Hampshire Writers' Society

Tag: winners

  • Scholarship girl, 1937

    Scholarship girl, 1937

    By Miriam Coley

    FIRST PLACE in December Competition

            Grandma calls it ‘The Parlour’. A mantlepiece holds photographs, a parade of absent males:  a wedding picture of May’s parents, Carys and Arthur, her smiling father in Kitchener’s khaki, her mother touching her pearl necklace. Another shows baby May, a crocheted bundle in her grandmother’s arms, her grandpa cradling them both. His unhandled pipe stands at the end of the shelf.

              The table is right under the window, to catch the light. May stands wearing the unfamiliar blazer.

              “It might do.” Carys says, pulling the fabric down at the back.

              “It’ll have to do.” Grandma announces, moving May around and placing her arms in an arrow shape. The form of the previous owner inhabits every pulled stitch  and hanging button.

              “Right!” Grandma says, squinting through glasses, a pin between her teeth. She begins to fold one sleeve under. 

              Then a shudder of disgust as Carys’s fingers discover an antique toffee in the blazer’s pocket. Fluff coats it, as if it is a hibernating field mouse. 

              Carys begins to cut the whole sticky pocket out, her heron shaped scissors eating the fabric. Then she picks out some material, smooth as a magician’s scarf, to create a new pocket and make the whole blazer anew.  Her hopes for her daughter live in every stitch. But, can this work?

              “May, help your grandmother peel the potatoes, please. I’m popping into town.’

    Grandma and May leave the blazer in the August sunshine.

    *

              An hour later a brown paper parcel sits on the table.

              A saucepan lid clangs from the kitchen.

              “May!” Carys calls.

    May, pink from hop-scotch, sees the parcel and also Carys’s neck, now missing the pearl necklace.

              “It’s like magic, mummy.” May says.

              “That’s a better start.” Grandma says from the doorway and squeezes her daughter’s hand.

    Judge’s Comments: ‘Lyrical yet perfectly contained, with a clear arc and resolution as well as taking place within a defined and distinct chronology. A beautiful sense of past, present, and future, and a journey of hope.’

  • A New World

    A New World

    By Rachel O’Neill

    FIRST PLACE in November 2025 Competition

    I hurry towards the Great Hall, The November wind stinging my face. I should have had the litter and horses readied,  it never does does to deal with King Henry with red-rimmed eyes. The gossip of the marketplace is that he admires me. I confess it appeals to my vanity, that is, until I heard the words, ‘The Jewish whore does more than lend the King money, she lends her body too’.

     I am used to their envy. I could buy Winchester, its buildings, and its inhabitants many times over and they know this.

     Rounding the corner, towards the West Gate, I am deliberately jostled by two sniggering men.  I should have had one of my sons with me, or my maid, Alice. Though she is a servant, as a Christian, she is often afforded more respect than myself.

     I recover my balance and my dignity, and with deliberate slowness, I approach the Hall.  Inside the courtyard, a sudden eddy of wind pulls leaves and dust into a whirl. They dance, dervish-like. I shield my face, but when the wind drops, I am no longer outside the Castle. And the noise deafens me.  Metal carts career down the centre of the road without horses, huge stone buildings tower above me, and people clothed in strange garments walk past. They ignore me.  I am outside The Jailhouse, and it has transformed into a convivial place with men drinking ale in the pale autumn sunshine.

     What is this place? I look around and see a sign, ‘Jewry Street’. What is this new mockery? The crowd of strangers parts briefly and I see…I see a statue of myself!  I am holding the hand of my youngest, Asser. I am striding, purposeful. Strong. If this is the world I used to live in, it has changed. It has changed.

    Judge’s comments – “An enjoyable read. I particularly liked the contrast between new and old. The way Licoricia was ignored also invoked something of her medieval surroundings and the modern world.”

  • Great Patience

    The fantastic Toby Litt set and adjudicated our competition this month:

    Brief:  The phrase they should respond to is: “‘A story in which a character shows great patience?’

    And the winners were…

    First place: ‘The Ox’ by Mike Sedgwick

    The waning moon was two nights past full when old Mbele arrived outside Desalu’s hut, assegai spears in one hand and his shield in the other. 

    ‘You promised to return my ox by full moon, Desalu.’ 

    ‘I’m a busy man, Mbele, come back in the morning.’ 

    Mbele remained outside Desalu’s hut, standing first on one leg, then on the other, sometimes leaning on his assegai. The moon set, and in the darkness, he heard animals roaming around outside the kraal. As the morning sun rose, Desalu appeared, hustling and bustling, always in a hurry to be somewhere else. ‘Maybe tonight,’ he said and went to his fields. 

