better job.

    3rd Place: Another Day on the Front Line by John Quinn

    Adrienne Dines: Lovely controlled piece. Love the humour and the extended war metaphor. Poor hapless Brian. I love that the war is not really with the roses! Why such short paragraphs?

    The first of the day’s sunrays slant over Lark Hill and illuminate the world’s neatest war zone: 22 Fleming Drive.

    Soon, mug of tea in hand, Brian will march from his back door down to his shed, to finesse the day’s battle plans.

    Throughout the week his preparation has been meticulous, purchasing chemicals and scrutinising weather forecasts.

    Brian takes a final gulp from his ‘World’s Best Gardener’ mug, a Christmas present years ago from wife Linda, smiles at the loitering robin and prepares to ‘go over the top.’

    The untrained eye will observe only a middle-aged man pruning, mulching and spraying, surrounded by glorious pink, yellow and red blooms of the Rosa family.

    But any historian, philosopher or journalist will immediately see that Brian is at the raging heart of a battle that has been fought since time immemorial: the war to bend nature to their will.

    Undeterred by the ultimate futility of his efforts, Brian works throughout the day until Linda yells from the backdoor ‘Dinner in five. Don’t forget to wash your hands!’

    Brian drinks in the strong scent of a climber variety named ‘Handel’. Its cream flowers edged with blush remind him, as always, of when he first met Linda, her English rose complexion challenging the pink of her lips.

    He takes out his secateurs and, wielding them with a dexterity and passion unseen elsewhere in his life, cuts the long stem leading to the finest rose to give to his wife.

    With Lark Hill now long in shadow, Brian heads indoors, takes off his muddy boots and presents Linda with the perfect, perfumed present.

    ‘Not in the house Brian! You know, my hay fever…’

    The hoped for armistice, even a truce, has not arrived and battle will be resumed on all fronts at 22 Fleming Drive.

    HIGHLY COMMENDED The Rose Garden by Wendy Fitzgerald

    Adrienne Dines: Sad, lovely complete story about old Jewish man visiting a grave. I like the link with dead rose petals and ash. Good use of setting to frame the story.

    A thousand white roses, they’d said; intensely perfumed, they’d promised. And it’s no lie. The scent is heavenly; the vista simply heart-breaking. And he’s kneeling awkwardly on the wet grass, holding a bloom between his fingers; inhaling its aroma.

    ‘Grandpapa! Why did you go off without me?’ Relief makes my tone sharp. He barely looks up.

    ‘I told you. This is where I wanted to come.’ He lets the rose go, wiping his hand across his cheek. It’s wet.

    ‘Come on; get up. The damp will get into your knees,’ I tut.

    ‘Shush, Anna. Let a man be.’ But he takes my arm and pulls himself to his feet.

    ‘I tended roses in a garden once you know,’ he murmurs. ‘After the war. He made me sweep up the petals after they’d flowered; didn’t want to see them you see. Said it reminded him of the ash.’

    My heart breaks. It’s a long speech for him. PTSD they’d probably call it now; he’s had it for years, made worse with age. Perhaps we shouldn’t have come.

    ‘But this is what I came for.’

    I can see a small bronze plaque under the bush. ‘Lilli Haas. Died Treblinka 1944.

    Never forgotten.’

    ‘But … who’s Lilli?’

    ‘We were to be married, but they came with trucks and rounded them up; took them away one night, I never knew where.’ His voice cracks; his pain heartfelt. ‘Years later I married your grandmother; we were happy enough. But I never forgot my Lilli. An organisation helped track her down. I couldn’t go to Poland, but I could come here.’

    The Holocaust Centre rose garden.

    ‘I needed her to know,’ he whispers, stooping to kiss the rose he let go. His tears are falling fast now; his eyes closed.

    And I know he’s finally with her.

    HIGHLY COMMENDED Memories of the Roses by Claire Gaudry

    Adrienne Dines: Sad, romantic and some lovely lines (The roses help me remember. They hold me as my mind drifts further, as if they knew the needs of my bleeding heart). BTW, he was not ‘sat’ – he sat or was sitting!!    

    One hand tightly grasping the wrought iron arm rest and the other gripping my walking stick, I lower myself on my usual garden bench. My old bones crack and complain before giving me a sense of relief. I re-adjust my flat cap to prevent the direct sunlight from hitting my eyes.

    I let my gaze roam and the mesmerising effect of the garden traps my mind, I am rapidly immersed in the colours and fragrance of the roses.

    The rose bushes are arranged in an intricate circular maze. In a clever use of subtle psychology, the colour schemes guide the eyes effortlessly to solve the maze, flooding the senses in oranges, pinks, reds, purples and whites.

    The roses help me remember, they hold me as my mind drifts further, as if they knew the needs of my bleeding heart.

    I invariably recall our first walk through this garden. In each other’s blinding presence we were oblivious to the magic of the maze of roses. Yet, we felt their presence and they embraced ours. It was an unspoken agreement of mutual appreciation.

    I am sat here, longing for our shared rose garden walks. It had been possible to hold hands here since one of us had dared touch the other as we were choosing our favourite rose from this same bench. Here in our secret sanctuary, we had evolved from a seedling of friendship to a love as deep as the deepest red of the garden roses.

    A tender pink rose petal carried softly by the breeze takes me out of my reveries. I watch it fly past. It has come quietly and gone quietly like my darling love.

