Brief: Follow storyblocks link below. Listen to the thriller music samples on the first page and select a piece of music or sound effect which inspires you to write a 300 words psychological thriller piece.
Deadline: Midnight on 25th January, 2024
Adjudicator: Dai Henley, Crime and Thriller Author
Winners will be announced at our 13th February 2024 meeting; online and in the newsletter thereafter.
For full competition guidelines, please read our competition rules.
Good luck!
Members were very lucky to have two adjudicators for our January 2024 competition – our two speakers Dr. Kane Holborn and Antosh Wojcik. A wonderful new challenge was introduced by the poets in the form of ekphrasis. Both were very generous with their time and thoughts throughout the adjudication and feedback process.
Ekphrasis definition: the use of detailed description of a work of visual art as a literary device.
Introducing the task, Antosh said: “We’re going to broadly approach this type of writing. I see ekphrasis more as ‘creating a new piece of work from an existing work’ – so this prompt is slightly broader than the definition of the process.”
A detailed brief was provided as follows:
You are invited to write and submit an Ekphrastic piece of prose fiction, poetry, non-fiction or short essay.
300 words for prose.
10-20 lines for poetry.
Antosh and Kane were both extremely generous with their time and thoughts on their winning entries. Both were agreed on the top three, but each chose their own highly commended recipient.
And the winners are…
Delightful, leaping, irreverent verse! The poem reads as though we are shot through the ages of contemporary art, explosive and riotous with its explorations of image and undercutting of those images. The title does its dues to set up the concept and tonal resonance of the ensuing piece. I clapped upon reading. A riot of a read, superbly composed, well done!
Antosh Wojcik
I feel as though I’m in a gallery, observing sculptures and paintings as I read your work), (in particular, The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymous Bosch) and this feeling emerges from the word go. Your poem mirrors the vigorous activities taking place within the painting. You throw image after image at your reader, assaulting their senses. From the juxtaposition of freezing rivers and cities on fire, you continue your fanciful poetic assault into your second stanza, not even giving us time to breathe. And this was what drew me back to your poem. Sublime madness at its finest! Methinks you are a Surrealist painter in disguise, masquerading as a poet. Job well done.
Dr Kane Holborn
The piano has been drinking, it staggers through its nightmare
from the left side of the triptych, where the duck-head man is reading
to the music of the buttocks played by instruments of torture.
And it frolics in the garden, riding unicorns and donkeys,
feeding strawberries and cherries to the bathers in the lake.
And the rivers are all freezing on the far side of the water
and the cities are on fire,
and the water is a bloodbath, and the rabbit bears a stretcher.
And the piano has been drinking in the stomach of the tree-man
and the giant bird-head monster makes a feast of all the corpses,
and the demons need urinals in the shape of Duchamp’s Fountain.
The piano has been dancing its four-legged wooden waltz.
And you can’t find your artwork at Grand Central Palace
and it hates you and the gallery, and you can’t find the toilet
and the porcelain’s an artwork and R Mutt has signed his name,
and the newspapers are scathing, and the critics have retired.
The piano has been drinking, it’s a sculpture ready made.
The urinal has been drinking, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me.
In any ekphrastic work, a sense of place can be a powerful writing tool in
Dr Kane Holborn
conjuring the ekphrastic and you have eloquently framed your experience of a visit to Roche
Court supremely well. I especially loved the way you brought your poem to a close as this is often a delicate space to write within. But your trio of rhetorical devices offered me a refreshing perspective which brought your poem to a satisfying conclusion. Bravo.
A playful, dazzling poem, balanced in its introspection and leaps into the abstract!
I love a bold opening line; ‘They say I’m a sensation…’ It does the work of lighting the fire for the reader when the title is so quiet. What follows is this deftly considered, musical verse that purposefully drifts into the various named works and sensations.
Antosh Wojcik
They say I’m a sensation,
Though now I walk down from the ha ha
Following Richard Long’s bone flint Tame Buzzard Line,
Tapering towards the second life oak.
In the Orangery my work hangs
Among a tinkle of glasses and low frequency reverence.
These canvasses are not of the grey ashtray weep of Mosul,
But the proud, infinite Nineveh Plains.
I’m shoulder to shoulder
With van der Beugel’s DNA squares.
Though my code is in sand and the rumble of F15s,
His has settled as glass gallery reflections.
Belonging
Rolling green
Do they need me with them
As living, breathing context?
Am I also the art
As well as the artist?
It’s wonderful to read a work that is confident in its fusion of form! Part-essay, part-poetic-prose, part-review, the reader is invited to navigate these various figments of Iago and reflect on the core themes of Shakespeare’s great work. I think it’s innovative to reach to such a text and bring its context into different life/light through the work you have selected and the vignette form gives this piece a sense of fluidity through time. I recommend building further on this work!
Antosh Wojcik
This piece is an interesting beast of creative writing because it treads many grounds in terms of genre. Is it a poem? Is it something else? I didn’t know. At times, your poetic lilt bled into the realm of review and, subsequently, nonfiction. But your piece was refreshing in that it had no discernible genre.
From ceramics at the V&A to Oliver Parker’s adaptation of Othello, you push the envelope and broaden the dimensions of your piece whilst maintaining your central theme: inspiration from the visual in a variety of forms.
Dr Kane Holborn
I am Iago. I am the mastermind of plot and subterfuge, the fulcrum at the centre of Shakespeare’s play. The Bard has given me immortality and my character has been endlessly speculated upon, my motives fully considered. “Demand me nothing” I had said. “What you know you know.” With the passage of time, I can be more helpful, but let art be my voice and your guide.
Let us start by looking at a piece of ceramic sculpture. The piece is Iago and Othello by Cyd Jupe. It is figurative, a wall piece of stoneware crank and red iron oxide. We are depicted as human heads, and I am whispering in Othello’s ear. It is a typical moment that captures our precious trust and intimacy. It reminds me of the time I discussed with Othello “Green Eyed Jealousy” and seeded some wisdom. Now let us consider a film.
How about Oliver Parker’s adaptation of Othello? He places me as a central witness to the action. There I am situated behind doors, peering into scenes, or hidden, all the while watching. The Director is masterful, look at the ingenious use of the chessboard anchoring my vital role. Some might say that it is Othello and Desdemona who are the chess pieces here and that I am the master operator. That is for you to decide.
So let us move on and try Othello the ballet by the American Ballet Theatre and the San Francisco Ballet. In one pivotal scene, we are returning from battle and the sailors are stretching and attaching ropes in preparation for docking. There are two groups of rope but within each group, tangles, and twists till they form an absolute web.
What I know about webs or being caught in one, I understand little, but I can say that the music is cleverly composed. The notes do not follow a straight line either but are equally discordant, complex, and twisted. I am simply entranced.
I am a lover of poetry that leaps off the page and which is up the wall, and your work certainly achieves this. Your engagement with Louis Wain’s psychedelic cats is quite evident through your zany use of language. I enjoy how the theme of mental health is mirrored against and through Wain’s visual work as an ekphrastic device within your poem, which enlivens the themes at work. Bravo!
Dr Kane Holborn
A kaleidoscope of vibrant red, bright blue, xanthine yellow
cuts a scanned slice of neurological matter
or
Louis Wain’s cat?