    Mbele stood. Desalu’s wife, wearing her largest earrings and many beaded neck bands, motioned him to enter the hut, but Mbele knew he would never see his ox again if he went with her. The sun’s heat scorched his skin. Desalu pushed Mbele aside when he returned that evening. 

    Two dawns later, Desalu emerged gingerly from his hut, avoiding Mbele’s gaze. 

    ‘You still here?’ 

    Mbele stood, waiting, expecting, hoping. To pass the time, he scratched patterns into the dusty earth with his assegai: home, food, and ox. 

    The next night, he heard raised voices inside the hut. At dawn, Desalu emerged scowling and shoved Mbele to the ground.  

    ‘Get out of my way, old man,’  

    Desalu’s wife shouted after him, ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, treating him like that.’ 

    Desalu’s wife brought Mbele water and a bowl of mashed beans to eat. As the crescent moon rose, he picked up his assegai and shield and prepared to leave. His ox was lost. Desalu would never return him. As he left the kraal, he saw Desalu approaching from his toils leading the ox by a tether. He handed the tether to Mbele without a word and firmly touched his shoulder. 

    Second Place: ‘The Patience of a Saint‘ by Dominique Hackston

    Our first visit to the dementia assessment ward proved scary. Mum and I were sitting in an awkward silence when an old man barged in, a doll in the crook of his arm. He hid behind my chair. 

     A nurse in close pursuit knuckle grazed the door. ‘Sorry!’  she mouthed. ‘Common on John this isn’t your room.’ 

    John thrust the doll at me and dug his bony fingers into my arm. ‘Protect me! She’s trying to hurt me.’   His voice trembled.  

    ‘Oh? I side-eyed the nurse, wanting help. 

    The nurse edged forward. ‘John you can’t give Baby Mary to strangers.’ 

    John’s eyes darted from me and the doll, to the nurse and back. I proffered Mary. He snatched her with his free hand and smothered her in a hug. 

    The nurse motioned for her support staff to back off.  

    ‘Help me.’ His vice-like grip dragged me.  

    I winced and allowed him to lead me into the corridor. We wandered up and down, trying every door at least three times. The nurse followed, reassured me, kept the staff away, and cooed at John.  

    ‘John,’ the nurse tried again, ‘why don’t you let the lady go.’ 

    ‘So, you can hand cuff me?’ 

    ‘No handcuffs.’  She eared her trouser pockets. 

    John glared at her tunic ones.  

    ‘Just tissues,’ she said. Her hands slowly provided the proof. ‘How about a cup of tea?’ 

    I winced as nails stabbed my biceps. ‘She comes too.’ 

    ‘She wants to go to the toilet, first.’ 

    ‘Do you?’ He demanded. 

    I nodded. Just like that, I was free.  

    The nurse shooed me away with her eyes, guided John to a chair, and handed him a cup of tea.  

    Relieved, I returned to Mother. ‘That nurse needs to polish her halo.’  

    ‘Indeed,’ replied Mum, munching her invisible sandwich. ‘Paciência Santos is my favourite nurse.’ 

    Third Place: ’Uile-Bhèist’ by Dave Sinclair

    When I came to this place, both it and I were young. I met many creatures in the ancient seas and watched them take their first steps onto the sandy dunes, then into the swamps and beyond.  Gradually they learned to colonise their world, to cross the arid deserts, to climb the fiery mountain ranges and even spread their wings and soar from one land mass to another.  I watched over them, like a patient and doting parent. 

    While I waited for their minds to grow, I took their form. I was cautious, for many of them were violent. Time passed, and the creatures became more cunning, more violent, more agile and more malicious.  They ate flesh, even if it was their own.  But their minds remained dull, incurious and ordinary. I could not talk to them, for they had nothing to say. They were easy prey.  I ate well, hunting in the seas and on the margins of the river, making the cool darkness of the waters my home as I watched and waited. 

    One day the asteroid came. The skies grew dark, and the creatures choked and died.  Safe, hidden in the deep abysses of the oceans I slumbered for many years. When I awoke, new creatures ruled the land.  I sensed their intelligence, their determination to explore, to understand and command their world.  Surely there would be one amongst them who could sing my song for me.  And yes, there she was – a mind so crystal clear I could hear her thoughts half a planet away. 

    And thus, I travelled to the land she called A’ Ghàidhealtachd, to the shore of Loch Nis, the place of her home.  And she sang for me a song, so pure, so shining bright, it could be heard across the stars – the song of a siren, beckoning, inviting, calling to those from afar. 