    The roses always bring him back, the one who is no more.

    I, the old man with creaky bones visit ‘my’ roses daily to find the strength to breathe through the crippling grief. He, my taboo love, is no more.

    COMMENDED The Colour of Blood by David Lea

    Adrienne Dines: I love this! The opening paragraph is great (though a few commas wouldn’t go amiss). Don’t indent the first paragraph, by the way. It’s definitely a scene in a rose garden though it might have been any type of garden – it’s the character, rather than the setting that is predominant here.  

    As photographer for the Saxonford Chronicle, or ‘Chronic’ as we like to call it, I am often called to social events that induce states of boredom, which would qualify as near-death experiences and they require considerable self discipline and copious amounts of alcohol in order to maintain an equilibrium. However, the accession of Ronnie Hardley-Fulsome, scion of the Fulsome family and heir to the Hardley millions was somewhat different in that the principal actor suffered a full-blown, actual death experience. What’s more, it occurred at the precise moment when I pressed the button of my Nikon D500 SLR digital camera and caught the whole scene for posterity.

    The entire Hardley-Fulsome family was on the podium in the rose garden and many had travelled across the globe to be present at the occasion. Nevertheless, they hadn’t necessarily come to wish Ronnie well: they had all known Ronnie as Ronald before he transitioned and became Veronica, but the rules of primogeniture require that everything pass into the hands of the eldest male and the inheritance had been hotly contested.

    Lady Laetitia Hardley-Fulsome had periods of comparative lucidity, but this was not one of them. The death of Ronnie’s father, Wolfgang, had set her mind adrift. Someone had handed her a dark red rose, which she presented to Ronnie before curtseying to the crowd and falling off the rostrum on top of the under-gardener.

    Ronnie raised the bloom rather theatrically to her nose and inhaled deeply. Incidentally, this was a nose that had been broken many years before in a boxing ring at Radclyffe public school and could be best described as ‘wonky’. Her heavy chin quivered for a moment and then she collapsed, her knee length pencil skirt rising up her substantial thighs and her fascinator waving gently above her tumbling curls.

  • May 2017 Competition Results – Margaret Graham

    Many thanks to Tracy Baines for stepping in to announce the competition winners last evening.

    The list seems endless, but briefly our May adjudicator, Margaret Graham, is a bestselling author (including plays and co-researching a television documentary), editor and feature writer for e-Frost magazine, creative writing mentor and tutor, and joint founder of the charity Words for the Wounded. In her spare time Margaret writes as Milly Adams.

    The brief was to write ‘A scene involving a disabled character’ in 300 words. It was a delight to discover that Margaret found the three winning entries to our May competition ‘fresh to me, surprising, moving and works of clarity’, with the highly commended running close behind. Margaret mentioned that it was hard to choose the winners but they came through as they shone and resonated for her.

    1st Place: Lynn Clements– Not That Colour, Jacko’s Story

    2nd Place: Erica Evans – Dinner Date

    3rd Place: Rosie Travers – Milestones

    Highly Commended: Rosie Sutcliffe – Annie’s Song

    Highly Commended: Ant Ridgeway – Reflections

    1st Place: Not That Colour, Jacko’s Story by Lynn Clements

    Margaret Graham: The writer grabs us by the throat and wham bam, we’re into Jacko’s world. We are in Jacko’s fortress, we witness his disengagement from the tears of his mother, the heart stopping safety he finds in colours, and finally, the security he finds in the colour of the official’s briefcase. It’s grey, so that is all right. He returns to counting the legs of the spider. Yes, he’s safe.

    But of course, his autistic life is at a point of change. He isn’t safe – or is he? The official has been called after the incident involving Jacko. In his briefcase are papers that could lead him away from this safe world, into another. Will it be a place of safety, one which understands, which relieves his mother of pain? Or not?

    The writer never tells us of Jacko’s actual condition, we find our way through his world using the map the writer has so cleverly devised. It is understated, composed of brevity, clarity, colours, numbers, objectivity and so cleverly emotionless. But though it is without obvious emotion we empathise with him, fear for him and hurt for his mother. Normal world, point of change, full of tension, and increasingly we understand, and want to know: what becomes of him?

    Clever and deeply impressive writing. Can it be sustained beyond a short piece, that is the question? Would the writer have to remain in Jacko’s point of view or move to see the situation from those who ultimately take control?

    As the pot hit the wall its lid broke. Red paint sploshed over nearby windows and pieces of fruit laid out on a plate. Jacko watched the faces of the adults as they turned towards him. They looked black. He wasn’t sure what they were going to do next, so he just stood and watched.

    The next thing he remembered was his mother sitting behind the glass of the fat woman’s room. He wasn’t sure how she’d got in there and he was worried that she wouldn’t get out. He’d tried the door handle before and it didn’t move. He sat on the chair where he was told to sit, which was ok because it was blue. He watched his mother’s mouth open and close and the fat woman’s eyebrows move up and down. His mother stood up quickly and opened the door. Jacko thought she was very clever to know how to do that, when the handle didn’t work.

    In the car on the way home the only sound he could hear was crying.

    When he got home Jacko took his magnifying glass into the garden. He lay on his front in the long grass of the wild flower patch, which his mother had helped him sow. He looked for arachnids; he wanted to test his theory that he could find three different types of arachnids by the time his mother called him in for food.

