Category: Competitions

Becky Bagnell, of the Lindsay Literary Agency, was kind enough to adjudicate our November competition. Numbers were a little lower than expected at only eleven. Becky offers her expert advice on how to ‘Write a covering letter to a literary agent’ by sharing her tips below.

 

1st Place: Gillian Shilson – Covering Letter to a Literary Agent

2^nd Place: Wendy Fitzgerald – Letter to Literary Agent

3^rd Place: Peter Hitchen – Covering Letter for Becky Bagnell

Highly Commended: Linda Welch – Riptide and Summer Quigley – Cover Letter

1st Prize

Covering Letter to a Literary Agent – Gillian Shilson

Becky Bagnell: This letter showed great spirit and I particularly liked the fact that the character of the author seemed to shine through. The writer also stuck to the basic guidelines of beginning the letter by telling the agent what they might expect from the submission, in this case romance/psychological thriller cross, women’s commercial fiction. The author then gave a brief summary of the plot, making it intriguing. Then in the final part of the letter the character of the author came across giving the submission a great sense of energy. 

Dear Caroline Powerful,

I am seeking representation for a first novel, The Girl in the House with Green Doors, 114,000 words (romance/psychological thriller cross, women’s commercial fiction) and would be very grateful if you could take a look.

Three Line Synopsis:

Vacationing in a woodland hideaway, romantic, book-loving Ethan squares up against devilish antagonist George to absolve himself of guilt over the death of a child and to win the heart of mystical Abby whom George lusts after and seeks to possess.

This is the story of three people whose lives become entangled following a tragic accident. It is also a love story with some spiritual elements. I think it might appeal to the same readership as The Lovely Bones or The Secret Life of Bees.

I was born in the West Indies and ran barefoot about the tropics until condemned to hard shoes and boarding-school in England at the age of thirteen. I started writing seriously in my twenties and was agented (near misses, but no luck) by Pollingers.

I brought up three boys, divorced, took a degree in fine art and cared for my demented mother until her death, working as a painter but always writing in my spare time.

I have several other novels almost completed. Writing is my absolute passion, the thing that makes it worthwhile getting up (early!) for. I live alone in a cottage by a lake with a study, a desk and a pen. I love walking while thinking about the current novel, constantly rejoicing in my freedom to write again.

I still hate wearing shoes.

I heard you speak at this year’s Winchester Writer’s Conference and would dearly love to be represented by you. I hope very much that you enjoy my chapters, which I attach with a one-page synopsis.

Kind regards,

Gillian Shilson.

 

2^nd Prize

Letter to Literary Agent – W Fitzgerald

Becky Bagnell: This letter was simple, but it conveyed everything an agent needs to know while at the same time adding a touch of intrigue. It is a romance novel, it has an original football theme with strong female protagonist and the author is passionate supporter of the beautiful game – sounds interesting!Address

Lindsay Literary Agency

East Worldham House

East Worldham

Alton

Hampshire, GU34 3AT

October 22, 2016

Dear Ms Bagnell,

Novel: ‘Her Own Goal’: Genre: Y/A (Romance). Length: 50,000 words.

I am seeking representation for my first novel, noting from your website that your special interests include young adult fiction and that you encourage debut authors.

‘Her Own Goal’ is one of a planned series of young adult romances, featuring normal everyday girls, and men who just happen to be footballers:

Single parent Anna is bringing up her daughter Lily alone, whilst working as a housekeeper and finishing her degree. Theo is a successful footballer: handsome rich and famous. The gulf between them seems enormous when she becomes unexpectedly involved in the dramas of his life.

But when her father falls ill, it is Theo who is there for her: can he really be just a nice, regular kind of guy under all those trappings? What exactly does the formidably beautiful Arianna still mean to him, and what will happen when Lily’s father comes back into her life?

Anna must come to terms with both her pride and her prejudices before she can ever hope to build a future for herself and Lily.

The second book is currently in progress.

I have a degree from London University, and am a member of the Hampshire Writers’ Society, including their critique group. I am also a mad, passionate supporter of the beautiful game!

I enclose the first three chapters and a synopsis, and can be contacted either by email: WF@xxxx.com; phone, 02380 xxxxxx; or at the above address. I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours faithfully,

W Fitzgerald.

 

3^rd Prize

Covering Letter for Becky Bagnell – Peter Hitchen

Becky Bagnell: This entry achieves everything that I’d expect from a covering letter. PH explains exactly what the book is about, a boy ‘Daniel’, after whom the book is named, is 11 years old and part of child trafficking circle in Northern England. The author also makes clear the book has heart. We also find out a little about the author, an academic and a father. The only thing this covering letter doesn’t do is tell the agent who the book is aimed at? I’m assuming this is a children’s book because of the age of the central protagonist, but because of the content it might be adult?

Dear Becky Bagnell,

I would like you to consider representing my novel, DANIEL, a plot-driven work of literary fiction comprising 103,000 words.

Set in 1970s Northern England against a backdrop of life in institutional care, the book opens at the point when the eponymous 11-year-old character has been trafficked to a meeting with catholic priest and serial child abuser Father Greg. Despite, or perhaps because of his newly altered circumstances, Daniel begins to develop an unusual inner-courage. This fortitude gradually evolves into a transcendent spirituality which changes the lives of all those who meet him in unpredictable and unforgettable ways. The narrative sees the boy struggling to make sense of some fundamental questions; the issues of loyalty, betrayal, love, guilt, forgiveness and self-sacrifice are all set against the activities of Father Greg, and the sadistic head of Daniel’s orphanage, Alex Smart.

However, as affecting as the boy’s circumstances are they are not the heart of the story’s mystery. Several narrative arcs – the foul play leading up to the boy’s estrangement from his single post-partum mother, the matrix of criminality stretching from the church of St Mary into the wider diocese, the corruption and incompetence within local government and the seemingly chance emergence of alcoholic vagrant Sammy Sugden – interweave to culminate in an unstoppable and deadly climax.

I’m a 53-year-old married academic and father to two young children and DANIEL is my first novel. I enclose the opening three chapters of the work along with a synopsis. Should you wish, I can be contacted at the above address or via the email address and telephone number shown below. I very much look forward to hearing from you.

Yours,

Peter Hitchen.

 

Highly Commended

Riptide – Linda Welch

Becky Bagnell: This submission could have been in the top three, as it was strong. However, the author suggests that the novel isn’t yet finished and so usually an agent does ask that the author waits until they’ve got a final script before submitting.

My Address

25 October 2016

Becky Bagnell

Lindsay Literary Agency

East Worldham House

East Worldham

Alton

Hampshire   GU34 3AT

Dear Ms Bagnell

Please find enclosed the first 3 chapters and synopsis of Riptide, an urban fantasy about a teenage mermaid. The novel is currently at 65,000 words. I anticipate the finished novel to be approximately 75,000 words.

