Hampshire Writers' Society

Tag: winners

  • Pitch Perfect – November Competition Results, adjudicated by Clare Whitfield

    Clare Whitfield, Historical Fiction Author who secured a two book deal from the slushpile, spoke to our members about how to perfect those pitches, and was the adjudicator for our November competition:

    Pitch your novel in 300 words

    It’s traditional to have two pitches prepared; one longer one, and one short (elevator) pitch which should be no more than two sentences. Please prepare one ‘elevator’ pitch and one slightly longer pitch. Word count of pitches combined to be no more than 300 words.

    Remember to include details about protagonist, situation, genre and hook.

    Some intriguing ideas that I would happily read – please keep going and developing those pitches. The scores are not a reflection on the quality of the stories/ ideas – purely on pitch technique & content ​

    What I haven’t scored – titles, ideas, language, grammar, genre ​

    What I looked for – hooks, placings, context, digestible (did I ‘get it’) ​

    Method: Scored each pitch (elevator and longer) a score between 1-4, totaled up both and then ranked the top scorers of a single score.

    Clare did highlight that while our competitions apply a 300 word limit, she thought it was worth noting that a shorter word count be better when pitching to agents.

    I really enjoyed this process and think there’s some amazing ideas here, the top three all scored the same score, but the first place goes to the writer who gave the clearest view of what it was they were trying to pitch. 

    Clare Whitfield


    And the winners are…

    First Place: Cold Warlocks by Ben Culleton

    Second Place: Chrysalis by Catherine Griffin

    Third Place: The Other Boy by Heidi Field

    Highly Commended: The Art Thieves by Howard Teece

    Highly Commended: Compass by Sam Christie

    First Place: Cold Warlocks by Ben Culleton

    Punchy, targeted, good comparison, understood the tale, setting, sense, no word wasted – smashed it!

    Clare Whitfield

    Elevator pitch

    A career diplomat spirals into a web of supernatural espionage during a dream job working for the Embassy of the Underworld, following Hell’s declaration as an independent state. 

    A dark fantasy tale for readers who enjoy Neil Gaiman 

    Longer pitch

    Following a period of global recession, widespread panic and other Earthly turmoil, Hell has taken advantage of the chaos and declared itself as an independent state. The Devil himself presides over worldly affairs, but not without the help of demonic diplomats and human administrators. 

    Merv Joyce considered himself an excellent civil servant, a career that spanned the continents working for the Foreign Office but without much progression through the diplomatic ranks. When the Devil began to recruit for his first embassy in London, Merv jumped at the chance for a fresh direction working with a new foreign power, an exciting and charismatic world leader. Promotion and excellent benefits beckoned, and he rose swiftly up the Underworld ladder, without considering the consequences of working for the Prince of Darkness. Before long, despite the plush Chelsea apartment, fine dining, women, men, and more money than he had ever earned before, it all came at a cost. As the newly established First Secretary of Purgatory he’s been branded a traitor to humankind whilst trying to evade the evil machinations of jealous disciples of Hell. Merv’s work-life-death balance just got complicated. 

    Disillusioned once more, and recruited easily as an agent of the Angels, Merv now plays a pivotal role in the upcoming War on Torment. His handler had found a way to usurp Lucifer’s grip on the world, but would the forces of good vanquish the Devil once and for all, and if so, at what cost to Merv’s eternal soul? 

    Second Place: Chrysalis by Catherine Griffin

    Targeted, clearly sci-fi, easy to see demographic, good vs. evil scenario, setting good (a little long) ​

    Clare Whitfield

    Elevator pitch: 

    On a planet of giant insects where humans survive in harmony with nature, a girl fights to save her people from the rise of a terrifying new power — an alien hive armed with human technology. 

    Detailed pitch: 

    Chrysalis was a green planet, thriving with life similar to Earth’s insects — only much, much larger. 

    The first research colony landed with dreams of building civilisation in the wilderness — but when crops failed, and the spaceships did not return — hope slowly died. Forced to hunt and forage, succeeding generations abandoned technology and survived by forging new relationships with the native life. 

    Hundreds of years later… 

    When wasp-riders raid her treetop village, rebellious teenager Chrys flees with her brother to the dangerous forest floor. Peaceful ant-folk offer a refuge, but unable to adapt to their rigid society, Chrys instead embarks on an epic journey to seek help from the fabled Searchers. 

    What she discovers will change her forever — and is only the beginning of her struggle to save her family. 

    Wasp-riders are raiding other villages, collecting hundreds of slaves to mine and forge deadly new weapons. With the slavers and their insect masters bent on world domination, Chrys and her friends must fight — for freedom, for survival, for the soul of a world. 

    Third Place: The Other Boy by Heidi Field

    Longer was stronger than short – lacking in context, but great comps, clear demographic.’ 

    Clare Whitfield

    The Other Boy is a contemporary crime/mystery novel of approximately 80,000 words. 

     Elevator Pitch

    Scott and Blair thought they knew their son, Jamie, until he was murdered by a serial killer. To unravel their son’s life, they must expose their darkest secrets.

    Detailed pitch

    Blending the disturbing honesty of We Need To Talk About Kevin with the twisty, intrigue of a Claire MacIntosh novel, The Other Boy is the emotional, gritty story of a couple’s search for the truth about their son’s murder and the relationship he had with his killer’s accomplice.

    For a year, Scott and Blair have been trapped and tormented by their grief, but a chance encounter and some straight-talking sets them off on a dangerous trail of discovery and disclosure. A trail that might just lead them to the serial killer’s accomplice.

    To unearth the truth about their boy and reconcile their grief, both must face up to secrets they’d rather stay hidden.

    Highly Commended: The Art Thieves by Howard Teece

    These were both intriguing pitches as they had a clear story and demographic appeal, remember length, intrigue and comps

    Clare Whitfield

    Elevator Pitch 

    Dale just wants his dad back; from the paintings that stole him. 

    Detailed Pitch 

    Every day after college, Dale Richards, a young man with disabilities, visits the same room at an art gallery. It’s the room he was in when he last saw his father, before he disappeared. 

    But now Dale knows what happened, and he, his friend Sally, and the gallery’s head of security, Mr Harrington, are off to get his dad back; from the paintings that stole him. 

    Journeying through near-perfect copies of classic artworks, they discover an in-residence artist hell-bent on maintaining his oeuvre, and a dragon uncertain on its boundaries. 

    Comps 

    The Midnight Library twinned with A Night at the Museum in Oils. 

    Highly Commended: Compass by Sam Christie

    Elevator Pitch

    Bilal Aldhamook and Pete Lewis have both made terrible mistakes and in a chance meeting, find out the true cost of their actions. In a world where forgiveness seems to be a thing of the past, is retribution all that’s left? 

    Detailed Pitch

    Stuck on a rooftop near the old city of Mosul with his comrade Anwar, Bilal Aldhamook has decided he no longer wants to be a martyr anymore. With the allied Special Forces, the Kurdish Peshmerga and the Iraqi army closing in on the city, the two young jihadis want nothing more than to slip away to their old lives in Britain. If they manage to avoid death, will their captors have any mercy on them? 

