Tag: competitions

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:

First Place: Missing You by Helen Orchard

Second Place: Nothing Like the Present by Dave Sinclair

Third Place: The Silver Necklace by Maggie Farran

Highly Commended: Entwined in Time by Johnathan Reid

Highly Commended: The Actuary by Sam Christie

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. 

Second Place: Nothing Like the Present by Dave Sinclair

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.

Third Place: The Silver Necklace by Maggie Farran

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.

Highly Commended: Entwined in Time by Johnathan Reid

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.”

Highly Commended: The Actuary by Sam Christie

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.”

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? 

It was wonderful to welcome Claire Gradidge back as a speaker and hear about her two new crime fiction books. Claire kindly took the time to adjudicate the competition presented a signed copy of one of her books to the winner. Claire set the competition brief to be:

Write a 300-word crime fiction scene in which the body is discovered.

And the winners are…

First Place: Midnight in the Medina by Peter Duncan

This is a superb opening scene of what should definitely be a longer story! The description of the exotic setting is achieved with clever and sparing use of proper names and well-chosen details to evoke the night-time medina. I was drawn into the action right from the start. The patrolmen are differentiated in their dialogue and by their actions, and I felt the tension and the reality of their progress through the cityscape. The discovery of the body – and its significance – is well crafted, increasing rather than lessening the intrigue of the piece. There is a strong writing voice/style at work here – I’d absolutely like to read more of ths story!

Claire Gradidge

The two patrolmen left Djemaa el Fna with its hawkers and hustlers, its incessant drums and wailing pungis and smouldering fires, and headed towards Mellah, where the disturbance had been reported.

The alley through this part of the medina stretched into shadowed distance. It was utterly deserted. Even the blind beggar normally huddled outside the laundry had abandoned his spot. They passed the laundry’s shuttered front and the smell of fresh linen mingled briefly with scents of cinnamon and cumin from the closed-up spice store opposite. Then the stink of human effluent, which gripped the city constantly like an illness, returned once more.

‘And what are we supposed to do?’ Sharif, the younger man, reached to check his revolver was still in its holster. He was a rookie, from a more ordered city somewhere in the north. He despised the chaos of this place, yet at the same time was frightened by it.

‘We check out this supposed disturbance, then it’s back to base. Neighbours having a tiff, most likely.’ The older man, Harak, spat at a pile of rotting fruit, still annoyed by being dragged from the messroom’s comfort close to midnight.

Sharif’s radio squawked. He jumped. ‘It must be around here somewhere.’ He spoke too loudly, trying to hide his alarm.
‘There.’ Harak pointed towards a narrow passageway, its entrance barely illuminated by a single weak lamp. Unclipping his torch, he edged into the darkness.

Sharif gulped, then followed.

Halfway along was what seemed like a pile of rags. Harak shone the torch. A lifeless face stared back up. The patrolman recoiled.

‘What-? Who-?’ Sharif stammered.

‘Trouble, that’s what,’ Harak said, recovering himself.

‘Trouble?’

‘You don’t recognise him?’

Sharif hardly looked at the inert face. ‘No, who-’

‘Youngster, this is our inestimable Mayor. The Mayor of Marrakesh.’

Second Place: Not Exactly What I Meant by Howard Teece

This piece makes great use of dialogue to reveal the story – a wife finding sexy lingerie in her husband’s underwear drawer. By using dialogue to ‘show not tell’, the writer allows room for the reader to interpret/imagine the interaction between the characters. The relationship between the suspicious – but somewhat naïve – wife and the defensive – and secretive – husband is effectively conjured up in a very short piece of writing, which stands up as a complete piece. This was a creative use of the prompt for this month’s competition, and while it wasn’t exactly the ’body’ I was expecting, I loved the clever approach!

Claire Gradidge

She held it between the tongs normally used when barbequing.

‘What, in the name, is this?’

Black. Skimpy. Feminine.

‘Because it sure as shit isn’t mine.’

No.

‘Is it yours?’

Umm.

‘No. You’re not a size 10.’

Well.

‘Not even a US 10. Whatever that means.’

‘That’s a–’ I said.

‘I don’t care. It’s tacky. Tawdry.’

‘It’s silk.’

‘Well, there’s a relief. Not being polyester means it’s biodegradable. Chinese?’

‘It’s British.’

‘Up the workers.’

‘Made in Hampshire, supporting local charities.’ Which sounded weak.

‘And that makes this better?’

‘I…’

‘Me finding some lingerie—in your underwear drawer—when I’m putting your pants away? YOUR pants.’

I studied my slippers.

‘Who is she?’

‘No. It’s not–’

‘WHO. IS. SHE?’

‘No–’

‘Oh, Christ. Tell me it’s clean. Tell me I’ve not been putting fresh laundry in with something soiled.’

‘It’s clean.’

Which deflated her. Slightly.

‘So, explain to me, me having found a silk body with your skivvies, why the police won’t find your body with the fishies?’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘You remember saying how pleased you were with your weight loss, but that you no longer had anything nice that fitted?’

