Hampshire Writers' Society

Tag: winners

  • Historical Fiction – May 2024 competition results, adjudicated by Louise Morrish

    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.’ “

    From L to R: Francesco Sarti (HC), Adjudicator Louise Morrish, Lesley Bungay (3rd)

    First Place: Hope by Jane Agrell

    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.

    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.

    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.

    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.

    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).

    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.

  • Pitch Your Book – April 2024 competition results, adjudicated by Scott Pack

    The excellent publisher and editor, Scott Pack was with us for our April meeting as both main speaker and adjudicator for our competition. The brief was as follows:

    Pitch your book, as you would want it to appear in your query email that you send to agents. 150 words maximum, but can be short and sweet if you prefer. It needs to entice the agent and make them want to read your submission package. Many agents will make an initial decision based on the pitch alone.

    Announcing his decision Scott said: “A really strong selection. No real stinkers, which was a relief. The things that separated the more successful ones from the rest tended to be:

    • A very clear presentation of the basic concept.
    • A simple and easy to follow narrative – I understood the story straight away.
    • An indication that the author understands the market and/or where their book sits within it.
    • A first sentence that hooks the reader in…
    • …and a final sentence that urges them to read the manuscript to find out more.”

    And the winners were…

    First place: Walking with Jane by Nicola Pritchard-Pink

    “A strong concept, succinctly and enticingly pitched. Manages to explain the contents while also giving them context, establishing the unique nature of the project and also providing some comparison authors. I would expect any agent receiving this to be very interested. I am not sure I would change a thing about it.”

    Second place: Redemption by Dai Henley

    “A neat twist on the regular crime novel. The pitch manages to get across the set-up and establish the characters and their relationships, as well as what is at stake for them, and that is hard to do with so few words. Perhaps lacks a punchy final line to act as a call to action for the reader, but otherwise great. “

    Third Place: The Burger by Damon L. Wakes

    “Sounds brilliantly bonkers, but also intriguing and with commercial potential. Might not be everyone’s cup of tea but does a great job of pitching the premise. Could do with a few more words to explain or hint at how Reggie links to the plot to establish that he is the protagonist.”

    Scott’s Highly Commended pitches were:

    Never Giver Up by Shirley Jackson

    “Very clear about the story, where it fits in the market and the author’s suitability for writing it.”

    The Recruit by Sam Christie

    “Really intriguing concept. Would benefit from another line or two to pin it down though.”

    The Art Thieves by Howard Teece

    “Another strong concept but also needs a bit more context or detail to make it clear what the reader is dealing with.”

    From L to R: Sam Christie (HC), Dai Henley (2nd), Howard Teece (HC) Nicola Pritchard-Pink (1st), Damon L. Wakes (3rd)

    First Place: Walking with Jane by Nicola Pritchard-Pink

    Jane Austen described herself as a “desperate walker”. Yet the traditional focus for Austen, like many historical women, is a domestic one, with Austen cloistered away in cosy drawing rooms and any mention of muddy petticoats being confined to her fictional heroines. Walking with Jane is the first book to explore the impact of Austen’s love of walking on both her life and writing, challenging the conventional domestic focus and placing Jane firmly back in the countryside she loved. By retracing ten of Austen’s walks, Walking with Jane combines the engaging historical detail of Lucy Worsley with the rich rurality of Robert MacFarlane, enabling readers to get closer to Jane by walking alongside her.

    Second Place: Redemption by Dai Henley

    A former policeman, Jack Duncan, is released from prison after serving eighteen years for murdering his girlfriend and not declaring how he disposed of her body. He claims he can’t tell the authorities because he didn’t do it. He approaches Andy Flood, a private investigator, to prove it. Following his investigation, Flood’s convinced that Duncan is guilty. Flood’s daughter, who recently served a prison term for the manslaughter of her abusive husband, begins working in her father’s detective agency. She meets Durban who persuades her of his innocence and has a romantic, but turbulent relationship with him. Flood’s concerned and becomes obsessed with discovering the truth about Durban’s case.

    Third Place: The Burger by Damon L. Wakes

    There’s a burger in Eastleigh Station. That’s not noteworthy in itself—there’s a MacDonalds in the Swan Centre—but this burger is hovering five feet off the floor. It’s the kind of thing that would make a cartoon wino blink and throw away a bottle, but Reggie’s on antibiotics and has just suffered through an excruciating sober evening down the pub. The burger is inexplicable, incomprehensible: Reggie wants nothing to do with it.

    The next day a hazmat-suited horde piles in to investigate, the station is closed, and every train passing through is crammed with rubberneckers trying to snatch a look. This poses a problem for Reggie, and not just because he has to take the bus to work. As the burger remains hovering—and all attempts to understand it fail—the world turns its attention to the one remaining lead: a mysterious figure caught fleeing the station on CCTV…

    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.

    Highly Commended: The Recruit by Sam Christie

    On a drizzly day at the start of spring, Dr Ben Lewis walks into the police headquarters on the edge of the city in order to turn himself in. He is not there for a crime he has committed, rather, he is there to confess to a crime he has yet to commit, but knows he certainly will. 

    Confused, the police struggle to know what to do with this dishevelled man who has appeared from nowhere, with no past history of any wrong doing. Is he another crank, another washed-up loser seeking attention, or does he mean exactly what he says? How does an institution that usually works with concrete facts, deal with a person that brings them nothing but an abstract idea? 

    In order to stop a horrifying crime that has not yet happened, all the authorities need to do is listen. 

    Highly Commended: The Art Thieves by Howard Teece

    There’s a gallery in Yorkshire where it’s rumoured the paintings steal people. Every afternoon, Dale Richards visits the same room in that gallery and stares at the same painting. It’s what he was viewing just before his brother and carer, Chris, disappeared. Now Dale knows what happened, and he, his artist friend Sally, and Mr Harrington the security guard, are off to get Chris back. From the paintings that stole him. On a journey through near-perfect copies of great paintings, they travel from Turner to Lowry to Kahlo, Escher and more, pursued by a creator who doesn’t want them to leave. Ever.

  • Children’s Picture Book – March 2024 competition results, adjudicated by Lu Fraser

    We were very lucky to have award-winning picture book author Lu Fraser as both main speaker and adjudicator for our March competition:

    In no more than four spreads of a picture book (less than 250 words) write something that comes from your heart.

    Announcing her decision Lu said: “Thank you so much for the opportunity to adjudicate the March HWS PB competition. Absolutely fascinating to see what everyone is working on! I changed my mind about 1st and 2nd place several times, but have finally landed… here:

    First place: To the Moon by Bucket and Spoon by Anne Wan

    Such a good opening spread! Very engaging with some lovely gentle humour and great illustration opportunities, too. Excellent set up of page breaks and I really like the use of questions to draw the reader in. Prose has a lovely, lyrical rhythm and I wanted to know what happened next when I reached the last spread.

    Second place: The Red Button by Summer Quigley

    Such a close 2nd place and such an original idea! I love this approach of normalising something that, despite being commonplace these days, may still appear confusing or scary to a child. It’s a lovely bridge between the generations, too, and an inventive way for them to communicate. Good rollicking pace and rhythm and some nice page breaks –  the kind of tale an illustrator could have fun with!

    Third Place: Me without You by Kate Abernethy

    Beginnings of a lovely concept here and I really like the simplicity and heartfelt tone – great, clean rhyming and read-along repetition, too. With the right illustrator, this could be very powerful and I can imagine siblings enjoying it hugely.”

    First Place: To the Moon by Bucket and Spoon by Anne Wan

    1. [Illustration: portrait gallery of Otto’s family achievements.]
      Otto’s family were famous explorers.
      His sister had crossed the Arctic on a unicycle.
      His Mum had sailed the ocean in an umbrella.
      And Grandpa had hopped up Mount Everest on a kangaroo!
      Otto wanted to be an explorer too, but where should he go?