    Soon, the silver ships will come.  Then will be the time for breeding. 

    A huge congratulations to our winners and thank you to everyone who submitted!!

  • The wind was colder than the stars in winter

    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!!

  • Experiences, discoveries, and unexpected travel moments

    The amazing Natasha Orme set and adjudicated our competition this month:

    Brief:  Travel isn’t just about places – it’s about experiences, discoveries, and unexpected moments. Sometimes, the best (or worst!) moments happen when things go completely off track.

    Maybe you got hopelessly lost and found something incredible. Maybe bad weather ruined your perfect itinerary, only for an unplanned detour to become the highlight of your trip. Or perhaps the reality of a long-dreamed-of destination didn’t match the fantasy, yet taught you something unexpected.

    It could be funny, unsettling, heartwarming, or eye-opening – just make it real. No postcard-perfect moments. I want to see the messy, unpredictable, and wonderfully human side of travel.

    (400 words)

    And the winners were…

    First place: ‘Night Watch’ by Christ Youle

    Frozen. Shivering through layers of oilskin, fleece and wool. Alone at three in the morning, in the middle of the Bay of Biscay, solely in charge. The responsibility crushes my tingling nerve endings. Can this really be happening? But I have to keep us alive.

    The forecast had been wrong. Expectations of a blissfully calm introduction to night-sailing shattered.

    My first night watch. Pitch dark, blacker than any imaginable black. Wind scorches through me, sails scream and clatter around me. Nature more violent than I’ve ever experienced. My every sinew screams with terror. Water drenches me from all directions. Waves smack and splash, rain streams. Everywhere. Muscles I didn’t know I had sear with the effort of staying upright. My only friend is my next ginger biscuit. All I can stomach to counter the waves of nausea.

    Three hours focusing on where I think the sea becomes the sky. Three hours imagining dark shadows of boats heading straight for us. Three hours of seeing odd lights appearing and disappearing, of thinking I am going mad. The longest three hours of my life.

    Finally, shift change. My new mid-life husband, Pete, appears rubbing his eyes and beaming.

    “Everything OK?”

    “Fine,” I lie. “No problems.”

    I stagger down the steps, suddenly tasting salty ginger on moistening lips. Energy magics itself from nowhere as I scamper into the still-warm sleeping bag. I burrow as far

    down as possible. Safe, hiding, not responsible. At least if we drown in the next three hours it won’t have been my fault. Sleep descends miraculously.

    Three days and nights. The relentlessness and adrenaline surges totally drain my resources. Sustained terror alternating with desperate snatched sleep. On our fourth bleary-eyed dawn, the bouncing horizon reveals the distant estuary leading to Ribadeo. It isn’t A Coruna, where we’d been planning to land, but it’s safe. To head away from the relentless raging of the sea to the blissful beckoning of the ria is heaven.

    “Where’ve you come from?” asks the woman on the next boat as we stumble around, tying up.

    “Salcombe,” Pete replies.

    “Oh wow. How long did that take you?”

    Forever, I think. “Just three days.” says Pete breezily. “It was a really good crossing. Perfect wind on the nose. Made six or seven knots most of the way. Couldn’t have been better.”

    I feel quietly proud. Then utter exhaustion takes over.

    Second Place: ‘Flamingos’ by Mike Sedgwick

    ‘There are flamingos up country in Mannar. I want to see them,’ stated my wife.

    I’m happy in Kandy, reading and watching the fish eagles over the river. The barman knows when to bring me another ice-cold beer. I must give up this leisurely life to travel the pot-holed roads in a car whose air conditioning heats the air. After six long hours, we are driven across the bridge onto Mannar Island where wild donkeys scratch themselves on baobab trees.

    At dawn the next day, we set out for where the flamingos are. At the tip of Mannar peninsular, a lone soldier with a WWII rifle defends Sri Lanka from an Indian invasion. Across the shallow seas and sandbanks of Adams Bridge, India forms a smudge on the horizon. A flock of stints run back and forth on the beach, avoiding the waves, stopping to peck at tiny crustaceans.

    Nowhere in the green scrub, the black brackish lagoons behind us, the shimmering sand and the blinding blue sky, is there a hint of the salmon pink we seek. It would be a wild goose chase if flamingos were geese.

    Back at our hotel, before breakfast, the young man on the desk explains, ‘I know where they are. I’ll take you there tomorrow morning.’

    Another dawn start when the air is cooler. We drive along tracks and around dunes and stop in an area of sand and scrub. With feet dragging in the sand, I think of my bed, checking the cricket scores on my iPad, waiting for breakfast. Instead, we creep past a dune. ‘Shush,’ whispers our guide, ‘move slowly.’