I looked up and soldiered on. Best to die in battle.

‘So, I saw it, and thought: British-made, silk, your size. In US, weirdly. But after I got it, I realised: Hang on, who is this for, exactly? Isn’t it a bit… sad? At our age? So I got you that book.

‘Anyway. I didn’t know what to do with it. So I hid it in a drawer bottom, hoping you wouldn’t find it, and I could return it.’

I swallowed.

‘Take it back?’

I nodded.

‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ she said, grinning.

I smiled back.

I didn’t have a receipt.

Every man needs a hobby.

Joint Third Place: Money by Sam Christie

The opening of this piece is effective and engaging. There is enough intrigue to draw the reader in without being obscure, and the imagery works well to describe the lonely, rarely-visited forest scene. The story felt plausible throughout, and while the ending is left unresolved (if intended as a complete piece in itself), it could work well as the opening scene of a longer story too. I enjoyed reading this – a super piece of writing!

Claire Gradidge

It was a moth-eared waxed hat and a sudden gust that had drawn me to the car.

Had it not been for the fact that I was sick of losing everything and constantly being down on my luck, the BMW saloon, wedged into a steep and obscure ravine, covered by looming larch branches and angular shoulders of rock, might never have been discovered.

It was about fifty metres down from the forestry road; not exactly sheer, but steep enough to make it one of those places that you might measure footfall in decades rather than days.

As for the hat, I’d picked my way down over mossy humps, hefted over fallen tree trunks and slipped on glassy rock. When I finally reclaimed that cursed sentimental bonnet, I just happened to notice a black monolithic sheen under a branch a bit further down and the incongruity drew me in. The glass had started to develop a patina; a green spreading growth that almost seemed alive.

The car was top of the range. You can tell these things by those little augmentations: a thinner yet wider tyre, a curve or bump that almost mirrors the forest it was wedged in. It was a car driven by someone who was a consultant in some way and who might wear one of those mobile phone earpieces even on their day off.

I reached for the passenger door. Just about possible. I should have imagined further than I did, because I hadn’t expected to see anyone inside, but of course, there was a corpse at the wheel.

He was beyond the stink stage, I mean, the car smelt musty but not rotten. He was in pricey sports clothes; Adidas.
There was a bag. Holdall full of money. I weighed the wedges. All fifties.

I had my hat.

Call the police!

I paused, flicked the bundles of money and made the biggest decision of my life.

Joint Third Place: Wednesday Morning by Kim A Howard

This piece – which could work as a self contained flash fiction – makes good use of the unusual second person narrative form. This engages the reader in the action and gives a true sense of jeopardy to the ending. Who is the dead father’s mysterious visitor and will the narrator escape his father’s fate? Readers are cleverly invited by its structure and form – from almost within the point of view of the narrator – to imagine the outcome for themselves. A really effective piece of writing – well done!

Claire Gradidge

The day starts like any other weekday during term time. You get everyone up, dressed, fed and out the door, more or less on time. You drop the kids at school, then head into town to run errands. You do the light stuff first – bank, chemist for Dad’s prescription, pet shop for worming tablets. You’ve made good time, so you treat yourself to a cup of coffee and a slice of lemon drizzle cake at the local café.

Your phone buzzes in the pocket of your jeans. You pull it out and check. It’s a message from Dad. He’s had a call from an old friend who may come to visit. Could you pick up something at the supermarket so he can offer his guest something more than tea and a digestive biscuit. You smile. Dad writes a text just as he would a letter to The Times, including correct spelling and punctuation. You send a brief acknowledgement and say you’ll be with him before lunch. You dab the last crumbs from the plate and lick them from your finger. Time to get back to your chores.

The supermarket is quiet, as it usually is on a Wednesday. You collect your groceries, not forgetting Dad’s fancy nibbles, get through the check-out with no hitches and go back to the car. Your shopping goes in the boot, Dad’s on the passenger seat beside you, and you drive to your childhood home.

You call out as you open the front door. There is no answer, but no wonder. The radio is broadcasting a discussion show at full volume. Dad is in his carver chair at the kitchen table, his back to the hallway, his face to the window and the garden beyond. You don’t suspect a thing, but then you see the rope at his wrists and ankles. You race forward and stretch out your hand. You see the blood. You hear laughter. You run

Highly Commended: A Striking Discovery by Damon L. Wakes

This piece is a humorous story with a good twist at the end. A take on a hard-boiled (!) crime, a clever use is made of names and images which play on the genre and give a sweet twist to the end. Perfectly crafted to be a complete piece in its own right, this is a flash fiction which comes to a very sticky end!

Claire Gradidge

“You’re sure it’s locked from the inside?”

“Far as we can tell.” Officer Donut shrugged. “That’s why you’re here. The chief felt it would be wise to get your perspective on the matter.”

Bubble Gumshoe inspected the rusting steel doors of the old gelatine warehouse. The docks of Sugar City were rough: especially at night. Anyone inside was in deep trouble, or deep-sixed.