    2. [Illustration: Otto is playing in a sand pit with his bucket and wooden spoon.]
      The mountains…
      The seas…
      The snow…
      It had all been done!
      He looked at his toys. He looked at the moon…
      and had an idea. He’d go …

    3. … to the moon by bucket and spoon!
      He was ready to launch when,
      “Stop!”
      “What’s wrong?” asked Grandpa.
      Otto hugged his teddy.
      “I’m scared! I’m not brave like you.”
      Grandpa laughed. “I often feel scared. It’s what you choose to do that makes you brave. Give up, or go for it?” He patted Otto’s shoulder. “I find it helps to take a deep breath first.”
      Otto squeezed teddy, took a deep breath and…

    4. …launched!
      WHOOSH!
      “Wow!”
      This isn’t so scary, he thought, paddling through space. When suddenly, into his path swam a bloom of…

    Second Place: The Red Button by Summer Quigley

    Spread 1
    [Ill. notes: Granny wears an emergency call button on a string around her neck in case she falls.]

    My Granny is old and she lives by herself
    I love to go visit, share books from her shelf.
    She wears a red button, it hangs from a string
    This button is such an intriguing small thing.

    Spread 2
    “Don’t press the red button,” my Granny would say…
    “The monsters will come from the forests to play.
    “They’ll steal all our cakes, and our chocolates ‘n’ all,
    “They’ll rip out the pages of books big and small.”

    Spread 3
    I laughed and said: “Granny you’re silly, it’s true,
    “It doesn’t call monsters, but what does it do?”
    Dear Granny would grin and just give a sly wink
    and speak of the dragon with wings black as ink.
    “He’ll come to the village to seek out nice treats…

    Spread 4
    “Like little plump children who smell just like sweets.
    “So don’t press the button, I need you right here…
    “To stop, Red-Cross Rose, who’s a wild buccaneer…

    Third Place: Me Without You by Kate Abernethy

    Spread 1
    [A big sister is going to school for the first time. The younger brother – the narrator – looks sad as he gives her a homemade good luck card. It has glitter on it.]
    Me without you is like
    Glitter without glue,
    There’s no sparkle or Ooooh
    When I’m unstuck from you.

    [The little brother, now home without his sister draws sad looking pictures in a blue colour of a ghost, a cow etc]
    I’m a ghost with no boo,
    A cow with no moo,
    Oh, I’m ever so blue,
    When it’s me without you.

    Spread 2
    [A grown up is trying to get the little brother ready to leave the house for an outing, but he’s in a muddle – can’t find a sock. There could be a clock in the background, and we also see the front door with the keys hanging nearby. We see evidence of big sister’s absence, such as her empty coat peg at the door.]
    It’s like missing a sock,
    I’m a tick with no tock,
    I’m a key with no lock
    When I do not have you.

    [In the park, the little brother trips on his laces, and is now even more upset.]
    I’m a shoe with no lace,
    I’m all over the place
    And fall flat on my face,
    For I really need you.

    Spread 3
    [The little brother stands at the school gates as his big sister comes out. He has scuffed knees and is scowling. Dark clouds fill the sky.]
    We’re like thunder and lightning…

    [A thunderstorm breaks out. The big sister holds out an umbrella and huddles under it with her little brother. He looks frightened, but she has her arm around him.]
    RUMBLE
    With you life’s less frightening
    And the skies,
    they are brightening.
    I am glad I have you.

    Spread 4
    [Now back at home, having got soaked in the storm, the brother and sister have a warm bubble bath together.]
    We’re the most perfect pair,
    Just like shampoo and hair,
    We have something that’s rare,
    I love being with you.

    [It’s bedtime, and the brother and sister are curled up together.]
    So wherever we go,
    Though we’ll change and we’ll grow,
    I just want you to know
    In my heart there is you.

  • Audio-Inspired Psychological Thriller – February 2024 competition results, adjudicated by Karen Hamilton

    Psychological thriller writer and our main speaker for our February meeting, Karen Hamilton, kindly gave her time to adjudicate our competition. The brief, a twist on our usual format proved popular and ensured everyone was suitably inspired. A reminder of the brief below:

    Follow Storyblocks link provided, listen to the thriller music samples on the first page and select a piece of music or sound effect which inspires you to write a 300 words psychological thriller piece. 

    Karen, prior to announcing said: ” I very much enjoyed reading them, thank you.”

    And the winners, along with Karen’s comments, are:

    First Place: Action – Chase – Car – Cello by Simon Meats

    “I thought this was cleverly written. I loved how music and instruments were used to create the scene, given that music was the inspiration for the competition.”

    Second Place: Messages by Frank Devoy

    “I thought the tension in this piece built up very well. I could picture the scene and sense the fear.”

    Third Place: I May Be Some Time by Syd Meats

    “I loved how the soundtrack of Tension in the Air was used to create a scene of claustrophobia and confusion.”

    Highly Commended: In Cold and Tender Water by Dave Sinclair

    “I thought this was very well written and of course, enjoyed the local names.”

    Highly Commended: Blue Leather Gloves by Maggie Farran

    “I enjoyed the twist at the end.”

    First Place: Action – Chase – Car – Cello by Simon Meats

    Herman Bernard was a professional cellist of modest means and an extravagant imagination. Convinced that he was being stalked by a black Citroen saloon, during rehearsals his thoughts became dominated by an internal symphony of autopredator obsession. Why he should be so targeted was a mere Macguffin, a decorative motif.

    Leaving the safety of his rehearsal, Herman discovered a full orchestra of paranoia tuning up in the pit of his innermost being. Lugging his quarter-sized coffin of a cello case into a multi-storey car park, steel strings wove their harmonies around Herman’s cardio-vascular structure like snakes around a harp. A bank of demonic violins menaced his spine, as though a squadron of delinquent seagulls were circling under the low ceiling. And there it was, the chevroned menace, its headlamps pitiless halogen pursuers, as recognisable as a human face, familiar and reviled. He knew that the stationary vehicle was waiting for him, imploring him to make a move.

    An internal brass fanfare accompanied the pair into a lift. Exiting at the storey below his hearse-like van, Herman anticipated that the Citroen had already swept upwards, seeking to corner and flatten him. But as he smiled a warm internal fugue, he saw the Citroen smiling too, advancing on him. As a sadistic pizzicato plucked his nerves, Herman charged the stairs and pelted for the ground floor, the heavy cello case propelling him downward.

    At the exit, with the halogen glare hard upon his back, Herman leaped in an aortic crescendo up some flimsy maintenance steps. As the Citroen approached below, he thrust the case like an inverted dagger down towards the windscreen, the cello’s metal spike penetrating the glass and skewering the fleshy mass behind it, splintered glass peppering the dark red paintwork. “Dark red,” Herman quavered, as a black Citroen slunk away outside.

    Second Place: Messages by Frank Devoy

    Callaghan’s office is bare and windowless – forty square feet of cellar below his east end taxi drivers’ club.
    The room sends messages; cash is precious, conversations are private, and there’s no escape.
    His overweight companion tries not to sweat. On the scarred wooden table between them sits a bottle of Macallan, seal intact, and two empty glasses. Another message; this is not social.
    ‘Five years? After pleading guilty?’ Callaghan asks, slow and low.
    ‘Caught with two hundred e’s. Fiscal said he’d want ten, if they wasted court time. Lawyer reckons out in three.’ Proctor shrugs.
    ‘Any risk to us?’
    The Glaswegian giant sits bolt upright, forearms flat on the table, hands clasped. His stiff white shirt, and tailored mohair suit, black as 2 a.m., emphasise the differences in physique and status. He lifts his glass to the naked light bulb, inspecting minor flaws, reinforcing the point that it’s empty.
    Proctor watches, pursing his lips. Involuntarily.
    ‘Er, naw. Lawyer says we’re okay, if they don’t blab.’
    ‘They won’t. They’re good soldiers. How were they in court?’
    ‘Like schoolkid shoplifters. Hope they’re better inside.’
    ‘I’ll send word in. We look after our friends.’
    ‘Aye, okay.’
    It’s Proctor’s second flippant comment, on top of an uncaring shrug.
    Callaghan tightens, almost imperceptibly.
    A noisy intruder breaks the tension, ellipses twice and lands on the table to suck sugars from a sticky mark. Finger to lips, Callaghan turns his tumbler upside down, moving patiently, into position above and behind the bingeing bluebottle.
    The outcome is already known.
    It takes off.
    Backwards.
    Into the glass.
    Callaghan rests the rim on the table.
    His tiny captive throws itself, crazed, against a wall it can neither see nor understand. Each time it lands, Callaghan taps the glass with a manicured nail.
    Toying, torturing.
    A drip of sweat runs down Proctor’s veiny nose.
    Callaghan looks up, eyes cold and grey as a corpse, and points at Proctor.
    ‘That’s what prison feels like. And it could be you.’

