Tag: Louise Morrish

With 25 years experience in the publishing industry as a prolific author, ghostwriter, editor, bookseller, and teacher, Tom Bromley inspired members by delving in great detail about ideas and imagination. The competition brief aligned to this, which was to:

Write a 300 word piece about a moment of inspiration: this can be either a real figure/event, something from your own life, or something entirely fictional.

And the winners were…

First place: Petrarch upon seeing Laura by Rosie Mercer

“A combination of enjoying the writing and the author capturing the brief made this my winner. I liked the use of language, the description of writing (the lines nearly curl together) and how the end matches up with the start with the protagonist in shadows. A short but powerfully written piece.”

Second place: ‘Come Play My Game, I’ll Test Ya’ by Johnathan Reid

“An intriguing interpretation of the theme and a great piece of action writing regarding the competition in the school pool. I thought this well was well described and with a nice ripple of tension as to what was going to happen, which gives the piece a satisfying edge.”

Third Place: An Empty Day by Sarah King

“I liked the idea of this piece being written in the second person and the way the writer captures the sense of shift; the clouds being dark and oppressive in the beginning, the rain offering renewal, the day being empty in the title and full in the final line. I would have a little more on the actual moment of inspiration – what there was in the advert that caused the change – but the sentiment again captured the brief.”

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You did not notice me. I sat in the shadows during matins. It was without a thought that you turned your cheek and, like a vision, resembled the Blessed Virgin. You did not see me. I prowled down the aisle until I was close enough to hear your name whispered.

Laura: a name as sweet as summer wine on my lips and I say it again just to feel you linger there. Laura. How should I praise you? Psalms are too dull. Hymns, too severe. I must find the words, tame them, and they must submit to my will. My little songs will be a piece of you, until you live upon the page and I might close my book and keep you there.

I will write a poem of my own design, a shape of my own choosing. It must be brief, as our time together has been fleeting. It must roll along like the unstoppable drum of a human heart until it hits a clanging note: an alarum bell. It will evolve, bounding, slipping here and there, only falling into place with each final syllable until, at the end, the lines nearly curl together, reaching for each other, each sound an echo of the other, like a longed-for meeting.

When I next see you, head bent in prayer, it is you I will worship. But do not let me disturb you, no. I will not impress myself upon you. I am content to linger in the shadows of my laurel tree, my Laura, and my prayer will be my poetry.

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Second Place: ‘Come Play My Game, I’ll Test Ya‘ by Johnathan Reid

Holding your breath is hard and today’s competition is intense. The nominated judges peer into the school pool, looking for bubbles. The first sign of weakness, they signal an ascent into jeering defeat. Only a complete lack of inspiration will baptise you as this week’s winner. Achieve the longest pause between breaths and be a hero for at least today.

Earlier, your chest heaved with ill-advised hyperventilation. Now the drive to respire fills your head like an expanding bladder in the post-lunch lesson. It mustn’t overwhelm your conscious control, even as your hindbrain begs for release from forbidden tomfoolery. You gulp Gollum-like on the exhausted air trapped inside your desperate lungs. The primitive reflex barely dampens the urge to release your pressure-cooker of carbon dioxide. You aren’t a whale. Your inspirations are meagre, your expirations only visible on fog-chilled days. But your hopes are high. Premature inhalation is for wimps lacking lung capacity and willpower.

You somersault from glisten-backed mushroom to upturned turtle, pinching your nose as wayward bubbles tickle your nostrils. Through the liquid layer dividing success from failure, there’s an unexpected dash of motivation: a refracted splash of polka-dot blue. The girl in year five you watch from afar. Your starved brain decides she’s waiting with bated breath for her breathless champion. A wavering halo forms around her head, a tunnel of bliss connecting your…

Its edges darken and she’s gone in a flash of startled quicksilver – along with the judges. A hairy hand intrudes into your watery womb and a vice encloses your arm. You breach the surface like a sub-sea missile into the poolside clamour. A puce face expels their own lungful of air in a flood of detention-laden expletives. But you can breathe again, and your surging, death-defying gasps are all the inspiration you need.

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Third Place: An Empty Day by Sarah King

You sit in your kitchen, cup of tea in hand, listening to the monotonous hammering of the rain. The clouds outside are dark and oppressive. Your eyes strain against the gloom. You know you should turn a light on, but you don’t, just as you haven’t showered, or brushed your teeth. You simply do not have the energy.