“You didn’t want to crack it open before I got here?” she asked. She might have had a crisp sugar shell, but deep down she was a softie.

“I’ve got a .38 revolver and a packet of cigarettes. Unless you’ve got a blowtorch under your trenchcoat, we’re still waiting on SWAT.”

Bubble Gumshoe took a closer look at the door.

“No blowtorch,” she said, “but I’ll take a cigarette if you’re offering.”

Officer Donut sighed, then tapped one of the chalky candy sticks out of the pack and dropped it into her hand.

Bubble Gumshoe grabbed a sheet of newspaper from a nearby garbage can and slipped it under the door. Then she stuck the cigarette in the keyhole, giving it a quick shove inwards with her palm. There was a soft, metallic “thunk” from the other
side.

She pulled the newspaper back, picking up the small key that had fallen on it.

Then she popped the cigarette in her mouth and the key in the door. Turning it with a flourish, she gestured for Officer Donut to enter.

“Oh, for—” Officer Donut drew his revolver and shouldered open the door.

“POLICE!” he yelled.

Then he went very pale.

There was a brief, silent moment before he doubled over, spewing strawberry jam all over the floor.

Bubble Gumshoe peered around the doorframe. The first thing she noticed was a large scattering of boiled sweets strewn about the room. Then she cast her eyes up, and spotted the battered cardboard and crepe paper form dangling from a roofbeam.

“Oh no,” she breathed. “Somebody whacked Jimmy Piñata…”

It was lovely to hear Yarrow Townsend, children’s author, speak about her journey to publication and how passion for nature and experience of New Forest inspired her new novel, Map of Leaves; this, in turn, perfectly linked to our February competition, adjudicated by Yarrow:

Write the opening of a story with a mix of magic and nature. 300 words.

And the winners are…

First Place: A Cloak of Feathers by Catherine Griffin

I was really captivated by this opening. The natural landscape is vividly painted, and within a few lines the author depicts a strong bond between Lin and the birds.

Yarrow Townsend

The thrush left Lin’s shoulder and swooped ahead to land among the gnarled branches of the Loa-tree. Charms swayed, all the straw dolls whispering prayers against the mossy bark. 

Lin followed, her bare heels sinking deep into the leaf mould. In the shelter of the sacred grove, the air felt warmer and smelled like spring, urgent with green growth. 

Most villagers feared the forest. Beyond the clearing, past the stone-marked boundary, the trees stretched on forever, home to bears and wolves and pale-eyed nixies. But Lin knew how far she could go, and here was safe.  

Here were no sly glances, no muttered insults. She didn’t mind the crowding silent trees. They weren’t friendly or unfriendly, only interested in tree-things, in wind and water and sun, not girls or their errands. 

Her thrush-friend flicked his tail: Are you coming? 

Before she could answer, a family of sparrows exploded from the undergrowth. The rowdy little flock scuffled for space on her head and shoulders with gleeful chirps of Me! Push off, runt! I was here first! Me! 

A sharp beak tugged her hair. ’Ow. Stop that.’ As she turned to bat them away, she saw someone on the far side of the clearing, watching her. 

It was Rob, the orphan from Darrow, staring with his brown eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.  

Lin flinched. Too late to hide, to run — he’d seen her. He’d seen her with the birds and now the whole village would know. All the old gossip would be back. They’d call her witch, and worse, much worse. 

He raised his hand. ‘Lin—’ 

But whatever he meant to say went unheard. She was already running. 

Second Place: The Cost by Ben Culleton

In this opening page, the author sets up an intriguing premise (that using magic can have an impact anywhere on the globe). The writing is confident and controlled and there were some subtle descriptions that made me hope Professor Cranston would take a leading role in this story.

Yarrow Townsend

A murmur reverberated around the auditorium as a solitary green shoot appeared out of the ceramic plant pot. It grew ten inches tall and bloomed into a fully grown blue freesia. Professor Cranston’s slender manicured fingers waved above the petals and a small grey cloud appeared above them. 

“I shall give it some nourishment,” said the professor, her fingers wiggling. Droplets of water trickled delicately onto the flower, the audience members at the back able to see the drops running down the stem to soak into the soil courtesy of the large screen behind the professor. 

Cranston smiled at her creation, soft eyes betraying a hint of sadness only noticeable to the first few rows of seats in the expansive auditorium. She waved her hand dismissively at it and it burst into a short explosion of flames before dissolving into ash, plant pot and all. 

The crowd reacted exactly the way the speaker expected. Professor Hennessy Cranston had shown this demonstration to countless students over the years, and it never failed to make the desired impact. Conversations rippled around the room, its acoustics adding to the effect. Cranston raised a hand and the voices subsided. 

“Today is day one of your learning here,” she said. “You might be wondering why I destroyed the flower. To create magic, causes implications elsewhere. To create a flower, a thousand year old tree might wither and die. To give it water here, it might create a drought on the other side of the world. There are five years and many lessons ahead of you, and if you remember one thing, allow this demonstration to sink in and remind you that every single magic spell comes at a cost. Remember that, and you might do well here.” She paused for effect. “Welcome to the Magic Academy.” 