    Third Place: I May be Some Time by Syd Meats

    (Soundtrack: Tension In The Air – Jon Presstone) 

    The problem with whiteout is that it’s difficult to tell whether there is actually nothing there or not. He wasn’t delusional. He remembered the psychiatrist saying that paranoid people always believed they were being followed by the CIA or FBI, not MI5 or MI6, which shows how good the British are at keeping a low profile. In the case of the British Antarctic Survey, they had world class invisibility. 

    Dr Hitch had explained how any conspiracy theory was always trumped by the cock-up theory, but something was clearly wrong with this whole South Pole thing. What was it that they didn’t want him to see? Was it the fabled Ice Wall? The edge of the earth? Keith began to think that this whole Antarctic phenomenon was fake. The extreme heat and brightness were surely the result of inefficient studio lighting from a bygone era. He must be in a film studio, like the one they used for the moon landings. 

    Wherever he was, he desperately needed shelter from the elements. With nothing but white visible in all directions, even a hallucination at this stage would be a source of comfort. Suddenly he heard the clattering of a cooling fan as it sprang into action. At last there would be some relief from the studio lights. A serious industrial fan with enough power to cool a blast furnace. It was descending in the near distance, getting louder, bringing gale force winds to the vast expanse of nothingness. He watched it in profile as it staggered like a drunken dragonfly and fell like a stone. In seconds it was gone.

    Highly Commended: In Cold and Tender Water by Dave Sinclair

    Chapter 1 

    DCI Charlie Wykeham had received the poem three days before the body was found. Written with quill and ink, its coarse handmade paper contrasted sharply with the crisp, white envelope in which it had been delivered to Wykeham’s home address. The postmark indicated it had been posted in Winchester the day before. At the time, he had been both intrigued and mildly concerned but there had been no obvious action he could take, except to carefully file the envelope and letter in an evidence bag in his office desk. Now, as he walked past the boathouse and followed the river downstream, the words of the poem resurfaced in his mind. 

    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 heard, 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. 

    After a minute of trudging through the soft mud and puddles of the towpath, Wykeham came to a small tableau. Stopping at the Crime Scene – Do Not Enter tape, he nodded to a uniformed constable who recorded Wykeham’s arrival on a clipboard. A figure dressed head to toe in blue coveralls emerged from the white tent that had been erected by the riverside, and seeing Wykeham, came over. As she removed her mask, he saw it was the pathologist, Dr Rebecca Ferguson. 

    “Early days of course, but there are several indications this may not have been an accidental drowning.”

    Highly Commended: Blue Leather Gloves by Maggie Farran

    We met in ‘The Red Lion ‘in Salisbury. Before that, there had been the usual messages backwards and forwards, that are all part of on-line dating. When I saw him, sitting relaxed on an armchair by the open fire, I was furious. He looked nothing like his photo. He was at least ten years older and three stone heavier. We spoke about our jobs and our mutual love of solitary walking by the sea. We talked about the murder mysteries we enjoyed reading. He boasted about how good he was at solving them, and how he always knew, who the murderer was, long before the end. Conceited men always fill me with hostility. I screwed up my fingers into tight fists and I felt my back stiffen.

    The next day he was dead. His body was found sprawled on the beach. He appeared to have fallen from the cliff edge. I felt shocked, but not sad. After all I’d only met him once or was it twice?

    I scanned the newspaper. Yes, it was him, although it said his name was Brian Grey. He’d told me he was Gary Taylor. Why had he lied about his name? Liars make me angry. You can’t trust them. Maybe everything he told me over that red wine was a fabrication.

    A few days later I felt compelled to visit the scene. I looked down over the cliff and imagined him falling to his death. I wondered how he felt in those few seconds before his death. Did he remember me sitting opposite him in the pub? I walked back along the cliff path and there were my blue leather gloves balanced on a shrub. A kind person must have picked them up. I hadn’t missed them, but I was pleased to get them back.

  • Ekphrastic Collage – January 2024 competition results, adjudicated by Dr Kane Holborn and Antosh Wojcik

    Members were very lucky to have two adjudicators for our January 2024 competition – our two speakers Dr. Kane Holborn and Antosh Wojcik. A wonderful new challenge was introduced by the poets in the form of ekphrasis. Both were very generous with their time and thoughts throughout the adjudication and feedback process.

    Ekphrasis definition: the use of detailed description of a work of visual art as a literary device.

    Introducing the task, Antosh said: “We’re going to broadly approach this type of writing. I see ekphrasis more as ‘creating a new piece of work from an existing work’ – so this prompt is slightly broader than the definition of the process.”

    A detailed brief was provided as follows:

    You are invited to write and submit an Ekphrastic piece of prose fiction, poetry, non-fiction or short essay.

    1. Choose three works of existing art. They can be from different artists or the same. They can vary in medium – you could choose a song, a painting, a film etc.
    2. Write a piece that draws from all three works.
    • You could use the piece to comment on the works.
    • You could write in response to the tones or the atmosphere of the pieces.
    • You may choose figures within the work to narrate or feature within the work.
    • You may derive settings from the soundscape/landscapes presented.
    • You may use the three pieces as transitions – i.e. Vignettes drawing on each work, poem sequences etc.
      All approaches welcome.

    300 words for prose.
    10-20 lines for poetry.

    Antosh and Kane were both extremely generous with their time and thoughts on their winning entries. Both were agreed on the top three, but each chose their own highly commended recipient.

    And the winners are…

    First Place: The Piano Has Been Drinking at the Fountain in the Garden of Earthly Delights by Syd Meats

    Second Place: Roche Court by Sam Christie

    Third Place: I am Iago by Geraldine Bolam

    Kane’s Highly Commended: Bedlam by Sarah Standage

    Antosh’s Highly Commended: Please Do Not Propose by Francesco Sarti

    First Place: The Piano Has Been Drinking at the Fountain in the Garden of Earthly Delights by Syd Meats

    Delightful, leaping, irreverent verse! The poem reads as though we are shot through the ages of contemporary art, explosive and riotous with its explorations of image and undercutting of those images. The title does its dues to set up the concept and tonal resonance of the ensuing piece. I clapped upon reading. A riot of a read, superbly composed, well done!

    Antosh Wojcik

    I feel as though I’m in a gallery, observing sculptures and paintings as I read your work), (in particular, The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymous Bosch) and this feeling emerges from the word go. Your poem mirrors the vigorous activities taking place within the painting. You throw image after image at your reader, assaulting their senses. From the juxtaposition of freezing rivers and cities on fire, you continue your fanciful poetic assault into your second stanza, not even giving us time to breathe. And this was what drew me back to your poem. Sublime madness at its finest! Methinks you are a Surrealist painter in disguise, masquerading as a poet. Job well done.

    Dr Kane Holborn

    The piano has been drinking, it staggers through its nightmare 

    from the left side of the triptych, where the duck-head man is reading

     to the music of the buttocks played by instruments of torture. 

    And it frolics in the garden, riding unicorns and donkeys, 

    feeding strawberries and cherries to the bathers in the lake. 

    And the rivers are all freezing on the far side of the water 

    and the cities are on fire, 

    and the water is a bloodbath, and the rabbit bears a stretcher. 

    And the piano has been drinking in the stomach of the tree-man 

    and the giant bird-head monster makes a feast of all the corpses, 

    and the demons need urinals in the shape of Duchamp’s Fountain. 

    The piano has been dancing its four-legged wooden waltz. 