Urban fantasy continues to be popular with teens and mermaid novels are an increasingly widespread genre: Goodreads has a whole section devoted to mermaid novels with at least 100 titles. (Source goodreads.com/genres/most_read/mermaids  retrieved 24/10/16). The majority these titles are based in the US and I feel that UK-based stories would be equally popular in this country, where no-one is more than 70 miles away from the coast.

Riptide is set in the south of England, and is told from the first-person viewpoint of Lori, a 16-year-old girl whose reality is thrown into question when she discovers that she is a mermaid. As she says herself, ‘When you’re a child you believe every word your parents tell you. Mine told me I was allergic to chlorine, and that a rare skin complaint meant that I could not immerse more than 10% of my body in water at any one time. I never learned to swim, I only took showers, never a bath. I never questioned them or considered for a moment that they might be lying, until one night, when I took my friend’s dinghy out for a moonlight sail …’

This novel addresses themes that will resonate with teens and young adults, such as loss, growing independence and challenges to parental authority.

I would welcome any feedback you have on Riptide and enclose a stamped addressed envelope for its return.

Thank you for your time.

Yours sincerely,

Linda Welch

 

Cover Letter – Summer Quigley

Becky Bagnell: This letter contains everything you’d expect and was well thought through.

My Address

T:07800000000

27^th September 2106

Anne Clark

Literary Agent

Anne Clark Literary Agency

Dear Ms Clark,

I am sending the attached picture book manuscript Toilet Seat Thief for your consideration. It is a lighthearted rhyming story which provides a reminder of how even if you want to for kind reasons to another person, you must never take things without asking. Comparable books would be Julia Donaldson’s What the Ladybird Heard or The Detective Dog but I feel my book is differentiated by its kookiness and ‘toilet’ humour which appeals to children.

Blurb

Raccoon, the detective, wears a distinctive black mask,

He has many others for each undercover task.

A toilet seat was stolen from a museum’s prize display

Will Raccoon catch the thief or will they get away?

Series possibility

I have a few different ideas for running a series of rhyming detective picture books.  Characters include Stickins – the stick insect undercover police officer and Teeny Weeny Spi-Guy – the money spider spy.  Of course, if you felt Racoon would be popular I could work on different cases for him to take on.

A little about me

I am a mother of two and currently work to fit around my children’s school hours; prior to having children I completed a journalism degree, a post-graduate diploma in public relations and worked within the communications industry for 10 years. Last year I completed an online ‘writing storybooks for children’ course and since then have written a few picture books which haven’t yet been submitted to any agents as I want to strengthen them before I do so.

Any questions, please let know,

Yours sincerely,

Summer Quigley.

 

October 2016 Competition Results

Isabel Rogers, Hampshire Poet 2016, commented that she was looking forward to reading all of the entries when she adjudicated the competition for October 2016. ‘Inspired By Hampshire’ inspired our members to write a poem within the 300-word limit. Isabel has chosen the winners and shares her thoughts about them below.

1st Place: Scratch (Peter Hitchen) – New Forest UXB: ‘Historical’

2nd Place:  Hilary Hares – Hampshire

3rd Place: Sally Russell – The Bull of Bull Drove 

Highly Commended: Sue Spiers – The Alcorns and Avril Stephenson – Hampshire Haven 

1st Prize:

New Forest UXB: ‘Historical’ by Scratch (Peter Hitchen)

Isabel Rogers: This poem sustained a metaphor brilliantly throughout, as well as rooting the subject deeply in Hampshire locations. I loved the playful approach to language, teasing with multiple meanings of words, which brought out the deeper theme of the work. It conveyed a complex situation with huge economy and skill.

Jonny lit a blaze
in his father’s inclosure
then dashed to the front line
of his anguish and lobbed an F-bomb
that didn’t go off

he forsook his skateboard
for an unbridled pony
tacked his own pilgrimage out west
and made a small contribution
to the pink pound while he waited for
his pollarded psyche
to show signs of regrowth

regardless of grooming
sparse coppice was
the best it could manage
it aped charred furze
until he espaliered it onto
a stockade against pannage

it became a life’s work

sometimes he fantasised
about going back
maybe on a sunny
All Saints Day afternoon

they’d meet in the demilitarised zone of
a Burley tea shoppe

but he’d have dredged the F-bomb up
and have it with him
just in case he needed to
explode it at the precise moment
to cause maximum damage

2nd Prize

Hampshire by Hilary Hares

Isabel Rogers: I enjoyed this poem’s use of repetition and carefully controlled lines and stanzas, and the deliberate relaxing of line length – just once – to bring out some dark humour. It was an almost cinematic tour of the many aspects of our county, creating many images I loved.

That spits its history into its ports
like an indentured midshipman,
that hides its secrets under a hill
where a tunnel carries them to London.

That challenges France from
the quenelles of its downs,
that grew rich on milk and wheat,
that fattens its ponies on gorse.

That abolished its trams,
that closed its dockyard
where a siren released a flock
of black bikes every weekday at four.

Hampshire, where Gormley stands
in the crypt of the cathedral,
that boasts two kings, that despairs
of its trains.

That excels at sea, whose knights
are legend, that bred Brunel,
that guards its coast
with abandoned forts.

In a Hampshire keep a damsel
lets loose the tresses of a fable.
She writes behind a door
that once she painted green.

3rd Prize

The Bull of Bull Drove by Sally Russell

Isabel Rogers: This poem described a rich snapshot of the old Bull Drove open air swimming area, with a lot of vivid glimpses of character drawn with economy. The ending, encapsulated in the final two stanzas, is as disturbing as I’m sure it is intended to be.

She teeters on the Bull Drove river bank
like a riparian wood nymph.
Messy dark blonde bob, thick cut fringe,
hand-me-down seersucker costume

the colour of waving weeds.
Frayed straps cut her pubescent shoulders raw.
Her naked heels are rooted in mud,
a shaggy grass rag rug tufting between her toes.

She hugs herself with pipe cleaner arms,
pale and goosebumped, fingertips blue.
A cacophony of children bob up and down
like jumping fish, splashing, dive bombing,

shooting dank-smelling froth over her skin.
Her eyes dart about, searching for
the bulls of Bull Drove. Languorous swells drift past;
pondweed tendrils flutter like watery windsocks.

A submerged shoal of teenagers ripples past,
picking freckled, age-worn pebbles
from the river bed, while shafts of sunlight
pierce the cloudy depths.

A bull-shaped head breaks the surface.
He rolls his neck, shakes a Catherine wheel
of water from his shaven scalp.
He smiles and grasps her hand.

Her mouth opens in a silent scream
as she leans away. He tugs. She slides
down into hostile waters.
It is her turn to learn to swim.