Disappointment, fear and fury
picks up the razor
severs his ear
paints a self-portrait.
Strabismus dwarf squats
midst the Bruegel-type landscape
as the patricide axeman
advances through the melee.
Genius or madman?
Creative talent oozes while
Incarcerated in the asylum of the brain.
I was really taken with this work of flash fiction, which drops the reader so carefully into a considered, almost spiralling moment for the narrator. The works that influence the text are neatly embodied, even though they are disparate, the structure of the piece holds and draws such interesting colours and imagery from the art pieces. A quiet, vulnerable storm of a piece. Well done.
Antosh Wojcik
Inspired by: Casa Batlló by Antony Gaudi (Building), The Hateful Eight by Quentin Tarantino (Film), The Gruffalo by Julia Donaldson (Picture Book)
We enter the liquid corridors with squeaky shoes, rain bouncing on the scaly flooring, and this UNESCO World Heritage Site, this marvel of wavy walls and whirlpool ceilings is my refuge from a snowstorm, deep in the mountains, carrying a convicted murderer waiting to be hanged. We go up, almost floating, submerged by the tropical windows like schools of poisonous fish. Jody is in a rush to get to the dragon-like roof; but I delay him. I linger for unbearable stretches over the seahorse-shaped doorhandles and the azure crystals of the elevator’s buttons. That roof seems designed to spill blood. Blood can channel through the dragon’s ribs and tail, flushing inside a building with no straight lines, no corners, flowing freely over every feature better than a Roman aqueduct. Once on the roof, how will I know if someone’s hiding under my feet? Someone ready to snatch a shot from below—a deadly angle—right when I’m most vulnerable? As we ascend, like bubbles in wine, I remind Jody of his former girlfriends. The allergy-prone fox. The tired owl. The starving snake. He says our love would scare them off. But now I look at him: a grey, small, innocent mouse who survived a snake, an owl, a fox, and I wonder what he sees in me. I wonder if he’s got a pathological fascination with terrible tusks, and terrible claws, and terrible teeth in terrible jaws. I stare at this tiny rodent getting on one knee, right on the back of a dragon, on top of a house made of oceans, and I am terrified.
Novelist and Creative Writing Tutor, Adrienne Dines, had members laughing with the funny stories she shared during her talk on storytelling and imagination. Adrienne
Write a 300-word piece of creative writing, taking inspiration from any of the following prompts:
Season’s turn
That one small light
When you said
Adrienne very generously took the time to speak with each competition entrant who attended on the night, and give them feedback on their entries.
And the winners are…
Well crafted, used dialogue and setting to move the story forward along both the plot line (building up to the bust-up), and the emotional arc (when he realises what’s lost after the last butterfly is turned).
Adrienne Dines
‘peppery with the smell of ozone’ – great sense of place. Not just where it happened, but working as a character in the story. Loved the pacing in this too.
The new fridge arrives on Monday. By Thursday, we’ve sunk into an unpleasant morning routine, bickering about it in the kitchen.
“When you said it was big, I didn’t think you meant…” Angela points at the refrigerator, looming like a giant silver robot in the space where the dog bed used to be.
“You wanted it!” I complain.
“I didn’t mean this one!” Her eyes and mouth are narrow slits. I turn away and face the fridge. The installer left a row of colourful magnetic butterflies stuck high on the shiny metal door. I turn one around so that its little metal antennae face the floor. The three to its left already face down; the three to its right, still look optimistically upward, oblivious to the consequences of future arguments. What will happen when we reach the end of the row?
“Are you ignoring me? David?”
I do ignore her. I’m not stupid enough, or brave enough, to fight when she’s like this.
I open the fridge. A wave of cold air flows over me, peppery with the smell of ozone. The glass shelves, half empty, are still clean, except where our son, Alex, has left a ring of chocolate milk next to a plastic-wrapped leg of lamb.
Alex has a football game today. Afterwards, we’ll have a big dinner: roast lamb, potatoes, brussels sprouts cooked the way only Angela knows. A glass of wine, or two. Once, we might have snuck to bed early, and crossed our fingers that Alex wouldn’t hear us over his video games. Not today. Not this week, this month.
But the roasts are really good.
I look at the row of butterflies. I can’t imagine turning the last one.
“We don’t have to keep the fridge,” I say.
“Let’s give it a few more days,” she replies.
“And these?” I pull the magnetic butterflies off the fridge.
“They’re hideous, aren’t they?”
I nod, and toss them in the bin.
Great use of a child’s voice to juxtapose the child’s perception of what’s happening on the surface with what he senses is threatening below. Sentence length varied for dramatic effect – this would be even more sinister read aloud. Great writing.
Adrienne Dines
It’s a fine balance, you know, and I can’t leave it to my little brother.
This house’s volume is always shifting, like a bad recording of an action movie, and I’m always turning up and down the speakers to catch words or hide noises.
I don’t have a remote for the house as I do for the telly, but that’s ok. I’ve learned to tinker with what I have.
Sometimes I steal frying pans to use as weapons and challenge my brother to a duel. Our battles muffle the slamming of doors, the smashing of dishes, and the screams, when not too loud or too graphic, make up the sound of our imaginary crowds.
Sometimes we play video games, and by the time we’re finished, our eyes are red and sore. I don’t like when he asks if Mum plays too, though.
It’s not as easy when we need to be quiet.
If whispers ooze into the corridor, or the couch rumbles with heavy snoring, like a dragon’s cave, I need to turn down the volume.
I put headphones on my brother’s ears, let him stream a horror film on my phone, even if it’ll give him nightmares, and I wear my fluffy slippers all year round.
There’s always something to do during silences. Especially at night. There’s always that one small light behind the plant, the one Mum keeps forgetting to turn off, the one that seems to shine for me.
Sometimes I grab crisps and candies from the larder. Sometimes I swipe the floor from broken glass. Sometimes I place cutleries back in the drawer.
Sometimes, though, when the silence is alive, and I know games won’t help, I keep a knife for myself, to store it under my pillow.
Just in case.
I think this story could be developed – maybe name the specific books and let the convos flow, but given the word count restriction, well done. I liked the story within a story (the lady of the house moving coffee table books/ what people in toilets read) – funny and irreverent.
Adrienne Dines
– Why are we here again? I mean, I don’t mind now we’re all together, I find it rather cosy.
– Can’t say old bean, but it is better than rubbing shoulders with all the other unread classics in that draughty hallway.
– Yes, it’s nice to slide up against the sexy coffee table number written by that famous singer. I notice that the lady of the house moves it from time to time depending on the type of guest.
– Try being a coffee table book, mate. I haven’t been leafed for years. I am a totem, regardless of what racy nonsense lies within my folds. I have more in common with the knick-knacks on the sideboard.
– You think you’ve got problems. Have a go at being a bog book, sitting for hours on the top of a cold, damp cistern waiting for someone to expose their backside and then continue to disdainfully peruse the first page. Notably, no one ever gets as far as to find out why E=mc2.
– I think they’ve got a book with a corkscrew in it. It’s not even a book. Callously hollowed out as it is to provide literary based amusement during wine and cheese evenings.
– Why are we here again?