    He was still searching when a very tall man wearing glasses, with a bushy beard and hair sticking out of his ears came into the garden. His briefcase was grey, so that was ok. He heard the man say he was from The Educational Psychology Department. Jacko rolled onto his back holding a struggling spider. He counted its legs, to be safe.

    2nd Place: Dinner Date by Erica Evans

    Margaret Graham: A date which very early on raises enough questions for us to understand that there is more to this than meets the eye. It’s as though the camera is on the girl who seems to be the protagonist, and the man sitting opposite. The camera gradually draws away and we see that actually the date is between two others also around the table; two vulnerable people. The protagonist and the man opposite are in fact, carers, or the facilitators of the date. But will this lead to more for the carers?

    Delicately written, clever touches – the replacement of the normal knife with one of plastic, the eye contact between the carers. Is it professional or could it be more? Normal world, point of change.

    The restaurant has a romantic view, just right for a date. The sparkling nightscape is captivating but inside coy glances are being exchanged instead. Wine arrives. I put a straw into the glass and hold it to lips which fumble for the end, eyes still on their prize. I watch carefully, but discreetly, a skill I am still learning. Be there, but don’t be there. Don’t stare, don’t speak. The lips part, slaked, and smile. Not at me.

    I cut the meat. Is it too big, too small? Was I too slow? Darren has already finished cutting his. I surreptitiously replace the silver fork with a plastic one. One that won’t grate on teeth clamped too hard. There is little conversation now, focus and effort mostly placed on eating without choking, without dropping morsels from mouths. A waitress appears and enquires about the food. I look down at the tablecloth, the question is not for me. When I look up Darren winks at me. I don’t respond. I’m here to drive the van, manoeuvre the chair, lift the fork. It’s not my date. It’s not yours either, Darren.

    After dessert, Maisie looks at her arm and asks me a question. I can’t understand her and feel shame rise inside. I haven’t worked with her long enough, my ear isn’t yet tuned in to how she speaks. Joe sees my embarrassment and saves me.

    ‘Maisie said could you put her arm on the table, please.’

    His speech is clearer and I comply. Joe reaches across to hold Maisie’s hand. She smiles at him again.

    ‘Please could you return in half an hour?’ asks Joe.

    Darren and I are excused. He goes to smoke, I sip a cola at the bar. It’s not our date. It’s theirs.

    3rd Place: Milestones by Rosie Travers

    Margaret Graham: I find 2nd person difficult to sustain, and indeed to read for any length of time, but this worked. The piece ached with the loneliness of the mother bringing her small disabled child to a centre for the first time. The disablement is all that she can see. Another mother reaches out a hand, and her words lead to an understanding that of course her daughter is indeed that – a daughter, not just a disabled cypher. One day her daughter will of course care what colour her helmet is. The normal world was at a point of change.

    You take a deep breath and push open the door. It is a relief not to have to explain. The receptionist already has Olivia’s paperwork.

    ‘Come on through,’ she says.

    The walls are painted in soft muted colours. You’d imagined something vivid to provide stimulation, bright murals in primary colours. You’d expected to encounter a cacophony of noise but everything here is quiet, subdued.

    There are other children in the sensory room. You lay Olivia onto a beanbag beside the bubble tube. Fibre optic patterns spiral across the soft foam floor.

    When Olivia was born you counted fingers, toes. Her tiny body was perfect. Her blue eyes flickered open; she saw you, you know she did. She jerked at a sudden sound. She could hear. She mewled like a tiny kitten. She had a voice.

    They warned you about the implications. You drew on resources and discovered a gritty determination. Milestones would be reached; it was just a question of adapting the criteria.

    ‘How old is your little girl?’ one of the other mums asks. Her daughter is wearing a flamingo pink helmet. They’ve already told you Olivia will need one of those when she’s older. The other mum, her name is Kerry, immediately knows what you are thinking. ‘They come in all sorts of colours,’ she says. ‘Just see it as a fashion accessory, like choosing shoes and bags.’

    ‘Right now, it’s hard to imagine Olivia choosing shoes and bags.’ The words come out all wrong. You don’t mean to sound churlish, ungrateful. Positive thinking is sometimes a lonely journey.

    ‘Of course she will. She’s a girl, isn’t she?’ Kerry says.

    Light reflects like dancing sunbeams from the disco ball on the ceiling. Olivia’s lips curl, revealing one of her gummy smiles. You reach for Kerry’s out-stretched hand.

    Highly Commended: Annie’s Song by Rosie Sutcliffe

    Margaret Graham: This moved me because of the initial loss of the anticipated life, the unfairness of a bolt from the blue – a stroke, followed by the loss of hope, the disappearance of those who were once friends in the face of such a change, such disability. But then, one of those friends finds the key to bring back hope, and holds out a hand. Music as therapy, but it is friendship that really brings this return of hope, and the remembrance that the stroke patient is actually a person: she is on the point of believing this again. Lovely and warm. Will they win the singing competition? A win that would actually be much more than a mere competition win.

    In the grand scheme of things this was not how I’d envisaged my retirement. Within a week of finishing work I’d planned long, challenging walks in National Parks, booked a trip to Italy, joined a reading group, enrolled in a photography class and with some trepidation begun singing in my local choir. Within six months of this I’d been smitten down by a stroke, the right side of my body no longer obeyed my brain, a process I’d never given much thought to previously.