Highly Commended

The Alcorns by Sue Spiers:

Isabel Rogers: A beautifully drawn portrait of grandparents, with tender descriptions shining through what must have been a hard life for Lily. The final stanza is heartbreaking, with its mention of money almost as an afterthought but providing the emotional after-kick of this poem.

Gentleman Jack they called him in The Crown,
always wore a jacket and bow tie in the pub.
On Sundays my cousins and I sat outside
with a bag of crisps and a lemonade each,
giggling at nan’s ‘fag-ash Lil’ nick-name,
a cigarette bobbing on her lip, scattering ash.

I never knew she was disabled, she had thin legs
and one Frankenstein shoe with a platform.
She got her shoes on the NHS, custom made.
A work pair in black and a best pair in fawn.
Sometimes she’d let me fix in the rod
and lace up the strap under her swollen knee.

Grandad showed me his Readers Digest books
pointed out countries in the World Atlas,
talked with me about the photos in the zoo book
colour photos of leopards, dolphins, anemones,
given to me when he died because my cousins
showed no interest in that kind of stuff.

Their son died in infancy, around the time
granddad was living with another woman.
Lily took him back against her brothers’ advice.
Their third girl was born a year later.
I calculated their first was born six months
before the date on their wedding certificate.

Lily wouldn’t let doctors tell him he had cancer,
convinced them to diagnose tuberculosis.
The sitting room became his sick room for a year.
She got it nine years later, gave up within a month
owing £40 to the co-op. £400 to bury them together,
to get her name added to his headstone.

Highly Commended:

Hampshire Haven by Avril Stephenson

Isabel Rogers: This was a delightful sense-fest, with rhythm and internal rhyme combining to create a cascade of a prose-poem. We are shown a beautiful day at the beach and its surroundings. I could almost taste the salt spray.

Sunbeams stridently escape the clouds, glinting, hinting at long summer hours, easy days, lazy crowds, loud laughter, raft of strong shadows
Glimmering horizon shimmers through the heat haze, terns swoop down, skimming the waves, follow shoals swimming, dip for a tit-bit, gone in a flash, dash away, specks in the sky

Skin blushed by the kiss of sun, massaged with balmy lotion, notional protection from fearsome rays, motion of the ocean, soothing the soul, whispering lullaby held in a spell
Cool off in the water, gently enter in, deliciously fresh, coldly shocking, sparkling wavelets rapid racing, bracing, slowly succumb, enticing arms enfolding, holding, beckoning “come in!”

Close to nature, buoyed up by the water, darting like a fish, relaxing with the waves, vista of hills rising steeper in the distance, broad shoulders standing importantly in line
Pebbles worn smoother than a ping-pong ball, crunchy sand crystals nestle between toes, seaweed blisters hold bladders of water, optimistic sand hoppers bounce amongst driftwood, leaping along with unharnessed glee

Tang of dried flotsam, fish and driftwood, taste of salt carried on the breeze, jellyfish remains, transparent, rubbery, tentacles menacing with suckers underneath

Cliffs wear drifts of purple heather, rusty bracken slackens, bows to the ground, feather ends brush on dry sedge grasses, worms slither sinuously along the sandy soil
Excited children’s voices waft across beaches, chirping like birdsong, mixing in a melody with whispers on the wind

Broody chalk-white needles rise majestic from the sea, aloof from the island, distant, mysterious, boldly guarding the twinkling bay

Motorboats and ski-jets rudely intrude, disturbing the calm like hornets at a picnic, fumes race away in the breezy summer air

Kite-surfers skilfully use nature’s forces, powerful as horses, gliding, turning, racing, embracing silently the power of the wind.

Our adjudicator for the December competition was Harper Press’ acclaimed author Daniel Clay. As well as being nominated in 2008 as one of Amazon’s best eight debut novels, his novel Broken was shortlisted for the Best First Novel Award by both The Commonwealth Writers’ and The Authors’ Club. It was made into a film by BBC Films. His second novel is SWAP.

Daniel was a pleasure to work with and wanted to add that he does try to help anyone who gets in touch. The site is danielclaywriter.co.uk where the Q&A section is great as there’s some really good advice in there from a couple of top agents and writers, plus the writers have also shared their successful slush-pile letters and synopses.

Daniel’s comments:

Thanks to everyone who sent entries in. There were 33 in total and, as with the last time I judged a HWS competition, I thought the standard of writing was excellent. I also really enjoyed the diversity of the entries, with very few writers choosing to write about the same themes and those who did taking very different approaches.

I found picking a shortlist almost impossible; after reading through each entry a couple of times I began to discard any which definitely weren’t going to make my final five, and even though I discarded plenty I really rated, I was still left with thirteen to choose from, so, if your story isn’t among the ones mentioned here, please don’t think it means I didn’t enjoy reading it, especially The Walking Shadow by David Lea, Hack Gang by Sally Howard, Seal the Book by Jane Howard and Spy by Rebecca Welton, all of which really impressed me.

 

1^st Place: Teaser by Sally Russell

2^nd Place: The Changeling by Scott Goldie

3rd Place: Sold by Kristin Tridimas

Commended: Tell No One by Linda Welch and The Road to Amber by James Lee

 

First Place – Teaser by Sally Russell

Daniel Clay: Sally has done a great job giving her main character good reason to stumble across the secret she uncovers and also gives us enough back-story to understand why Chloe feels betrayed by what she has seen. Kamara’s gloating, when confronted, is a brilliant example of show, not tell, and Chloe’s jubilation at finding her friend’s weak-spot right at the death, struck me as superb. I especially loved the description of the dusty window of an art room door, like see-through graph paper, scored with lines, which gave the opening’s pivotal scene a real edge of realism and left me feeling as if I was standing behind Chloe, seeing everything Chloe could see.

‘I saw you.’

‘What? Where?’ Kamara glanced at me from under her blackened eyelashes.

‘You know where. Last night. After school.’ I was gratified to see the flush creeping up from her neck. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘Why?’

‘ ‘Cos he’s mine.’

For three years, since I was (even I admit it) a pimply red-haired thirteen-year-old, I had harboured lustful thoughts about Mr Dyer. Most cool art teacher ever. Now, my new bezzie, Kamara, had got there first.

The previous evening I had left my iPod in my art room locker. I had gone back to rescue it from the thieving fingers that haunted Western High in the evening shadows. I had gripped the door handle, then paused. Mr Dyer and Kamara were standing by the store cupboard. He touched her. He stroked her hair. I could only just see them as I peered through the dusty window of the art room door. The glass was like see-through graph paper, scored with lines. It was smudged with the mucky fingerprints of the budding art students who pushed it open every day.

Except last night it was locked.

I felt sick.

‘Jealous, Chloe?’ Kamara smirked.