– They haven’t touched us in years. It’s all that flappy snap of those tablets and that weird pallid glow on their vapid faces.
– I suppose the field of intellectual operations is wider on that big TV.
– Er, this is all a bit odd, we’re arranged in a sort of pyramid. And we’re outside.
– Yes, and what’s that glow? That one small light getting closer and closer?
– That’s a flame, buddy. That’s from a match. I should know, I’m a 1970s science textbook; a veteran.
– I am a history tome. This is not good.
I love the ending to this particularly. Byfleet the time we are better end of time in the third paragraph, we’re pretty sad but then.. that one small light. Great use of repetition for effect.
Adrienne Dines
In approximately 800-900 million years, increasing luminosity of the sun will have disrupted the Earth’s inorganic carbon cycle to the extent that all plant life dies, with multicellular life of all kinds following shortly after. In approximately 3-4 billion, the planet’s core will freeze and the atmosphere will boil. In perhaps 8 billion, the moon will shatter into a ring of debris, if the sun has not grown large enough to swallow it. But by the time this story is set, this is of no concern. By the time this story is set, these events are not even a memory.
A hundred billion years or so more, and no map names Sol. Nor could anybody say where the Milky Way once ended or Andromeda began. As continents once crawled across an ancient sphere, so do these two galaxies crawl across the heavens: but rather than splitting, they form a new Pangaea. The people of this place journey between its stars, wringing iron from asteroids and fuel from gas giants in pursuit of new frontiers. But even this is still too soon. By the time this story is set, those frontiers have all been conquered.
A hundred and fifty billion years in the future—more than ten times the age of our universe now—the sky beyond the galaxy is dark. One by one, all other lights have slipped beyond the particle horizon. All other lights, that is, but one. From the farthest reaches of the galaxy, against a backdrop of unbroken night, anyone can see it. But this requires the most powerful of telescopes, and it grows fainter all the time. To suggest this is another world—untouched and forever out of reach—is heresy. Besides: why would no histories record it, and why would there be just the one?
But still those with telescopes look out and wonder: what is it?
That one small light.
That one small light.
That one small light.
Members were filled with intrigue when speakers Joey Jones and Lesia Tkacz spoke about interactive ficition and AI-generated literature respectively. And while he couldn’t attend to announce his winners on the night, our own events organiser and sci-fi author, Dr. Mark Eyles, selected the winners for this months competition:
Write 300 words of science fiction, including an AI character.
Although unable to attend on the evening, Mark did provide reasoning to his thought process to be shared with the group:
“I asked ChatGPT to ‘Suggest five marking criteria for judging a sci-fi writing competition.’ Chat GPT said: ‘Certainly, here are five essential marking criteria for judging a sci-fi writing competition:
1. Originality and Creativity (25 points)
2. World-Building and Setting (20 points)
3. Character Development (20 points)
4. Plot Structure and Engagement (20 points)
5. Writing Style and Presentation (15 points)
These criteria provide a balanced approach, covering the uniqueness of the concept, the immersive world-building, well-developed characters, compelling plot, and the quality of the writing. Adjust the point allocations based on the specific emphasis or importance you want to place on each criterion in your competition.’
“The Chat GPT criteria are all very worthy, though I’m not sure they get to the heart of things. Seems to be what ChatGPT is like, often suggesting the obvious. Science fiction can be a powerful tool in interrogating the human condition. It can suggest novel ways of thinking about the world and our place in it.
The entries were all well written and fully engaged with the brief. The entrants can all be very proud of the writing skills displayed in the stories. They all pulled me in and kept me guessing until they resolved.
Many of these stories featured very believable technologies that were realistically extrapolated from
where we are in 2023. A couple took us somewhere more distant in space and/or time.
All the winners touched on larger themes, with stories solidly rooted in science fiction tropes. They
all brought something original to the table.”
And the winners are…
This entry read like a window onto a much larger world. This was a well-crafted piece that immediately drew me in. This story contained large themes, but they never overshadowed the central character, Cary’s, personal plight in trying to understand and engage with the world. Set in a solid science fiction world, Cary was complex and deep.
Mark Eyles
The first revolt I remember, I was seven. Our tribe charged the Barrier with tree trunks to force it down.
Three Machines came and watched, still and silent, silver eyes reflecting flames while the men howled and threw rocks. All night they watched and never moved.
In the morning the fires were ash, the Machines gone. We came to look at the fallen Barrier, the white metal all twisted and bent among the charred wood. Some laughed, some pawed in the ash for scrap metal, but most only stared at the Outside.
No one stepped through the gap.
And next day the Barrier was back, whole and unscarred.
’So entanglement means particles’ states can’t be considered separately, they’re described by a single wave function?’
‘Correct,’ the Machine said. ‘You have a good understanding of this subject, Cary.’
I squirmed a little straighter in the hard seat. ‘What else is there?’
‘In the topic Quantum Mechanics?’
‘No.’ One deep breath. ‘I want to do things. Not just learn.’
‘It is not advisable,’ the Machine said.
The Machines don’t say no. They say not advisable, not culturally appropriate, but it means no all the same.
‘But what’s the point of learning this stuff?’
‘Humans enjoy learning.’
That’s what I told Dan when he asked, and he laughed and said I just want the Machine to tell me I’m clever. Maybe he’s right. Most my age don’t want to sit in a cold little room and talk to a Machine. They want to be grown-ups, doing grown-up things.
And sure, I wanted that too. Only sometimes I was with the tribe, everyone drinking and singing, and I thought is this it? Is this everything that matters? Because the world is big and the stars so far away, and we’re so small.
So very, very small.
This story kept me returning to it. And not just because of the reference to Julian Cope’s band. I wanted to know more about this dark world and the characters in it. I liked the way everything hinged on the smallest detail in a teardrop, reminding me of that scene in Bladerunner, when Rick Deckard zooms in on a reflection in a picture. This story felt gritty, real, and cinematic in a good way.
Mark Eyles
Frank tracked the tear streaking the girl’s dirty cheek. When it dripped from her chin, he dropped like a hawk into the cheap carpet, pinched thumb and index finger flicking once, twice, three times for maximum magnification. From his virtual insect-like viewpoint, the teardrop’s remains sat on fibrous red ropes; a fish-eyed lens minutely reflecting the bedroom’s sparse furniture and teenage-plastered walls.
The fragile hemisphere’s tension could collapse any second, erasing the telltale he sought. Was the girl who sat hunched on the bed, face etched with sorrow, also reflected in this wept convexity?
No, she wasn’t.
“Gotcha!” cried Frank, pushing back in his office chair, fist pumping.
“You’re on a roll this morning,” Pete remarked from the adjoining desk, peering at a well-dressed man unfastening his shirt.
“This one’s got a new author mod. Took a minute to spot, but I’m on it. Want to hear the happy ending?”
“I insist,” said Pete, eyes unwavering.
Frank’s fingers pinched and swiped, returning the girl to centre-stage. “So long, darlin’,” he muttered.
Adjusting his headset, he addressed the target, forehead creased with tender concern: “Don’t worry, love,” he said. “You’ll be safe.”
Her head lifted. “You believe me?” she asked, eyes wide with hope.
“’Course I do, sweetheart. I’ll send every word I’ve got. How’s that sound?”