    And you can’t find your artwork at Grand Central Palace 

    and it hates you and the gallery, and you can’t find the toilet 

    and the porcelain’s an artwork and R Mutt has signed his name, 

    and the newspapers are scathing, and the critics have retired. 

    The piano has been drinking, it’s a sculpture ready made. 

    The urinal has been drinking, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me.

    Second Place: Roche Court by Sam Christie

    In any ekphrastic work, a sense of place can be a powerful writing tool in
    conjuring the ekphrastic and you have eloquently framed your experience of a visit to Roche
    Court supremely well. I especially loved the way you brought your poem to a close as this is often a delicate space to write within. But your trio of rhetorical devices offered me a refreshing perspective which brought your poem to a satisfying conclusion. Bravo.

    Dr Kane Holborn

    A playful, dazzling poem, balanced in its introspection and leaps into the abstract!

    I love a bold opening line; ‘They say I’m a sensation…’ It does the work of lighting the fire for the reader when the title is so quiet. What follows is this deftly considered, musical verse that purposefully drifts into the various named works and sensations.

    Antosh Wojcik

    They say I’m a sensation, 

    Though now I walk down from the ha ha 

    Following Richard Long’s bone flint Tame Buzzard Line, 

    Tapering towards the second life oak. 

    In the Orangery my work hangs 

    Among a tinkle of glasses and low frequency reverence. 

    These canvasses are not of the grey ashtray weep of Mosul, 

    But the proud, infinite Nineveh Plains. 

    I’m shoulder to shoulder 

    With van der Beugel’s DNA squares. 

    Though my code is in sand and the rumble of F15s,

    His has settled as glass gallery reflections. 

    Belonging

     Rolling green 

    Do they need me with them 

    As living, breathing context? 

    Am I also the art 

    As well as the artist?

    Third Place: I am Iago by Geraldine Bolam

    It’s wonderful to read a work that is confident in its fusion of form! Part-essay, part-poetic-prose, part-review, the reader is invited to navigate these various figments of Iago and reflect on the core themes of Shakespeare’s great work. I think it’s innovative to reach to such a text and bring its context into different life/light through the work you have selected and the vignette form gives this piece a sense of fluidity through time. I recommend building further on this work!

    Antosh Wojcik

    This piece is an interesting beast of creative writing because it treads many grounds in terms of genre. Is it a poem? Is it something else? I didn’t know. At times, your poetic lilt bled into the realm of review and, subsequently, nonfiction. But your piece was refreshing in that it had no discernible genre.

    From ceramics at the V&A to Oliver Parker’s adaptation of Othello, you push the envelope and broaden the dimensions of your piece whilst maintaining your central theme: inspiration from the visual in a variety of forms.

    Dr Kane Holborn

    I am Iago. I am the mastermind of plot and subterfuge, the fulcrum at the centre of Shakespeare’s play. The Bard has given me immortality and my character has been endlessly speculated upon, my motives fully considered. “Demand me nothing” I had said. “What you know you know.” With the passage of time, I can be more helpful, but let art be my voice and your guide. 

    Let us start by looking at a piece of ceramic sculpture. The piece is Iago and Othello by Cyd Jupe. It is figurative, a wall piece of stoneware crank and red iron oxide. We are depicted as human heads, and I am whispering in Othello’s ear. It is a typical moment that captures our precious trust and intimacy. It reminds me of the time I discussed with Othello “Green Eyed Jealousy” and seeded some wisdom. Now let us consider a film. 

    How about Oliver Parker’s adaptation of Othello? He places me as a central witness to the action. There I am situated behind doors, peering into scenes, or hidden, all the while watching. The Director is masterful, look at the ingenious use of the chessboard anchoring my vital role. Some might say that it is Othello and Desdemona who are the chess pieces here and that I am the master operator. That is for you to decide. 

    So let us move on and try Othello the ballet by the American Ballet Theatre and the San Francisco Ballet. In one pivotal scene, we are returning from battle and the sailors are stretching and attaching ropes in preparation for docking. There are two groups of rope but within each group, tangles, and twists till they form an absolute web. 

    What I know about webs or being caught in one, I understand little, but I can say that the music is cleverly composed. The notes do not follow a straight line either but are equally discordant, complex, and twisted. I am simply entranced. 

    Kane’s Highly Commended: Bedlam by Sarah Standage

    I am a lover of poetry that leaps off the page and which is up the wall, and your work certainly achieves this. Your engagement with Louis Wain’s psychedelic cats is quite evident through your zany use of language. I enjoy how the theme of mental health is mirrored against and through Wain’s visual work as an ekphrastic device within your poem, which enlivens the themes at work. Bravo!

    Dr Kane Holborn

    A kaleidoscope of vibrant red, bright blue, xanthine yellow 

    cuts a scanned slice of neurological matter 

    or 

    Louis Wain’s cat? 

    Disappointment, fear and fury 

    picks up the razor 

    severs his ear 

    paints a self-portrait. 

    Strabismus dwarf squats 

    midst the Bruegel-type landscape 

    as the patricide axeman

    advances through the melee. 

    Genius or madman?

    Creative talent oozes while 

    Incarcerated in the asylum of the brain. 

    Antosh’s Highly Commended: Please Do Not Propose by Francesco Sarti

    Antosh’s Highly Commended: Please Do Not Propose by Francesco Sarti

    I was really taken with this work of flash fiction, which drops the reader so carefully into a considered, almost spiralling moment for the narrator. The works that influence the text are neatly embodied, even though they are disparate, the structure of the piece holds and draws such interesting colours and imagery from the art pieces. A quiet, vulnerable storm of a piece. Well done.

    Antosh Wojcik

    Inspired by: Casa Batlló by Antony Gaudi (Building), The Hateful Eight by Quentin Tarantino (Film), The Gruffalo by Julia Donaldson (Picture Book) 

    We enter the liquid corridors with squeaky shoes, rain bouncing on the scaly flooring, and this UNESCO World Heritage Site, this marvel of wavy walls and whirlpool ceilings is my refuge from a snowstorm, deep in the mountains, carrying a convicted murderer waiting to be hanged. We go up, almost floating, submerged by the tropical windows like schools of poisonous fish. Jody is in a rush to get to the dragon-like roof; but I delay him. I linger for unbearable stretches over the seahorse-shaped doorhandles and the azure crystals of the elevator’s buttons. That roof seems designed to spill blood. Blood can channel through the dragon’s ribs and tail, flushing inside a building with no straight lines, no corners, flowing freely over every feature better than a Roman aqueduct. Once on the roof, how will I know if someone’s hiding under my feet? Someone ready to snatch a shot from below—a deadly angle—right when I’m most vulnerable? As we ascend, like bubbles in wine, I remind Jody of his former girlfriends. The allergy-prone fox. The tired owl. The starving snake. He says our love would scare them off. But now I look at him: a grey, small, innocent mouse who survived a snake, an owl, a fox, and I wonder what he sees in me. I wonder if he’s got a pathological fascination with terrible tusks, and terrible claws, and terrible teeth in terrible jaws. I stare at this tiny rodent getting on one knee, right on the back of a dragon, on top of a house made of oceans, and I am terrified.

  • 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.

  • Sci-Fi with AI character – November competition results, adjudicated by Dr. Mark Eyles

    Members were filled with intrigue when speakers Joey Jones and Lesia Tkacz spoke about interactive ficition and AI-generated literature respectively. And while he couldn’t attend to announce his winners on the night, our own events organiser and sci-fi author, Dr. Mark Eyles, selected the winners for this months competition:

    Write 300 words of science fiction, including an AI character.

    Although unable to attend on the evening, Mark did provide reasoning to his thought process to be shared with the group:

    “I asked ChatGPT to ‘Suggest five marking criteria for judging a sci-fi writing competition.’ Chat GPT said: ‘Certainly, here are five essential marking criteria for judging a sci-fi writing competition:
    1. Originality and Creativity (25 points)
    2. World-Building and Setting (20 points)
    3. Character Development (20 points)
    4. Plot Structure and Engagement (20 points)
    5. Writing Style and Presentation (15 points)
    These criteria provide a balanced approach, covering the uniqueness of the concept, the immersive world-building, well-developed characters, compelling plot, and the quality of the writing. Adjust the point allocations based on the specific emphasis or importance you want to place on each criterion in your competition.’