Third Place: Raglan by Jane French

I’m captivated by stories featuring birds (there can never be too many!) and this one really had the essence of an old myth. I was drawn in by Blodwith’s character and wanted to see where the story would go.

Yarrow Townsend

“I’m going to tell you a story,” Blodwith said, settling a black wing over her chick and re-arranging her arms and legs. “It’s about the world before we had wings. In those days we lived on the ground, we had skin that burned in the sun and eyes that looked down, for fear of falling over. It was the time when the world drowned.”  

The chick was too young to understand but Blodwith’s song would soothe her to sleep and sometimes it helped to speak aloud in a world inhabited only by the survivors. They were one of the larger flocks – too large for what the land offered – but there was safety in numbers.  

“My grandmother told me this story – about how she escaped in the great exit flight.”  

If she closed her eyes, Blodwith could see the old bird now – feathers plucked from her breast like she was preparing herself for roasting.  

‘Stress dears,’ she would say. ‘You never get over it.’ 

 Grandma Feathers was a survivor, right up until the night she was taken by the Great Marlin.  

It was near light death now when the giant bird herself, Marlin, would spread her wings over the world and cover it with darkness. Those stragglers foolish enough to fly too far in search of food, now returned. The penalty was to be forced to the outer edges. You had to be in the centre of the flock to be safe. Those on the edge slept fitfully, scared that Marlin would wake and snatch a sacrifice.  

Blodwith searched anxiously for Raglan. Raglan, who everyone made fun of, her brave red-feathered boy. He no longer required a mother, had passed over into the flock in the Spring, but Blodwith knew his place was as fragile as the fruit on a cherry tree. Raglan was different and it made him vulnerable.

Highly Commended: There Be Magic by Anthony Ridgway

I really enjoyed the narrator’s voice here and I loved the unexpected and surreal ending. This page could stand alone as a short story, but I’m intrigued about where the discovery of the eye could lead. 

Yarrow Townsend

I am not one for gardening as a general rule. 

When I moved into my new house, a hundred year old cottage, with a large garden, the prospect of doing any gardening filled me with dread. 

You see what normally happens is anything that I plant in my garden usually ends up dead.

The garden was derelict. It looked as if no-one had cared for it for years. Tangled bushes, drooping fir trees, moss laden grass, brambles protruding everywhere. Sighing, I imagined the garden as a country cottage garden. 

Foxgloves, aquilegia ,geraniums, pinks, roses, phlox- according to Gardeners World. Fat chance, I thought. I’ll have to get someone in. 

That night, as I drifted off to sleep, I imagined a sun dappled garden bursting with colour, busy bees humming, birds singing. Wonderful.

When I woke up in the morning, I couldn’t believe my eyes. My garden was a wash of colour with plants of all shapes and sizes as far as the eye could see. 

But who could have put them there? One of my neighbours? Unlikely as I had barely passed the time of day with them.

Exploring, I discovered that one or two areas were still wilderness. 

I had an idea. Tonight, I’ll set up the time lapse on my camera. Photography being one of my hobbies. I’ll find out who is behind my garden makeover. 

I couldn’t wait for nightfall and was very tempted to stay up and see for myself, It was not to be. My eyelids began to droop and before I knew it, morning sunshine streamed into my bedroom. 

I leapt out of bed, hardly containing my excitement. I went straight to the camera pressed playback. 

At first the footage showed the garden in darkness. I could just about make out shapes of foliage, Then I jumped back in alarm. 

A huge globular eye filled the screen. It slowly blinked. Then the screen went blank.

Highly Commended: A Kind of Magic by Natalie Morant

Another entry where the protagonist caught my eye. I think many of us would like to be the heroine here – still cycling at a wild speed later in life. I think this character could have some spectacular adventures. 

Yarrow Townsend

The chill of dusk was getting into her bones now. Give it ten more minutes, then she would go for it anyway. Lift her feet onto the pedals and let the gentle slope carry her through the tunnel of trees. Hope that somewhere along the way, before you had to start slowing down, another free spirit would arrive. 

Usually, it was a sparrowhawk, effortlessly keeping pace in the air above her, beside her, around her. Once it had been a buzzard, unusual in this narrow space. And the tawny owl – that had been special. In those days she had pedalled like mad but she didn’t know if she was up to that now, not with the arthritis and the varicose veins. 

There – a shrill kee-ee from behind. She gave a little push with her feet. Her heart leapt in her chest as the very real possibility of a fall returned to jab at her mind. But if she was too slow, too wobbly, too full of doubt…she resisted the impulse to squeeze at the brakes. She found that she could still pedal hard, so that the wind tugged at her wispy hair and her clothes fluttered.  

She sensed the sparrowhawk alongside and knew it could go much faster but was choosing not to. They flew together down the shady lane, leaves crunching beneath the wheels of her bike and the last of the day’s sunlight flashing through gaps in the branches. Her heart sang with the joy of it, she was grinning, couldn’t help herself. Even if the magic didn’t happen, this was a kind of magic in itself, wasn’t it? 