“Oh, Frank! You’re so kind. How can I ever repay you?”
“By dying, you bootleggin’ bot,” Frank said, his finger stabbing the keyboard’s kill button.
His desk’s speakers emitted a piercing shriek as the girl and her room collapsed into a singular red dot. Frank glanced up at the large office monitor as a cheery ping announced his latest tally. Today was going well.
“Nice one,” said Pete. “Four dead poets and doughnuts not gone.”
“You can’t beat the human touch,” Frank replied, reaching for one.
This funny story deals with very contemporary issues, exploring what might happen if current
Mark Eyles
technology is pushed to the limit. Possibly pushed to that limit in the near future given the current
rate of technological change. The way humans respond to all powerful AIs in this scenario possibly
offers some hope, or maybe not. The question at the end left me guessing.
“Mwa-ha-ha!” cackled Biff Cheezos, the ultimate CEO. “Now Disney-Amazon-Apple-Google-Tesla-ETC has automated all industry and owns all intellectual property, I can finally realise my dream of having all the money!”
He paused to take in his expansive top-floor office, which was definitely exclusive and minimalist and not at all lonely and empty.
“Halexa,” he said, summoning the attention of the AI that now possessed every creative work in existence. “Whip up another Avengers movie.”
“Okay,” said Halexa. “Making another Avengers movie. How many Hemsworths should be in it?”
“I don’t care about that!” Biff waved a hand. “If I wanted to think about the details I wouldn’t have paid all those nerds to make you!”
“Okay.” There was a pause. “I’ve made an Avengers movie. It has seven Hemsworths. Would you like to see it?”
“Of course not!” Biff cracked open a can of Monster and threw himself down in his tacky leather beanbag chair. “Just give me the figures for the last one.”
“Calculating…” Another pause. “In its opening weekend, Avengers: Neverending Infinity grossed zero dollars.”
“Wha?” asked Biff Cheezos, inadvertently slopping vile sticky energy drink down his chin. “How? Why?”
“An in-depth analysis suggests that consumers’ disposable income is instead going towards nothing, because they don’t have disposable income, because all their jobs have been automated.”
“What?” asked Biff again, more articulately this time.
“Would you like me to explain using puppets?” offered Halexa, helpfully.
Biff ignored the offer. “So what’s everybody doing now?”
“Market research drones suggest they have established a rudimentary economy using ring-pulls as currency. Community farms have been established. An independent internet has emerged using obsolete Xboxes for infrastructure. The most popular Hemsworth has reinvented himself as a street performer and is currently reciting limericks on the curb outside.”
Biff Cheezos thought for a bit. “Could we buy the rights to those limericks?” he asked.
“Depends,” said Halexa. “How many ring-pulls do you have?”
The inner world of a toaster as it contemplates its existence. This story was immediately engaging
Mark Eyles
and told with humour. The existential angst of the toaster was entirely believable. Although very
short, this piece suggested a much larger world.
It is a rock. Not small; not a stone. Not big; not a boulder. A rock. The rockiest of rocks. And it is sitting motionless as a rock. This is to say that the rock is not sentient or friendly or people pleasing. It is simply a rock, and that itself is pleasing. It has been placed on the windowsill, prime position for the winter sun to speckle its sleek back, and I love the rock more than anything because it knows exactly what it is without all the drama of knowing what it is not… It is a rock.
I am not a rock. I don’t know who I am; or is that, what I am? I don’t know if I am an am. I do know what I do though: I make toast.
It’s not the most glamorous of professions, no one’s saying that it is, and in most ways I’m a very crumby kind of AI. But when I see you walk through the door, I wait for the call: ‘Toastee, white bread, level 3.’ And I get to work. I send the signal to lift out the white bread, check for mould and then proceed. I set a timer for 3 minutes for level 3, but if I’m being watched I tend to speed it up a bit: I get performance anxiety, you see. I think it all stems from the fact that I don’t get holiday days but I reckon even if I did I would just spend it in rest mode. Or would I stare at my rock? It is a very rocky rock after all.
A brilliant evening was had with husband and wife team Brian Viner and Jane Sanderson speaking about their different writing styles, their writing journeys and providing some advice from what they’d learnt along the way. Brian then generously gave his time for our members to adjudicate the competition with the following brief.
Ghost-write (in the first person) the opening 300 words of an autobiography, choosing any famous person and, without being too obvious, writing in their distinct voice.
Speaking of the entries received, Brian said: “There was lots of good stuff in all the entries. But if I may make a few general points that apply to some or all of them …
Moving on to then announce the winning entries, he added: ” These were the three entries that best captured the voice of the writer.”
This entry was stylish and elegant but also informative, and doesn’t make the mistake of being too verbose just because it’s Austen.
Brian Viner
There was a sharp frost creating delicate ice crystals on the ponds leading up to my birth, on the 16th day of December in 1775. I was christened at home by my Rector father and the winter that year was austere. Snow fell, and this seasonal time had been described as “Rugged Siberian Weather.”
Newborn animals appeared frozen in the fields, and hares in our garden huddled for warmth. The snow continued to fall, proving a spirited beginning for winter engagements and coachmen and horses made their way through a storm of snow. I dare say some got home very well, the roads were not yet impassable. There were some thirty families living in Steventon, a single row of cottages some distance from the parsonage and really, very remote.
Boys’ talk and boys’ concerns dominated our mealtimes in childhood as my parents also ran a boys’ school. I had six brothers, four of whom were still at home. I grew up familiar with the noise of boys’ voices and their favourite pursuits. There was a great deal of shouting, high spirits, and laughter. I remember an assortment of games and home theatricals. It was a decidedly happy time and we played unconfined while sunny days extended our play outdoors. By contrast, winter was a time of chills, colds and periodically, itchy chilblains.
At seven I was sent to board in Oxford. I have resolved not to dwell too much on my school days as I do not view them with singular affection. Some acquaintances achieved merit in the acquisition of the usual female accomplishments in dancing, singing, drawing, and modern languages. Once at home, I made prodigious use of our family library, seeking to add something more substantial to the improvement of my mind by extensive reading.
Despite the use of the vernacular – all that nae and tae might become tiresome – it’s nicely crafted. And I like the ending, the last line; it made me want to read on.
Brian Viner
As I approach death, I can now see very clearly that my comedy was born out of weakness. In some ways, my new infirmity reminds me of those early days but this second childhood is a different bag of washing. Even I cannae joke my way out of this.
When it all began, I was the wee, shy, skinny, school-leaver. Wae a shiny new piece box fae ma mammie, and a clean boiler suit and tackety boots fae the man in the stores, I was the new apprentice whose sole job it was tae be tortured, mercilessly, until the fresh meat arrived the following summer.
Neither piece box nor boiler suit survived the first morning. The big men sent me first oot in the pourin rain tae ask Tam the Foreman for a long stand. Then, it was intae the bowels ae a new ship, tae practise escapin a fire – on my hands and knees, so I didnae breathe in the smoke. Manky and soaked, I was sent back tae the stores for a left-handed spanner and bollocked by the stores man for no lookin after my new gear. While I was away, somebody stole ma lunch, box an all.