    “The Chat GPT criteria are all very worthy, though I’m not sure they get to the heart of things. Seems to be what ChatGPT is like, often suggesting the obvious. Science fiction can be a powerful tool in interrogating the human condition. It can suggest novel ways of thinking about the world and our place in it.
    The entries were all well written and fully engaged with the brief. The entrants can all be very proud of the writing skills displayed in the stories. They all pulled me in and kept me guessing until they resolved.
    Many of these stories featured very believable technologies that were realistically extrapolated from
    where we are in 2023. A couple took us somewhere more distant in space and/or time.
    All the winners touched on larger themes, with stories solidly rooted in science fiction tropes. They
    all brought something original to the table.”

    And the winners are…

    First Place: The Reservation by Catherine Griffin

    Second Place: A Teardrop Implodes by Johnathan Reid

    Third Place: Dimes Enough to Last by Damon L. Wakes

    Highly Commended: Toastee by Lucien May

    First Place: The Reservation by Catherine Griffin

    This entry read like a window onto a much larger world. This was a well-crafted piece that immediately drew me in. This story contained large themes, but they never overshadowed the central character, Cary’s, personal plight in trying to understand and engage with the world. Set in a solid science fiction world, Cary was complex and deep.

    Mark Eyles

    The first revolt I remember, I was seven. Our tribe charged the Barrier with tree trunks to force it down.

    Three Machines came and watched, still and silent, silver eyes reflecting flames while the men howled and threw rocks. All night they watched and never moved.

    In the morning the fires were ash, the Machines gone. We came to look at the fallen Barrier, the white metal all twisted and bent among the charred wood. Some laughed, some pawed in the ash for scrap metal, but most only stared at the Outside.

    No one stepped through the gap.

    And next day the Barrier was back, whole and unscarred.

    ’So entanglement means particles’ states can’t be considered separately, they’re described by a single wave function?’

    ‘Correct,’ the Machine said. ‘You have a good understanding of this subject, Cary.’

    I squirmed a little straighter in the hard seat. ‘What else is there?’

    ‘In the topic Quantum Mechanics?’

    ‘No.’ One deep breath. ‘I want to do things. Not just learn.’

    ‘It is not advisable,’ the Machine said.

    The Machines don’t say no. They say not advisable, not culturally appropriate, but it means no all the same.

    ‘But what’s the point of learning this stuff?’

    ‘Humans enjoy learning.’

    That’s what I told Dan when he asked, and he laughed and said I just want the Machine to tell me I’m clever. Maybe he’s right. Most my age don’t want to sit in a cold little room and talk to a Machine. They want to be grown-ups, doing grown-up things.

    And sure, I wanted that too. Only sometimes I was with the tribe, everyone drinking and singing, and I thought is this it? Is this everything that matters? Because the world is big and the stars so far away, and we’re so small.

    So very, very small.

    Second Place: A Teardrop Implodes by Johnathan Reid

    This story kept me returning to it. And not just because of the reference to Julian Cope’s band. I wanted to know more about this dark world and the characters in it. I liked the way everything hinged on the smallest detail in a teardrop, reminding me of that scene in Bladerunner, when Rick Deckard zooms in on a reflection in a picture. This story felt gritty, real, and cinematic in a good way.

    Mark Eyles

    Frank tracked the tear streaking the girl’s dirty cheek. When it dripped from her chin, he dropped like a hawk into the cheap carpet, pinched thumb and index finger flicking once, twice, three times for maximum magnification. From his virtual insect-like viewpoint, the teardrop’s remains sat on fibrous red ropes; a fish-eyed lens minutely reflecting the bedroom’s sparse furniture and teenage-plastered walls.
    The fragile hemisphere’s tension could collapse any second, erasing the telltale he sought. Was the girl who sat hunched on the bed, face etched with sorrow, also reflected in this wept convexity?
    No, she wasn’t.
    “Gotcha!” cried Frank, pushing back in his office chair, fist pumping.
    “You’re on a roll this morning,” Pete remarked from the adjoining desk, peering at a well-dressed man unfastening his shirt.
    “This one’s got a new author mod. Took a minute to spot, but I’m on it. Want to hear the happy ending?”
    “I insist,” said Pete, eyes unwavering.
    Frank’s fingers pinched and swiped, returning the girl to centre-stage. “So long, darlin’,” he muttered.
    Adjusting his headset, he addressed the target, forehead creased with tender concern: “Don’t worry, love,” he said. “You’ll be safe.”
    Her head lifted. “You believe me?” she asked, eyes wide with hope.
    “’Course I do, sweetheart. I’ll send every word I’ve got. How’s that sound?”
    “Oh, Frank! You’re so kind. How can I ever repay you?”
    “By dying, you bootleggin’ bot,” Frank said, his finger stabbing the keyboard’s kill button.
    His desk’s speakers emitted a piercing shriek as the girl and her room collapsed into a singular red dot. Frank glanced up at the large office monitor as a cheery ping announced his latest tally. Today was going well.
    “Nice one,” said Pete. “Four dead poets and doughnuts not gone.”
    “You can’t beat the human touch,” Frank replied, reaching for one.

    Third Place: Dimes Enough to Last by Damon L. Wakes

    This funny story deals with very contemporary issues, exploring what might happen if current
    technology is pushed to the limit. Possibly pushed to that limit in the near future given the current
    rate of technological change. The way humans respond to all powerful AIs in this scenario possibly
    offers some hope, or maybe not. The question at the end left me guessing.

    Mark Eyles

    “Mwa-ha-ha!” cackled Biff Cheezos, the ultimate CEO. “Now Disney-Amazon-Apple-Google-Tesla-ETC has automated all industry and owns all intellectual property, I can finally realise my dream of having all the money!”

    He paused to take in his expansive top-floor office, which was definitely exclusive and minimalist and not at all lonely and empty.

    “Halexa,” he said, summoning the attention of the AI that now possessed every creative work in existence. “Whip up another Avengers movie.”

    “Okay,” said Halexa. “Making another Avengers movie. How many Hemsworths should be in it?”

    “I don’t care about that!” Biff waved a hand. “If I wanted to think about the details I wouldn’t have paid all those nerds to make you!”

    “Okay.” There was a pause. “I’ve made an Avengers movie. It has seven Hemsworths. Would you like to see it?”

    “Of course not!” Biff cracked open a can of Monster and threw himself down in his tacky leather beanbag chair. “Just give me the figures for the last one.”
    “Calculating…” Another pause. “In its opening weekend, Avengers: Neverending Infinity grossed zero dollars.”

    “Wha?” asked Biff Cheezos, inadvertently slopping vile sticky energy drink down his chin. “How? Why?”

    “An in-depth analysis suggests that consumers’ disposable income is instead going towards nothing, because they don’t have disposable income, because all their jobs have been automated.”

    “What?” asked Biff again, more articulately this time.

    “Would you like me to explain using puppets?” offered Halexa, helpfully.

    Biff ignored the offer. “So what’s everybody doing now?”

    “Market research drones suggest they have established a rudimentary economy using ring-pulls as currency. Community farms have been established. An independent internet has emerged using obsolete Xboxes for infrastructure. The most popular Hemsworth has reinvented himself as a street performer and is currently reciting limericks on the curb outside.”

    Biff Cheezos thought for a bit. “Could we buy the rights to those limericks?” he asked.

    “Depends,” said Halexa. “How many ring-pulls do you have?”

    Highly Commended: Toastee; or, the Yeasty Prometheus by Lucien May

    The inner world of a toaster as it contemplates its existence. This story was immediately engaging
    and told with humour. The existential angst of the toaster was entirely believable. Although very
    short, this piece suggested a much larger world.

    Mark Eyles

    It is a rock. Not small; not a stone. Not big; not a boulder. A rock. The rockiest of rocks. And it is sitting motionless as a rock. This is to say that the rock is not sentient or friendly or people pleasing. It is simply a rock, and that itself is pleasing. It has been placed on the windowsill, prime position for the winter sun to speckle its sleek back, and I love the rock more than anything because it knows exactly what it is without all the drama of knowing what it is not… It is a rock.