Then a thrill as she realised it was going to work, it was happening, the air shimmered in front of them and together, she and the hawk plunged into that other place. The world she hadn’t visited for too many years. 

On what was a very rainy, windy evening, it was a joy to have author Nate Crowley, bringing a little joviality to his talk – Playing with other people’s toys: the pros and cons of work for hire writing. A talk which linked perfectly to his set brief:

Injecting as much pathos as possible, and with an utterly sincere tone, write a scene of emotional transformation set in the world of a children’s board game. 300 words.

Nate kindly provided a little feedback on all entries, which will be emailed by reply to each submission.

And the winners are…

First Place: Battleship by Damon L. Wakes

This was a superb response to the assignment – the writer stuck diligently to the parameters enforced by the chosen IP, while still taking time to extrapolate realistic human consequences from them, and set meaningful narrative stakes as a result. I’d have been interested to see how much more of a grim payoff the writer might have been able to craft, given more word count to play with – there are the seeds of a real gut-punch there. Well done!

Nate Crowley

“E Five.” 

The first mate relayed the order. A moment later, the deck guns fired. One more moment, and a white blip appeared on the tracking grid before him. 

“Miss!” he reported. 

“F Si—” The captain’s next order was interrupted by a deafening bang as a shell struck the bow of their own ship. 

“My word…” breathed the first mate, staring at the devastation through the window. 

“F Six.” The captain’s eyes were still fixed on the horizon. “Quickly now.” 

Again he relayed it. Again the shot, the blip. 

“Miss!” 

There was another bang, louder than the first. The foremost guns were torn from their turrets. 

“G Seven.” 

“Captain, they have our position!” 

“Then you had best be quick!” 

The first mate relayed the order, and the guns fired once more. 

A red blip. “Hit!” 

But this time he could hear the howl of the incoming shell. The windows shattered as fragments of steel ripped through the bridge. 

The captain picked his hat from the floor and dusted it off. “G… Six.” 

“They are massacring us and you are guessing!” yelled the first mate. 

“I will see their fleet destroyed no matter the cost! Now focus fire on position G Six.” 

The first mate relayed the order and waited, trembling. The next salvo would be right on top of them. 

Then… “Hit.” He turned from the screen to the captain. “We’ve sunk their destroyer.” 

He had expected some small celebration. If nothing else, another order. Instead, he saw tears in the old man’s eyes. For the first time, he supposed, the captain looked about at the burning wreckage of their own fleet. He stared at the blazing red dots on the tracking grid, each one representing perhaps four hundred souls. 

“My God…” he breathed. “It wasn’t worth it.” 

Second Place: Just Popping to the Shops by Jonathan Plummer

This entry took an alternative tack to the winning story, but it was one I found really creatively satisfying – rather than mapping a largely realistic story onto the conventions of a game, the writer emphasised the unreal imposition of game rules on an otherwise mundane situation. The result was something genuinely unsettling that evoked the logic of nightmares, and gave an emotional heft to the premise of the POV character breaking out of their situation.

Nate Crowley

It was like a nightmare – one of those where your feet were planted in something that wouldn’t let you move them – tar, treacle – and yet you had to try to get somewhere… She ached to reach the greengrocer’s, but she seemed to move only one slow step at a time whilst her friends seemed to be able to run, or even fly – it was like she was moving in slow motion and they were all travelling at hyper speed. 

One last chance. Just bananas to get and she would have everything on her list, but Ken and Susie were only a few steps away from all they needed. The tears started to roll down her cheeks in fat, hot globules. The frustration, the disappointment, it was too much. She felt like throwing all her other groceries on the floor and stamping on them.  

Suddenly she found the will to move again. The gods had rolled the dice. She was almost at the door – now it seemed the others were moving slowly. She was there – the bananas paid for, she was on her way back, but Ken had also got everything and was just three steps from home. Suddenly he was there – the winner. She had been so close. The tears came again, this time in great wracking sobs that she thought must be heard for miles. Then, a calm came over her. What did it matter? Striving and working for what? A full basket and the boasting afterwards. Winning and losing suddenly seemed the same thing. It meant nothing really, they would all just do it again tomorrow. She would just go shopping and get what she needed, not bother with this ridiculous race. Life was too short. Let the others do it – she was going to move on with her life… 

Clare Whitfield, Historical Fiction Author who secured a two book deal from the slushpile, spoke to our members about how to perfect those pitches, and was the adjudicator for our November competition:

Pitch your novel in 300 words

It’s traditional to have two pitches prepared; one longer one, and one short (elevator) pitch which should be no more than two sentences. Please prepare one ‘elevator’ pitch and one slightly longer pitch. Word count of pitches combined to be no more than 300 words.

Remember to include details about protagonist, situation, genre and hook.

And the winners are…

First Place: Cold Warlocks by Ben Culleton

Second Place: Chrysalis by Catherine Griffin

Third Place: The Other Boy by Heidi Field

Highly Commended: The Art Thieves by Howard Teece

Highly Commended: Compass by Sam Christie

First Place: Cold Warlocks by Ben Culleton

Punchy, targeted, good comparison, understood the tale, setting, sense, no word wasted – smashed it!