It dawned on me that I urgently needed somethin tae trade if I was gonnae survive the year, but He Himself hadn’t yet bestowed upon me any even remotely useful gifts. The men worked hard at their trades, skived harder, and laughed constantly. On Saturday afternoon, they watched the Rangers and, on Sundays, they drank themselves intae the next workin week. I listened tae what they laughed at. And the more wicked and real it was, the more they buckled.
Religion was a great source of amusement, and they toyed wae me like big proddy cats playin wae a wee Catholic mouse. But, when the wee timorous beastie sharpened its tongue, I saw my future, and the true power of comedy – make them laugh and they WILL love you.
Three and Out begins really cleverly – I wasn’t going to start here, I was going to start there. That’s a good hook. And it uses sentences and paragraphs very well.
Brian Viner
I wasn’t going to start at the beginning. Me arriving at my first school, new uniform and frit face.
I was going to start at the end. With the worst day of my political, and my personal, life.
Not, as some people might expect, the day my people decided they didn’t want their freedom. That they wanted to stay chained to an increasingly bizarre England.
Nor the day the country as a whole chose to be free of the hegemony of Europe, only to find itself forever arguing as to who was to be in charge of self-determination. Or more precisely, which Englishman was to be in charge.
No, I thought I’d start with the day the polis came knocking early one morning and dragged my man away in chains. I remember Peter shouting that I shouldn’t be worried as he ducked inside the back of a car. But worry was the only thing I could do as I turned my back on braying journos and TV crews shouting my name for attention. As if that’s ever going to work.
But not even sitting down with Val’s latest ARC worked that day. My mind was racing.
So how did we get there? How did I get to watch my husband carted off, only to follow him a few days later of my own accord? Sneaking into Stewart Street through the back door.
Perhaps we do need to go back.
Back to those early days when a wee lassie from Ayrshire is waiting to be let into Dreghorn Primary for the first time.
Sitting at her desk, next to she who would become her very best friend, realising her name will be one of the last to be called on the register.
‘Nicola Ferguson Sturgeon?’
‘Aye.’
What a ‘thrilling’ opening evening to the new season our September 2023 meeting turned out to be with Murder Mystery writers Hannah Jameson and Heath Gunn speaking about their books and experience and sharing readings, rounded off by our crime writing competition, kindly adjudicated by Heath.
Hook your readers in 300 words with the opening crime scene of your novel.
And on the night, Heath’s winners were:
This piece set the scene so well, drew me in and built to a great twist in the final line that made me want to know more.
Heath Gunn
Chapter One – Brighton, August 1967
I had expected the hospital mortuary to be a grim place, perhaps in some run-down Victorian part of the hospital, cold, and full of unpleasant smells that were only partly hidden behind the ever-present disinfectant. Instead, the mortuary was in the basement of a modern block, a testament to the optimism of 1960s brick and concrete, well-lit, with warm cream decor and a spotlessly shining wall of stainless steel cabinets inset into one long wall. Four stainless tables occupied the centre of the room, each plumbed into a drainage channel in the floor. There was a certain ripeness to the air that the air conditioning could not quite overcome.
True to his word, D.I. Morgan was already there. His firm handshake belied his flabby, almost cherubic appearance. It occurred to me that the pink flush to his complexion was probably due to the regular worship of alcohol in his local pubs rather than any godlier activities on a Sunday.
“Thank you for coming, Major Granta,” he said. “These circumstances are never easy.”
“No, they never are,” I replied. I thought of all the people I had seen die in the Middle East – friends, terrorists and innocents – such things were never easy to see or be part of. Now, in this English Summer of Love, I would have to deal with one more.
“Harry Granta, please,” said Morgan to the mortuary assistant, who pulled one of the stainless refrigeration cabinets out. The assistant folded back the top of the sheet revealing the face of a man, about 40, with a thin face and sallow skin. A fracture to the left side of his face, and a broken eye socket were clear but messy evidence of the impact from the clifftop fall that had killed him. It was the face of a man I had never seen before.
“Is this your brother?” asked Morgan.
“Yes,” I said, “indeed it is”.
I really enjoyed the imagery this piece created, with the mix of physical setting and music – K-pop ringtone – I want to know what the Officer decided to do.
Heath Gunn
As far as Officer Harris could tell, it was some kind of deal gone wrong. There was someone in a suit at the table by the far wall; she assumed someone important. She might have recognised his face if it hadn’t been splattered across the art print behind him. A phone in his limp hand began to ring—an incongruously upbeat K-pop chorus.
She turned her attention to the rest of the lounge. Face-down near the door was another man in a yellow tracksuit, still garishly bright despite the bloodstains blooming across his back. In one hand he clutched a semi-automatic pistol, the slide locked back—empty. In his other hand, there was a leather briefcase. Stooping for a closer look, she saw it had a combination lock.
The phone stopped ringing for a moment, then immediately started up again—the same K-pop song.
There were perhaps ten or twelve other bodies. It was hard to tell exactly how many as the ones by the floor-to-ceiling window—its glass now strewn across the floor—were in varying states of intactness. She had never seen a grenade go off, but her best guess was that someone on the losing side of the gunfight had brought one out to even the odds, and had evened them rather more thoroughly than intended.
The phone stopped and started once again.
Confident the room was clear, she stepped over it, hoping to catch the caller’s name. Instead, what grabbed her attention was a chat box on the shattered laptop screen. The same message, over and over:
COP PICK UP PHONE
So she did.
“Grab the briefcase and climb out the balcony.” Not even a hello.
“Why? What’s inside?”
“Leverage.”
Out front, a car skidded to a halt on the gravel drive.
“But only if you can get it out of there.”
So much crammed into 300 words with this one. It uses the senses to build on the descriptions and then the last line created an intriguing twist.
Heath Gunn
We are the onlookers. An amorphous crowd gathered behind the blue and white tape, placed to keep the inquisitive at a discreet distance. Our necks crane between uniformed sentries, while hands rise with mobile phone camera’s scanning the scene for a good angle, an image to share on Instagram, fodder for the morbidly curious. We covet the social media scoop, to feed our need for the “likes”, the heart emojis, the kudos.
Across the road, the experts work under our scrutiny, shrouded in white suits, their faces impenetrable behind masks. Emotionless eyes focus only on the job to be done, gathering the facts. Their cameras flash as numbered tags are placed beside anything of interest: a size ten footprint in the unmown grass; a snag of red fibre on an overgrown rose bush; a strand of blonde hair trapped in a spider’s web. Nothing is dismissed. Everything is documented. All evidence is bagged and labelled for futile analysis in their sterile lab.
We shuffle forward in synchrony as the body bag emerges, trolley wheels jostling over the rough path. The passenger is slid into the back of the unmarked van, like a carcass onto the butcher’s block. The vehicle moves away at a respectful pace, some heads bow, a few cameras lower. Oh the desire to observe the pathologist’s fruitless scrutiny.
The figures continue to drift ghost-like in and out of the house where he lived. If living is what you could call the squalor. The stench of rotting food, sweat and urine, mingled with the alcohol. A sorry end, the papers will say, another victim of a society grown weary from austerity and disease.
The coroner’s verdict will be suicide or misadventure as it always is. They will find nothing suspicious. I made sure of that.