    Three thousand miles away in a hilltop village in Wales, Pete Lewis is standing next to everything he owns;  violently strewn around his front garden. Pete has said something in a flash of anger that he can never take back and his relationship seems to be over. Can his partner ever consider he might have had a point, or is this really the end?

     Having nowhere to go, Pete sets off to stay in a remote bothy nearby and on arriving there realises he won’t be alone; he’ll be sharing the place with Bilal Aldhamook and two unsavoury characters who are both hell-bent on revenge.  

    Compass is a literary thriller which aims to confront the idea that there should never be any second chances for any wrongdoing, regardless of how understandable the motive might be. 

  • Haunting Historical Fiction – October Competition Results, adjudicated by Louise Morrish

    Following a wonderfully captivating evening of talks from literary agent, Jenny Savill and historical fiction author, Gregory Sayer, our competitions manager, Summer Quigley, read Louise Morrish’s adjudication, as below:

    ‘I was honoured and thrilled to be chosen to adjudicate the October competition. The brief was to tell the tale of an historic event and add a terrifically haunting twist. All in just 300 words. 

    This was a particularly challenging brief, as the stories not only had to give a glimpse into the past, but also send a shiver down this reader’s spine.  

    Writing historical fiction is a special challenge, even without trying to incorporate a haunting twist. Success rests with the details. If you can get the tiny details right, then authenticity naturally follows, and the reader is successfully transported back in time. It’s worth remembering that human nature hasn’t changed over the centuries. In years gone by, our ancestors felt the same emotions as we do today, they experienced life very much like we do, they fell in and out of love like we do. People in the past just wore strange clothes that were once in fashion, used expressions that may have fallen out of modern use, and perhaps ate meals we might barely recognise as food now.  

    So, it’s all in the detail… 

    Back to the competition winners…well done to everyone who entered, I had great fun reading your stories…’


    And the winners are…

    First Place: The Others Will Follow by Damon L. Wakes

    Second Place: Cause and Effect by John K. Miles

    Third Place: Hard Landing by John Quinn

    Highly Commended: Stag by Robert Stuart

    First Place: The Others Will Follow by Damon L. Wakes

    Even the title of this story was creepy. I could picture the bleak, frozen Arctic scene, all from the little details the author includes: the frost on the glasses lenses, the cold in the boots, the barking of the dogs. And then the author plunges the reader one step further into the icy tundra, by describing ‘the flaps of the sleeping bag frozen hard as armour plate.’ By using an old-fashioned sleeping bag (no zip!) and then describing the material in such a harsh, sinister way (frozen as armour plate) the whole scene is given a dark, authentic edge. Very well done. 

    A week’s travel north of One Ton Depot, he found the thought fixed in his mind. It was as ever-present as the frost on his glasses, the cold in his boots, the barking of the dogs. But it was Dimitri who said it: 

    “Do you think they’re behind us?” 

    The answer caught in Cherry’s throat. The team might have been just over the horizon when they gave up waiting. Perhaps if they’d dared to venture just a few miles south of the depot, they might have found them. Scott, Wilson, Oates, Bowers, Evans: they were out there somewhere on the ice, and now no one was coming. But Dimitri himself was getting worse—his right hand whitened and creased from constant exposure to damp and cold—so Cherry held back this reply. 

    “Could have missed them in the bad weather,” he said, instead. “Might be ahead.” 

    It barely mattered now, he supposed. They could hardly have waited longer then, let alone turn back now. Dimitri was in a bad way, and they had no more dog food but the dogs themselves. 

    Cherry had Dimitri light the spirit while he set the tent out over its bamboo frame. Later, despite a stomach full of pemmican and a warm drink, he lay awake. It was approaching the equinox, and he cursed the twelve-hour nights. It was all too horrible—he was almost afraid to go to sleep now. 

    Later, still sleepless, he was disturbed by the sound of boots in snow. Throwing back the flaps of his sleeping bag—frozen hard as armour plate—he stumbled out of the tent and saw a lone figure marching in the low light. 

    “Oates?” he called. “Where are the others?” 

    But Oates did not turn to face him. 

    “The others will follow,” came the reply. 

    Second Place: Cause and Effect by John K. Miles

    ‘This was a strange story, but in a good way. The author took the visceral, disturbing elements of an execution, and gave them a wicked twist. The author used some good details here – for instance, I particularly liked the ‘gleaming longsword’ that cut through a neck ‘much cleaner than an axe.’  

     The young queen shuffled from the Tower towards the fresh-cut oak scaffold, the scent of sap permeating the air as Father Thames sang a gentle song of farewell in the distance. Despite making her peace with God she was terrified, dazed as a young doe surprised in the woods. 
    The hooded executioner was short and plump, wielding a gleaming longsword rather than the traditional axe. 
    “An expert swordsman,” Cromwell had said. “It’s a final gift from the King. Much cleaner than an axe.” 

    Anne climbed the steep steps of the scaffold, determined to uphold her dignity, as she turned to face the crowd. Her uncle, Norfolk, was there at the front, hard impassive eyes staring. How had he survived whilst George and her had been condemned? 
    The crowd was silent as Anne spoke with words so well rehearsed that she was able to say them without thinking. In her mind, she was already dead. She knelt, removing her ermine mantle to reveal a fragile pale neck, then drew a golden coin from the bespoke pocket in her red kirtle as the executioner approached to collect his fee.  
    “Don’t worry Anne, my mother and father were great warriors and I too was born to the sword.” 
    The voice was female and she recognised it immediately, the words tinged with the sonorous intonation of Spain. A flash of red hair caught the morning sun, framed against the black of the executioner’s hood. Anne’s scrambled mind tried to make sense of what she perceived, but she was too traumatised to speak.  
    “But you’re dead,” said her mind. 

    The woman laughed. “Not everything is as it seems. And not everything that seems is.”  
    Anne shivered as Catherine drew close, whispering into her ear with icy venom. 

    “I’m not dead. I am death.” 
    And before Anne could reply, her head was separated from her shoulders, prompting the crowd to give a polite round of applause. 

    Third Place: Hard Landing by John Quinn

    ‘In this story, the author took a very well-known piece of history, and put their own spin on it. I wasn’t born when man first walked on the moon, but this is such an iconic moment in history that it worked well in this context. The twist at the end was haunting, but not in the usual ghostly way, which was very clever.’ 

    It’s the most stressful 10 minutes in Neil Armstrong’s life – warning buzzers sound five times, each one on its own enough for the captain of the Apollo 11 mission to abort the moon landing.  But Armstrong chooses to override them all and continues to pilot lunar module Eagle the final 30,000 feet to the moons’ dusty surface. His decisions are life and death for him and fellow astronaut, Buzz Aldrin. But failure to be the first man to set foot on the Moon would destroy Armstrong’s own sense of destiny and be a savage blow to US prestige in the eyes of the estimated 650 million TV viewers entranced around the world. 