    Around another dune we see a brackish lagoon with a pink cloud of feeding flamingos, brilliant against a backdrop of dark trees. Their grunts, growls and honks float across the water and we watch their heads rise on their long necks to look around. Shuffling in reverse with their backwards-pointing knees, their feet disturb the water creatures which are gobbled up through inverted beaks. The black-tipped beaks rise up as they swallow their prey. Some know-it-all explains that their knees are actually ankles that bend that way.

    Thousands of pink rumps with black beaks are busy feeding in preparation for migration across Adams Bridge to India.

    Cricket scores? Ice-cold beers? Who cares? After this spectacle of nature, I need tea and my customary buffalo curd with thikul. I’ll come again, tomorrow.

    Third Place: ’The kindness of a stranger’ by Nicola Pritchard-Pink

    In the midst of the airport security queue, I sat crumpled on the floor, quietly crying with exhaustion, emotionally and physically defeated. How did I get here? This was not how I started.

    *                     *                     *

    Mid-afternoon one week earlier I confidently strode out of Düsseldorf airport, smiling at the prospect of my first ever lecture tour. My body fizzed and tingled with adrenaline and excitement – it was really happening. The tour took in three locations – Düsseldorf, Essen, and Münster – and in each city I would be met by locals who would show me around. I couldn’t wait.

    Ingrid was my first guide, who welcomed me to her beloved city, pointing out ancient towers, sunny riverside views, and, best of all, the gabled cream-fronted pub where she had her first kiss. The day was a whirlwind of modern art, Baroque churches, Nazi victim memorials, and local breweries, creating a sensory torrent: colourful Kandinsky contrasted with marble-white cherubs; haunting air raid shelters consumed along with frothy, dark beer. In the evening I gave my talk in a beautiful historic room, hung with chandeliers and lined with cabinets of priceless porcelain. What could be better than this?

    My magical experience continued in the next two cities, where again I was greeted at the station and again pampered by my hosts, leaving me feeling as if I were a celebrity.

    But cracks started to show on the last day. I have an auto-immune illness which means I run out of energy easily, and unfortunately my polite requests for a break were lost on my brilliantly enthusiastic hosts. By the end of my lecture I was really weary, and by the time I got to the airport the next day, I had officially run of out of juice. Dragging my heavy suitcase, which inexplicably now only had one working wheel, I slugged my body to the check-in desk. My legs felt leaden, and every step was like walking through thick treacle. No-one seemed to get what I was I saying and waving my sunflower lanyard didn’t help. By the time I got to security I had almost nothing left. I found myself collapsing down on the floor feeling desperate for someone, anyone, to help me. And it was just then, when I felt hopeless and unseen, that I heard a woman’s voice ask if I was OK, telling me she’d help me and stay with me. Tears filled my eyes with this simple but deeply profound act of kindness from a fellow traveller, beautifully proving how when we travel, we all have the potential to truly change someone’s day.

    Highly Commended: ’Rebel Rebel’ by Lowri Rylance

    Neither Mum nor Dad raised an eyebrow when I told them that I was quitting my nursing job to go travelling. I’d gained more than enough qualifications and experience to work my way around the world. There was nothing I could do to shock them, there was no rebellious teenage phase for me. Their own parents had cut them off decades earlier; the tattoos, piercings, drugs, teenage pregnancy and prison sentences had been too much for my devout Catholic grandparents, and I had never met them – we didn’t even know if they were still alive. My parents hated religion and thought that it was the cause of all that was wrong in the world, believing that the church had turned their parents against them.

    I’d thought nursing was the answer; I loved caring for others, and even though the shifts were long and arduous, the stories were harrowing, and the pay was low, I enjoyed it. But there was always something missing, and the nagging voice coming from the centre of my chest telling me to keep searching was never silenced. Mum and Dad said that I needed to find my soul mate; they believed that they had been together through numerous past lives and reincarnations and thought that the love of a partner was all that was missing from my life. I had never believed in fairy stories, and had no faith that a handsome prince or princess was out there looking for me.

    I hoped that a jaunt around the world seeing sights I couldn’t even begin to imagine, would be the answer, and I would finally feel complete. I crossed out country after country on my long list, meeting hundreds of people, experiencing the divides and chasms between the rich and poor. I was welcomed by all, especially those traumatised and hurting as they found solace in my calm manner, and the time I spent just holding their hand, unable to communicate in any other way because of the language barriers.