‘Just don’t go there.’

She laughed. It grated on my nerves.

‘Kev and I are in love.’

‘Kev? Kev!’ I seethed. I looked at her raven hair, her olive skin. No amount of conditioner or hair-straighteners ever tamed my auburn mane. I felt my nails dig hard into my palms.

‘Didn’t you know that’s his name?’

‘You’ve only been here since Christmas.’ It sounded lame, even to me. ‘And you’re younger than me.’

‘I’m sixteen in August.’

‘Aren’t you supposed to have an arranged marriage?’

‘Not gonna happen.’

‘No, it won’t. Not when your brothers find out.’

Kamara blinked.

Got her, I thought.

Second Place – The Changeling, by Scott Goldie

When my sister Lucy was six months old, she was stolen. Only I know she is gone because only I saw the awful creature that took her.

When I woke that night, I knew something was wrong. I have always trusted my instincts. My grandmother would say I was touched.

I knew it was the creature I had glimpsed a few nights before. I also knew why it had come.

Lucy.

My room was black, except for a thin blade of moonlight cutting across my desk.

I lay there for a moment, shivering slightly. I had no wish to see the creature up close.

However, I tugged at the duvet, sent it whispering across the bed, and levered myself up. The frame creaked as my weight left it. I prayed the noise would go unnoticed.

My bare feet glided across the floorboards. I pulled at my bedroom door. My teeth clenched, anticipating a betraying creak.

It never came.

I moved towards the open doorway of Lucy’s room, saw that the window was thrown open, letting in a cool breeze, making the curtains billow. I crossed to her cot. A shadowy bundle lay there.

It was Lucy, sound asleep. I let out the breath I’d been holding and leaned against the cot.

A strange cooing snatched my attention. A figure was perched on the windowsill, silhouetted in the moonlight. Hunched over, knees folded up to its chest, its long arms clutched something wrapped in a blanket.

Lucy.

It stroked its prize with a long finger, cooed again, wide mouth filled with pointed teeth. I blinked and it had gone.

A terrible, icy feeling gripped me. I had no doubt that it had taken my sister.

But then, if it had Lucy, what now slept in her cot?

 

2^nd Place:

The Changeling by Scott Goldie

Daniel Clay: Opens with an arresting line, but then builds to an even better closing line which promises a great story to follow for any horror fans out there. In-between, I really enjoyed the descriptive writing; terms such as ‘blade of moonlight’, ‘betraying creak’, ‘stroked its prize’ were perfect for the mood being set. I especially enjoyed the use of the word ‘cooing’ in such a different context to usual. I’ll certainly never coo over a baby again!

When my sister Lucy was six months old, she was stolen. Only I know she is gone because only I saw the awful creature that took her.

When I woke that night, I knew something was wrong. I have always trusted my instincts. My grandmother would say I was touched.

I knew it was the creature I had glimpsed a few nights before. I also knew why it had come.

Lucy.

My room was black, except for a thin blade of moonlight cutting across my desk.

I lay there for a moment, shivering slightly. I had no wish to see the creature up close.

However, I tugged at the duvet, sent it whispering across the bed, and levered myself up. The frame creaked as my weight left it. I prayed the noise would go unnoticed.

My bare feet glided across the floorboards. I pulled at my bedroom door. My teeth clenched, anticipating a betraying creak.

It never came.

I moved towards the open doorway of Lucy’s room, saw that the window was thrown open, letting in a cool breeze, making the curtains billow. I crossed to her cot. A shadowy bundle lay there.

It was Lucy, sound asleep. I let out the breath I’d been holding and leaned against the cot.

A strange cooing snatched my attention. A figure was perched on the windowsill, silhouetted in the moonlight. Hunched over, knees folded up to its chest, its long arms clutched something wrapped in a blanket.

Lucy.

It stroked its prize with a long finger, cooed again, wide mouth filled with pointed teeth. I blinked and it had gone.

A terrible, icy feeling gripped me. I had no doubt that it had taken my sister.

But then, if it had Lucy, what now slept in her cot?

 

3^rd Place:

Sold by Kristin Tridimas

Daniel Clay: Really stood out from first read-through. I was really impressed by the depth of character motivation, with Kristin making sure the main character, Jenna, had good reason to be somewhere she shouldn’t be and then good reason to investigate what was going on there. Small details – such as Jenna unthinkingly using the torch on her phone – rang true for a character of school-age, whereas I’d have stumbled around in the dark, completely forgetting to use the app on my phone. Also, I thought, the title was brilliant in terms of telling part of the story; had it not been called Sold, I think it would have been impossible for the last two lines to carry the emotional weight that they did.

Jenna had time on her hands. College was over for the day.

She couldn’t go home and risk walking in on Mum and Beer Belly Dave bonking on the sofa. The sight had scarred her for life. Not to mention it now meant the sofa was definitely a no-go area.

Her friends Rachel and Ted were stuck in the science labs for another hour.

Their fault for choosing chemistry. When they were eventually free, the three of them would go down to town to Mike’s Cafe, drink hot chocolate and attempt to hear each other over the chatter. So there was no point going townwards.

She did what she always did and headed up the hill to stare at the big stone building which had once been the object of her dreams. As soon as she knew she wanted to be a newspaper reporter, she also knew that one day she would work in those offices. Except she was wrong. Penchester Gazette had closed down a year ago. Before she’d even had time to do work experience.

She stared at the boarded up windows.

Suddenly, she saw movement.

A corner twitched.

A flash of pink.

She crossed over to look more closely.

Something was drawing her in. A journalistic instinct.

Her heart thumped as she lifted the loose board. Peered into the gloom.

Ghostlike empty desks. They taunted her with what might have been.

Her eyes adjusted.

Something moved behind one of the desks.

“Hello,” she whispered.

And then she did something that she would never normally do. Lifting the board, she climbed in. Switched on the torch on her phone. Crept towards the back.

Crouching behind a desk, looking at her with terrified eyes, was an Asian girl.

The girl shrank back. “Please,” she begged.

 

Highly Commended

Daniel Clay: Both were well written and well paced and left me with a sense there were full-blown stories to follow. In each case, I felt the story was going a certain way, yet each ended on a totally different note, which is a great demonstration of talent over only 300 words.

Tell No One by Linda Welch

‘If you don’t go to sleep right this minute, Father Christmas won’t come,’ Mum called up the stairs.

We’d played this game ever since I’d first called back, ‘Silly Mummy, Father Christmas doesn’t exist.’

Every year, Dad had come bounding up the stairs, saying in a stage whisper, ‘Shhh! Don’t tell her that, she still believes in him!’

Last year, when I was thirteen, it had still made me laugh, but this year there was no Dad, and I didn’t know what to say. Judging by the stifled sob from downstairs, Mum had forgotten for a split second that, just like Father Christmas, we wouldn’t see Dad tonight, or any other night.