    Now, six hours and 39 minutes after touchdown, with Eagle safely settled on brittle rocks, systems checked and everything in place, is the moment that will define Armstrong’s life. The module’s external camera is focussed on the astronaut’s spacesuit and helmet as he steps from the Eagle’s ladder and plants his foot on the moon’s surface.  He breathes deeply and speaks the words that are immediately committed to history. ‘That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.’  

    Showing confidence remarkable for his 23 years, Steven Spielberg leans back in his collapsible wooden and canvas chair, the one with Director screen-printed on its back, smiles and calls, ‘Cut! That’s a wrap, well done everyone. We’ve already got the rest in the can. We’re done.’ 

    Only then do the dark-suited and cropped-haired agents appear from the shadows. They round up the small team of lighting and sound engineers, actors, set dressers and goffers. 

    Just Spielberg remains, alone and immobile, as his former colleagues are locked inside a dark fleet of armoured troop carriers, whose diesel engines fill the night with fumes and fury. The director shakes his head as he watches a dust plume engulf the convoy on its journey into the dark desert night. 

    Highly Commended: Stag by Robert Stuart

    ‘This story was quite clever in that the reader is led to think one thing, when the reality is very different. The author created a clear image of a lone Roman soldier, performing his eternal sentry duty, and then the sudden juxtaposition with the modern day was a very unexpected twist at the end. I very much enjoyed reading this one.’

    Gaius Metelius is on stag. Again. He seems to be doing a lot more than his fair share of sentry duty but there again, he is a very junior recruit, with no money to bribe the Centurion. The night is misty and he has to concentrate hard on his watch. There doesn’t appear to be another soldier either to the right or left of him and that is just not right. Still, there is a lot about this place that is not right. The weather, for a start. Gaius is from the south of Gaul, a Romano-Celt who misses the warm sunshine. By his reckoning, tonight must be Samhain, which is celebrated by all Celts, even in this benighted land of savages. And savage they are. He was on stag when they erupted into the city, led by that red-haired she-devil screaming for revenge and Roman blood. He remembers standing with the veterans in the Temple of the Devine Claudius here in Camulodunum and being terrified. He is only seventeen and this was his first taste of action. Strangely, he cannot remember waking up in Sick Bay. He can only remember a huge brute of an Iceni throwing a rock that hit his helmet. After that his memory is kind of hazy but he seems to have been on stag ever since. 

       ‘I told you there was something odd about that mist!’ Dan says excitedly, waving his mobile at the other University of Essex students who share the house. 

       ‘What?’ asks Mary. 

       ‘Look closely.’ Dan hands her the phone. 

       ‘That’s really weird. It looks just like a Roman soldier.’ 

       ‘Trick of the light. It was dark. Shadow from a car headlight, maybe,’ says Ian. 

       ‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ says Dan. ‘Even so, creepy thing to happen on Hallowe’en.’ 

    And well done to everyone else who entered. Best of luck for next time! 

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

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

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

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

    And the winners are:

    First Place – Natalie Morant with Let’s See

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

    Third Place – Summer Quigley with Imaginarium

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

    Yasmin Kane on being a HWS competition judge

    First Place: Let’s See by Natalie Morant

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

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

    “Global warming,” he said.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “0.2 degrees per decade,” he announced. 

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    There was a long pause. 

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

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

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

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

    Third Place: Imaginarium by Summer Quigley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Menowin paused… flattered.

    “Where’s your parents?”

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

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

    “No… no money, sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Highly Commended: A Good Report by Graham Steed

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

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

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

    ‘…Yes. It’s near the monastery…’ 

    ‘…No. Not accessible by vehicle…’ 

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

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

    *   *   * 

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

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

    *   *   * 

    But I hesitate to call 999. 

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

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

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

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

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

    *   *   * 

    I swim with the body lying on my back. 

    ‘Where are we going?’ 

    ‘Where you came from.’ 

    ‘I was trying to escape.’ 

    ‘Who from?’ 

    ‘From you.’ 

    ‘You’ll always be my true love. 

    ‘And you mine.’ 

    I let the body slip away. 

    *   *   * 

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

    I think I’ve got away with it. 

    Don’t you? 

    Highly Commended: The Soul App by Peter Duncan

    Thought-provoking and compassionate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • May 2017 Competition Results – Margaret Graham

    Many thanks to Tracy Baines for stepping in to announce the competition winners last evening.

    The list seems endless, but briefly our May adjudicator, Margaret Graham, is a bestselling author (including plays and co-researching a television documentary), editor and feature writer for e-Frost magazine, creative writing mentor and tutor, and joint founder of the charity Words for the Wounded. In her spare time Margaret writes as Milly Adams.

    The brief was to write ‘A scene involving a disabled character’ in 300 words. It was a delight to discover that Margaret found the three winning entries to our May competition ‘fresh to me, surprising, moving and works of clarity’, with the highly commended running close behind. Margaret mentioned that it was hard to choose the winners but they came through as they shone and resonated for her.

    1st Place: Lynn Clements– Not That Colour, Jacko’s Story

    2nd Place: Erica Evans – Dinner Date

    3rd Place: Rosie Travers – Milestones

    Highly Commended: Rosie Sutcliffe – Annie’s Song

    Highly Commended: Ant Ridgeway – Reflections

    1st Place: Not That Colour, Jacko’s Story by Lynn Clements

    Margaret Graham: The writer grabs us by the throat and wham bam, we’re into Jacko’s world. We are in Jacko’s fortress, we witness his disengagement from the tears of his mother, the heart stopping safety he finds in colours, and finally, the security he finds in the colour of the official’s briefcase. It’s grey, so that is all right. He returns to counting the legs of the spider. Yes, he’s safe.

    But of course, his autistic life is at a point of change. He isn’t safe – or is he? The official has been called after the incident involving Jacko. In his briefcase are papers that could lead him away from this safe world, into another. Will it be a place of safety, one which understands, which relieves his mother of pain? Or not?

    The writer never tells us of Jacko’s actual condition, we find our way through his world using the map the writer has so cleverly devised. It is understated, composed of brevity, clarity, colours, numbers, objectivity and so cleverly emotionless. But though it is without obvious emotion we empathise with him, fear for him and hurt for his mother. Normal world, point of change, full of tension, and increasingly we understand, and want to know: what becomes of him?

    Clever and deeply impressive writing. Can it be sustained beyond a short piece, that is the question? Would the writer have to remain in Jacko’s point of view or move to see the situation from those who ultimately take control?

    As the pot hit the wall its lid broke. Red paint sploshed over nearby windows and pieces of fruit laid out on a plate. Jacko watched the faces of the adults as they turned towards him. They looked black. He wasn’t sure what they were going to do next, so he just stood and watched.

    The next thing he remembered was his mother sitting behind the glass of the fat woman’s room. He wasn’t sure how she’d got in there and he was worried that she wouldn’t get out. He’d tried the door handle before and it didn’t move. He sat on the chair where he was told to sit, which was ok because it was blue. He watched his mother’s mouth open and close and the fat woman’s eyebrows move up and down. His mother stood up quickly and opened the door. Jacko thought she was very clever to know how to do that, when the handle didn’t work.