It is 10am and the day stretches out before you. There are no plans. No new shows to watch, no books to read, no friends to meet with, just a yawning void of nothingness. You absentmindedly reach for my phone, scrolling through images of beautiful places and adorable kittens, but your mood remains the same. You put you phone down, only to pick it up and scroll again. Again you put it down, and again you pick it up, scrolling out of habit.

Something catches your eye. It’s just an advert, but it is enough to get you to shower. To brush your teeth. To put on clothes. You pick up your phone again, but this time with purpose. A quick web search and you find what you need. The rain is still falling, but that won’t stop you.

Outside the scent of the rain envelopes you. It brings the promise of change and renewal. The rain trickles down the back of your inadequate coat, but it feels invigorating. You walk with your head held high. You know where you are going.

The small shop is dimly lit, not helped by the heavy clouds outside. You nod shyly at the attendant, but you don’t want to approach her. What if she sees your ignorance. The choice of stock is overwhelming and you know nothing. Your mouth goes dry and your heart starts to race. You inhale deeply, close your eyes, and remember, everyone has to start somewhere.

You leave the shop with the materials to create something new. Suddenly your day is full.

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After an evening of literary agent, Becky Bagnell, and historical fiction author, Louise Morrish, regaling members with information and stories from their extensive experience, Louise announced her chosen winners of our May competition:

Taking inspiration from a real person’s past life (famous, infamous, or non-famous) and combine it with your own creativity and imagination to write an historical fiction piece. 300 words

I was truly astounded by the entries. Not only the high standard of writing, but also the inventiveness and sheer breadth of history covered – from AD 33 and the last breaths of Jesus on the cross, through Tudor history, the 17th century, the Second World War, and into the 1960s and 1970s.

It was a very difficult challenge to choose a winner, and I know judges say this all the time, but it genuinely was a very close run thing between the top three pieces.

And the winners were…

First place: Hope by Jo Agrell

“This piece recounted Jane Austen’s final journey to Winchester, before her untimely death. Every word was precise, every sentence crafted with care. The love between Jane and her sister Cassandra was palpable, but not over-explained or mawkish. The period was authentically evoked. The ending was hopeful, and also heartbreaking, an achievement that Jane Austen herself would have been proud of.”

Second place: The Mismaze by Dave Sinclair

“This was a hauntingly poetic piece, that beautifully evoked how the past remains with us, always. Sometimes it’s even carved into the very ground beneath our feet, as in the case of this historic turf labyrinth which I’ve walked along myself.”

Third Place: “I am come hither to die,” by Lesley Bungay

“This piece truly sent a shiver down my spine, as I accompanied Ann Boleyn on her final 101 steps to the scaffold. A fantastic first line: ‘I count the stone steps as they spiral upwards, my mind a turmoil of false accusations. One hundred and one steps, cold and unyielding, like his heart. A heart once filled with love, now hardened by suspicion, and whispered lies from those men who would do me ill.’ “

Highly Commended:

Diamond in a Rough Overcoat by Eugene McCann

“It was the dialogue in this piece that gripped me. ‘Just so’s you know, though, if we did find you were a tout, we’d cut the flute off you an’ stick it in your feckin’ gob…Not that you’d get much of a tune from it.’ It conjured a time in Ireland’s history with a confident authenticity. Very well done.”

Burn by Francesco Sarti

“The writer took me straight into the heart of ancient Rome, as witness to a devastating fire. I thought the piece was extremely well executed, and painted a visceral picture in my mind. I particularly loved the lines: ‘I love him like a drowning bee loves the floating twig. I need him to breathe, to let my wings dry in the wind, and I’m so incredibly grateful, but I can’t fly if he’s with me. I can only die.’ “

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Jane lies along the seat, her head pillowed in my lap.

‘Try to sleep,’ I say, lifting a stray curl from her face, tucking it under her cap. Her cheek is cold, her skin, mottled and grey. This is a symptom of her illness, along with severe pain, bilious attacks, fever and fatigue. Cruel fate that my sister, the author of seven novels including the most popular Pride and Prejudice, a writer at the height of her powers, is reduced to this.