I ran downstairs to find her wiping her eyes on the corner of the tea-towel. She tried to smile when she saw me, but it wasn’t a real smile, it didn’t reach her eyes.

‘Let’s make a new tradition,’ she said. ‘Instead of mince pies and sherry for Father Christmas, let’s make it hot chocolate and marshmallows for us.’

‘OK,’ I said, but really I wanted everything to stay the same. Most of all, I wanted Dad to still be alive.

Something woke me that night. I sat up in bed and reached for the bedside light, but a movement by the door made me freeze. Father Christmas?

‘Shh!’ came voice I knew so well. Father Christmas moved silently to the edge of the bed and pulled off his hood and false beard.

‘Dad!’

Surely I had to be dreaming? But his arms were warm as he hugged me, and his voice was soft and familiar as he whispered in my ear.

‘I shouldn’t have come, but I had to see you just once more. Everyone has to believe I’m dead, it’s the only way you’ll be safe.’

 

The Road to Amber by James Lee

Matthew stared at the black attaché briefcase, lying innocuously on the table before him. It once belonged to his Grandfather, and he had salvaged it from his Mother’s clearing of the attic, his only reasoning being that it was locked; a siren call to anyone interested in puzzles. It was not particularly sturdy, and a good knife could easily undo any protection the combination lock feebly offered, yet he resisted the urge. To do so would be a violation, an admittance of defeat to the coder, so instead he contemplated.

He recalled reading somewhere that a staggering proportion of number passcodes were a sequence of dates that held sentiment to the owner. For example, his parents’ laptop key was

271185, the date they first met. His Grandfather had often told the anecdote how he had been born on the 7th minute of the 7th hour of the 7th day, so Matthew half-heartedly swivelled the dials round to create this triple 7, a number dear to gamblers, Christians and aircraft manufacturers. To his disappointment the mouth popped open cordially: empty.

He closed the case and made to carry it to the skip to join its discarded brethren, when he paused. Something, a fragment, rattled about his head and refused to be lost to memory. He set the case down again, opened it, examined the corners, felt lining, frame, to no avail. What were they hiding?

He picked it up again, then realised: the case was far too heavy to be empty. His fingers groped around the edges of the inside, until his left thumb rested on a nodule under the lining upon the left border. His right thumb traced the felt until it halted at an identical one opposite. Matthew pressed, then the case opened once more, and not so cordially.

 

 

Our adjudicator for the November competition was Judith Murdoch from The Judith Murdoch Literary Agency. The number of entries was an outstanding 31.

Judith’s general comments were that she found them all very readable, though too many seemed rather too domestic in tone, so did not stand out as being anything new. A number of entries felt as if they might work better as short stories.

She generously took the time to advise: several entries used far too many adjectives, others over-used names of characters, which distances the reader – they don’t need reminding what the heroine is called six times on one page!

Two authors stood out for strong dialogue: ALL THE FUN OF THE FAIR by Linda Welch, and I WANT TO BREAK FREE by Freddie Mercury. Judith mentions that they might consider writing for radio.

FIRST MEETING by David Lea – Judith thought was amusing but she would have cut the first two lines. MAIA BAY by Benita she found very atmospheric and her assistant particularly liked the mule.

Judith said that the three finalists all immediately focused on the main character, placing them in an intriguing situation, which had possibilities for a full-length story.

She said that characterisation is the most important element in a novel; introducing a sympathetic character on page one who makes the reader feel they want to follow them for another 200-300 pages is what won through.

 

Judith selected:

First place NO MAN’S LAND by Louise Morrish

Second place – BEDINGFORD OPERA Sam Collins

Third place THE LONG REACH TO THE PAST by Margaret Jenness

 

First place NO MAN’S LAND by Louise Morrish

Judith Murdoch : A powerful situation and an emotional hook, which immediately establishes the heroine as a strong character on a mission. It promises to deliver action, adventure and romance and sets out the date and premise on the first page, which is a great asset when Kindle encourages readers to sample the first page.

Mary waits in line, tense and sweating in Edward’s woollen jacket and breeches, as the man ahead of her stumbles his way through the oath.

‘I swear by Almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to His Majesty King George the Fifth…’

Next it will be Mary’s turn to accept the King’s Shilling. A knife twists in her gut at the thought.

She licks her dry lips, tasting coppery salt. Her scalp itches beneath Edward’s cap and she longs to take it off, but to expose her scandalously short hair is too risky. If the recruitment officer should see through her disguise, he could have her arrested for fraud, or worse yet, treason.

For surely it’s a crime against the King for a woman to enlist as a soldier?

She takes a steadying breath, reminding herself why she’s doing this: to find Edward. The telegram from the War Office had reported him missing. He could be a prisoner of war, or lost and wandering the battlefields. Or maybe he’s lying injured in some Belgian military hospital unable to make himself understood. Wherever he is Mary will do her damnedest to track him down. And when she does Mr Walsh will be so grateful to her for finding his precious son and heir, he’ll surely give Mary a job as a journalist on his newspaper.

So far no one has guessed her deceit; in this place of stale sweat and brittle bravado she is just another young man, keen to do his bit for crown and country.

If she can hold her nerve and assume the guise of a soldier, she will soon be on her way to the Front.

The first woman ever to witness the trenches.

Won’t that be a story for Mr Walsh’s paper?

 

Second place – BEDINGFORD OPERA Sam Collins

Judith Murdoch: Although a domestic situation it has a slightly quirky, nostalgic feel that made us want to read on – the characters made the ordinary seem a little poignant and more interesting, but the title needs to be more catchy.

Shelley Harper looked at her mother warily, as she usually did, in her preposterous flowing gown, held closed only by the most gregarious six-inch brooch. A peacock, like its owner, its glory displayed. But it was the beak that Shelley focused on, as if despite its flamboyance, it would tear you to shreds any moment now.

‘Not now Sheldon dear, whatever it is, you can see that I am rather busy.’ Indeed she could. Every kitchen cupboard open wide, the contents spilling onto every available surface. The rattle and hum of utensils being thrown drowned only by the industrial volume Verdi coming from the ghetto blaster on the windowsill, the sound of which had assailed her from the corner of Parkside Drive.

‘You can make this suet pudding with absolutely anything to hand in the pantry,’ Mrs Harper continued, as if reading from some ancient Victorian cookbook. ‘This one’s rhubarb compote…’

It had been with a very heavy heart that Shelley had made this journey this morning. Back to her roots, back to the village, back to the… motherland. Oh God. She had even allowed herself a tear or two on the train from Waterloo. And if she had allowed any more, she felt sure that they would have drowned her face in waves of panic and regret. She could see it in the murky train window; as if the mildly moist green eyes and undrenched olive-skinned face were not her own. Instead she saw something paler, shadowed; the eyes half-closed and brimming, the face awash, dissolving before her with the torrent. And the only sound in her ears… Verdi.