    In the car on the way home the only sound he could hear was crying.

    When he got home Jacko took his magnifying glass into the garden. He lay on his front in the long grass of the wild flower patch, which his mother had helped him sow. He looked for arachnids; he wanted to test his theory that he could find three different types of arachnids by the time his mother called him in for food.

    He was still searching when a very tall man wearing glasses, with a bushy beard and hair sticking out of his ears came into the garden. His briefcase was grey, so that was ok. He heard the man say he was from The Educational Psychology Department. Jacko rolled onto his back holding a struggling spider. He counted its legs, to be safe.

    2nd Place: Dinner Date by Erica Evans

    Margaret Graham: A date which very early on raises enough questions for us to understand that there is more to this than meets the eye. It’s as though the camera is on the girl who seems to be the protagonist, and the man sitting opposite. The camera gradually draws away and we see that actually the date is between two others also around the table; two vulnerable people. The protagonist and the man opposite are in fact, carers, or the facilitators of the date. But will this lead to more for the carers?

    Delicately written, clever touches – the replacement of the normal knife with one of plastic, the eye contact between the carers. Is it professional or could it be more? Normal world, point of change.

    The restaurant has a romantic view, just right for a date. The sparkling nightscape is captivating but inside coy glances are being exchanged instead. Wine arrives. I put a straw into the glass and hold it to lips which fumble for the end, eyes still on their prize. I watch carefully, but discreetly, a skill I am still learning. Be there, but don’t be there. Don’t stare, don’t speak. The lips part, slaked, and smile. Not at me.

    I cut the meat. Is it too big, too small? Was I too slow? Darren has already finished cutting his. I surreptitiously replace the silver fork with a plastic one. One that won’t grate on teeth clamped too hard. There is little conversation now, focus and effort mostly placed on eating without choking, without dropping morsels from mouths. A waitress appears and enquires about the food. I look down at the tablecloth, the question is not for me. When I look up Darren winks at me. I don’t respond. I’m here to drive the van, manoeuvre the chair, lift the fork. It’s not my date. It’s not yours either, Darren.

    After dessert, Maisie looks at her arm and asks me a question. I can’t understand her and feel shame rise inside. I haven’t worked with her long enough, my ear isn’t yet tuned in to how she speaks. Joe sees my embarrassment and saves me.

    ‘Maisie said could you put her arm on the table, please.’

    His speech is clearer and I comply. Joe reaches across to hold Maisie’s hand. She smiles at him again.

    ‘Please could you return in half an hour?’ asks Joe.

    Darren and I are excused. He goes to smoke, I sip a cola at the bar. It’s not our date. It’s theirs.

    3rd Place: Milestones by Rosie Travers

    Margaret Graham: I find 2nd person difficult to sustain, and indeed to read for any length of time, but this worked. The piece ached with the loneliness of the mother bringing her small disabled child to a centre for the first time. The disablement is all that she can see. Another mother reaches out a hand, and her words lead to an understanding that of course her daughter is indeed that – a daughter, not just a disabled cypher. One day her daughter will of course care what colour her helmet is. The normal world was at a point of change.

    You take a deep breath and push open the door. It is a relief not to have to explain. The receptionist already has Olivia’s paperwork.

    ‘Come on through,’ she says.

    The walls are painted in soft muted colours. You’d imagined something vivid to provide stimulation, bright murals in primary colours. You’d expected to encounter a cacophony of noise but everything here is quiet, subdued.

    There are other children in the sensory room. You lay Olivia onto a beanbag beside the bubble tube. Fibre optic patterns spiral across the soft foam floor.

    When Olivia was born you counted fingers, toes. Her tiny body was perfect. Her blue eyes flickered open; she saw you, you know she did. She jerked at a sudden sound. She could hear. She mewled like a tiny kitten. She had a voice.

    They warned you about the implications. You drew on resources and discovered a gritty determination. Milestones would be reached; it was just a question of adapting the criteria.

    ‘How old is your little girl?’ one of the other mums asks. Her daughter is wearing a flamingo pink helmet. They’ve already told you Olivia will need one of those when she’s older. The other mum, her name is Kerry, immediately knows what you are thinking. ‘They come in all sorts of colours,’ she says. ‘Just see it as a fashion accessory, like choosing shoes and bags.’

    ‘Right now, it’s hard to imagine Olivia choosing shoes and bags.’ The words come out all wrong. You don’t mean to sound churlish, ungrateful. Positive thinking is sometimes a lonely journey.

    ‘Of course she will. She’s a girl, isn’t she?’ Kerry says.

    Light reflects like dancing sunbeams from the disco ball on the ceiling. Olivia’s lips curl, revealing one of her gummy smiles. You reach for Kerry’s out-stretched hand.

    Highly Commended: Annie’s Song by Rosie Sutcliffe

    Margaret Graham: This moved me because of the initial loss of the anticipated life, the unfairness of a bolt from the blue – a stroke, followed by the loss of hope, the disappearance of those who were once friends in the face of such a change, such disability. But then, one of those friends finds the key to bring back hope, and holds out a hand. Music as therapy, but it is friendship that really brings this return of hope, and the remembrance that the stroke patient is actually a person: she is on the point of believing this again. Lovely and warm. Will they win the singing competition? A win that would actually be much more than a mere competition win.

    In the grand scheme of things this was not how I’d envisaged my retirement. Within a week of finishing work I’d planned long, challenging walks in National Parks, booked a trip to Italy, joined a reading group, enrolled in a photography class and with some trepidation begun singing in my local choir. Within six months of this I’d been smitten down by a stroke, the right side of my body no longer obeyed my brain, a process I’d never given much thought to previously.

    Patting at a sliver of drool with my good hand I slowly resumed the laborious process of spooning vegetable soup into my reluctant mouth. The chunks of vegetable frightened me, the whole swallowing process was a dangerous skill that had taken weeks to relearn.

    ‘Eat up, Annie,’ one of the carers trilled, ‘you’ve got some visitors this afternoon.’

    I couldn’t answer her rotund retreating form as the sounds that emanated from my mouth bore no relation to the words in my head. Visitors were a scarce resource, little huddled groups of my friends sitting, awkwardly fidgeting. I had so little to offer a conversation now. I felt burned by their embarrassment.

    Visits dwindled. So what did the carer mean? Was this some unpleasant euphemism for an impending medical procedure?

    Fears were allayed when Jenny from choir strode into the residents’ lounge, complete with keyboard and a dozen choir members.

    ‘We’ve missed you, Annie,’ she explained simply.

    The room was soon pulsating with peaks and troughs of well known and loved favourites and it wasn’t until I saw Jenny smiling through tears that I realised I was singing too, proper words, in tune. Music, medium to my brain.

    Next month we are performing Annie’s Song in a national competition. I think we might just win.

    Highly Commended: Reflections by Ant Ridgeway

    Margaret Graham: Again, the loss of the anticipated life, and the reflections it brings. An IED causes life changing injuries, and from the depths of self-pity the patient, a soldier, reflects on his trite remarks to those similarly injured. Remarks that were superficial, and without understanding. Now he understands and feels himself sinking as hope leaves. But then, reflections on the life of his disabled son inspires him to re-assess and aspire to the same quiet courage. It brings him to a point of change. Inspiring and worthy.