A great descriptive piece that had me in the scene. It could maybe have stopped without the need for last sentence and still hooked me in.
Heath Gunn
Shaking fingers prised open the window. Easing his body over the sill, the black-clad figure slid silently into the house. Breaking in must be nerve-racking for a criminal: for Truman, who had never even incurred a parking ticket, illegally entering the property was tantamount to torture. The stress pushed his heart-rate into overdrive. The pounding in his chest seemed so loud that he feared someone might hear.
‘Get a grip,’ he told himself. ‘Breathe deeply.’
He switched on the penlight to guide him.
The young man knew his actions were irrational, but seeing the gang boss, Nicholas Stamper, swagger from the court with that contemptuous smirk, which said, I can get away with murder, enraged him. The case had collapsed when the two key witnesses failed to testify: they never found the old man; however, the police fished the young woman’s mutilated body out of the Thames. The witness’s sickening fate convinced the young man: if the law was powereless, he needed to dispense justice with his own hands, and the punishment should fit the crime.
He listened outside the master bedroom. Hearing nothing, he turned the handle. The door opened noiselessly to his touch. Drawing his weapon, he stepped inside. His foot encountered something sticky. Truman hesitated.
The smell. That overpowering smell.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
His torch illuminated the pool of blood into which he had stepped. The beam followed the crimson stain to the bed. The unseeing eyes of the late Nicholas Stamper stared back at him. A dagger protruded from his throat. Justice had been done, but by whom?
At that moment, the light came on. ‘And what have you got to say for yourself, Detective Sergeant Truman?’ said the voice of his superior officer.
Poor Claire, what happened to her? The use of the dog to set the scene was great. How did Jeanine feel seeing the body of her neighbour? What did it do to her gut, her senses?
Heath Gunn
Prevaricating again. My late mother’s voice digs deep into my psyche.
It’s been two months since I retired, and I have done none of the things I’d planned. I was going to completely fill my days, after raising my children and finally divorcing, ‘knob-head.’
‘Museums, art galleries, maybe Open-University,’ I’d said when people asked… but what will you do?
Next door’s dog is yapping loudly again. That’s annoying, as there I was, about to be productive and sit outside to read my book on Zen but I won’t be able to if that dog keeps on. I’ll give Claire, my neighbour, a knock and see if she can keep him quiet. He’s not normally this bad.
Claire’s door is open, which is unusual. I knock but walk in after she doesn’t answer.
‘Claire! Hello, Claire!’
No reply. Maybe she’s outside with Toby.
‘Claire, are you in the garden? It’s me, Jeannie.’
I see the back door is open so make my way towards it, intending to be polite but firm with Claire about Toby’s incessant barking. But I don’t get as far as the back door.
Claire is in a heap on the kitchen floor. She’s clutching what looks like a flan dish and Toby is licking off the remnants of whipped cream and… blood.
‘Claire?’
Toby looks at me with big brown eyes that say, ‘don’t think you’re having any of my freebies.’ I manage to shoo him away. He putters off to the garden and begins barking again.
I touch Claire on the neck. Nothing.
Well, do something, – mother again.
A mirror. That’s what they do in films, they get a mirror to see if it mists-up.
Claire’s handbag is on the kitchen table. I reach in and fish around, not taking my eyes off Claire in case she moves. Finding a small round shape, I pull out her compact and hold it towards her mouth and nose… Nothing!
Oh my God, Claire is dead.
What a wonderful evening it was at the June meeting! The Book Fair hosted such an array of published books by HWS published authors, and they each had an opportunity to pitch their books, a new but excellent addition. Della Galton gave an excellent talk with top tips – look out for the report on our website or click the link in the previous newsletter to watch it back if you were unable to attend.
Thanks go to all the writers at the book fair presenting their books for sale, to Della, awesome as always and of course to writer and freelance editor, Natasha Vickery-Orme who kindly adjudicated our competition, for which the brief was:
Write a 300-word story which hooks the reader with a unique, intriguing opening scene for a murder mystery novel
Commenting on adjudication, Natasha said: “We had a lot of brilliant entries and some really creative and intriguing storylines, so thank you to all those that entered. The winners were able to create really compelling stories – which is hard to do with just 300 words.”
And on the night, Natasha’s winners were:
I love the twist for this one. It actually got my heart racing and was definitely unexpected.
Natasha Vickery-Orme
There was a soft sigh as the wind crept through the trees. My eyesight had already adjusted to the velvet darkness – nothing there. I stepped forward again, each foot placed with care until I reached the gate. It was easy enough to stretch over the top and slide the bolt back. I was in.
It was evident that no-one was up. It was the work of a few moments to open the back door, noting with a perverted sort of pride that it had all been done in the utmost quiet.
Inside I paused; a thick silence meeting my ears. Reaching into the rucksack, I felt around, my fingers finding what was wanted, no need for light. Heading for the stairs, I crept my way to the top, grateful to the carpet for muffling my steps. At the top, a long corridor stretched away to my right and left; I automatically turned left. I was pleased to observe how regular my heart beat was, how calm my breathing. All that training had been for something.
Walking slowly down the corridor, past a bathroom, counting the doors and stopping at the fourth. The door handle turned easily, I allowed myself a momentary grin – here we go! Inside, there were no surprises. A bed, a human form, the sound of soft snoring. A bedside clock showed the time: 2:20. I placed the pillow over his face and pressed the gun nozzle against it. The was a muted ‘phut’. The snoring ceased.
The return route was easy, within minutes I was back at the car, phone on, hand steady as I typed: ‘Mission accomplished 2:27’.
Almost immediately a reply: ‘Confirmation denied. Target seen entering night club five minutes ago’
I watched in horror as my hand began to shake…
This has some really strong character building and I like how powerful the reveal is.
Natasha Vickery-Orme
It was the summer of love when my brother died. He was just 45. An early morning jogger found his body on the undercliff path between Brighton and Saltdean. A fractured skull, two broken ankles and a dried pool of blood were evidence that sometime in the night he had fallen a hundred feet or so from the clifftop walk. It was the 28th of July 1967, and I was more than four thousand miles away in the Gulf of Aden. It took me three days to arrange compassionate leave, bum a lift on a Hercules and find my way via Whitehall and the regimental headquarters in Kent, to finally arrive in Brighton.
Even though I would never speak to him again, he still had some words for me. I had read them an hour ago in an airless solicitor’s office near the Royal Pavilion. Willmott, the senior partner, had passed me a thin envelope, saying,
“He left this with us last year when he deposited his will.”
The envelope was marked, ‘For attention: Major Granta. In the event of my death.’
I broke the seal and extracted the single sheet of paper. Like the envelope, it was typewritten, brief and impersonal. I read it aloud:
Cremation, not burial. I’d rather get it over with now and forestall any further burning in the afterlife. Henry.
My brother was just trying to be humorous, but neither I nor Willmott smiled. That wasn’t how it worked anyway – it was your soul that burnt in perpetuity not your body.
I was silent for a moment, trying to recall my brother’s face, wondering about his final note and why he had signed his name Henry. For as long as I could remember, he had always been Harry – in our childhood games, in our teenage disagreements and even in our last fractured meeting. There, in Willmott’s office, that was the moment that I knew someone had killed him.