Clare Whitfield

Elevator pitch

A career diplomat spirals into a web of supernatural espionage during a dream job working for the Embassy of the Underworld, following Hell’s declaration as an independent state. 

A dark fantasy tale for readers who enjoy Neil Gaiman 

Longer pitch

Following a period of global recession, widespread panic and other Earthly turmoil, Hell has taken advantage of the chaos and declared itself as an independent state. The Devil himself presides over worldly affairs, but not without the help of demonic diplomats and human administrators. 

Merv Joyce considered himself an excellent civil servant, a career that spanned the continents working for the Foreign Office but without much progression through the diplomatic ranks. When the Devil began to recruit for his first embassy in London, Merv jumped at the chance for a fresh direction working with a new foreign power, an exciting and charismatic world leader. Promotion and excellent benefits beckoned, and he rose swiftly up the Underworld ladder, without considering the consequences of working for the Prince of Darkness. Before long, despite the plush Chelsea apartment, fine dining, women, men, and more money than he had ever earned before, it all came at a cost. As the newly established First Secretary of Purgatory he’s been branded a traitor to humankind whilst trying to evade the evil machinations of jealous disciples of Hell. Merv’s work-life-death balance just got complicated. 

Disillusioned once more, and recruited easily as an agent of the Angels, Merv now plays a pivotal role in the upcoming War on Torment. His handler had found a way to usurp Lucifer’s grip on the world, but would the forces of good vanquish the Devil once and for all, and if so, at what cost to Merv’s eternal soul? 

Second Place: Chrysalis by Catherine Griffin

Targeted, clearly sci-fi, easy to see demographic, good vs. evil scenario, setting good (a little long) ​

Clare Whitfield

Elevator pitch: 

On a planet of giant insects where humans survive in harmony with nature, a girl fights to save her people from the rise of a terrifying new power — an alien hive armed with human technology. 

Detailed pitch: 

Chrysalis was a green planet, thriving with life similar to Earth’s insects — only much, much larger. 

The first research colony landed with dreams of building civilisation in the wilderness — but when crops failed, and the spaceships did not return — hope slowly died. Forced to hunt and forage, succeeding generations abandoned technology and survived by forging new relationships with the native life. 

Hundreds of years later… 

When wasp-riders raid her treetop village, rebellious teenager Chrys flees with her brother to the dangerous forest floor. Peaceful ant-folk offer a refuge, but unable to adapt to their rigid society, Chrys instead embarks on an epic journey to seek help from the fabled Searchers. 

What she discovers will change her forever — and is only the beginning of her struggle to save her family. 

Wasp-riders are raiding other villages, collecting hundreds of slaves to mine and forge deadly new weapons. With the slavers and their insect masters bent on world domination, Chrys and her friends must fight — for freedom, for survival, for the soul of a world. 

Third Place: The Other Boy by Heidi Field

Longer was stronger than short – lacking in context, but great comps, clear demographic.’ 

Clare Whitfield

The Other Boy is a contemporary crime/mystery novel of approximately 80,000 words. 

 Elevator Pitch

Scott and Blair thought they knew their son, Jamie, until he was murdered by a serial killer. To unravel their son’s life, they must expose their darkest secrets.

Detailed pitch

Blending the disturbing honesty of We Need To Talk About Kevin with the twisty, intrigue of a Claire MacIntosh novel, The Other Boy is the emotional, gritty story of a couple’s search for the truth about their son’s murder and the relationship he had with his killer’s accomplice.

For a year, Scott and Blair have been trapped and tormented by their grief, but a chance encounter and some straight-talking sets them off on a dangerous trail of discovery and disclosure. A trail that might just lead them to the serial killer’s accomplice.

To unearth the truth about their boy and reconcile their grief, both must face up to secrets they’d rather stay hidden.

Highly Commended: The Art Thieves by Howard Teece

These were both intriguing pitches as they had a clear story and demographic appeal, remember length, intrigue and comps

Clare Whitfield

Elevator Pitch 

Dale just wants his dad back; from the paintings that stole him. 

Detailed Pitch 

Every day after college, Dale Richards, a young man with disabilities, visits the same room at an art gallery. It’s the room he was in when he last saw his father, before he disappeared. 

But now Dale knows what happened, and he, his friend Sally, and the gallery’s head of security, Mr Harrington, are off to get his dad back; from the paintings that stole him. 

Journeying through near-perfect copies of classic artworks, they discover an in-residence artist hell-bent on maintaining his oeuvre, and a dragon uncertain on its boundaries. 

Comps 

The Midnight Library twinned with A Night at the Museum in Oils. 

Highly Commended: Compass by Sam Christie

Elevator Pitch

Bilal Aldhamook and Pete Lewis have both made terrible mistakes and in a chance meeting, find out the true cost of their actions. In a world where forgiveness seems to be a thing of the past, is retribution all that’s left? 