    Patting at a sliver of drool with my good hand I slowly resumed the laborious process of spooning vegetable soup into my reluctant mouth. The chunks of vegetable frightened me, the whole swallowing process was a dangerous skill that had taken weeks to relearn.

    ‘Eat up, Annie,’ one of the carers trilled, ‘you’ve got some visitors this afternoon.’

    I couldn’t answer her rotund retreating form as the sounds that emanated from my mouth bore no relation to the words in my head. Visitors were a scarce resource, little huddled groups of my friends sitting, awkwardly fidgeting. I had so little to offer a conversation now. I felt burned by their embarrassment.

    Visits dwindled. So what did the carer mean? Was this some unpleasant euphemism for an impending medical procedure?

    Fears were allayed when Jenny from choir strode into the residents’ lounge, complete with keyboard and a dozen choir members.

    ‘We’ve missed you, Annie,’ she explained simply.

    The room was soon pulsating with peaks and troughs of well known and loved favourites and it wasn’t until I saw Jenny smiling through tears that I realised I was singing too, proper words, in tune. Music, medium to my brain.

    Next month we are performing Annie’s Song in a national competition. I think we might just win.

    Highly Commended: Reflections by Ant Ridgeway

    Margaret Graham: Again, the loss of the anticipated life, and the reflections it brings. An IED causes life changing injuries, and from the depths of self-pity the patient, a soldier, reflects on his trite remarks to those similarly injured. Remarks that were superficial, and without understanding. Now he understands and feels himself sinking as hope leaves. But then, reflections on the life of his disabled son inspires him to re-assess and aspire to the same quiet courage. It brings him to a point of change. Inspiring and worthy.

    Bang… I was able bodied until the land mine exploded taking my legs with it.

    I’m lying in my hospital bed feeling very sorry for myself.

    What will the future hold for me now? One minute fit and healthy. The next, only half of me.

    My career in the Army has been distinguished. I have a medal for bravery but nothing prepared me for this.

    I thought I was invincible. Had a reputation for dismantling incendiaries without incident. Fearless Phil they called me.

    It doesn’t help remembering some of my contemporaries with worse injuries than mine. Those minus arms, legs, blinded and with horrific facial scars. I remember thinking I wouldn’t let it happen to me. I cringe when I think of the way I spoke to them.

    ‘Never mind, old chap. You’ll pull through.’ The pity I felt.

    I have a disabled son. If Mike were here now he would understand perhaps what I am going through. He’s been disabled since birth and most of his life he’s been in his wheelchair. Can’t do much without help.

    So what the hell gives me the right to feel so bloody gloomy?

    At least I have known what it was like to be able to walk, be independent. He’s never had that experience. You know what though; he’s the most positive, cheerful person you could ever meet. He’s out and about most days. People love him. He has this amazing ability to make people smile, feel good about themselves. Never feels as if life isn’t worth living.

    Thinking about him, puts things into perspective. Right. I’m re-evaluating my situation. Starting with my rehabilitation next week, I’ll do everything I’m asked to do and more.

    I’m going to make Mike proud. Together, we’ll show the world just who we are.

  • April 2017 Competition Results – Beverley Birch

    Beverley Birch was shortlisted three times for the Branford Boase Award in recognition of the editor’s role in nurturing new talent and, as a prolific author, she was also nominated for the Carnegie medal. Hampshire Writers’ Society is most appreciative to Beverley, who graciously came to our rescue by agreeing to be our April adjudicator as well as our speaker. In return, our members managed to supply entries that made it difficult for her to choose the usual two highly commended places. The competition, ‘Write a children’s story, inspired by a well-known story for children’, meant that after choosing 1st, 2nd and 3rd place, Beverley was unable to decide and ended up choosing four additional pieces to praise.

    1st Place: Cass Morgan – Mrs Bilious

    2nd Place: Kristin Tridimas – A Koala Named Sydney

    3rd Place: Matthew Cross – George and the Dragon

    Highly Commended: Annie Vine – The Wild Colt

    Highly Commended: Linda Welch – Unexpected Treasure

    Highly Commended: Ant Ridgeway – Friends

    Highly Commended: Kim Howard – Mirror, Mirror

    1st Place: Mrs Bilious – Cass Morgan (Inspired by Roald Dahl’s Matilda, or, more specifically, by Miss Trunchbull and the chapter, ‘Bruce Bogtrotter and the Cake’).

    Beverley Birch: This was altogether strong. The punchy opening brings the situation instantly to life, the child point of view keeps us locked in the story through a distinctive sense of voice, good narrative flow and pacing. And a tricky situation for the child characters to escape (always appealing), is enlivened by effective and efficiently used imagery. A definite winner!

    Winner First

    At 11:57, putting a handful of insects into the lunchbox of Mrs Bilious was funny. At 12:03, the reality was hilarious. At 12.05, it was the worst thing they’d ever, ever done.

    Simon shuddered as he looked at Joel. His best friend’s left eye stared in horror. His right winked as something scuttled across his eyelash. Hands clenched to the chair seat, shoulders high to his ears, Joel’s cheeks puffed out wide. Two ants emerged from the corner of his mouth, ran across his face, over his ear and into the safety of his hair.

    Hot breath blew onto Simon’s cheek. He turned towards the cherry-cheeked face of Mrs Bilious. She leaned in close. Through cement-coloured teeth came odours of sugared tea and half-digested digestives.