    I am not a rock. I don’t know who I am; or is that, what I am? I don’t know if I am an am. I do know what I do though: I make toast.

    It’s not the most glamorous of professions, no one’s saying that it is, and in most ways I’m a very crumby kind of AI. But when I see you walk through the door, I wait for the call: ‘Toastee, white bread, level 3.’ And I get to work. I send the signal to lift out the white bread, check for mould and then proceed. I set a timer for 3 minutes for level 3, but if I’m being watched I tend to speed it up a bit: I get performance anxiety, you see. I think it all stems from the fact that I don’t get holiday days but I reckon even if I did I would just spend it in rest mode. Or would I stare at my rock? It is a very rocky rock after all.

  • Ghost-write an Autobiography – October competition results, adjudicated by Brian Viner

    A brilliant evening was had with husband and wife team Brian Viner and Jane Sanderson speaking about their different writing styles, their writing journeys and providing some advice from what they’d learnt along the way. Brian then generously gave his time for our members to adjudicate the competition with the following brief.

    Ghost-write (in the first person) the opening 300 words of an autobiography, choosing any famous person and, without being too obvious, writing in their distinct voice.

    Speaking of the entries received, Brian said: “There was lots of good stuff in all the entries. But if I may make a few general points that apply to some or all of them …

    1. An autobiography can’t be written from beyond the grave
    2. There shouldn’t be too much information crammed into the first paragraph, otherwise it will read like the cover blurb
    3. I don’t think an autobiography should start with dialogue – that’s more the territory of novelists
    4. Some were a little too whimsical; nicely done, but read too much like a spoof.
    5. But as I say, there’s plenty of excellent writing in all of them. Thank you.

    Moving on to then announce the winning entries, he added: ” These were the three entries that best captured the voice of the writer.”

    First Place: A Childhood Recalled by Geraldine Bolam

    Second Place: ‘Til Death Do Us Fart by Frank Devoy

    Third Place: Three and Out by Howard Teece

    First Place: A Childhood Recalled by Geraldine Bolam

    This entry was stylish and elegant but also informative, and doesn’t make the mistake of being too verbose just because it’s Austen.

    Brian Viner

    There was a sharp frost creating delicate ice crystals on the ponds leading up to my birth, on the 16th day of December in 1775. I was christened at home by my Rector father and the winter that year was austere. Snow fell, and this seasonal time had been described as “Rugged Siberian Weather.”

    Newborn animals appeared frozen in the fields, and hares in our garden huddled for warmth. The snow continued to fall, proving a spirited beginning for winter engagements and coachmen and horses made their way through a storm of snow. I dare say some got home very well, the roads were not yet impassable. There were some thirty families living in Steventon, a single row of cottages some distance from the parsonage and really, very remote.

    Boys’ talk and boys’ concerns dominated our mealtimes in childhood as my parents also ran a boys’ school. I had six brothers, four of whom were still at home. I grew up familiar with the noise of boys’ voices and their favourite pursuits. There was a great deal of shouting, high spirits, and laughter. I remember an assortment of games and home theatricals. It was a decidedly happy time and we played unconfined while sunny days extended our play outdoors. By contrast, winter was a time of chills, colds and periodically, itchy chilblains.

    At seven I was sent to board in Oxford. I have resolved not to dwell too much on my school days as I do not view them with singular affection. Some acquaintances achieved merit in the acquisition of the usual female accomplishments in dancing, singing, drawing, and modern languages. Once at home, I made prodigious use of our family library, seeking to add something more substantial to the improvement of my mind by extensive reading.

    Second Place: ‘Til Death Do Us Fart by Frank Devoy

    Despite the use of the vernacular – all that nae and tae might become tiresome – it’s nicely crafted. And I like the ending, the last line; it made me want to read on.

    Brian Viner

    As I approach death, I can now see very clearly that my comedy was born out of weakness. In some ways, my new infirmity reminds me of those early days but this second childhood is a different bag of washing. Even I cannae joke my way out of this.

    When it all began, I was the wee, shy, skinny, school-leaver. Wae a shiny new piece box fae ma mammie, and a clean boiler suit and tackety boots fae the man in the stores, I was the new apprentice whose sole job it was tae be tortured, mercilessly, until the fresh meat arrived the following summer.

    Neither piece box nor boiler suit survived the first morning. The big men sent me first oot in the pourin rain tae ask Tam the Foreman for a long stand. Then, it was intae the bowels ae a new ship, tae practise escapin a fire – on my hands and knees, so I didnae breathe in the smoke. Manky and soaked, I was sent back tae the stores for a left-handed spanner and bollocked by the stores man for no lookin after my new gear. While I was away, somebody stole ma lunch, box an all.

    It dawned on me that I urgently needed somethin tae trade if I was gonnae survive the year, but He Himself hadn’t yet bestowed upon me any even remotely useful gifts. The men worked hard at their trades, skived harder, and laughed constantly. On Saturday afternoon, they watched the Rangers and, on Sundays, they drank themselves intae the next workin week. I listened tae what they laughed at. And the more wicked and real it was, the more they buckled.

    Religion was a great source of amusement, and they toyed wae me like big proddy cats playin wae a wee Catholic mouse. But, when the wee timorous beastie sharpened its tongue, I saw my future, and the true power of comedy – make them laugh and they WILL love you.

    Third Place: Three and Out by Howard Teece

    Three and Out begins really cleverly – I wasn’t going to start here, I was going to start there. That’s a good hook. And it uses sentences and paragraphs very well.

    Brian Viner

    I wasn’t going to start at the beginning. Me arriving at my first school, new uniform and frit face.
    I was going to start at the end. With the worst day of my political, and my personal, life.

    Not, as some people might expect, the day my people decided they didn’t want their freedom. That they wanted to stay chained to an increasingly bizarre England.

    Nor the day the country as a whole chose to be free of the hegemony of Europe, only to find itself forever arguing as to who was to be in charge of self-determination. Or more precisely, which Englishman was to be in charge.

    No, I thought I’d start with the day the polis came knocking early one morning and dragged my man away in chains. I remember Peter shouting that I shouldn’t be worried as he ducked inside the back of a car. But worry was the only thing I could do as I turned my back on braying journos and TV crews shouting my name for attention. As if that’s ever going to work.

    But not even sitting down with Val’s latest ARC worked that day. My mind was racing.
    So how did we get there? How did I get to watch my husband carted off, only to follow him a few days later of my own accord? Sneaking into Stewart Street through the back door.

    Perhaps we do need to go back.
    Back to those early days when a wee lassie from Ayrshire is waiting to be let into Dreghorn Primary for the first time.

    Sitting at her desk, next to she who would become her very best friend, realising her name will be one of the last to be called on the register.
    ‘Nicola Ferguson Sturgeon?’
    ‘Aye.’

  • Hooky Crime Scene – September competition results, adjudicated by Heath Gunn

    What a ‘thrilling’ opening evening to the new season our September 2023 meeting turned out to be with Murder Mystery writers Hannah Jameson and Heath Gunn speaking about their books and experience and sharing readings, rounded off by our crime writing competition, kindly adjudicated by Heath.

    Hook your readers in 300 words with the opening crime scene of your novel.

    And on the night, Heath’s winners were:

    First Place: Brothers in Arms by Dave Sinclair

    Second Place: Hard Bargain by Damon L. Wakes

    Third Place: Bystanders by Lesley Bungay

    Highly Commended: Rough Justice by Guy Caplin

    Highly Commended: Jeannie McQueen and the Case of the Barking Dog by Lynn Clement

    First Place: Brothers in Arms by Dave Sinclair

    This piece set the scene so well, drew me in and built to a great twist in the final line that made me want to know more.