    Now I was on my way home, back to London, to face my parents with the news they would never expect to hear from me. I feared their reaction but knew that my newfound faith would see me through, when I told them that I had found God, and would shortly be entering a convent in Italy as a novice nun.

    A huge congratulations to our winners and thank you to everyone who submitted!!

  • Write about an animal!

    The lovely Damian Kelly-Basher set and adjudicated our March competition:

    Brief: Write about an animal. You can write from the viewpoint of the animal, yourself, or another person/thing. 

    But you cannot use the letter ‘e’ anywhere in your work. (300 words)

    And the winners were…

    First place: ‘Woof’ by Viv Smith

    Sniff. Run, run hard. Run with stick. Bark, bark again, mad, bark loudly. Sshhh!

    Man looks cross. Wait, wag. Wag lots. Told to sit. Sit. Twitch a bit. Pant, pant hard, drool. Anticipation is good. Ball thrown far away; watch it land. Told to go. Run fast and swift to ball, sniff, grab, turn, go back to im. Man happy patting, rubbing, wag lots. Drop ball. Fun, sit. Try not to twitch too much. Wait for throw two, it lands a long way away. Run hard.

    Brown dog on grass, not good. Big brown dog grabs my ball, runs to his man. His man says “No!” Brown dog should drop ball, but brown dog runs backwards and forwards, not dropping it, but crouching down, wants to play with man.

    I wait, bark, wag, look around hoping for my man to act, but still too far away, chatting. Want him to talk to brown dog’s man. Pant, drool a bit, worry. Brown dog knows it’s my ball, runs around in front with it in his mouth, wagging, taunting, still gripping it in his jaws, not putting it down. Knows this is annoying. I crouch, could I fight him for my ball? Try a growl with a bark, if brown dog barks back ball could fall. Is brown dog that stupid?

    Brown dog is dumb. Ball drops barking back. I zoom in to pick it up and dash to my man for back up support. My man is still chatting to a lady, but stoops to pat and rub fur. Both happy now.. Wag lots.

    Man stops talking, grins, turns, walks across grass, I run and sniff. Walking along path I think of food from man soon, good thought, wag again.

    Second Place: ‘Val and Anna’ by Wendy Falla

    My provision from Mum’s will didn’t hold much worth,

    ‘What was it?’ you may ask,

    Ah … with conditions and instructions, two long living and robust, grumpy old Torts! Known

    as Val and Anna (mum’s aunts), a fourth birthday gift and now my priority to spoil. Inhabiting

    an orchard run, built by dad from old scaffold planks and long nails, days pass munching

    Marigolds and pink Marshmallow blossom, oblivious to world chaos. Dinosaur jaws of horny

    rims clamp around young tomato plants and spinach sprouts, rich in iron, trailing from grow

    bags.

    A book from mum, noting habitat, habits and traits, instructs that a shallow warm oil bath

    (Virgin no doubt!) is a must in spring to sooth crusty limbs post a dormant six months. A

    vitamin shot prior to a coming out party and contacts for torty pals to ask along.

    Dusk brings both along a grassy path to an old quail shack on stilts, slowly up a ramp, in

    through an archway to a straw clad cocoon. Slow blinking at sundown, grunts turn into faint

    snoring, torty bliss. In Autumn, as days grow cold and with a chill in the night air, I must stop

    this pair burrowing into Ash and Poplar roots at our boundary, fast work for scaly nails

    digging through claggy clay soil – or Val and Anna will vanish on to common land, God

    forbid they should drown in a pond or pool!

    Flourishing and vigorously tackling anything blocking paths – cats, dogs, plant pots, humans

    – ploughing right on through with gusto! Mum (gran) is watching and waiting to haunt us,

    should Val and Anna pass away during my acquisition. My adult sons pray I outlast Val and

    Anna – although big son wants my piano and young son my sports car

    Third Place: ’A Stick, Stuck’ by Jacob Watkins

    I sprawl, stuck in this mud. A stick, stuck, so soon unstuck from that stout oak standing almost within touch of my spindly twigs, though also agonisingly afar. Afraid, I was, of such biting wind that blows through our park – and still I did strain outwards, gloating at low, land-plodding louts, till a strong gust brought a snap –

    What is that sound drawing in? A sniff, a scratch, purporting a snort. A shaking in my dirt, a shifting through this rusting mulch; thrumming, four fat paws, swishing scimitar-tail, pink, sloppy limb lolling from drooling mouth; I must run! But it is not a stuck stick’s lot to run.

    Hush – I should stay still, praying that vulgar snout won’t find out I am at risk. Old oak, why art thou so disloyal? My growth was in your honour, my triumphs your own – but now I rot amongst your roots, as this Satan-born thing of fur and fury draws towards my limp form.