    ‘Eat up,’ her voice whispered.

    ‘No.’

    ‘Sandwich-spoiling brats will be punished. Now, EAT UP!’

    Her yellowy eyes sizzled and locked onto his. There was nothing he could do but scoop his hand into the lunchbox. Ants scurried and hurried onto his hand, up his arm and into his sleeve. Others dropped to the table in their bid to escape. The unlucky ones stayed where they were, with no idea what was coming.

    Back leaned Mrs Bilious. Every part of her blazed in delight; her mouth tight in a triumphant smile, her eyes agog, her grey curls bounced in anticipation. Even the hairs in her nostrils quivered in glee.

    Simon closed his eyes, opened his mouth and threw in the ants.

    If they were mad before, now they were livid. Up the insides of his cheeks they darted, over his tongue, through the gaps in his teeth. It was like popping candy gone horribly, horribly wrong.

    He wanted to spit out. He had to. But the smell of tea and digestives wafted in his nostrils. There was no going back, and he knew it.

    2nd Place: A Koala Named Sydney – Kristin Tridimas

    Beverley Birch: A very close second. Koala’s eye-view and voice has great appeal, laced with a wry humour. Excellent command of language, and pacing, and sets the scene, backstory and predicament swiftly without losing momentum.

    Winner Second

    It was hot and uncomfortable inside the human girl’s bag. He had been bashed and banged and now seemed to be travelling along something which kept changing direction. And to make things worse, he only had one cough sweet left. He’d saved it for emergencies, wrapped up in his bandana.

    Great Aunt Victoria had been very clear. ‘Don’t let anyone see you, or they’ll send you back. Even worse, they might put you in a zoo!’

    Surely one quick look wouldn’t do any harm?

    He hooked his claw round the end of the zip and pulled. Poked out his nose. This place smelt of plastic and metal and tired people. He put his eye to the opening. He was moving slowly past a forest of legs. For a second, he thought back to his gum tree home in the Australian bush. He could smell the eucalyptus. Hear the kookaburras.

    His home was gone now. The bush fire had destroyed it.

    A pair of familiar pink legs swam into sight.

    ‘Dad, it’s my bag!’

    He shrank back down inside.

    He seemed to be flying but then there was a big bump.

    ‘You wait here while I get the suitcase. I shouldn’t be long.’

    Footsteps, going away. People talking. The rattle of wheels.

    The screech of a zip.

    The zip!

    The girl’s face was inches away. Her eyes were open wide.

    ‘What are you doing here?’

    He gave her his friendliest smile. ‘G’day!’

    She yelped and jumped back.

    A second later, her face came close again. ‘You can speak!’ she whispered. ‘What’s your name?’

    He clicked and whistled. ‘That means Climbs to the Edge in koala.’

    ‘I’m Jenny. You need a real name.’ She looked at something above his head. ‘I’m going to call you Sydney.’

    He was safe.

    3rd Place: George and the Dragon – Matthew Cross

    Beverley Birch: This is a clever, funny take on the traditional tale, bringing both George and the dragon instantly to life, each with a distinctive voice and a convincing relationship that promises fun ahead.

    Winner Third

    A chilling roar caused him to raise his shield. Instead of fire, the cavern filled with thick white smoke and a fizzing sound. George stepped softly towards the source. It was a young dragon, squeezed into a whalebone girdle, its wings and legs tied with rope. He crept forwards and drew his sword.

    “Hello.” It said in a low rumbling voice. George paused, he wondered whether he could kill something that said hello to him. “Look, this is rather embarrassing. If you could be a good fellow and cut me down, you may choose any treasure you desire.” George hesitated, then raised his sword and severed the ropes. The dragon prized itself from the girdle before sitting on its hoard. “All I want is a peaceful place to hibernate, a comfortable hoard, and the occasional sheep for a snack.”

    “Oh, the kingdom ran out of sheep.” George sat opposite the dragon, his shield close just in case.

    “They sent their own kind instead – who does that? Why not a goat?” The dragon burped another cloud of smoke and fizz.

    “Your breath poisoned a nearby village.”

    “Eating humans gives me terrible indigestion. I had to take antacids.”

    “Why did you keep eating the tributes?”

    “Humans are like chocolate, I can never have just one.” George pulled a packet of jelly babies from his backpack and offered one to the dragon. “Yuk, how can you eat those?”

    “So how did you get stuck in the…girdle?”

    “The princess jumped me when I left the cave. That girl is malicious, no wonder the king left her as a tribute.” The dragon appeared deflated.

    George eyed an ornate wine bottle among mound of treasure. An idea spread from his mind into a smile on his lips. “I have a cunning plan, put the girdle on again.”

    Hisilicon K3
    Hisilicon K3
    Highly Commended

    Highly Commended: The Wild Colt – Annie Vine (Inspired by Jill’s Gymkhana by Ruby Ferguson)

    Beverley Birch: A good, tight narrative style which brings the setting, character, and particularly the colt’s character and terror instantly alive. A good sense of audience here.

    ‘He’s eight months old. Sire’s a half-thoroughbred and Dam’s a Welsh Mountain,’ said Tom, his cheerful voice unusually tense. ‘First saw a human six days ago. Had a heck of a job getting him into the horsebox.’