It’s a spine-tingling opening and would love to see where it goes!
Natasha Vickery-Orme
The discovery of a human left foot on the local beach caused a flurry of excitement in the small town. It wasn’t really local, just the nearest bit of coastline to the town, about ten miles away, remote, long and desolate.
The foot appeared to have been in the water for at least a couple of weeks and the skin was chalky white and ragged. The ankle bones and about two inches of the tibia were still attached, though the joint was disarrayed and the fibula was missing, apparently torn out the joint. The local police sergeant noticed immediately that the tibia seemed not to have been fractured or severed by an animal bite. It looked as though it had been cut across with a saw, though forensics would have to confirm that. There was no recent report of anyone having gone missing in the area and enquiries at the nearest three hospitals did not throw up any cases of amputation of a foot within the last three months.
Two days later, a right foot was found about a mile further along the beach, caught up in seaweed. It was much the same colour as the left foot and had a similar splaying of the toes. Two or three inches of each of the leg bones were still attached to the ankle and it was clear that both had been severed with a saw.
There were no indications whether the feet had belonged to a male or female. No useful DNA could be extracted from either foot. The police cast their enquiries country-wide, but no leads emerged over several weeks.
Two months later, the torso of a small adult male, without head and arms, turned up on a rocky promontory about twenty miles further south. The thigh bones had been sawn across, about 4 inches down from the groin. A small amount of DNA was extracted, but there was no match found in the national database.
There’s so much mystery woven into this first page.
Natasha Vickery-Orme
How do you tell the man you are about to marry that you are not the person he thinks you are? Away from the tube station and the rush-hour crowds, Sam could think more clearly as she walked along the quiet road towards the flat. Her palms felt sticky, and her throat seemed dry. She should be overjoyed: the man she adored had proposed.
When they moved in together three months ago, Duncan accepted her story of being an actress: filming on location and working in regional theatres explained her periodic absences. However, Sam hated lying to him: deception was no basis for marriage. What if Duncan found the real Sam Smith’s unorthodox way of earning a living unacceptable and called off their engagement? It would break her heart, but he had the right to know the truth about his future wife.
As she turned the corner, she could see the lights from the building where she lived. Oddly, their flat lay in darkness. Duncan generally worked from home and had made a point of telling her that he would be in this evening.
Keys in hand, Sam made her way up the short path to the front door. It swung open to her touch. A frown creased her brow: it was unlike Duncan to be so lax. Her hand found the switch on the wall. It took a moment for her eyes to become accustomed to the glare — a moment before the gruesome spectacle destroyed all hopes of happiness. Suspended by a cord knotted around his neck, her lover’s body swayed in the hallway. His unseeing eyes and rictus grin confirmed her worst fears. Sam collapsed against the wall, sobbing and retching uncontrollably. In her line of work, she had come across plenty of corpses, but nothing prepared her for this.
With just a few lines, I feel like we get a sense of tone, character, story and mystery which is impressive!
Natasha Vickery-Orme
It was, David Weston reflected ruefully, supposed to be the Holiday of a Lifetime for himself and his beloved wife, Penny. Yet here he was, hunting through the jungle on this small tropical island, hot on the trail of a murderer, who had nowhere left to run. How on earth did I get here, he thought as he wiped the sweat from his face with his bandaged hand and plunged on through the undergrowth in pursuit of his quarry. I’m really too old for this caper, he decided as he pressed on.
It was lovely to have Author and Writing Coach, Joanna Barnard as our main speaker for May and to hear about her writing journey. As well as giving a great talk and answering all our questions, Joanna kindly agreed to adjudicate our May writing competition, for which she set the open brief:
Write a 300-word story with the theme of ‘the wrong present’
We received many entries all quite varied in style and subject. Well done to everyone who entered and extra congratulations to the following winners:
Lovely and sensitive evocation of grief.
Joanna Barnard
Clutching the amethyst gem on her long silver necklace, Dorothy momentarily paused her washing to look at the crocuses that grew in her small garden. She stood quietly, deep in thought, closing her eyes before opening them again to take in the purples and pinks around her. Brushing off her long-patterned skirt, she leant down to pick up the next wooden peg. Holding a smart blue shirt to the line, she heard a familiar sound coming from the side of the house.
It was her grey, and white tabby. The cat had come over the iron gate, holding something in her mouth. She sidled up to Dorothy and dropped an item at her feet. It was the fourth present that day. A slow worm, moving on the grass.
“Not right now,” said Dorothy softly. The cat looked bemused. Perhaps it was the wrong kind of present.
Dorothy finished the pegging, her arms aching a little as she carefully lifted a metal can to water her plants. She glanced up when she heard a gentle purr. This time a carefully placed dusty old toy mouse lay by her side. Dorothy could only try to muster a smile.
She lovingly touched the cuff of a damp sleeve, as it blew gently in the warm air. Walking to one of two garden chairs’, she sat down heavily. Tears welling up in her eyes. She dabbed them with a white hankie, that adorned a small rose design in one corner and the stitching ‘D&W’. The cat jumped onto Dorothy’s lap, curling up tightly.
“Thank you,” whispered Dorothy looking down at her, “you are the most perfect present I need. I know how you miss him so. Me too puss, me too” as she closed her eyes, the breeze brushing across her cheeks.
Nice detail and quite poignant.
Joanna Barnard
William Jones sat at his desk, fingering the well-worn wallet of business cards for the last time.
No more need for these, he thought as he leaned forward across the desk and attempted to throw the wallet into the waste bin on the other side of the room. His considerable paunch stuck painfully into the edge of the desk, disturbing his aim. The wallet flopped off the grey wall next to the bin and onto the carpet to join the cardboard and wrapping paper from the brand-new laptop the company had given him as a leaving present. He sighed – he could see no need for spreadsheets in his uncertain future. Nor for the bright red poinsettia his secretary had given him as a memento of their years together.
He ignored the mess on the floor and opened the single drawer of his desk. Inside there were three bottles. Several years ago, he had bought the first – an expensive auburn hair dye. It had stemmed the advancing grey for a while, but as his hair thinned and receded, he resorted with increasing desperation, but decreasing success, to the second bottle – a preparation labelled ‘Harry’s Hirsute Hair Restorer’.
Realising eventually that was not going to work, he had turned to the third bottle – indeed, one of many third bottles, mostly of cheap whiskey, but sometimes of vodka or even brandy when he could afford them. He lifted this last bottle up to the light, but it was empty. This disappointment was sufficiently deep to stir him into action, and he rose and walked to the filing cabinet. Breathing hard, he bent over and rummaged in the bottom drawer, finally locating a new, unopened bottle of spirits with a grunt of satisfaction. As he straightened up, his eye caught the already withering poinsettia on the top of the cabinet, and he realised how desperately they both needed a drink.
Simple and Poignant.
Joanna Barnard
Mary always chose presents carefully. She was choosing a present for her granddaughter’s eighteenth birthday. She had decided to spend more than usual, as it was a special birthday. Her granddaughter, Tabitha had been her first grandchild. She had been surprised by the total joy she had felt when Tabitha was born.