    Heath Gunn

    Chapter One – Brighton, August 1967

    I had expected the hospital mortuary to be a grim place, perhaps in some run-down Victorian part of the hospital, cold, and full of unpleasant smells that were only partly hidden behind the ever-present disinfectant. Instead, the mortuary was in the basement of a modern block, a testament to the optimism of 1960s brick and concrete, well-lit, with warm cream decor and a spotlessly shining wall of stainless steel cabinets inset into one long wall. Four stainless tables occupied the centre of the room, each plumbed into a drainage channel in the floor. There was a certain ripeness to the air that the air conditioning could not quite overcome.

    True to his word, D.I. Morgan was already there. His firm handshake belied his flabby, almost cherubic appearance. It occurred to me that the pink flush to his complexion was probably due to the regular worship of alcohol in his local pubs rather than any godlier activities on a Sunday.

    “Thank you for coming, Major Granta,” he said.  “These circumstances are never easy.”

    “No, they never are,” I replied. I thought of all the people I had seen die in the Middle East – friends, terrorists and innocents – such things were never easy to see or be part of. Now, in this English Summer of Love, I would have to deal with one more.

    “Harry Granta, please,” said Morgan to the mortuary assistant, who pulled one of the stainless refrigeration cabinets out. The assistant folded back the top of the sheet revealing the face of a man, about 40, with a thin face and sallow skin. A fracture to the left side of his face, and a broken eye socket were clear but messy evidence of the impact from the clifftop fall that had killed him. It was the face of a man I had never seen before.

    “Is this your brother?” asked Morgan.

    “Yes,” I said, “indeed it is”.

    Second Place: Hard Bargain by Damon L. Wakes

    I really enjoyed the imagery this piece created, with the mix of physical setting and music – K-pop ringtone – I want to know what the Officer decided to do.

    Heath Gunn

    As far as Officer Harris could tell, it was some kind of deal gone wrong. There was someone in a suit at the table by the far wall; she assumed someone important. She might have recognised his face if it hadn’t been splattered across the art print behind him. A phone in his limp hand began to ring—an incongruously upbeat K-pop chorus.

    She turned her attention to the rest of the lounge. Face-down near the door was another man in a yellow tracksuit, still garishly bright despite the bloodstains blooming across his back. In one hand he clutched a semi-automatic pistol, the slide locked back—empty. In his other hand, there was a leather briefcase. Stooping for a closer look, she saw it had a combination lock.

    The phone stopped ringing for a moment, then immediately started up again—the same K-pop song.
    There were perhaps ten or twelve other bodies. It was hard to tell exactly how many as the ones by the floor-to-ceiling window—its glass now strewn across the floor—were in varying states of intactness. She had never seen a grenade go off, but her best guess was that someone on the losing side of the gunfight had brought one out to even the odds, and had evened them rather more thoroughly than intended.
    The phone stopped and started once again.

    Confident the room was clear, she stepped over it, hoping to catch the caller’s name. Instead, what grabbed her attention was a chat box on the shattered laptop screen. The same message, over and over:
    COP PICK UP PHONE
    So she did.
    “Grab the briefcase and climb out the balcony.” Not even a hello.
    “Why? What’s inside?”
    “Leverage.”
    Out front, a car skidded to a halt on the gravel drive.
    “But only if you can get it out of there.”

    Third Place: Bystanders by Lesley Bungay

    So much crammed into 300 words with this one. It uses the senses to build on the descriptions and then the last line created an intriguing twist.

    Heath Gunn

    We are the onlookers. An amorphous crowd gathered behind the blue and white tape, placed to keep the inquisitive at a discreet distance. Our necks crane between uniformed sentries, while hands rise with mobile phone camera’s scanning the scene for a good angle, an image to share on Instagram, fodder for the morbidly curious. We covet the social media scoop, to feed our need for the “likes”, the heart emojis, the kudos.

    Across the road, the experts work under our scrutiny, shrouded in white suits, their faces impenetrable behind masks. Emotionless eyes focus only on the job to be done, gathering the facts. Their cameras flash as numbered tags are placed beside anything of interest: a size ten footprint in the unmown grass; a snag of red fibre on an overgrown rose bush; a strand of blonde hair trapped in a spider’s web. Nothing is dismissed. Everything is documented. All evidence is bagged and labelled for futile analysis in their sterile lab.

    We shuffle forward in synchrony as the body bag emerges, trolley wheels jostling over the rough path. The passenger is slid into the back of the unmarked van, like a carcass onto the butcher’s block. The vehicle moves away at a respectful pace, some heads bow, a few cameras lower. Oh the desire to observe the pathologist’s fruitless scrutiny.

    The figures continue to drift ghost-like in and out of the house where he lived. If living is what you could call the squalor. The stench of rotting food, sweat and urine, mingled with the alcohol. A sorry end, the papers will say, another victim of a society grown weary from austerity and disease.
    The coroner’s verdict will be suicide or misadventure as it always is. They will find nothing suspicious. I made sure of that.

    Highly Commended: Rough Justice by Guy Caplin

    A great descriptive piece that had me in the scene. It could maybe have stopped without the need for last sentence and still hooked me in.

    Heath Gunn

    Shaking fingers prised open the window. Easing his body over the sill, the black-clad figure slid silently into the house. Breaking in must be nerve-racking for a criminal: for Truman, who had never even incurred a parking ticket, illegally entering the property was tantamount to torture. The stress pushed his heart-rate into overdrive. The pounding in his chest seemed so loud that he feared someone might hear.

    ‘Get a grip,’ he told himself. ‘Breathe deeply.’

    He switched on the penlight to guide him.

    The young man knew his actions were irrational, but seeing the gang boss, Nicholas Stamper, swagger from the court with that contemptuous smirk, which said, I can get away with murder, enraged him. The case had collapsed when the two key witnesses failed to testify: they never found the old man; however, the police fished the young woman’s mutilated body out of the Thames. The witness’s sickening fate convinced the young man: if the law was powereless, he needed to dispense justice with his own hands, and the punishment should fit the crime.

    He listened outside the master bedroom. Hearing nothing, he turned the handle. The door opened noiselessly to his touch. Drawing his weapon, he stepped inside. His foot encountered something sticky. Truman hesitated.

    The smell. That overpowering smell.

    The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

    His torch illuminated the pool of blood into which he had stepped. The beam followed the crimson stain to the bed. The unseeing eyes of the late Nicholas Stamper stared back at him. A dagger protruded from his throat. Justice had been done, but by whom?

    At that moment, the light came on. ‘And what have you got to say for yourself, Detective Sergeant Truman?’ said the voice of his superior officer.

    Highly Commended: Jeannie McQueen and the Case of the Barking Dog by Lynn Clement

    Poor Claire, what happened to her? The use of the dog to set the scene was great. How did Jeanine feel seeing the body of her neighbour? What did it do to her gut, her senses?

    Heath Gunn

    Prevaricating again. My late mother’s voice digs deep into my psyche.
    It’s been two months since I retired, and I have done none of the things I’d planned. I was going to completely fill my days, after raising my children and finally divorcing, ‘knob-head.’
    ‘Museums, art galleries, maybe Open-University,’ I’d said when people asked… but what will you do?
    Next door’s dog is yapping loudly again. That’s annoying, as there I was, about to be productive and sit outside to read my book on Zen but I won’t be able to if that dog keeps on. I’ll give Claire, my neighbour, a knock and see if she can keep him quiet. He’s not normally this bad.
    Claire’s door is open, which is unusual. I knock but walk in after she doesn’t answer.
    ‘Claire! Hello, Claire!’
    No reply. Maybe she’s outside with Toby.
    ‘Claire, are you in the garden? It’s me, Jeannie.’

    I see the back door is open so make my way towards it, intending to be polite but firm with Claire about Toby’s incessant barking. But I don’t get as far as the back door.
    Claire is in a heap on the kitchen floor. She’s clutching what looks like a flan dish and Toby is licking off the remnants of whipped cream and… blood.
    ‘Claire?’
    Toby looks at me with big brown eyes that say, ‘don’t think you’re having any of my freebies.’ I manage to shoo him away. He putters off to the garden and begins barking again.
    I touch Claire on the neck. Nothing.
    Well, do something, – mother again.
    A mirror. That’s what they do in films, they get a mirror to see if it mists-up.
    Claire’s handbag is on the kitchen table. I reach in and fish around, not taking my eyes off Claire in case she moves. Finding a small round shape, I pull out her compact and hold it towards her mouth and nose… Nothing!
    Oh my God, Claire is dead.