    A powerful hoof assault made the box quiver. Edie peeked through the eye-slat. The colt’s neck muscles were so taut they made his head twitch upwards. His wide eyes relayed his fear – no pools of melted chocolate – they were steely black with whites that resembled human’s. His muddy, matted coat, now dry and cracked, had turned into dragon scales, sliding smoothly as he moved. Barbs shortened his tail – the web of hairs gripped them like cossetted treasure.

    Edie’s fingers itched to caress, to reassure, to calm.

    Don’t worry, little colt, you’re mine now. You’re safe.

    ‘Help me with the door,’ ordered Tom.

    With the latches straightened, the door slid open.

    The colt leapt from the back of the horsebox into the gaping hole of light.

    Tom’s shock was audible. ‘Lucky I backed up and opened the gate.’

    Edie’s heart flipped as she watched the rump muscles gather and stretch as the colt bolted away. Despite his nervousness, his poise was faultless. Once he realised he was safe, he would hold his tail confidently, not hanging like the flag of a lost battle.

    ‘Look at that stride,’ admired Tom. ‘You’ll be winning the gymkhanas with him.’

    The colt slowed to a trot. Lean, smooth legs stretched.

    ‘Or the dressage…’

    Galvanised, the colt broke into a canter and raced towards the wooden fence.

    Edie gasped. If he rammed it, the wood would slinter into deadly spears.

    His timing was perfect, forelegs rose with tucked hooves. He cleared the fence gracefully.

    Edie bit her bottom lip. ‘I think my dream of showjumping has just become a reality.’

    Now all she had to do was catch him.

    Highly Commended: Unexpected Treasure – Linda Welch

    Beverley Birch: Lovely flavour and rhythms, enhanced by quirky detail and swiftly conveyed, convincing characterization of a boy and his grandfather with the promise of interesting action to come.

    Jamie loved weekends with his Granddad. He picked him up from school on Friday afternoon and they had fish and chips for supper, straight out of the wrapper.   On Saturday morning they got up early and drove to the Municipal Dump.   The sign on the gate said Household Waste Recycling Centre but Granddad said it had been the Municipal Dump ever since he was a little boy himself (about a hundred years ago, Jamie thought). Jamie was supposed to stay in the car because there were cars and lorries manoeuvring about the yard, but he was allowed look around the small shop where they sold some of the things people were throwing away.

    ‘People buy rubbish?’ he asked incredulously, and Granddad laughed.

    ‘One man’s rubbish is another man’s treasure. You never know what you might find.’

    Today Jamie bought an old binocular case that was just the right size to hold a bottle of juice and a banana for school. The man only charged him 25p and Jamie hurried back to the car to wait for Granddad.   As he knelt on the seat and looked out of the back window he saw another little boy climbing over the back fence of the tip.   No-one else seemed to notice him slide into one of the skips, but as Jamie watched, he saw him throw a piece of corrugated plastic out of the skip, and climb back out again. Jamie got out of the car and went over to him.

    ‘You’re not supposed to be wandering around, it’s dangerous. What do you want that for, anyway?’

    ‘Roof,’ the boy said.

    ‘Cool! Are you making a den?’ Jamie asked, not waiting for him to answer. ‘What’s your name?’

    ‘Stig,’ he said, and disappeared back over the fence, dragging the plastic behind him.

    Highly Commended: Friends – Ant Ridgeway

    Beverley Birch: A very effective voice (a donkey) brings the reader convincingly into his state of mind and character, with some light touches of humour. Tightly written with a good narrative flow.

    I’m bored. I’ve been standing alone in my field all day. There’s an itch on my back. I tried rubbing against the fence but I can’t quite reach it. The three ponies in the next field are eating grass. Lovely shiny coats they have. Not like mine, rough like tree bark. I trotted over to say hello.

    ‘Eeeaw, eeeaw’.

    One of them looked up, tossed her mane and carried on munching. The other two took no notice as if I wasn’t there.

    It’s cold today. Wind and rain have soaked me to my bones. My shelter blew down. There are trees where the ponies are. Not here. So I’m standing all alone, head down.

    Wait. Who’s that climbing over the gate in his yellow coat and hat? It’s the boy. He’s got that little animal in his hand, the one which doesn’t move. Says it’s his bear, whatever that is. Says it has very little brain. That bouncy puppy’s with him too. Wish I could wriggle under the hedge like him. I’m too big. Don’t like his nippy teeth. Seems to think my hooves are for nibbling. Last week, he ate my best thistle. I was saving it for breakfast. He didn’t like it. He started yelping, pawing at his mouth. If he’s not careful, I’ll bite him. Or maybe I’ll kick him.

    ‘I’ve bought you a birthday present,’ the boy said.

    Is it? I thought. Wasn’t that a long time ago? I swished my tail. ‘It’s a pot. It had honey in it. We had to eat it ‘cos it was a long journey.’

    He put it on the ground.

    ‘There’s a balloon too. Sorry it popped on the thorns.’ I glimpsed aflash of red inside the pot.

    ‘Eeeaw, eeeaw.’

    The boy laughed.

    Not alone anymore.

    Highly Commended: Mirror, Mirror – Kim Howard

    Beverley Birch: A clever and successful send-up of several fairy tales, with life seen from the point of view of the mirror fed up with the fairyland beauty leagues. Dry humour and quirky detail – lots of fun in this.

    The lack of manners upsets me most. I never get a ‘good morning’ or a ‘how are you?’ It’s always “Mirror, mirror on the wall….”