    Bang… I was able bodied until the land mine exploded taking my legs with it.

    I’m lying in my hospital bed feeling very sorry for myself.

    What will the future hold for me now? One minute fit and healthy. The next, only half of me.

    My career in the Army has been distinguished. I have a medal for bravery but nothing prepared me for this.

    I thought I was invincible. Had a reputation for dismantling incendiaries without incident. Fearless Phil they called me.

    It doesn’t help remembering some of my contemporaries with worse injuries than mine. Those minus arms, legs, blinded and with horrific facial scars. I remember thinking I wouldn’t let it happen to me. I cringe when I think of the way I spoke to them.

    ‘Never mind, old chap. You’ll pull through.’ The pity I felt.

    I have a disabled son. If Mike were here now he would understand perhaps what I am going through. He’s been disabled since birth and most of his life he’s been in his wheelchair. Can’t do much without help.

    So what the hell gives me the right to feel so bloody gloomy?

    At least I have known what it was like to be able to walk, be independent. He’s never had that experience. You know what though; he’s the most positive, cheerful person you could ever meet. He’s out and about most days. People love him. He has this amazing ability to make people smile, feel good about themselves. Never feels as if life isn’t worth living.

    Thinking about him, puts things into perspective. Right. I’m re-evaluating my situation. Starting with my rehabilitation next week, I’ll do everything I’m asked to do and more.

    I’m going to make Mike proud. Together, we’ll show the world just who we are.

  • April 2017 Competition Results – Beverley Birch

    Beverley Birch was shortlisted three times for the Branford Boase Award in recognition of the editor’s role in nurturing new talent and, as a prolific author, she was also nominated for the Carnegie medal. Hampshire Writers’ Society is most appreciative to Beverley, who graciously came to our rescue by agreeing to be our April adjudicator as well as our speaker. In return, our members managed to supply entries that made it difficult for her to choose the usual two highly commended places. The competition, ‘Write a children’s story, inspired by a well-known story for children’, meant that after choosing 1st, 2nd and 3rd place, Beverley was unable to decide and ended up choosing four additional pieces to praise.

    1st Place: Cass Morgan – Mrs Bilious

    2nd Place: Kristin Tridimas – A Koala Named Sydney

    3rd Place: Matthew Cross – George and the Dragon

    Highly Commended: Annie Vine – The Wild Colt

    Highly Commended: Linda Welch – Unexpected Treasure

    Highly Commended: Ant Ridgeway – Friends

    Highly Commended: Kim Howard – Mirror, Mirror

    1st Place: Mrs Bilious – Cass Morgan (Inspired by Roald Dahl’s Matilda, or, more specifically, by Miss Trunchbull and the chapter, ‘Bruce Bogtrotter and the Cake’).

    Beverley Birch: This was altogether strong. The punchy opening brings the situation instantly to life, the child point of view keeps us locked in the story through a distinctive sense of voice, good narrative flow and pacing. And a tricky situation for the child characters to escape (always appealing), is enlivened by effective and efficiently used imagery. A definite winner!

    Winner First

    At 11:57, putting a handful of insects into the lunchbox of Mrs Bilious was funny. At 12:03, the reality was hilarious. At 12.05, it was the worst thing they’d ever, ever done.

    Simon shuddered as he looked at Joel. His best friend’s left eye stared in horror. His right winked as something scuttled across his eyelash. Hands clenched to the chair seat, shoulders high to his ears, Joel’s cheeks puffed out wide. Two ants emerged from the corner of his mouth, ran across his face, over his ear and into the safety of his hair.

    Hot breath blew onto Simon’s cheek. He turned towards the cherry-cheeked face of Mrs Bilious. She leaned in close. Through cement-coloured teeth came odours of sugared tea and half-digested digestives.

    ‘Eat up,’ her voice whispered.

    ‘No.’

    ‘Sandwich-spoiling brats will be punished. Now, EAT UP!’

    Her yellowy eyes sizzled and locked onto his. There was nothing he could do but scoop his hand into the lunchbox. Ants scurried and hurried onto his hand, up his arm and into his sleeve. Others dropped to the table in their bid to escape. The unlucky ones stayed where they were, with no idea what was coming.

    Back leaned Mrs Bilious. Every part of her blazed in delight; her mouth tight in a triumphant smile, her eyes agog, her grey curls bounced in anticipation. Even the hairs in her nostrils quivered in glee.

    Simon closed his eyes, opened his mouth and threw in the ants.

    If they were mad before, now they were livid. Up the insides of his cheeks they darted, over his tongue, through the gaps in his teeth. It was like popping candy gone horribly, horribly wrong.

    He wanted to spit out. He had to. But the smell of tea and digestives wafted in his nostrils. There was no going back, and he knew it.

    2nd Place: A Koala Named Sydney – Kristin Tridimas

    Beverley Birch: A very close second. Koala’s eye-view and voice has great appeal, laced with a wry humour. Excellent command of language, and pacing, and sets the scene, backstory and predicament swiftly without losing momentum.

    Winner Second

    It was hot and uncomfortable inside the human girl’s bag. He had been bashed and banged and now seemed to be travelling along something which kept changing direction. And to make things worse, he only had one cough sweet left. He’d saved it for emergencies, wrapped up in his bandana.

    Great Aunt Victoria had been very clear. ‘Don’t let anyone see you, or they’ll send you back. Even worse, they might put you in a zoo!’

    Surely one quick look wouldn’t do any harm?

    He hooked his claw round the end of the zip and pulled. Poked out his nose. This place smelt of plastic and metal and tired people. He put his eye to the opening. He was moving slowly past a forest of legs. For a second, he thought back to his gum tree home in the Australian bush. He could smell the eucalyptus. Hear the kookaburras.

    His home was gone now. The bush fire had destroyed it.

    A pair of familiar pink legs swam into sight.

    ‘Dad, it’s my bag!’

    He shrank back down inside.

    He seemed to be flying but then there was a big bump.

    ‘You wait here while I get the suitcase. I shouldn’t be long.’

    Footsteps, going away. People talking. The rattle of wheels.

    The screech of a zip.

    The zip!

    The girl’s face was inches away. Her eyes were open wide.

    ‘What are you doing here?’

    He gave her his friendliest smile. ‘G’day!’

    She yelped and jumped back.

    A second later, her face came close again. ‘You can speak!’ she whispered. ‘What’s your name?’

    He clicked and whistled. ‘That means Climbs to the Edge in koala.’

    ‘I’m Jenny. You need a real name.’ She looked at something above his head. ‘I’m going to call you Sydney.’

    He was safe.

    3rd Place: George and the Dragon – Matthew Cross

    Beverley Birch: This is a clever, funny take on the traditional tale, bringing both George and the dragon instantly to life, each with a distinctive voice and a convincing relationship that promises fun ahead.