    Good lord, I whiff its guttural panting. What foul concoctions must this glutton gulp down? Stay firm, my tumultuous bosom, hold fast, salvation still may show. But it shan’t! For its body has struck out sunlight and shrouds this land in dark! All is lost, within my assailant’s cold, murky domain, as it bows its skull and unlocks its nightmarish maw – my world is now fangs and spit –

    I pass out, for how long I do not know, but a touch of flowing air brings back our blissful world. Although, I am not hanging from my oak, but racing rapid as a brook across grass and rock, with only a slight pinch from my saviour’s thoughtful jaws holding my body tight. Now, I do not simply grow, but fly – I, a stick, and from mud I am truly unstuck.

    A huge congratulations to our winners and thank you to everyone who submitted!!

  • Winter Poem

    The amazing Dr. Jean G-Owen set and adjudicated our December competition:

    For this month’s competition, write a poem (up to 30 lines) or prose poem (300 words) with Winter (not Christmas) as a theme. Set the tone to be eerie and unsettling, perhaps even uncanny, making winter itself feel sentient.  

    And the winners were…

    First place: ‘WINTER, 1536’ by Dave Sinclair

    While clouds kiss and bruise the hills with grey

    A crow and worm romance in the fields below.

    The worm smells juicy to the murderous crow, 

    A morsel to be eaten soon, unless it will obey.

    The worm is hiding in the frosty sward

    until the spring melts all the winter snow.

    Then the secrets of the worm’s burnished glow

    may be opened by the crowbeak’s rasping sword.

    For now, while winter fights its white campaign

    the worm shares her place with the bones of kings,

    and gold or souls and other buried things.

    So, crow can only caw its spiteful refrain.

    The passing time will fade the snow’s pure white

    then worm will curl up, smaller, smaller

    and ask the Maker “Pray protect your messenger,

    and hide me in another shining night,

    for I have seen so many wondrous things

    burnished, glimmering as I slither deep below

    Save me from the scraping beaks of crows

    And allow my witness to the sins of kings.”

    “Mary, you have never served me true”,

    Said crow as he addressed the worm,

    “But as in all our lives, each season’s turn, 

    and all our efforts must in death conclude.

    And though now you hide within the frigid turf

    To each of us the winters end must come,

    Yield your soul, or else your life is done,

    And that will be the end to all your work”.

    The worm replied, “So, Thomas, must I cast aside,

    the holy love of our one true lord,

    He surely knows that when I give my word,

    I know different in my heart – or else I die”.

    As fields submit to winter’s white campaign,

    clouds kiss and bruise the hills with grey,

    a queen parlays her soul for earthly pay,

    while crow caws out his rasping, cruel refrain.

    Second Place: ‘‘CRAVE’’ by Janey L Foster

    I like to think of birds, fluffling, blinking, they keep me warm under their wings. I watch the absentminded sleet swell in and out like a thought you can’t quite grasp, almost snowing, almost here, bringing the feeling close. And how my ribcage expands into the white tiles down the street, the ice crystals drawing attention to their edge like the bones underneath my muscles and I move. I may peer into the chill because it craves me, pulls me close and if my eyes and nose run in this biting air, if my cheeks turn to rose over my wool, I will be calm.

    Calm, yet bristling, feeling the blood surge around my body as though I’m still a child with hot aches in snow clumped gloves, wet wool that doesn’t care and I run out.  I seek out ice, for in this winter, it defines me, this bitter biting at my edges, makes me whole. This restless buffeting, mirroring my breath, my heartbeats, the sense that I’m alive – even now.

    I will wrap up and go now. I need to talk to birds. Where the dried-out leaves hang wet, releasing. I feel ravens nestle in my palms, pin pricks in my warm skin, I let them peck me, let me bleed. I offer them berries to burst in their beaks and if I pause, I feel the juice in their gullets, rolling down, sustaining them until they sing. I will walk until my skin cracks in the cold, until I feel the edges of my mouth where the wind gets in and if it snows, I will be safe, if the flakes prickle my face, burn into hot cheeks I will be known. Iced needles cut me, they take me home.

    Third Place: ‘MIST OF LIFE’ by Johnathan Reid

    Winter first whispers its warning

    to ice-splintered hearts of pine,

    unhealed from perpetual war.

    Blizzard and frost sweep down

    to silence bird and beast,

    smother Autumn’s leaf and branch,

    strangle stillborn bud-to-be,

    until every forest bone

    creaks and moans in

    merciless frozen symphony.