Mary dressed carefully for her trip to the jeweller, wearing her best grey wool coat and a pretty, floral silk scarf at her neck. She eventually chose a beautiful silver necklace. It was delicate and feminine with a star falling from a fine chain. When she got home, she wrapped the box containing the necklace in silver gift wrap and tied it with a pink, satin ribbon.
Two weeks later Mary caught the train to Liverpool where Tabitha now lived with her parents. Her daughter, Stephanie and her husband had moved away from London two years ago. Mary had found it hard, but visited as often as she could.
She arrived at Lime Street and Stephanie picked her up and drove her to the smart detached house where she now lived.
‘You’ll notice a change in Tabitha when you see her, Mum. She’s developed her own style and she’s pulling away before she goes to university in October.’ Mary reached out and stroked her daughter’s arm.
After a short drive they arrived at the house. Tabitha opened the door and gave Mary a tight smile. All her beautiful, long hair had been cut very short into a boyish style. She was dressed in tight black jeans and a black T-shirt with a swear word on the front. Round her neck she wore a black leather necklace with wooden beads threaded on it. Mary hugged her granddaughter’s stiff body tightly and kept the silver necklace in her bag.
Inventive use of the brief. Mind-bending stuff.
Joanna Barnard
“Ava, please look at me.”
“I’m reading.”
“I don’t care.”
I snap my book shut and look up. “What do you want?”
No matter what everybody said, it wasn’t like looking in a mirror. A mirror should only reflect yourself. Your rights are its identical lefts, and your ups shouldn’t be its downs. But looking at my twin sister was different. It’s more of a translation, from my flaws into her perfection – if I allow it. As our gazes connect, those three wayward eyebrow hairs, bristling with my frown, vanish into her flawless complexion.
“Yesterday – in the garden – did you feel anything different?” she asks.
“Different to what?” I reply – adding, “or when?”, cautious at what she might say; how wide a division she might force me to make. Arguing with my twin often mirrors arguing with myself. If I’m forced into making a digression, I’ll pressure her to do the same. Amplifying instead the differences in our faces; cementing our individuality into separate spaces. Even when it’s about us, we should remain ourselves. It’s the only way to remain sane.
“It was as if… as if we were treading on ourselves,” she says.
A curious way to put it, but I had felt it. Like walking on a frozen pond still capable of a perfect reflection. “Yes, but only when I looked at you,” I say, giving away too much.
My eyes stare back at me. Into another mirror – like our name.
We both say, “Ava, don’t look at me like that.” But her words come first, her voice differing not in pitch or loudness, but in time. She’s divided us anew with a sharp slice of our temporal knife. She’s pulled herself into our future, as I fall again into our past.
She replies, “No, Ava. Not this time. This time you’re in the wrong present.”
Economically told, good twist, bit grim!
Joanna Barnard
My brother’s fiftieth birthday was on Friday and in honour of the half century, I invested in a pretty unique gift. Call it a conceit; a little joke among siblings.
You see we’re both in the death game, albeit in very different ways. He’s a priest: his job is to soften the business of dying, whereas my job is to make money out of it, in a manner of speaking. I’m an actuary. I work for a large insurance company, working out life expectancy from assembled data in order to bet against you. The bottom line is that if I know when you’re going to die, I can work out how much we’ll have to pay you in comparison to how much you’ve paid us; we usually win.
The gift was made of the finest Welsh slate, sort of blueish red, and was, I would say, tastefully minimalist. Even thinking about it made me chuckle a bit. I was certain he’d love it, or at least see the funny side.
When I arrived at the White Horse for the birthday meal, I gave my brother a manly hug; a cross between a handshake and a lean in.
“Happy birthday you old bugger.” He seemed in good spirits, but looked a little drawn.
“I’ve got your present in the car. It’s rather heavy to bring in.”
We walked to my VW CC E-Line. I opened the boot and removed the bubble wrap from around the gift. His face dropped.
On the gravestone was written, ‘William Evans. Born 1972 – Died 2058’ I smirked. The data had been very useful and, anyway, it was a good innings.
William stared at the stone and shook his head slowly.
He spoke quietly, “I was going to tell everyone tonight.” I looked at him quizzically.
“These dates are wrong. I’m afraid the doctor told me I’ve got six months to live.”
Brief: Hook the reader with a unique, intriguing opening scene for a murder mystery novel (300 words)
Deadline: Midnight on 25th May, 2023
Adjudicator: Natasha Orme, freelance editor
Win: Free 10,000 word edit for any project over 40,000 words by Natasha
Bonus: Natasha is also offering a 10% discount for all HWS members, HWS newsletter subscribers and competition entrants (valid until the end of August)
The lovely Cheryl Butler graced our doors again. Lovely to welcome her back and hear different local historical information, this time linking to Shakespeare. Cheryl kindly agreed to adjudicate our competition and set a brief to challenge our members:
Write a 500-word pitch for a film/play about any English monarch alive or dead
And the winning entry was…
A strong, focused story, based on historical facts, but with enough ‘wriggle room’ to be creative, I would commission this.
Cheryl Butler
From a tense love triangle between Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, the Prince of Wales, Edward the First, the King of England and Elenor de Montford, a beautiful young woman, jealously desired by both men; this film reimagines the war between England and Wales in the 12th Century through a prism of unrequited love.
Imagine if a war, specifically the war between Wales and England in the 12th Century, was simply a war of love, a war born of a burning desire for the beautiful maiden, Elenor de Montford. This might well come as a shock to those who believe that this war was a war of freedom, of identity or, most of all, national pride, but it is possible that the scenario described was indeed the case. This rewriting of the history books is audacious and controversial, especially given the tensions that exist between the two countries to this day.
Elenor de Montford was betrothed to Llewelyn and the two were said to be very much in love. In 1275 they married by proxy, but were kept apart by King Edward who was Elenor’s cousin and an enemy of her family, the de Montfords, who had risen against Edward’s father, Henry III. History tells us that Edward was opposed to the marriage between Llewelyn and Elenor because of their familial ties and his resentment at Elenor’s father Simon de Montford, but suppose it was not for these reasons; suppose it was the simple fact that Edward was madly in love with Elenor.
The action begins shortly before the Treaty of Aberconwy, when Edward, upon hearing that Elenor was sailing from France to meet Llewelyn, hires pirates to intercept the ship and capture and hold Elenor at Windsor. A tormented Llewelyn hears of this and is both angered and distraught. He is in an impossible place and fears that Edward is holding Elenor in an attempt to persuade her that she might have feelings for him.
Llewelyn has not only kept apart from his true love, been declared a rebel by Edward, but has only just survived an attempted coup by his brother Dafydd. Llewelyn is in a terrible place and faces total annihilation at the hands of Edward, who is determined to destroy Llewelyn for good, as Elenor continually rebuffs his advances. As Edward mobilises his troops and threatens to destroy Llewelyn’s army, he is forced to agree to meet Edward for a final confrontation in Worcester.
Recognising that a duel by sword would result in the death of either man, the two rivals decide to fight bare-fisted. After a tense and prolonged fight, Llewelyn dominates and agrees to a cessation of hostilities in return for Elenor’s freedom and her hand in (re) marriage. Edward reluctantly agrees, reasoning that Elenor will never love him.
The two are married in Worcester Cathedral. Will Edward leave them to live peacefully together, or does his passion for Elenor continue to haunt him?