 

Third place THE LONG REACH TO THE PAST by Margaret Jenness

Judith Murdoch: Strong writing with an emotional and intriguing opening, though a little downbeat in tone and I would have preferred it in the present rather than past tense.

Thursday 1st April excerpt from Alice Carmichael’s diary

“Tell Olivia I’m sorry”, your dying words, your breathing laboured, your hands clasped mine. I wanted to hear you ask if the children were coming, to hear you say how much you loved us all. Instead I heard an instruction to tell an unknown woman that you were sorry.

The nurse was very kind. She told me to stay as long as I wanted. She brought me tea and garibaldi biscuits. Suffocated by the daffodil yellow painted walls, I took deep breaths before taking a welcome sip.

I had been upset our children hadn’t arrived in time.   They thought you had rallied. Craving the relief of normality when death surrounds, they had returned to their daily lives. After all the doctors had promised,   “He’s mentally strong, a fighter”. Perhaps you were fighting to see this person one last time.

“Our family are coming. Please stay until they get here”, I had begged. How relieved I am now they were too late.   How could they have borne your last words not being for us?

Who was this woman with such a hold on you that your last words were for her? In just five words you had destroyed my sense of who I am. Yet, despite myself I traced your features with my fingers one last time. I kissed you. I hugged you.   I told you how much I loved you. I said I was sorry if I hadn’t made you happy, if I had hurt you in any way.

I heard voices in the corridor. The door opened. Our son and daughter rushed in. We hugged. “I’ll leave you to say goodbye”.

I slipped out. Weeping, I stumbled along the corridor to the nearest bathroom and was violently sick.

 

 

 

 

Our thanks to Carolin for adjudicating the October competition. The winners, their pieces and Carolin’s comments are below.

Congratulations!

1^st place Lest We Forget by Louise Morrish

2^nd Place Ghost Train by Paul Beattie

3^rd prize It Comes to Us All by Wendy Fitzgerald

 

1st place Lest We Forget by Louise Morrish

Carolin Esser-Miles: Lest we forget follows a slow pace, but one which is fitting for the dreary inevitability that imprisons both the narrator and his ghost. Both are beyond terror, and suspense is not what drives this story for the readers either. What makes this story special is that in all its horror and pain it is a story about forgiveness, and about letting go of the ghosts we can, by owning up, by giving up our defences and asking for help. Again, this is no story of bravery, but of nothing left to fight. And that makes it so human, so real. And in the middle of all that we find a miracle: forgiveness. But the story remains true. Some ghosts continue to haunt us no matter what we do. The story’s message is as profound as it is simple. Telling it in 300 words takes skill.

Last night the soldier came to me again, a vision in mud. I could hear his slow, rasping breaths, the sound louder than the gale outside rattling the window panes, and it was this that woke me. There he stood, in the shadows at the foot of my bed, dark and unmoving. The reek of the trenches came off him, a poisonous mix of rancid mud, rotting flesh, and the burnt tang of cordite. The smell caught at the back of my throat, familiar and dreadful, taking me straight back to that hell.

He didn’t speak, but he had no need to; we both knew the reason he came, every year, without fail. The events of that fateful day are seared on my brain, the sights we both witnessed burnt into my memory for ever more.

There was no need for words at all, German or English.

The match flame shook as I lit a candle. I knew I wouldn’t sleep again, and self-pity brought hot tears to my eyes. I was tired to my bones already, without this.

I think it must have been exhaustion that made me do what I did next. Now, in the pale light of a new morning, I truly can’t believe I had the nerve.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, my voice all but drowned by the soldier’s laboured breaths. ‘Forgive me, please.’

A silence fell; even the glass in the window ceased its rattle.

It was as though I had spoken a charm. His presence, that had filled my thoughts and dreams for so long, began to ebb away. Gradually, his form dissolved into the shadows, and the room threw off its strange chill.

Until all that remained was the sickly sour reek of the trenches.

But that, I fear, will never leave me.

 

2nd Place Ghost Train by Paul Beattie

Carolin Esser-Miles: One of the most suspenseful stories in the competition, Ghost Train plays with conventions in humorous way. The short sentence structures and frequent and quick shifts in perspective and train of thought of our preoccupied narrator prevent the reader from analysing too closely until the conceit is complete. What is particularly interesting is that the conceit, in fact, is again the classic stereotype which we all looked out for in the beginning and from which we got side tracked. A brief survey of readers highlights the effectiveness of the ending: a tongue in cheek acknowledgement – ‘Of course not’ – of what we should have known all along. He is the Kennington Ghost, and there he stays.

The red light stares stubbornly from the darkness, the glimmer picking out a few frames of the tunnel’s structure. Held in the Loop. You can be stuck here for hours waiting for a signal to release you. Well, it seems like it, buried somewhere deep on the Northern Line between Kennington and the Oval. Soon be heading back to Charing Cross and the shift’s end, nothing to do but wait. The old lags tease the youngsters about the Kennington ghosts; bodies unearthed when building the line, lost trackmen in the tunnels. All nonsense of course.

My shoulders stiffen; it’s just the muffled drumming of a train somewhere in the dark. The signal will change soon, it must. My palm, glued to the control leaver, is getting sweaty. It’s always warm down in the deep. No. It’s cold. I can see my breath in front of me. The heater must have packed up. Come on, come on. What’s taking so long? Damn the bloody signals!

What was that? A connecting door just slammed. Must have left it open when I checked my carriages were empty, the vibrations of that train must have made it shut. Hah! Kennington Ghost you old fool! Hang on, that was another door, closer. Surely I can’t have missed a passenger. Bloody hell it’s getting cold in here. Come on, change damn you!

That was the door to the last carriage, it had to be. Did I lock the driver’s door? There’s footsteps. Please change, please. Green! Oh thank you God! The brake won’t release, it’s jammed! I can’t move it, my hand keeps slipping off.

My door slams open…It’s Harry.

“Bloody hell Harry! I thought you were the Kennington Ghost!”

He doesn’t see me. Of course not, I’m the Kennington Ghost, and here I stay.

 

3rd prize It Comes to Us All by Wendy Fitzgerald

Carolin Esser-Miles: A lot of us tend to be rather melodramatic when it comes to death and ghosts. ‘It comes to us All’ acknowledges that – through capitalisation of the Big Words, through hints at a possible violent death. Its focus, however, stays firmly on the ordinary. Our waiting ghosts are not impatient ghosts. The emotions that prevail are acceptance and even a sense of peace, though maybe more that of a shared moment of respite between two attacks. The story is skilfully written and flows calmly and naturally. It is complete as it is, as a vignette, but it can equally lead into a short story or even a novel. Amongst all the clichés, this is a story of love, and it teaches us a valuable lesson, not through regret, but through example: How to live one’s life in the moment.