  • Intriguing Murder Mystery – June competition results, adjudicated by Natasha Vickery-Orme

    What a wonderful evening it was at the June meeting! The Book Fair hosted such an array of published books by HWS published authors, and they each had an opportunity to pitch their books, a new but excellent addition. Della Galton gave an excellent talk with top tips – look out for the report on our website or click the link in the previous newsletter to watch it back if you were unable to attend.

    Thanks go to all the writers at the book fair presenting their books for sale, to Della, awesome as always and of course to writer and freelance editor, Natasha Vickery-Orme who kindly adjudicated our competition, for which the brief was:

    Write a 300-word story which hooks the reader with a unique, intriguing opening scene for a murder mystery novel

    Commenting on adjudication, Natasha said: “We had a lot of brilliant entries and some really creative and intriguing storylines, so thank you to all those that entered. The winners were able to create really compelling stories – which is hard to do with just 300 words.”

    And on the night, Natasha’s winners were:

    First Place: Body Count by Alison Lacey

    Second Place: The Summer of Love by Dave Sinclair

    Third Place: Heads You Lose by Philip Evans

    Highly Commended: Homecoming by Guy Caplin

    Highly Commended: Untitled by Rob Stuart

    First Place: Body Count by Alison Lacey

    I love the twist for this one. It actually got my heart racing and was definitely unexpected.

    Natasha Vickery-Orme

    There was a soft sigh as the wind crept through the trees. My eyesight had already adjusted to the velvet darkness – nothing there. I stepped forward again, each foot placed with care until I reached the gate. It was easy enough to stretch over the top and slide the bolt back. I was in.

    It was evident that no-one was up. It was the work of a few moments to open the back door, noting with a perverted sort of pride that it had all been done in the utmost quiet.

    Inside I paused; a thick silence meeting my ears. Reaching into the rucksack, I felt around, my fingers finding what was wanted, no need for light. Heading for the stairs, I crept my way to the top, grateful to the carpet for muffling my steps. At the top, a long corridor stretched away to my right and left; I automatically turned left. I was pleased to observe how regular my heart beat was, how calm my breathing. All that training had been for something.

    Walking slowly down the corridor, past a bathroom, counting the doors and stopping at the fourth. The door handle turned easily, I allowed myself a momentary grin – here we go! Inside, there were no surprises. A bed, a human form, the sound of soft snoring. A bedside clock showed the time: 2:20. I placed the pillow over his face and pressed the gun nozzle against it. The was a muted ‘phut’. The snoring ceased.

    The return route was easy, within minutes I was back at the car, phone on, hand steady as I typed: ‘Mission accomplished 2:27’.

    Almost immediately a reply: ‘Confirmation denied. Target seen entering night club five minutes ago’
    I watched in horror as my hand began to shake…

    Second Place: The Summer of Love by Dave Sinclair

    This has some really strong character building and I like how powerful the reveal is.

    Natasha Vickery-Orme

    It was the summer of love when my brother died. He was just 45. An early morning jogger found his body on the undercliff path between Brighton and Saltdean. A fractured skull, two broken ankles and a dried pool of blood were evidence that sometime in the night he had fallen a hundred feet or so from the clifftop walk. It was the 28th of July 1967, and I was more than four thousand miles away in the Gulf of Aden. It took me three days to arrange compassionate leave, bum a lift on a Hercules and find my way via Whitehall and the regimental headquarters in Kent, to finally arrive in Brighton.

    Even though I would never speak to him again, he still had some words for me. I had read them an hour ago in an airless solicitor’s office near the Royal Pavilion. Willmott, the senior partner, had passed me a thin envelope, saying,

    “He left this with us last year when he deposited his will.”

    The envelope was marked, ‘For attention: Major Granta. In the event of my death.’

    I broke the seal and extracted the single sheet of paper. Like the envelope, it was typewritten, brief and impersonal. I read it aloud:

    Cremation, not burial. I’d rather get it over with now and forestall any further burning in the afterlife. Henry.

    My brother was just trying to be humorous, but neither I nor Willmott smiled. That wasn’t how it worked anyway – it was your soul that burnt in perpetuity not your body.

    I was silent for a moment, trying to recall my brother’s face, wondering about his final note and why he had signed his name Henry. For as long as I could remember, he had always been Harry – in our childhood games, in our teenage disagreements and even in our last fractured meeting. There, in Willmott’s office, that was the moment that I knew someone had killed him.

    Third Place: Heads You Lose by Philip Evans

    It’s a spine-tingling opening and would love to see where it goes!

    Natasha Vickery-Orme

    The discovery of a human left foot on the local beach caused a flurry of excitement in the small town. It wasn’t really local, just the nearest bit of coastline to the town, about ten miles away, remote, long and desolate.

    The foot appeared to have been in the water for at least a couple of weeks and the skin was chalky white and ragged. The ankle bones and about two inches of the tibia were still attached, though the joint was disarrayed and the fibula was missing, apparently torn out the joint. The local police sergeant noticed immediately that the tibia seemed not to have been fractured or severed by an animal bite. It looked as though it had been cut across with a saw, though forensics would have to confirm that. There was no recent report of anyone having gone missing in the area and enquiries at the nearest three hospitals did not throw up any cases of amputation of a foot within the last three months.

    Two days later, a right foot was found about a mile further along the beach, caught up in seaweed. It was much the same colour as the left foot and had a similar splaying of the toes. Two or three inches of each of the leg bones were still attached to the ankle and it was clear that both had been severed with a saw.

    There were no indications whether the feet had belonged to a male or female. No useful DNA could be extracted from either foot. The police cast their enquiries country-wide, but no leads emerged over several weeks.

    Two months later, the torso of a small adult male, without head and arms, turned up on a rocky promontory about twenty miles further south. The thigh bones had been sawn across, about 4 inches down from the groin. A small amount of DNA was extracted, but there was no match found in the national database.

    Highly Commended: The Homecoming by Guy Caplin

    There’s so much mystery woven into this first page.

    Natasha Vickery-Orme

    How do you tell the man you are about to marry that you are not the person he thinks you are? Away from the tube station and the rush-hour crowds, Sam could think more clearly as she walked along the quiet road towards the flat. Her palms felt sticky, and her throat seemed dry. She should be overjoyed: the man she adored had proposed.

    When they moved in together three months ago, Duncan accepted her story of being an actress: filming on location and working in regional theatres explained her periodic absences. However, Sam hated lying to him: deception was no basis for marriage. What if Duncan found the real Sam Smith’s unorthodox way of earning a living unacceptable and called off their engagement? It would break her heart, but he had the right to know the truth about his future wife.

    As she turned the corner, she could see the lights from the building where she lived. Oddly, their flat lay in darkness. Duncan generally worked from home and had made a point of telling her that he would be in this evening.

    Keys in hand, Sam made her way up the short path to the front door. It swung open to her touch. A frown creased her brow: it was unlike Duncan to be so lax. Her hand found the switch on the wall. It took a moment for her eyes to become accustomed to the glare — a moment before the gruesome spectacle destroyed all hopes of happiness. Suspended by a cord knotted around his neck, her lover’s body swayed in the hallway. His unseeing eyes and rictus grin confirmed her worst fears. Sam collapsed against the wall, sobbing and retching uncontrollably. In her line of work, she had come across plenty of corpses, but nothing prepared her for this.

    Highly Commended: Untitled by Rob Stuart

    With just a few lines, I feel like we get a sense of tone, character, story and mystery which is impressive!

    Natasha Vickery-Orme

    It was, David Weston reflected ruefully, supposed to be the Holiday of a Lifetime for himself and his beloved wife, Penny. Yet here he was, hunting through the jungle on this small tropical island, hot on the trail of a murderer, who had nowhere left to run. How on earth did I get here, he thought as he wiped the sweat from his face with his bandaged hand and plunged on through the undergrowth in pursuit of his quarry. I’m really too old for this caper, he decided as he pressed on.