    Winner Third

    A chilling roar caused him to raise his shield. Instead of fire, the cavern filled with thick white smoke and a fizzing sound. George stepped softly towards the source. It was a young dragon, squeezed into a whalebone girdle, its wings and legs tied with rope. He crept forwards and drew his sword.

    “Hello.” It said in a low rumbling voice. George paused, he wondered whether he could kill something that said hello to him. “Look, this is rather embarrassing. If you could be a good fellow and cut me down, you may choose any treasure you desire.” George hesitated, then raised his sword and severed the ropes. The dragon prized itself from the girdle before sitting on its hoard. “All I want is a peaceful place to hibernate, a comfortable hoard, and the occasional sheep for a snack.”

    “Oh, the kingdom ran out of sheep.” George sat opposite the dragon, his shield close just in case.

    “They sent their own kind instead – who does that? Why not a goat?” The dragon burped another cloud of smoke and fizz.

    “Your breath poisoned a nearby village.”

    “Eating humans gives me terrible indigestion. I had to take antacids.”

    “Why did you keep eating the tributes?”

    “Humans are like chocolate, I can never have just one.” George pulled a packet of jelly babies from his backpack and offered one to the dragon. “Yuk, how can you eat those?”

    “So how did you get stuck in the…girdle?”

    “The princess jumped me when I left the cave. That girl is malicious, no wonder the king left her as a tribute.” The dragon appeared deflated.

    George eyed an ornate wine bottle among mound of treasure. An idea spread from his mind into a smile on his lips. “I have a cunning plan, put the girdle on again.”

    Hisilicon K3
    Hisilicon K3
    Highly Commended

    Highly Commended: The Wild Colt – Annie Vine (Inspired by Jill’s Gymkhana by Ruby Ferguson)

    Beverley Birch: A good, tight narrative style which brings the setting, character, and particularly the colt’s character and terror instantly alive. A good sense of audience here.

    ‘He’s eight months old. Sire’s a half-thoroughbred and Dam’s a Welsh Mountain,’ said Tom, his cheerful voice unusually tense. ‘First saw a human six days ago. Had a heck of a job getting him into the horsebox.’

    A powerful hoof assault made the box quiver. Edie peeked through the eye-slat. The colt’s neck muscles were so taut they made his head twitch upwards. His wide eyes relayed his fear – no pools of melted chocolate – they were steely black with whites that resembled human’s. His muddy, matted coat, now dry and cracked, had turned into dragon scales, sliding smoothly as he moved. Barbs shortened his tail – the web of hairs gripped them like cossetted treasure.

    Edie’s fingers itched to caress, to reassure, to calm.

    Don’t worry, little colt, you’re mine now. You’re safe.

    ‘Help me with the door,’ ordered Tom.

    With the latches straightened, the door slid open.

    The colt leapt from the back of the horsebox into the gaping hole of light.

    Tom’s shock was audible. ‘Lucky I backed up and opened the gate.’

    Edie’s heart flipped as she watched the rump muscles gather and stretch as the colt bolted away. Despite his nervousness, his poise was faultless. Once he realised he was safe, he would hold his tail confidently, not hanging like the flag of a lost battle.

    ‘Look at that stride,’ admired Tom. ‘You’ll be winning the gymkhanas with him.’

    The colt slowed to a trot. Lean, smooth legs stretched.

    ‘Or the dressage…’

    Galvanised, the colt broke into a canter and raced towards the wooden fence.

    Edie gasped. If he rammed it, the wood would slinter into deadly spears.

    His timing was perfect, forelegs rose with tucked hooves. He cleared the fence gracefully.

    Edie bit her bottom lip. ‘I think my dream of showjumping has just become a reality.’

    Now all she had to do was catch him.

    Highly Commended: Unexpected Treasure – Linda Welch

    Beverley Birch: Lovely flavour and rhythms, enhanced by quirky detail and swiftly conveyed, convincing characterization of a boy and his grandfather with the promise of interesting action to come.

    Jamie loved weekends with his Granddad. He picked him up from school on Friday afternoon and they had fish and chips for supper, straight out of the wrapper.   On Saturday morning they got up early and drove to the Municipal Dump.   The sign on the gate said Household Waste Recycling Centre but Granddad said it had been the Municipal Dump ever since he was a little boy himself (about a hundred years ago, Jamie thought). Jamie was supposed to stay in the car because there were cars and lorries manoeuvring about the yard, but he was allowed look around the small shop where they sold some of the things people were throwing away.

    ‘People buy rubbish?’ he asked incredulously, and Granddad laughed.

    ‘One man’s rubbish is another man’s treasure. You never know what you might find.’

    Today Jamie bought an old binocular case that was just the right size to hold a bottle of juice and a banana for school. The man only charged him 25p and Jamie hurried back to the car to wait for Granddad.   As he knelt on the seat and looked out of the back window he saw another little boy climbing over the back fence of the tip.   No-one else seemed to notice him slide into one of the skips, but as Jamie watched, he saw him throw a piece of corrugated plastic out of the skip, and climb back out again. Jamie got out of the car and went over to him.

    ‘You’re not supposed to be wandering around, it’s dangerous. What do you want that for, anyway?’

    ‘Roof,’ the boy said.

    ‘Cool! Are you making a den?’ Jamie asked, not waiting for him to answer. ‘What’s your name?’

    ‘Stig,’ he said, and disappeared back over the fence, dragging the plastic behind him.

    Highly Commended: Friends – Ant Ridgeway

    Beverley Birch: A very effective voice (a donkey) brings the reader convincingly into his state of mind and character, with some light touches of humour. Tightly written with a good narrative flow.

    I’m bored. I’ve been standing alone in my field all day. There’s an itch on my back. I tried rubbing against the fence but I can’t quite reach it. The three ponies in the next field are eating grass. Lovely shiny coats they have. Not like mine, rough like tree bark. I trotted over to say hello.

    ‘Eeeaw, eeeaw’.

    One of them looked up, tossed her mane and carried on munching. The other two took no notice as if I wasn’t there.

    It’s cold today. Wind and rain have soaked me to my bones. My shelter blew down. There are trees where the ponies are. Not here. So I’m standing all alone, head down.

    Wait. Who’s that climbing over the gate in his yellow coat and hat? It’s the boy. He’s got that little animal in his hand, the one which doesn’t move. Says it’s his bear, whatever that is. Says it has very little brain. That bouncy puppy’s with him too. Wish I could wriggle under the hedge like him. I’m too big. Don’t like his nippy teeth. Seems to think my hooves are for nibbling. Last week, he ate my best thistle. I was saving it for breakfast. He didn’t like it. He started yelping, pawing at his mouth. If he’s not careful, I’ll bite him. Or maybe I’ll kick him.

    ‘I’ve bought you a birthday present,’ the boy said.

    Is it? I thought. Wasn’t that a long time ago? I swished my tail. ‘It’s a pot. It had honey in it. We had to eat it ‘cos it was a long journey.’

    He put it on the ground.

    ‘There’s a balloon too. Sorry it popped on the thorns.’ I glimpsed aflash of red inside the pot.

