The talented Matt Wingett set and adjudicated our competition this month:
Brief: The phrase they should respond to is: “The wind was colder than the stars in winter.” This can be anything. A poem, flash fiction, an outline for a story, a dialogue, (400 words)
And the winners were…
First place: ‘Banshee Weather’ by Sophie Hetherington
The wind was colder than the stars in winter. And I hate the wind. Give me rain but save me from wind. Whipping my hair mockingly around my face, a blizzard of hair in my eyes, mouth, lifting hanks of it around my head like Medusa’s snakes, defying gravity. My own features set in a grimace befitting that tortured goddess. Ears ice burned, draughts funnelling up my sleeves. Invading the gaps in my too-thin scarf to chill the back of my neck. I’ve heard school teachers say the wind makes kids feral – can’t be settled once back in class after the exhilaration of being buffeted and blown like leaves around the playground. I reach the house and a gust slams the door shut after me in one last insult. It’s a little quieter in hall as I take off shoes and coat, scrape hair off my face and catch my breath. But not quiet enough. The wind still buffets the house, forcing tiny banshee screams through every minute crack around the badly sealed windows. I can’t settle either, but not from energised elemental excitement; the wind disturbs me, my nerves frayed by the erratic noise of thick swirling air that will not let up. It continues into the evening; I have terrors over the ancient chimney stack, trying to work out its trajectory if a particularly vicious gust were to topple it. My thoughts are scattered, concentration fractured by the tinny reverberations coming down the metal chimney flue. I must have dozed off because later I wake and what confronts me is the absence of sound – it is silent at last – I can feel the still space inside my skull, the tension leaves my body. Tip-toe to the window to look out, and, clean silver pin pricks in a luminous ink blue sky, I can finally see the stars.
Second Place: ‘The Starry Night by Maggie Farran
The picture had always been hung above the fireplace at the home, where she had been born. It was a cheap copy of ‘The Starry Night’ by Vincent Van Gogh. As a small child she had stared at it for hours, fascinated by the bright yellow stars set against the dark blue sky. She had looked at the little village in the distance and wondered what it was like to live there. Would she have attended the church with its tall steeple? Would she have climbed the mountains in the distance? She had loved the whirls around the stars and. The movement in the night sky.
As she got older, she had tried to copy the painting. She had sat at the oak table in the living room with her felt tips and sketch book. Recreating it had been her passion, until she reached the age when she had her own paints and canvas. Then she had chosen her own subjects and style. She painted flowers in a detailed controlled way. They were beautiful and sold well. Everything about them reflected how she lived her life. Now both her parents had died, and she was back in her old childhood home, gazing up at the painting, that had meant so much to her, that had inspired her to become a painter.
The grief for what she had lost and what she had become was wrapped around her like the most bitterly cold wind. Where was that free-spirited girl, who whirled and twirled like the stars in the painting? What had changed her into this precise, tight person? Her flower paintings were the result of painstaking work. Everything about them was perfect, from the colour of the petals to the shape of the leaves. They were treasured by collectors for their accuracy. She shivered at the coldness of how she saw herself now. She was able to appreciate the delicate beauty of the flowers she painted, and reproduce them perfectly with the gift, she had been given. Every exquisite detail was there, but the vibrant, swirling, whirling stars were just out of reach.
Third Place: ’And Then The Wind’ by Val Harris
but before that, you were the surest
you’ve ever been. A brilliance in your eyes
like all the planets had collided there.
Air and sky as clear as a lucid mind.
An upbeat heart, a steadfast belief,
and then the wind.
The relentless, flailing sod of it. A bite
only a Yeti or a ghost, could endure,
and even they are nowhere to be seen.
How long will it last? How long before
the roar and withering freeze engulf you,
turn you into a sculpt of ice,
unable to move your frosted lips,
desperate for words, but too afraid
your voice will shrivel and die?
And then the wind, turning triumph
over with its vicious breath,
deadly as a breeze on Uranus.
A huge congratulations to our winners and thank you to everyone who submitted!!