    Snap-crackled twigs signal

    rare breaths daring to break frigid air,

    each billowed cloud of life

    a strike against the bitter, silent foe.

    Antlers rise in regal pose,

    ears of warm meat twitching

    in denial of Winter’s ultimatum:

    Migrate, starve — or stampede,

    through snow-powdered blankets,

    into lupine jowls on moonlit nights.

    Ancient bowed sentinels,

    mist-cloaked skeletal ghosts,

    grasp dead soil in their last stand.

    Blind roots claw grave-deep

    into hoar-baked earth, to cradle

    Spring’s few shivering survivors.

    Numb stakes stab warm hearts,

    until Summer-starved fur succumbs,

    bright eyes dimmed to death by the

    tilt and turn of cold-blooded Winter.

    Our highly commended entries were;

    Ghazal for the Silent by Damon L. Wakes

    Winter Ways by Mary Anne Smith Sellen

    Winter Demon by Val Harris

    A huge congratulations to this months winners!!

  • Diary of a Modern Nobody

    The fantastic Winchester’s own Wendy Couchman set and adjudicator our November competition:

    For this month’s competition write a story in diary format over a few days in no more than 300 words. The character could be imaginary or real (but not famous) with a focus on an incident or event.

    And the winners were…

    First place: ‘The Mother I’d Never Met’ by Margaret Farran

    28th April

    I’m going to meet my mother for the first time this afternoon. I can’t believe I’ve just written those words after all these years of searching.

    1st May

    Well she’s nothing like I imagined. For a start she looks nothing like me. In my head I’d created this picture of someone, who looked just like me, but was sixteen years older. She is tiny and drab like a sparrow. Her voice is squeaky and hurt my ears. I tried to ignore the pain and concentrate on the words, that shot out of her thin lips. I needed to concentrate on the content and not on the sound.

    2nd May

    I’m so disappointed. It’s as if a present you have been looking forward to all your life turns out to be the wrong one. It’s been given to you by someone who doesn’t know you and certainly doesn’t love you.

    3rd May

    She’s called Annabelle. She had me when she was a teenager and gave me away like a discarded handbag. She says she remembers me every day on my birthday, but I don’t believe her. She is stiff and cold. She didn’t cry and hug me tight like on those tv programmes. No, she sat with her brown coat tightly buttoned up and her hands clenched together on her lap.

    1st June

    I’m meeting Annabelle for the second time today. She’s written me a long letter in her beautiful handwriting. I’ve read it at least twenty times and I’ve tried to put myself into her sixteen year old shoes. I’m going to try to be less harsh and judgmental this time.

    2nd June

    Well it went a bit better this time. She undid the buttons on her coat and she held my hand. It was warm and soft and I felt my fingers slowly curl around hers.

    Second Place: ‘Below Par’ by John Quinn

    Monday, October 1st.

    A red-letter day – on the q.t. Terry has given me the nod that the golf club is ‘going to recognise’ me at next week’s AGM!

    Obviously that means I’m to be the next Captain! It’s a great honour, but one, in all modesty, I deserve. Dad, God rest him, used to say: ‘honest toil has its own rewards.’ My years of doing the club’s accounts for nothing and buying drinks for the committee members has, finally, paid off.

    Wednesday, October 3rd.

    Well, that was a mistake! I only told Jim – I’m supposed to keep it under wraps until the AGM – because I thought he’d pleased for his old dad. What is it about one’s own children – why can’t they just be happy for you??? No, Jim – who, at 46, STILL moans that I don’t call him James – said that the definition of an English golf club is ‘white, male, middle-aged, middle-class and former middle-management,’ and being made captain is ‘like being made Grand Wizard of the local Ku Klux Klan.’ Mentally my son’s still a teenager; at worse we’re the Conservative Party at play.

    I told him it’s an honour: the first among equals; selected by ones peers. He said that I’ll never now be available to collect the grandkids from school.

    And after all we’ve done for him…

    Friday, October 5th.

    I let slip to Beth tonight. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘As Captain’s wife, I’ll need a new wardrobe for all those functions.’ Not a ‘congratulations’ or ‘we’ll done, you deserve it,’ in sight.

    Friday, October 12th.

    The treacherous bastards!!! And Terry is a first-class CXXX! ‘For your years of selfless service,’ the out-going captain purred, ‘we’re granting you your very own reserved parking space!’ He thought he was giving me the Crown bloody Jewels. Then, to twist the knife, that disgraced former Tory MP, Anthony Smith, was named as the next Captain. I almost told them where to stick their reserved parking space!

