Hampshire Writers' Society

Tag: Imagination

  • Storytelling and Imagination – December 2023 competition results, adjudicated by Adrienne Dines

    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…

    First Place: Butterflies by Julian Richardson

    Second Place: Just In Case by Francesco Sarti

    Third Place: Books by Sam Christie

    Highly Commended: That One Small Light by Damon L. Wakes

    First Place: Butterflies by Julian Richardson

    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).
    ‘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.

    Adrienne Dines

    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.

    Second Place: Just In Case by Francesco Sarti

    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.

    Third Place: Books by Sam Christie

    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.

    Highly Commended: That One Small Light by Damon L. Wakes

    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.

  • Imagine This! – November 2021 Competition Results, Adjudication by Yasmin Kane

    Yasmin Kane, founder of Kane Literacy Agency not only came and spoke to the members about creativity and how to find it, but kindly agreed to adjudicate our November 2021 Competition.

    Currently representing fiction authors for children, YA and adult genres, Yasmin wanted to set members the challenge of keeping an open brief and simply being free to create whatever they wanted. The brief was set as follows:

    Imagine This… 300 words to let your imagination run riot! Think outside the box – it would be great to encompass universal themes and read a profoundly moving piece. I’m looking for something that will make me sit bolt upright!

    And the winners are:

    First Place – Natalie Morant with Let’s See

    Second Place – Damon L. Wakes with The Merchant’s Tale

    Third Place – Summer Quigley with Imaginarium

    “This was such fun – I loved adjudicating and peering into some wonderful imaginations.”

    Yasmin Kane on being a HWS competition judge

    First Place: Let’s See by Natalie Morant

    Stunning intro, immediately engages the reader. The protagonists have a mythical quality to them. Very thought provoking, unnerving and chilling as it is only a game… Needs to be read a couple of times to let it sink in as one tries to fathom which natural elements are running the show? I loved it.

    Floodrush frowned at the card he had drawn, his forehead rippling as the horizontal waves of his expression jarred with the continuous flow of his face. He looked up at the others apologetically. 

    “Global warming,” he said.  

    “Ha! I knew it,” shrieked Howl. “There was bound to be a disaster card soon. We’ve been getting away with all sorts for the last few rounds.” He resembled nothing more than an Egyptian mummy, though his ragged strips were of many colours, blurring together as they fluttered around him. 

    Lavana laughed. “I know why you are so cheerful, Howl. You want this game to end so we can start a new one. What say you, Bonechill? Shall we abandon this game with the humans and deal another set of species?” 

    Bonechill considered the question, meeting Lavana’s eyes. She is, in fact, the only player he can comfortably look at. Floodrush and Howl make his head hurt with their constantly moving bodies, and he’s careful to restrict them to his peripheral vision. 

    “I think we can still win.” Bonechill always spoke one syllable at a time.  

    “So do I.” Lavana smiled and tilted her sinewy frame backwards, re-crossing her legs. Her change of position forced the others to adjust their own accordingly. Lavana’s skin glowed hot and her companions must ebb and flow to avoid being burned. 

    “Okay with me,” said Howl, who was always happy to go along with a group decision. 

    “You roll for the rate of warming then,” said Floodrush. Howl did. 

    “0.2 degrees per decade,” he announced. 

    The four of them leaned in towards the slowly spinning sphere, and Lavana touched the atmosphere gently with her fingertip. 

    “I bet I was right though,” said Howl, good-naturedly. “I’d try the dinosaurs again.” 

    “Well,” said Lavana. “Let’s see how the humans do.”


    Second Place: The Merchant’s Tale by Damon L. Wakes

    Beautiful allegorical storytelling, instantly visual and told in the simplest of manners. Makes the reader feel completely present in the scene. 

    Imbibed with the true craftsmanship of storytelling.  I wanted to read on and on and on…

    When the merchant found a holy man—marked as such by the tattoos upon his face—sitting in the dust by the roadside he stopped his cart to offer coin. 

    However, the man held up his hands in refusal. “Save your drachmas,” he said. “I am merely a traveller, the same as you. I have renounced my vows. I follow no god—not anymore.” 

    “I have a tale that might give you cause to reconsider,” said the merchant, settling down beside him. “Two years ago I was passing through this desert. My cart carried not earthenware or spices, but my own wife and children, for that was the year of the ash-storms in the north and we were seeking refuge from them.” 

    “I remember those days,” said the traveller. “Many came to me for blessings before risking such a journey.” 

    “And I should have done the same! My camel, it transpired, had been afflicted by the ash and died without warning. We could not complete the journey on foot, and had little water for so many. Soon it ran out, and we knew none of us would last the day.” 
    “What did you do?” asked the traveller. 

    “I prayed for water, and it rained for five days. Five days’ rain in the desert.” The merchant spread his arms across the dry expanse before them. 

    There was a long pause. 

    At last the traveller spoke: “Like you, I made that journey when the ash-storms came. Like you, I brought my wife and children.

    My camel, like yours, died in the heat and like you I prayed when the water ran out.” 

    The merchant’s face fell. “But when you prayed, it did not rain.” 

    “No.” The traveller shook his head. “It rained for five days. But it rained five hours too late.” 
     

    Third Place: Imaginarium by Summer Quigley

    It leads one’s imagination into darkness or light – depending on what state of mind one is reading it from. This sums up the true craft of imagination – not just to imagine but to give others the gift of imagining.