    Of course I’m on the wall. A heavy chain and some hefty nails make sure of that. They aren’t interested in me. No one ever compliments me on the carved wood of my frame or says ‘wow, have you been polished?” They only want to know one thing – where they rank in the fairyland beauty leagues. They have no imagination. They must be able to say something other than “…who is the fairest of them all?”

    As if I’m going to tell them what I really think. It can be tough, but I always try to find something positive to say. Not because I care about how the silly self-obsessed things feel. I can’t risk someone getting upset enough to start throwing things. I’m made of glass. I’d never recover if someone smacked me in the face with a hairbrush.

    I was chatting with Cinderella’s glass slippers the other day. The one who stayed on her foot is too smug for words, but I really feel for the other one. She was convinced she was going to shatter when those big ugly sisters tried to stuff their fat feet inside her. And she still hasn’t got rid of the bloodstains. Fortunately, since their mother chopped their feet about, it’s harder for them to hobble up to the castle. I dread telling them their league status.

    Uh oh. Here comes the little girl with the scarlet cloak. Well, not so little any more. She’s a stroppy teenager now. Since that incident in the woods with her granny and the wolf, she’s started carrying an axe in her basket. Someone should tell her that red isn’t her colour, but it won’t be me.

  • March 2017 Competition Results – Cathy Woodman

    Cathy Woodman, our adjudicator for March, again spoilt us. She has commented on all entries so expect your personal notes via email soon. Alongside her series set in the fictional village of Talyton St George, Cathy is now writing a series under a new name, Evie Grace. The historical sagas are set in rural Kent. The stories are based on those of her own family, who lived there in the nineteenth century. The first, Half a Sixpence, will be available in the summer. The competition was: ‘Describe a meeting where a present-day hero or heroine meets their later love-interest.’

    1st Place: Colin Johnson – First Encounter

    2nd Place: Andrea Parr – The Blue Doll

    3rd Place: John Quinn – OK People

    Highly Commended: Sarah Lines – The Vet and David Lea – Later Love-Interest

    1st Place: First Encounter – Colin Johnson

    Cathy Woodman: This caught my attention from the very first word – Wow! I loved the way the writer set the scene and created that wonderful sense of attraction and lust at first sight. I really wanted to read on to find out what happens to the young man yearning to find out more about his love interest who makes eating chocolate crumbs sexy!

    “Wow!” he thought, “what a smile!”

    She was older than most students. Maybe 30? Or a bit more? At least 10 years older than him.

    She had come over to sit at the next table. She spoke to him, interrupting his re-run through yesterday’s rehearsal. He saw her lips move and took off his headphones. She repeated the question: “Excuse me, is this your bag?”   He pulled his bag off the chair and she sat down, looked at him and smiled. “Thank you,” she said.

    That was all. That was all it took. Her voice was like a cello, Jacqueline du Pré making music again. Clear brown eyes, no flicker, no blinks, just still reflections of the world, taking him in and assessing his own face. She had freckles on high cheekbones, and full, gentle lips. Her long chestnut hair was held back, tied behind in some kind of chiffon scarf.

    “No trouble,” he said, and looked at his phone again. He could think of nothing to say. How could he ask her name? Find out her email? Anything, so he could see her again?

    She drank her coffee and ate her two-finger KitKat. When she licked her finger to pick up the chocolate crumbs, his stomach felt suddenly empty, his sudden intake of breath almost loud enough for her to hear. God, that was sexy!

    She left. Without moving, he followed her across the concourse into the revolving doors. Through the glass wall he watched her cross the central courtyard into the Psychology building.

    “Who was that?” he said to no-one. Still without moving, he played through the whole encounter again. He hadn’t needed his phone on record, the playback in his head was clear and precise. Her voice was pure Elgar. He had to hear it again.

    2nd Place: The Blue Doll – Andrea Parr

    Cathy Woodman: A very close second. I loved the imagery of what is a defining incident set in a playground where the protagonist takes a risk for love. The writer took me straight into the hero’s head with choppy dialogue and phrasing, and plenty of action. I really wanted to read on to find out what happens next. Wonderful.

    The doll set Jimmy off. Knew it would the minute I saw it. She was clutching something she loved, and Jimmy never could resist a thing like that. His mean streak was about a mile wide.

    No time to warn her. He pounced like a cat catching a bird. Held the doll above her head and laughed.

    “Give it back,” she said. “Please.”

    Not an order, but definitely not a beg.

    He wouldn’t, though. Dangled it just out of reach, trying to make her jump for it. Got bored when she wouldn’t. He could’ve given it back, but, like I said, Jimmy was a vicious sod.

    “Don’t you want it?” he said and threw it, hard as he could, so it wedged in the tree at the edge of the playground. A big old pine with needles like razors and no footholds. It hung there, that doll, like a little blue rag.

    “Come on,” said Jimmy, so we left. I couldn’t resist looking back, though. She was standing there, staring up and the butterflies took off, wings beating inside my stomach.

    Later, when I turned up at her house, she was sitting outside, legs pulled up, skinny arms resting on her knees. Streaks down her face like she’d been crying. Didn’t move, even when I skidded my bike so close it kicked small stones up onto her.

    “Here,” I said, pulling the doll from my pocket. “Got this for you.”

    For a minute, she stared, then grabbed it and held it to her face. No thank you. No nothing.