    Third Place: ‘Diary for a Widowmaker’ by Sam Christie

    Tuesday 21/10/24

    Lloyd decided to do the Widowmaker on Friday. That way we’d have something to celebrate, a reason for a few pints. I’d like to say we drew straws, but the truth is I’d felt like it was my turn. You just feel that way for some reason.

    What gets me about this game is the fact that I don’t think anyone has any idea what we’re doing, climbing about in trees in the middle of nowhere. We’re in the top three dangerous jobs – above squaddies as it goes. We don’t get medals though.

    Wednesday 22/10/24

    Lloyd will guide me impatiently, urging me to do things that seem impossible, yelling that will come and go over the sound of my chainsaw.

    Put your foot up there boy, grab that branch over there. Cut it like this or that.

    All will seem mad. The trick is to try not to do the hard parts first. Don’t rush things to get it over with. You have to set things up to make it a clean job.

    Lloyd will be feeling every cut, every move, the strain in my muscles approaching failure. He’ll be watching my legs for shaking, checking if I’ll bottle it.

    Thursday 23/10/24

    It’s a rotten ash over what I think they call a rectory. Reverend Evans is the bloke’s name. It’s massive, covered in vines and I think only an expert in probability could really explain why it’s called a Widowmaker.

    Last night I dreamt that moss was growing on my hands. I saw nothing but a blanket of leaves when I closed my eyes. I didn’t say goodnight to my daughter; I’ll leave that until Friday.

    You sometimes get this, but tomorrow doesn’t feel right.

    A huge congratulations to this months winners!!

  • Suspenseful Sentences

    The widely talented John-Paul Flintoff came this month to discuss his delightful writing and encouraged members to combine their talents for their writing. The agreed brief for this month’s competition was:

    Challenge your creativity and mastery of language by crafting a single, long periodic sentence that holds the reader in suspense until the last word. Inspired by the intricate styles of Virginia Woolf and Jonathan Swift, this competition invites you to weave a narrative that captivates and surprises.

    And the winners were…

    First place: ‘Suspended Sentence’ by Catherine Griffin

    Summoned by a bell, the girl wipes ash from her hands and climbs the twisted stair that leads from the dungeon depths of cellar-kitchen to the realms of light which to her are only a larger prison, and with every step her legs stiffen with dread of the punishment which must await her, for the summons can only mean her mistress has learned of her disobedience, of last night’s escape through the unlatched window, of the mysterious carriage which bore her to the palace, and since she has been beaten before for spilling a cup of tea, or falling asleep over her work, or for no reason at all, she can only imagine her mistress ’rage at this true rebellion, yet as she climbs, she hears again the music, the rustle of swirling silk, his voice, and the fear drops away, for those few hours of magic were worth every lash of the whip, every stroke of the cane, and at the top of the stair her head is high and she enters the room like a queen, to see, among all the familiar faces rapt in astonishment and dismay, him waiting for her — her prince.

    Second Place: ‘1944 Who Goes There’ by Val Harris

    I never dared to ask you if, in the hail and blitz of flying bombs when the earth blew up in brick and bone, and fires rose where you used to play, now seventeen years old, on guard, on top of a factory roof giving plane-spotting a whole new meaning, as all hell – searchlights, sirens, guns – were let loose to intercept the terror in the sky – the whine, the silence the plummet – a heartbeat waiting for the explosion and a twisting plume of smoke rising from the ruins that could have been the factory, your own home gone forever, I never dared to ask you, Dad, if you were so scared that you cried and wanted your mum?

    Third Place: ‘There’s A Cat Hiding In The Long Grass’ by Syd Meats

    There’s a cat hiding in the long grass silently meditating, its three-legged body stays still while its mind waltzes constantly with the questions that philosophers can’t answer, with a memory like an elephant with a notebook and a pencil, its eyes like binoculars track your every movement with the novels of Dostoevsky and a Walkman, smoking a cigarette with a devil-may-care attitude to the traffic on the bypass, it questions your morals with a compass and some Sellotape, tests Newton’s theories with an eggcup and a tennis ball and a map of Nicaragua and the works of Karl Marx, stalking rodents with a crossbow and a shopping list, inventing new uses for beeswax and a metronome from behind a Road Closed sign and a traffic cone, draped from head to toe in camouflage, but I know it’s there.

    And a huge well down to our highly commended entries:

    ‘Into The Cave’ by Charmian Steven

    ‘Deer’ by Julian Richardson

    ‘Having Arrived’ by Philip Evans

  • Ideas & Imagination – June 2024 competition results, adjudicated by Tom Bromley

    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.”

    First Place: Petrarch Upon Seeing Laura by Rosie Mercer

    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.

    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.

    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.