    Menowin metamorphosed – ringmaster, trapeze, magician – creating his own world of wonders. The buzz of the fair, the perfect backdrop for his own sensational show.

    This is the moment the clown spotted him, spotted his imagination.

    Menowin didn’t notice the clown at first, surprisingly silent in his approach, given his oversized shoes.

    “You’re having fun,” came the gruff voice from behind.

    Menowin froze for a moment, catching sight of his reflection in the wiggling wall of mirrors opposite, and the giant clown who towered above him.

    “Errr.. yes…I was. But now my mum will be wondering where I am.” Menowin backed away.

    “Don’t leave on my account. I noticed you playing. Your creativity made me smile. A special thing, a creative spark you know.”

    Menowin paused… flattered.

    “Where’s your parents?”

    “Mum’s home. I should really get back.”

    “Well, before you go, fancy a tour of the tent? I saw you looking.”

    “No… no money, sorry.”

    “That’s okay,” the gruff voice softened. “I’m Kooky. I’ll get you in. Let you in the side. Special VIP treatment.”

    Every fibre in Menowin’s body knew he shouldn’t, but every fibre wished more than ever to see first hand, just once, the thrill of the circus.

    Kooky continued, “And if we see the ringmasters, I’ll introduce you.”

    Menowin looked over his shoulder. The crowds dissipated. If he didn’ t go with the clown now he may never get the chance again.  His mum couldn’t afford to take him. 

    He bit his lip, looking down, hoping the grass had the answer. It didn’t.

    “How about just a little peek under and then you decide,” and checking  no-one was nearby, Kooky raised the tent curtain with his shovel of a shoe.

    A little peek couldn’t hurt. Menowin bent on all fours, tilting his head for a glimpse as something whizzed by in a cloud of colourful smoke. Menowin edged forward for a closer look. He was in… and the curtain dropped down behind him.

    Highly Commended: A Good Report by Graham Steed

    Tantalisingly puts the reader into the mind of a killer. It results in the reader feeling achingly sad and thinking oh, this is so clever.

    Imagine this…a body on the tideline. Right by my deckchair spot. A woman’s body. I’m annoyed. Now I must trudge back up the hill and phone 999. 

    ‘…Hallo. I’m Norman. I’ve just found a body in Smugglers Cove…’ 

    ‘…Yes. It’s near the monastery…’ 

    ‘…No. Not accessible by vehicle…’ 

    ‘…I live on the hill. On sunny days I bring my deckchair down…’ 

    ‘…She must have floated in on the tide.’ 

    *   *   * 

    If you are watching, you will see I have not climbed the hill. I sit in my deckchair and dare to look at the woman.  

    Dressed in jeans and a short black top which shows her midriff, her body is pawed by the incoming tide as if to wake it, but I’m in no doubt she is dead, for the dead lie differently from the sleeper: the dead are frozen in attitude, vacant, they lie in bad places – like this one, borne in, as I believe, on rising water during matins when the monks nearby rise and pray in darkness: Venite adoremus.  

    *   *   * 

    But I hesitate to call 999. 

     I need a good report because I know the inside of a prison cell… 

    ‘We want to interview you under caution, Norman, at the police station.’  

    …so I’ll be cooperative, open, and honest. 

     Except every good point will be offset by a single bad point: me alone on a beach with a body. 

    It is not for our sins we are punished, but for our crimes. 

    *   *   * 

    I swim with the body lying on my back. 

    ‘Where are we going?’ 

    ‘Where you came from.’ 

    ‘I was trying to escape.’ 

    ‘Who from?’ 

    ‘From you.’ 

    ‘You’ll always be my true love. 

    ‘And you mine.’ 

    I let the body slip away. 

    *   *   * 

    I’m up early. I run to the hilltop. The beach and sea are clear. I wave to the helicopter flying overhead. 

    I think I’ve got away with it. 

    Don’t you? 

    Highly Commended: The Soul App by Peter Duncan

    Thought-provoking and compassionate.

    It began with the drownings. Twelve young men in the English Channel, their flimsy inflatable capsized after being turned back from British territorial waters by the Coastguard. A football team plus reserve, Robarge thought, his mind flashing back a week and the return from the family villa in Languedoc. He’d slowed for a roundabout just before the ferry terminal at Caen, noticed some guys playing soccer on a patch of wasteland. Shouting, animated faces, a skilled tackle: for a few moments this long dull journey came alive. Migrants for sure, he’d reflected: their game a brief joyous escape from the deadly task of trying to reach an indifferent country.  

    Had it been them? Was it these boys who’d drowned?  

    He felt a sharp pain somewhere inside, almost unknown yet strangely familiar. 

    Robarge was a successful software developer with many connections. It didn’t take long to gather those he needed for the project: biofeedback experts, anthropologists, evolutionary biologists, psychologists, philosophers, theologians. Religious leaders had been the most difficult to persuade, but eventually they joined too. Months of discussion, months more of development work.  

    At last it was ready. To begin with the download rate was slow. Then a young Novice called Giulia from a convent near Rome posted a video on Instagram. It showed an image, at once mysterious and universal, on the screen of her mobile phone. The camera panned to Giulia’s spellbound face. A sharp gasp of amazement as the Novice recognised her own soul, eyes shining now with radiant light. 

    The video went viral. Before long, millions were filled with that very same light. Mlllions became billions, and the whole world was suffused with the luminous wonder of souls finding healing and redemption for all the drowned and broken of the planet.