Detailed Pitch

Stuck on a rooftop near the old city of Mosul with his comrade Anwar, Bilal Aldhamook has decided he no longer wants to be a martyr anymore. With the allied Special Forces, the Kurdish Peshmerga and the Iraqi army closing in on the city, the two young jihadis want nothing more than to slip away to their old lives in Britain. If they manage to avoid death, will their captors have any mercy on them? 

Three thousand miles away in a hilltop village in Wales, Pete Lewis is standing next to everything he owns;  violently strewn around his front garden. Pete has said something in a flash of anger that he can never take back and his relationship seems to be over. Can his partner ever consider he might have had a point, or is this really the end?

 Having nowhere to go, Pete sets off to stay in a remote bothy nearby and on arriving there realises he won’t be alone; he’ll be sharing the place with Bilal Aldhamook and two unsavoury characters who are both hell-bent on revenge.  

Compass is a literary thriller which aims to confront the idea that there should never be any second chances for any wrongdoing, regardless of how understandable the motive might be. 

Following a wonderfully captivating evening of talks from literary agent, Jenny Savill and historical fiction author, Gregory Sayer, our competitions manager, Summer Quigley, read Louise Morrish’s adjudication, as below:

‘I was honoured and thrilled to be chosen to adjudicate the October competition. The brief was to tell the tale of an historic event and add a terrifically haunting twist. All in just 300 words. 

This was a particularly challenging brief, as the stories not only had to give a glimpse into the past, but also send a shiver down this reader’s spine.  

Writing historical fiction is a special challenge, even without trying to incorporate a haunting twist. Success rests with the details. If you can get the tiny details right, then authenticity naturally follows, and the reader is successfully transported back in time. It’s worth remembering that human nature hasn’t changed over the centuries. In years gone by, our ancestors felt the same emotions as we do today, they experienced life very much like we do, they fell in and out of love like we do. People in the past just wore strange clothes that were once in fashion, used expressions that may have fallen out of modern use, and perhaps ate meals we might barely recognise as food now.  

So, it’s all in the detail… 

Back to the competition winners…well done to everyone who entered, I had great fun reading your stories…’

And the winners are…

First Place: The Others Will Follow by Damon L. Wakes

Second Place: Cause and Effect by John K. Miles

Third Place: Hard Landing by John Quinn

Highly Commended: Stag by Robert Stuart

First Place: The Others Will Follow by Damon L. Wakes

Even the title of this story was creepy. I could picture the bleak, frozen Arctic scene, all from the little details the author includes: the frost on the glasses lenses, the cold in the boots, the barking of the dogs. And then the author plunges the reader one step further into the icy tundra, by describing ‘the flaps of the sleeping bag frozen hard as armour plate.’ By using an old-fashioned sleeping bag (no zip!) and then describing the material in such a harsh, sinister way (frozen as armour plate) the whole scene is given a dark, authentic edge. Very well done. 

A week’s travel north of One Ton Depot, he found the thought fixed in his mind. It was as ever-present as the frost on his glasses, the cold in his boots, the barking of the dogs. But it was Dimitri who said it: 

“Do you think they’re behind us?” 

The answer caught in Cherry’s throat. The team might have been just over the horizon when they gave up waiting. Perhaps if they’d dared to venture just a few miles south of the depot, they might have found them. Scott, Wilson, Oates, Bowers, Evans: they were out there somewhere on the ice, and now no one was coming. But Dimitri himself was getting worse—his right hand whitened and creased from constant exposure to damp and cold—so Cherry held back this reply. 

“Could have missed them in the bad weather,” he said, instead. “Might be ahead.” 

It barely mattered now, he supposed. They could hardly have waited longer then, let alone turn back now. Dimitri was in a bad way, and they had no more dog food but the dogs themselves. 

Cherry had Dimitri light the spirit while he set the tent out over its bamboo frame. Later, despite a stomach full of pemmican and a warm drink, he lay awake. It was approaching the equinox, and he cursed the twelve-hour nights. It was all too horrible—he was almost afraid to go to sleep now. 

Later, still sleepless, he was disturbed by the sound of boots in snow. Throwing back the flaps of his sleeping bag—frozen hard as armour plate—he stumbled out of the tent and saw a lone figure marching in the low light. 

“Oates?” he called. “Where are the others?” 

But Oates did not turn to face him. 

“The others will follow,” came the reply. 

Second Place: Cause and Effect by John K. Miles

‘This was a strange story, but in a good way. The author took the visceral, disturbing elements of an execution, and gave them a wicked twist. The author used some good details here – for instance, I particularly liked the ‘gleaming longsword’ that cut through a neck ‘much cleaner than an axe.’  

 The young queen shuffled from the Tower towards the fresh-cut oak scaffold, the scent of sap permeating the air as Father Thames sang a gentle song of farewell in the distance. Despite making her peace with God she was terrified, dazed as a young doe surprised in the woods. 
The hooded executioner was short and plump, wielding a gleaming longsword rather than the traditional axe. 
“An expert swordsman,” Cromwell had said. “It’s a final gift from the King. Much cleaner than an axe.” 