    ‘Eeeaw, eeeaw.’

    The boy laughed.

    Not alone anymore.

    Highly Commended: Mirror, Mirror – Kim Howard

    Beverley Birch: A clever and successful send-up of several fairy tales, with life seen from the point of view of the mirror fed up with the fairyland beauty leagues. Dry humour and quirky detail – lots of fun in this.

    The lack of manners upsets me most. I never get a ‘good morning’ or a ‘how are you?’ It’s always “Mirror, mirror on the wall….”

    Of course I’m on the wall. A heavy chain and some hefty nails make sure of that. They aren’t interested in me. No one ever compliments me on the carved wood of my frame or says ‘wow, have you been polished?” They only want to know one thing – where they rank in the fairyland beauty leagues. They have no imagination. They must be able to say something other than “…who is the fairest of them all?”

    As if I’m going to tell them what I really think. It can be tough, but I always try to find something positive to say. Not because I care about how the silly self-obsessed things feel. I can’t risk someone getting upset enough to start throwing things. I’m made of glass. I’d never recover if someone smacked me in the face with a hairbrush.

    I was chatting with Cinderella’s glass slippers the other day. The one who stayed on her foot is too smug for words, but I really feel for the other one. She was convinced she was going to shatter when those big ugly sisters tried to stuff their fat feet inside her. And she still hasn’t got rid of the bloodstains. Fortunately, since their mother chopped their feet about, it’s harder for them to hobble up to the castle. I dread telling them their league status.

    Uh oh. Here comes the little girl with the scarlet cloak. Well, not so little any more. She’s a stroppy teenager now. Since that incident in the woods with her granny and the wolf, she’s started carrying an axe in her basket. Someone should tell her that red isn’t her colour, but it won’t be me.

  • March 2017 Competition Results – Cathy Woodman

    Cathy Woodman, our adjudicator for March, again spoilt us. She has commented on all entries so expect your personal notes via email soon. Alongside her series set in the fictional village of Talyton St George, Cathy is now writing a series under a new name, Evie Grace. The historical sagas are set in rural Kent. The stories are based on those of her own family, who lived there in the nineteenth century. The first, Half a Sixpence, will be available in the summer. The competition was: ‘Describe a meeting where a present-day hero or heroine meets their later love-interest.’

    1st Place: Colin Johnson – First Encounter

    2nd Place: Andrea Parr – The Blue Doll

    3rd Place: John Quinn – OK People

    Highly Commended: Sarah Lines – The Vet and David Lea – Later Love-Interest

    1st Place: First Encounter – Colin Johnson

    Cathy Woodman: This caught my attention from the very first word – Wow! I loved the way the writer set the scene and created that wonderful sense of attraction and lust at first sight. I really wanted to read on to find out what happens to the young man yearning to find out more about his love interest who makes eating chocolate crumbs sexy!

    “Wow!” he thought, “what a smile!”

    She was older than most students. Maybe 30? Or a bit more? At least 10 years older than him.

    She had come over to sit at the next table. She spoke to him, interrupting his re-run through yesterday’s rehearsal. He saw her lips move and took off his headphones. She repeated the question: “Excuse me, is this your bag?”   He pulled his bag off the chair and she sat down, looked at him and smiled. “Thank you,” she said.

    That was all. That was all it took. Her voice was like a cello, Jacqueline du Pré making music again. Clear brown eyes, no flicker, no blinks, just still reflections of the world, taking him in and assessing his own face. She had freckles on high cheekbones, and full, gentle lips. Her long chestnut hair was held back, tied behind in some kind of chiffon scarf.

    “No trouble,” he said, and looked at his phone again. He could think of nothing to say. How could he ask her name? Find out her email? Anything, so he could see her again?

    She drank her coffee and ate her two-finger KitKat. When she licked her finger to pick up the chocolate crumbs, his stomach felt suddenly empty, his sudden intake of breath almost loud enough for her to hear. God, that was sexy!

    She left. Without moving, he followed her across the concourse into the revolving doors. Through the glass wall he watched her cross the central courtyard into the Psychology building.

    “Who was that?” he said to no-one. Still without moving, he played through the whole encounter again. He hadn’t needed his phone on record, the playback in his head was clear and precise. Her voice was pure Elgar. He had to hear it again.

    2nd Place: The Blue Doll – Andrea Parr

    Cathy Woodman: A very close second. I loved the imagery of what is a defining incident set in a playground where the protagonist takes a risk for love. The writer took me straight into the hero’s head with choppy dialogue and phrasing, and plenty of action. I really wanted to read on to find out what happens next. Wonderful.

    The doll set Jimmy off. Knew it would the minute I saw it. She was clutching something she loved, and Jimmy never could resist a thing like that. His mean streak was about a mile wide.

    No time to warn her. He pounced like a cat catching a bird. Held the doll above her head and laughed.

    “Give it back,” she said. “Please.”

    Not an order, but definitely not a beg.

    He wouldn’t, though. Dangled it just out of reach, trying to make her jump for it. Got bored when she wouldn’t. He could’ve given it back, but, like I said, Jimmy was a vicious sod.

    “Don’t you want it?” he said and threw it, hard as he could, so it wedged in the tree at the edge of the playground. A big old pine with needles like razors and no footholds. It hung there, that doll, like a little blue rag.

    “Come on,” said Jimmy, so we left. I couldn’t resist looking back, though. She was standing there, staring up and the butterflies took off, wings beating inside my stomach.

    Later, when I turned up at her house, she was sitting outside, legs pulled up, skinny arms resting on her knees. Streaks down her face like she’d been crying. Didn’t move, even when I skidded my bike so close it kicked small stones up onto her.

    “Here,” I said, pulling the doll from my pocket. “Got this for you.”

    For a minute, she stared, then grabbed it and held it to her face. No thank you. No nothing.

    It seemed stupid all of a sudden. Scratches all over my arms and a hiding coming for taking my old man’s ladder without asking. And for what?

    Then she lifted her head, and looked at me. And she smiled.

    3rd Place: OK People – John Quinn

    Cathy Woodman: The first line grabbed my attention and set the scene for a humorous piece of fiction. Sound characterization, introducing a clumsy actor and a flirtatious leading lady. I found myself wanting to read on to find out what happens to them. A little more attention to detail on the proofreading side would perfect your presentation.

    ‘Watch out!’ The boom mike swung through the air at a speed it was not designed for.

    Patrick heard the warning, tried to duck and succeeded in falling inelegantly over, losing his dignity and the opportunity of being decapitated in one, unsmooth motion.

    ‘You bloody idiot’ Steven, the director, screamed at the boom operator, who continued to smirk inside his headphones.

    Patrick picked himself up and tried to dust off his formerly immaculate white shirt ‘No great harm done,’ he smiled.

    Steven was not convinced and snarled towards the boom operator ‘You could have put our star in hospital on the first day of filming… one more cock-up like that and you’re off the set.’

    ‘Should I go and change this shirt,’ Patrick asked.