My mind turns to our lodgings in College Street. I am told that number eight is a pleasant property, however, with only the first floor at our disposal, I fear we may be cramped. I smile when Jane asks about our rooms, marvelling at how often our thoughts run along similar lines like cartwheels following ruts in the road. I tell her the drawing room has a large window where, as soon as she is stronger, she may sit and finish The Brothers.

‘Dear Cass,’ she says. ‘I shall be perfectly content with your company and the possession of the sofa.’

This is one small mercy; there will be no Mama taking ownership of the couch leaving poor Jane to manage the best she can lying along three chairs.

At last she sleeps. I glance outside. Relentless rain. A dreary landscape, dark dripping woods, rain-swept fields, a straggle of cottages and a church, its gravestones forlornly scattered in the long grass. Our brother and nephew accompanying us on horseback look quite drowned. There is something pitiful about the sight, something both dutiful and tragic that reminds me of a funeral procession.

At last Winchester appears, a ghost town in the rain. The carriage draws up outside a dark house. My stomach roils. I pray to God this is not a fool’s errand. Mr Lyford says he can cure her. We put our trust in him.

Jane Austen died eight weeks later, aged 41.

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Second Place: The Mismaze by Dave Sinclair

While fields submit to winter’s white campaign,
clouds kiss and bruise the hills with grey.
The wind pins the sky to earth’s window frame
and I flee the town to climb my favourite way.
Atop the hill, the hard and frosty sward
is cut by dark and winding lines. I ask what strange,
mad maze is this, with only but a single path?
No answer comes – just winter’s wild refrain.
You could not know whose feet would trace your craft.
But now my steps between the frigid turf
decode your labyrinthine cryptograph
and bring me to the centre of your work.
And though you’re gone, I still remain, a mourner
To your death below, in cold and tender water.

To the east of Winchester, on the top of St Catherine’s Hill, there is an area of narrow paths that expose the chalk under the downland turf. This is the Winchester Mismaze, one of eight historic turf mazes remaining in England. It is not a maze in the modern sense but a labyrinth, cut into the chalk, with no junctions or crossings. It is laid out in nine nested squares, similar to those used for the traditional game of Nine Men’s Morris. Although mediaeval in design, its origins are obscure. A local legend suggests it was carved one summer in the 17th century by a boy from Winchester College who had been banished to the hill for bad behaviour. To occupy his time, he recalled a lesson on classical maze design and carried out the lonely task of laying out and cutting the maze. It is said that the winding paths so disordered the boy’s mind that he threw himself off the hill and drowned in the river below.

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Third Place: “I am come hither to die,” by Lesley Bungay

I count the stone steps as they spiral upwards, my mind a turmoil of false accusations. One hundred and one steps, cold and unyielding, like his heart. A heart once filled with love, now hardened by suspicion, and whispered lies from those men who would do me ill.

Upwards I climb to the top of the tower, to gaze over London. A city full of anticipation, as I was, not three years past when I stood within these same chambers eagerly awaiting my coronation. After seven long years my faith was strong. I would provide my King with a longed for son, where my predecessor had failed. I weep for those babes since lost and for my one surviving child, Elizabeth. What hope for her now.

For seventeen days I have climbed this tower alone, praying he will dismiss the trial. I write, entreating him to attend that I may plead my innocence, prove my loyalty. He does not come. Now, I sense the city’s unease. Those men who declared me guilty of vial and unspeakable acts know their own heads may face the executioner’s block at his whim. The sunrise signals a new day, my last. They gather in the Great Hall to bear witness. The guards come and I must descend, spiralling downwards, my mind now resolved.

My silk slippers slip, but I must not stumble. I lift my skirts, feet treading lightly, keeping my pace steady. I count to hide the shortness of my breathe, the pounding of my heart. One hundred and one cold, hard, shards of stone. I will not fall. I hold my head high as they lead me to the scaffold. The eyes of those men upon me. I will not falter. I am Anne Boleyn. I am the Queen of England. Those who would have me dead will not see my fear.

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Highly Commended: Never Give Up by Shirley Jackson

Margaret Ryan is eighteen, Irish and pregnant. Her family banish her to England to have the baby adopted. Despite her relentless fight to keep her son, the harsh reality of raising a child single-handedly in the 1970s forces her to relinquish him.