Anne climbed the steep steps of the scaffold, determined to uphold her dignity, as she turned to face the crowd. Her uncle, Norfolk, was there at the front, hard impassive eyes staring. How had he survived whilst George and her had been condemned? 
The crowd was silent as Anne spoke with words so well rehearsed that she was able to say them without thinking. In her mind, she was already dead. She knelt, removing her ermine mantle to reveal a fragile pale neck, then drew a golden coin from the bespoke pocket in her red kirtle as the executioner approached to collect his fee.  
“Don’t worry Anne, my mother and father were great warriors and I too was born to the sword.” 
The voice was female and she recognised it immediately, the words tinged with the sonorous intonation of Spain. A flash of red hair caught the morning sun, framed against the black of the executioner’s hood. Anne’s scrambled mind tried to make sense of what she perceived, but she was too traumatised to speak.  
“But you’re dead,” said her mind. 

The woman laughed. “Not everything is as it seems. And not everything that seems is.”  
Anne shivered as Catherine drew close, whispering into her ear with icy venom. 

“I’m not dead. I am death.” 
And before Anne could reply, her head was separated from her shoulders, prompting the crowd to give a polite round of applause. 

Third Place: Hard Landing by John Quinn

‘In this story, the author took a very well-known piece of history, and put their own spin on it. I wasn’t born when man first walked on the moon, but this is such an iconic moment in history that it worked well in this context. The twist at the end was haunting, but not in the usual ghostly way, which was very clever.’ 

It’s the most stressful 10 minutes in Neil Armstrong’s life – warning buzzers sound five times, each one on its own enough for the captain of the Apollo 11 mission to abort the moon landing.  But Armstrong chooses to override them all and continues to pilot lunar module Eagle the final 30,000 feet to the moons’ dusty surface. His decisions are life and death for him and fellow astronaut, Buzz Aldrin. But failure to be the first man to set foot on the Moon would destroy Armstrong’s own sense of destiny and be a savage blow to US prestige in the eyes of the estimated 650 million TV viewers entranced around the world. 

Now, six hours and 39 minutes after touchdown, with Eagle safely settled on brittle rocks, systems checked and everything in place, is the moment that will define Armstrong’s life. The module’s external camera is focussed on the astronaut’s spacesuit and helmet as he steps from the Eagle’s ladder and plants his foot on the moon’s surface.  He breathes deeply and speaks the words that are immediately committed to history. ‘That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.’  

Showing confidence remarkable for his 23 years, Steven Spielberg leans back in his collapsible wooden and canvas chair, the one with Director screen-printed on its back, smiles and calls, ‘Cut! That’s a wrap, well done everyone. We’ve already got the rest in the can. We’re done.’ 

Only then do the dark-suited and cropped-haired agents appear from the shadows. They round up the small team of lighting and sound engineers, actors, set dressers and goffers. 

Just Spielberg remains, alone and immobile, as his former colleagues are locked inside a dark fleet of armoured troop carriers, whose diesel engines fill the night with fumes and fury. The director shakes his head as he watches a dust plume engulf the convoy on its journey into the dark desert night. 

Highly Commended: Stag by Robert Stuart

‘This story was quite clever in that the reader is led to think one thing, when the reality is very different. The author created a clear image of a lone Roman soldier, performing his eternal sentry duty, and then the sudden juxtaposition with the modern day was a very unexpected twist at the end. I very much enjoyed reading this one.’

Gaius Metelius is on stag. Again. He seems to be doing a lot more than his fair share of sentry duty but there again, he is a very junior recruit, with no money to bribe the Centurion. The night is misty and he has to concentrate hard on his watch. There doesn’t appear to be another soldier either to the right or left of him and that is just not right. Still, there is a lot about this place that is not right. The weather, for a start. Gaius is from the south of Gaul, a Romano-Celt who misses the warm sunshine. By his reckoning, tonight must be Samhain, which is celebrated by all Celts, even in this benighted land of savages. And savage they are. He was on stag when they erupted into the city, led by that red-haired she-devil screaming for revenge and Roman blood. He remembers standing with the veterans in the Temple of the Devine Claudius here in Camulodunum and being terrified. He is only seventeen and this was his first taste of action. Strangely, he cannot remember waking up in Sick Bay. He can only remember a huge brute of an Iceni throwing a rock that hit his helmet. After that his memory is kind of hazy but he seems to have been on stag ever since. 

   ‘I told you there was something odd about that mist!’ Dan says excitedly, waving his mobile at the other University of Essex students who share the house. 

   ‘What?’ asks Mary. 

   ‘Look closely.’ Dan hands her the phone. 

   ‘That’s really weird. It looks just like a Roman soldier.’ 

   ‘Trick of the light. It was dark. Shadow from a car headlight, maybe,’ says Ian. 

   ‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ says Dan. ‘Even so, creepy thing to happen on Hallowe’en.’ 

And well done to everyone else who entered. Best of luck for next time!