You’d think they’d hear us, as they pass through the graveyard; laying their flowers, indulging in their tears – oh, I suppose we’ve got rather blasé about it, but we’ve seen it so often, believe me!   But yes, it’s been a while since I stopped off here, pausing on my Way. We sit around, often on that very bench that you rest on, gossiping and bickering loudly about the injustices of Life.

That’s why I am still here. A spirit, a ghost – whatever you might like to call me – I still have burning issues. But today, Mrs Thomas and I are simply watching the grave-digger as he works.   Mrs Thomas is expecting her husband to join her soon, and then she can Pass properly. She simply could not bear to Leave without him. It never fails to astound me the deep and profound love that one human being can have for another – sometimes I feel it almost outweighs the hatred and evil that I so often saw in Life.

Mrs Thomas watches the earthly man at work, with some satisfaction. His burly arms wielding the spade; the sweat on his brow.   It won’t be long now. She tells me an anecdote about her wedding day, and I smile with her. I wish that mine had been so joyous – but I was Taken way before my time and won’t Rest until I see my worldly remains discovered – or at least see my fiancées lovely face again. Whatever you may have heard, we cannot avenge – but we can simply wait for our loved ones to catch us up.

The earthly man has finished his task; Mrs Thomas sits back, contented.

And now Mr Thomas stores his spade, washes his hands, and leaves unsuspectingly for home.

 

Commendation – Abominable by Louise Morrish

Carolin Esser-Miles: The story plays with the literary register of seafaring novels in the frame of Melville or Conrad well. A leisurely pace comes to a more intensified delivery just in time for a sudden realisation of an inescapable fate that grips the reader with cold, clammy hands around their throat.

Mr Jones, the Second Mate, swears blind he saw a ghost last night. At least, that’s what he claims. I must admit, it’s quite refreshing to have a new topic of conversation, as all the crew and scientists talk of at present are ice leads, and dwindling supplies, and seafaring superstitions. One such myth portends to the ghost Jones says he saw; if a ship’s bell rings of its own accord, somebody on board is destined to die.

This morning, Benson the surgeon had to give Jones a dose of chloral and bromide of potassium to calm him, he was that frightened after his shift. Jones was so worked up, in fact, that we nearly came to blows when I suggested that he may have imagined the incident. I will record what he told us, as accurately as my memory permits.

He was on his way to the bridge to begin midnight watch, when he heard a strange noise off the port bow, like a bairn crying and wailing. ‘It weren’t no seal made a sound like that,’ Jones said.

He looked out into the black, and as the moon slipped from behind a cloud he saw a figure, away on the ice. He watched as it floated nearer; a tall, grey-white creature. ‘Most definitely not a bear.’

This thing got to within feet of the ship, before simply vanishing, and then Jones heard the ship’s bell toll once, clear as day, but there was no wind last night.

And no one up on deck save himself.

Jones has vowed never to set foot on the ice after sundown, which is all very well to say now, but what happens when we can go no further in the ship and must take to the sledges?

What will he do then?

 

Commendation – Devotion by Gill Hollands

Carolin Esser-Miles: Devotion packs a very important message into 300 short words. It is a story about love, and about the right person being there to help and care.  It works because of exact timings, sketched hints and fitting clues. With just a little more space to help the reader follow through the various cognitive jumps this will be a very powerful story.

I peel open my eyes to twilight, the slide of shoes: whispers, beeping machines. I know that smell…

‘Don?’ My throat scratches.

I feel his cold hand take mine; smile up into his welling eyes. His voice had kept me going in the darkness, dragged me back from oblivion.

‘Ah! You’re awake! Welcome back!’ I jump. The nurse smiles down at me. ‘You’ve been in a coma for 9 weeks, since your accident. Do you remember anything?’

I shake my head, trying to claw through fog.

‘Well, don’t fret. It’ll come back in time.’ She scribbles a few notes on her clipboard. ‘I’ll tell Doctor you’re awake…’ She vanishes. Don squeezes my hand.

Before we can say a word, another nurse takes her place.

‘Let’s get you off all these wires and things, eh?’ She bustles around me. It’s all so exhausting…

Don makes a drink sign, sneaks out, rolling his eyes, blowing a kiss. I can still feel the touch of his fingers…

I sleep, as if I haven’t had enough. Don is always there when I surface, soothing, my rock. The doctors come and go, the nurses ever present. I seem never to have a moment to talk to him.

The children are there when I next wake, tearful. They take my hands in their warm ones.

‘They wanted us to tell you, Mum…’ My son stops, gulping.

‘You need to know… We lost Dad. Head trauma. It was quick. He didn’t suffer.’ My daughter’s eyes fill.

I stare up at them, confused.

‘But -’ I glance over at their father, standing by the door behind them. He nods.

‘They said it would help if you knew…’

‘He brought me back…’

Don blows kisses from the doorway, fading into the gloom.

It feels good not to weep alone.

 

 

 

What an amazing start to the season. As always, it has been a pleasure having the support of Robin Mukherjee, Screenwriter and Playwright. The winning pieces, including Robin’s comments, for the September competition are below.

Congratulations to…

1st Place. Joanne Tomlinson – In Between.

2nd Place. Geoff Harrington (David Eadsforth) – The Day The Earth Moved.

3rd Place. Wendy Fitzgerald – One Meeting.

Commendations. Honey Stavonhagen – Fishing with Tyko and Rosie Sutcliffe – Tiger Tour 

1st Place: Joanne Tomlinson – In Between.

Robin Mukherjee: I thought this is quite brilliant. It took a couple of reads before its subtleties began to seep in, but they soon became unforgettable. It also takes its subject beyond the obvious into a very startling and rather beautiful dimension.

I was looking down on myself, but paying little attention to that or to the voices until he arrived. He appeared on my bed, sat with his profile to me, a dark hoodie pulled up over his head, obscuring most of his features.

There was an unpleasant smell of ether and a soft beeping noise.

A shadowy figure in green pyjamas brought in an unassuming cool box holding my future and his past on ice.

The boy turned to me, pulling the hood from his head, revealing a sticky, matted mop of black hair. I felt his nascent testosterone invading me.

A memory flickered, not mine, of a car bonnet crumpled up to the steering wheel. Another, mine this time, of drowning, gulping air, frantic, gulp, panic.

He began to remove the pile of bricks balanced on my chest, which suddenly were almost unbearable. One by one, easing my discomfort, he told me that everything would be alright now, and his certainty helped me bear it.

It took all my strength to reach for his hand and squeeze it in solidarity and gratitude.