    It seemed stupid all of a sudden. Scratches all over my arms and a hiding coming for taking my old man’s ladder without asking. And for what?

    Then she lifted her head, and looked at me. And she smiled.

    3rd Place: OK People – John Quinn

    Cathy Woodman: The first line grabbed my attention and set the scene for a humorous piece of fiction. Sound characterization, introducing a clumsy actor and a flirtatious leading lady. I found myself wanting to read on to find out what happens to them. A little more attention to detail on the proofreading side would perfect your presentation.

    ‘Watch out!’ The boom mike swung through the air at a speed it was not designed for.

    Patrick heard the warning, tried to duck and succeeded in falling inelegantly over, losing his dignity and the opportunity of being decapitated in one, unsmooth motion.

    ‘You bloody idiot’ Steven, the director, screamed at the boom operator, who continued to smirk inside his headphones.

    Patrick picked himself up and tried to dust off his formerly immaculate white shirt ‘No great harm done,’ he smiled.

    Steven was not convinced and snarled towards the boom operator ‘You could have put our star in hospital on the first day of filming… one more cock-up like that and you’re off the set.’

    ‘Should I go and change this shirt,’ Patrick asked.

    ‘Don’t bother, it’s only set up shots this morning’ Ella said before anyone else could respond ‘and I don’t mind my men being a little dirty.’

    Steven knew he would have to cool his famous star’s ardour at some point and here was a golden opportunity. ”Look Ella, if you could leave the flirting until at least day two, I, for one would be most grateful. And so would our young star, wouldn’t you Patrick?’

    In truth Patrick was in awe of the two times golden globe winner and three times divorced leading lady but was keen not to show it; he was, after all, an actor.

    ‘Ok, I’ll stick with my dirty shirt’ he said.

    ‘What, no reposte, no stunning one-liner, no request for me to unbutton you and rub your hairy chest better? Ella’s voice dropped an octave ‘ I’m dissappointed in you Pat. I was hoping for more…’

    Patrick knew he was being paid well for this, his first starring role, but he wondered if it was going to be enough…

    Steven re-exerted control ‘Ok people, positions… and action!’

    Highly Commended: The Vet – Sarah Lines

    Cathy Woodman: The writer created a sense of place from the very first paragraph, showing how you can find love anywhere. I enjoyed the gradual reveal of the hero’s situation, and the way his love interest is completely oblivious of her effect on men in general. Great imagery too – the daredevils crashing and burning.

    Paul was tired of staring at his blank computer screen, waiting for inspiration. “Dazzle me”, his boss had said. What could anyone find remotely dazzling about selling diapers? The advertising industry was already like an overcrowded train, full of people shouting, pushing and shoving, eager to be on time for the ball game.

    All he could think about was Emma. Now she was dazzling – no, even better, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She possessed a natural beauty; luminous skin, dark glossy hair and the most entrancing violet, blue eyes. What made her even more attractive was the fact that she seemed completely oblivious to her effect on men.

    Emma had only started last week but Paul had already witnessed a constant stream of male attendees at her desk. They would dream up the most pitiful excuses to go over and talk to her, ask her out for coffee, to drinks or dinner and Paul listened with some trepidation as each of these heroic daredevils crashed and burned on their first mission.

    The light was beginning to fade as the working week ended. Paul tidied up his workstation, straightened his Marine Corps tie pin and slipped on his jacket. Most of his colleagues had stampeded to the elevators that would doubtless transport them to their expensive cars, gorgeous wives, laughing children and unnecessarily opulent mansions.

    Paul sighed. As the elevator was about to close, Emma hurried over. Paul, unable to believe his luck, held the doors open with the edge of his wheelchair.

    “Which floor?”

    She smiled shyly. Her eyes sparkled.

    “I was hoping you’d ask me out for a drink.”

    Her English accent was so incredibly sexy.

    “Would you like to…”

    “Yes please”, she said.

    As they made their descent, his heart soared.

    Highly Commended: Later Love-Interest – David Lea

    Cathy Woodman: Lovely thoughtful writing. Compelling to read. I was caught up from the first sentence. I enjoyed the way the writer gradually revealed the identity of the hero and that of his love interest. The piece gave a real feeling of how love can take you by surprise.

    I never thought to fall in love again at my age, but I have all the symptoms. He is uniquely engaging and I delight in almost everything he does and says. It is obvious to me that he is more than usually physically attractive and I see that others are also drawn to his beauty. I watch for his effect on people when we are out together. Eyes are drawn to him, particularly women’s eyes. And people comment. Do I compare him with the other boys? How could I not?

    I was not prepared for this at my time of life: I thought the time for giddy joy was over and had reconciled myself to the comfortable companionship of a marriage that would run its course until the death of one or both parties.

    I had to try and manage the coming, inevitable decline with honour and grace. I did not expect to be taken out of myself again, to be transported.

    I am more settled now: less at the mercy of his unintended or intended slights, less eager for his attention and sometimes glad to get away from him and his demands. Apart from anything else, this love is physically very demanding and I do get tired now.

    My first sight of him was of a vague and blurry shape in a photograph. When his arrival was announced, I was less than enthusiastic. And when he finally arrived, he was nothing out of the ordinary: much the same as all the others. But now; now he is irreplaceable.

    I am saddened that I shall not see him in his pomp, for he will surely make his mark when he is grown. He is now four and I hope he will remember this foolish, fond old man, his mother’s father.