Forty-five years later, she’s a widow on a mission to track down the son she lost. Having inveigled herself into his family, she risks losing him again for ever.

NEVER GIVE UP is a Commercial Fiction novel about a woman’s fight to reclaim the life stolen from her and will appeal both to those horrified by the scandal of forced adoption and to fans of psychological thriller writers like T.M. Logan. As a social worker during that period, I am acutely aware of the life-long pain faced by women like Margaret.

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Highly Commended: Diamond in a Rough Overcoat by Eugene McCann

 The voice cut cleanly through the musky-sweet air, piercing the gloom.  ‘So, you’re the cock o’ the North I’ve been hearing about.’ The intelligent face under the Homburg was instantly likeable –quizzical, though– as its owner filled the doorway of the cramped tobacconist’s Patrick had been ordered to. 

    ‘Why should I trust you…? Isn’t the place awash with informers?’ The man’s musical accent suddenly belied menace. He came closer, gliding clear of the door, two others visible to Patrick now, all three wearing similar grey-brown overcoats. Patrick could almost feel the roughness of their cloth as he looked into the man’s eyes, holding ground as the powerful frame angled towards him  

    ‘Plenty girls asked me the same. Didn’t have a killer answer for any of them, either.’  

    The man glowered silently, then threw his head back, clapped Patrick’s shoulder, and roared like an elephant.  

    ‘You’ll do, young fella…The cut-glass accent… come in handy enough, too.’ 

    Chairs scraped bare floorboards as the men drew them into a circle.  

    ‘Just so’s you know, though, if we did find you were a tout, we’d cut the flute off you an’ stick it in your feckin’ gob…Not that you’d get much of a tune from it.’ 

    Patrick glanced at the other two. One, tall, hair wavy, reminded him of an American singer he’d seen photographs of; the other a youth, slight –thin-faced– the baby-like features making him seem younger still.  

    ‘Let me introduce Paddy and Charlie’ said the man, removing the Homburg. ‘Paddy here’s your new commanding officer. And young Charlie’ –Charlie grinned cadaverously– ‘will teach you the stealthy art of slitting throats. Of the Dublin Met. Cairo Gang, too –under-cover boys– though not quite as invisible as the Brits think…Oh, and the odd mole, for good measure.’ He smiled, faintly. 

    Patrick drew breath involuntarily, in no doubt now who his unnamed inquisitor was: Mick Collins, an exquisite, rare diamond, must surely have a fault. All diamonds did. Patrick, though, couldn’t see one. 

The true-life person in the piece is Michael Collins (1890-1922), seen by some as Ireland’s most famous patriot (though branded a terrorist by the British government for most of his life). Paddy and Charlie are, incidentally, also based on real characters, two of Collins‘ IRA lieutenants – Paddy Daly (1888-1957) and Charles Dalton (1903-1974).

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Highly Commended: Burn by Francesco Sarti

I believed my adulterous love for Publius would burn my milk-bathed skin from the inside, from loins to lips, just like he believes in his resurrected Messiah.

I thought our passion would consume us like bark in a pyre, reducing our bodies to a fleeting spark of pleasure, too bright for any pain to remain.

I was wrong.

It’s so clear now, as I watch the leader of his congregation kissing Publius’ feet, blackened by dirt and mud, on the top floor of this Esquiline Hill hovel. I love him, I can’t deny it, but not like a flower loves the sun. Rather, I love him like a drowning bee loves the floating twig. I need him to breathe, to let my wings dry in the wind, and I’m so incredibly grateful, but I can’t fly if he’s with me. I can only die.

A part of me must have always known. That’s why I sat next to the window, so that my thick pallium would hide the orange glow rising like dawn from the plebeian districts. I wear it on my naked shoulders, over my silky robe even if it itches like a disease, even if it smells like dust and manure, even if this is going to be the hottest night in Rome’s history.

The same savoury odour that made Publius’ neck so irresistible is now unbearable in my nostrils, and as I sip the acidic wine that’s supposed to be their Messiah’s blood, I realise I wouldn’t have drunk it for love. I wouldn’t have eaten the mouldy bread, rock solid, and I wouldn’t have gulped the scent of human secretion if it wasn’t for hatred.

I can’t go back to my husband, and I can’t live like this.

What I can do, is sit here as the flames swell, and let Nero’s laugh slowly become mine.