As he squeezed back I felt a warmth surge through my cold body, I broke the surface of the water and gasped deep, life giving breaths through my new lungs.

His hand slipped from my grasp as I felt his heart beat for the first time…

 

2nd Place: Geoff Harrington (David Eadsforth) – The Day The Earth Moved.

Robin Mukherjee: This is funny and sweet, a very simple story but with a rich world around it, delivering a genuine sense of OMG. The title is multi-layered and rather cheeky. A lovely read.

Jack woke in an instant, his senses assailed by a confusing jumble of sights and sounds. The room was shaking violently and there was a loud rumbling the like of which he had never heard before. No mistake; this was an actual earthquake! He leapt naked from the bed and ran for the door, wrenched it open and strode outside. He froze; across the corridor stood a naked woman, her eyes wide with astonishment.

“Oh my God!” he cried.

“Oh my God!” she echoed.

Both turned to face the corridor walls.

“Was that an earthquake?” he asked. “I didn’t wait to grab my bath robe!”

“Yes; neither did I!”

“I don’t want to go back for it, but I don’t want to go downstairs like this either!”

“Nor me! Wait; it’s not shaking any more; let’s sit down for a moment.”

Seconds later they were sitting, backs to the corridor walls, arms around knees drawn up to their chins, staring at the ceiling.

“Um, I’m Jack…”

“I’m Carol; um, what are you doing here?”

“Off-season city break for the museums; they’ve some of the finest in Europe.”

“Coincidence; me too! My friends think I’m nuts…” She grinned. “Was that a half-decent six pack I saw?”

He smiled self-consciously.

“Perhaps; I’m in a rowing club. Actually, I didn’t notice too many spare inches on you either.”

“Thank you, kind sir; I’m a rather serious swimmer.”

“Wonder if it’s safe to get our robes now and join the other guests…”

“Probably…”

She stood up abruptly; modesty clearly set aside for a moment, and held out her hand. He smiled, got to his feet and shook it.

“Nice to meet you Carol; fancy seeing the museums together?”

“That would be nice.”

“See you at breakfast?”

“If you’ll recognise me with my clothes on…”

 

3rd Place: Wendy Fitzgerald – One Meeting.

Robin Mukherjee: This is poignant and moving, with a sharp twist that hurts. It raises rather than answers what might in the end be unanswerable questions, and offers a sense of desolation mixed with a complex tone of joy. A rich potage of powerful emotions.

To my Comrade in Arms:

I have thought of you so often

When night casts its terrors over me and no stars can be seen.

It was so many years ago now –

I am grown old and frail; my final days cannot be long

The days of reckoning crowd upon me

And my need to go fearless into the night.

Did you have a family like me? A wife, two little girls,

Who waited for you at home, and cried themselves to sleep?

The sense of seeing, feeling music

In everything you did?

Did you hide in that barn, in that desolate foreign land, alone;

Mad with hunger and thirst, dreaming of their arms?

When you faced me, gun in trembling hands

Fear bulging in your eyes

Did you think – it’s me, or him?

And when I dropped my arm and waved to you,

‘Go! Run!’

Did you think to kill me even then?

I’ve led a life of pain and joy;

A life so special, because it nearly was not;

And I’ve you to thank for that.

Now as my days close; the dark winter outside interminable,

I think of you so often; what might have been.

And I need to say ‘forgive me.’

You turned your back to flee …

And I shot you.

I can see the red haze of your blood before my eyes

Your body twitch to still.

And I know we won’t meet again, my friend

For you will be in heaven

And I will be in hell.

 

Commendation: Honey Stavonhagen – Fishing with Tyko.

Robin Mukherjee: A startling and evocative snapshot, which perfectly captures the weather, the atmosphere, and the awkwardness of two worlds coming together.

‘How old are you?’ The words were all correct but something about the way the boy placed them was wrong. Effie let the question sit on the surface for a while before soaking it up like a warm, wet snowball.

‘I’m…’ Papa liked to say that people who chose to mark birthdays or count years had too much food and too few worries. Effie agreed, so she gave the answer her Mama used to give the doctors before all her hair fell out in soft, brown clumps. ‘I’m as old as I’ve ever been, but not as old as I’m going to be.’ She shivered, as the cold wind bore through her thin coat like a tired lie.

The boy looked up at her then, his face emerging from a halo of fur and something in the glint of his eyes startled Effie into staring longer than she’d intended. He returned her gaze with a blunt one of his own, until the little wooden rod jerked sharply tugging at his attention.

‘You’ve caught a fish.’ Effie said, noting the layer of accusation floating on her voice.

‘Not yet, I haven’t.’ The fish lurking underneath them bent the rod into a question mark bobbing on the dead, black heart of the lake. Ice crystals had already begun to rebuild their spidery web, threatening the edge of the hole he had cut in the ice. Here, fishing was a race against time, not the meandering pastime it had been at home. Home.   Effie wiped the word away with the back of her sleeve, her woollen mitten clawing at her lips.

This boy, crouched down wrestling an unseen fish, was the only other child in the long valley and therefore Effie’s sole prospect of friendship. It was going to be a long winter.

 

Commendation: Rosie Sutcliffe – Tiger Tour.

Robin Mukherjee: Beautiful phrasing such as, ‘His body an exclamation mark amongst the seething throng of bodies.’  The characters are quickly and fully established in complex layers, the world powerfully tangible and convincing with its intriguing promise of adventure.

David shuffled a few steps forward in the desultory queue of passengers, his body shaped like an apology from years of ‘excuse me’s,’ ‘sorrys,’ ‘pardons.’

A man who could never quite meet expectations, either those of himself or others.

This was by far the most exciting thing David had done in his entire forty-seven years of life. Spurred on by a small inheritance and the realisation that watching David Attenborough on television was not equal to seeing a Bengal

Tiger in it’s natural environment with his own eyes, David had booked on

‘Tiger Tours India.’

Stepping out tentatively from the airport, the brilliance, heat, aromas, vibrant colours and speed of ceaseless movement assaulted him like a gang of thugs.

Initially terrified, David had a choice to take the familiar route of hiding in fear or to embrace this experience and meet it head on. Whilst in a quandary of indecision he felt a tap on his shoulder and spun around.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump, but I saw your baggage label. I’m on

‘Tiger Tours’ as well and can’t see the tour guide anywhere. They are supposed to meet us at the airport, aren’t they? This is the first time I’ve travelled alone and I feel like a fish out of water.” She gabbled nervously, gentle hazel eyes wide with tremulous anxiety.

David smiled warmly, confidence growing, spreading like a fire within him.

“Don’t worry. Let’s walk down here a bit further and if we don’t spot our guide then we can begin the adventure early by catching a rickshaw to the first hotel and wait for him there.”

Taking both cases, David strode forward, his body an exclamation mark amongst the seething throng of bodies.