    ‘Don’t bother, it’s only set up shots this morning’ Ella said before anyone else could respond ‘and I don’t mind my men being a little dirty.’

    Steven knew he would have to cool his famous star’s ardour at some point and here was a golden opportunity. ”Look Ella, if you could leave the flirting until at least day two, I, for one would be most grateful. And so would our young star, wouldn’t you Patrick?’

    In truth Patrick was in awe of the two times golden globe winner and three times divorced leading lady but was keen not to show it; he was, after all, an actor.

    ‘Ok, I’ll stick with my dirty shirt’ he said.

    ‘What, no reposte, no stunning one-liner, no request for me to unbutton you and rub your hairy chest better? Ella’s voice dropped an octave ‘ I’m dissappointed in you Pat. I was hoping for more…’

    Patrick knew he was being paid well for this, his first starring role, but he wondered if it was going to be enough…

    Steven re-exerted control ‘Ok people, positions… and action!’

    Highly Commended: The Vet – Sarah Lines

    Cathy Woodman: The writer created a sense of place from the very first paragraph, showing how you can find love anywhere. I enjoyed the gradual reveal of the hero’s situation, and the way his love interest is completely oblivious of her effect on men in general. Great imagery too – the daredevils crashing and burning.

    Paul was tired of staring at his blank computer screen, waiting for inspiration. “Dazzle me”, his boss had said. What could anyone find remotely dazzling about selling diapers? The advertising industry was already like an overcrowded train, full of people shouting, pushing and shoving, eager to be on time for the ball game.

    All he could think about was Emma. Now she was dazzling – no, even better, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She possessed a natural beauty; luminous skin, dark glossy hair and the most entrancing violet, blue eyes. What made her even more attractive was the fact that she seemed completely oblivious to her effect on men.

    Emma had only started last week but Paul had already witnessed a constant stream of male attendees at her desk. They would dream up the most pitiful excuses to go over and talk to her, ask her out for coffee, to drinks or dinner and Paul listened with some trepidation as each of these heroic daredevils crashed and burned on their first mission.

    The light was beginning to fade as the working week ended. Paul tidied up his workstation, straightened his Marine Corps tie pin and slipped on his jacket. Most of his colleagues had stampeded to the elevators that would doubtless transport them to their expensive cars, gorgeous wives, laughing children and unnecessarily opulent mansions.

    Paul sighed. As the elevator was about to close, Emma hurried over. Paul, unable to believe his luck, held the doors open with the edge of his wheelchair.

    “Which floor?”

    She smiled shyly. Her eyes sparkled.

    “I was hoping you’d ask me out for a drink.”

    Her English accent was so incredibly sexy.

    “Would you like to…”

    “Yes please”, she said.

    As they made their descent, his heart soared.

    Highly Commended: Later Love-Interest – David Lea

    Cathy Woodman: Lovely thoughtful writing. Compelling to read. I was caught up from the first sentence. I enjoyed the way the writer gradually revealed the identity of the hero and that of his love interest. The piece gave a real feeling of how love can take you by surprise.

    I never thought to fall in love again at my age, but I have all the symptoms. He is uniquely engaging and I delight in almost everything he does and says. It is obvious to me that he is more than usually physically attractive and I see that others are also drawn to his beauty. I watch for his effect on people when we are out together. Eyes are drawn to him, particularly women’s eyes. And people comment. Do I compare him with the other boys? How could I not?

    I was not prepared for this at my time of life: I thought the time for giddy joy was over and had reconciled myself to the comfortable companionship of a marriage that would run its course until the death of one or both parties.

    I had to try and manage the coming, inevitable decline with honour and grace. I did not expect to be taken out of myself again, to be transported.

    I am more settled now: less at the mercy of his unintended or intended slights, less eager for his attention and sometimes glad to get away from him and his demands. Apart from anything else, this love is physically very demanding and I do get tired now.

    My first sight of him was of a vague and blurry shape in a photograph. When his arrival was announced, I was less than enthusiastic. And when he finally arrived, he was nothing out of the ordinary: much the same as all the others. But now; now he is irreplaceable.

    I am saddened that I shall not see him in his pomp, for he will surely make his mark when he is grown. He is now four and I hope he will remember this foolish, fond old man, his mother’s father.

  • January 2017 Competition Results – David Prest

    January 2017 Competition Results

    David Prest, founder and MD of Whistledown Productions, set a precedent at January’s meeting. The competition was to ‘Write a proposal for a radio production involving a local building, landmark, personality or area of interest.’ Having chosen five entrants, David changed our normal format and invited them to present their work live on Tuesday evening. All five took to the stage to read out their 200-word entry. He followed their reading with a quick question and answer session before asking the audience to vote on the entry that they thought was most saleable. The results and proposals are below:

    1st Place: Lynda Lawrence – Jane Austen’s Bicentenary

    2nd Place: John Quinn – Never Break the Chain

    3rd Place: Wendy Fitzgerald – Beauty’s Rose

    Highly Commended: Rosie Sutcliffe and David Lea 

     

    1st – Jane Austen’s Bicentenary by Lynda Lawrence

    2017 will be the bicentenary of Jane Austen’s death.

    A few days after Jane died, her sister Cassandra wrote to their cousin:

    “She was the sun of my life, the guilder of every pleasure, the soother of every sorrow, I had not a thought concealed from her, it is as if I had lost a part of myself.”

    This letter could form the basis of a radio production that explores the more intimate relationships that Jane Austen had with her sister, family and also with the place where she lived – her beloved Chawton, where she wrote the majority of her novels.

    The production could explore:

    – Jane’s day-to-day life, her visits to her brother at Chawton House and how she connected to the broader community.

    – The impact of her death on Cassandra and those close to her, how they mourned and the probable causes of her death.

    – Interviews with Jane Austen experts, well known writers and actors who have played her characters.

    – Jane’s connection with Winchester and her burial in Winchester cathedral.

    – The impact of her writing on successive generations and as an important part of literary education.

    – Events to mark the bicentenary.

    2nd – Never Break the Chain by John Quinn

    This proposal is to tell the story of the Isle of Wight’s fascinating and anachronistic floating-bridge, as it bangs close its metal safety gates and clanks its underwater chains for the last time after 168 years of service to Prince and pauper.

    Both the nation’s sailing capital and the door to the Isle of Wight, Cowes grew along the banks of the River Medina, but has never boasted a bridge.

    Instead it has relied upon the chain ferry, as much part of the island’s DNA as the Needles, to join its two halves and keep the island’s economy alive.

    A sleek, modern, diesel-powered ferry replaces it in 2017 and will ensure commuters are dry and warm, delivery vans have a speedy connection and holiday makers no longer endure the infamous ferry queues. It will be nothing like its wind-blown, noisy, dirty and charming predecessors.

    With a linking narrator and wealth of archive audio, new atmospheric sounds from the busy, working river and interviews with past and present ferry captains, commuters, holiday makers and business owners we can bring its history, and future, alive in a charming but insightful and compelling feature.

    3rd – Beauty’s Rose by Wendy Fitzgerald

    An hour long programme exploring the highly contradictory and controversial life of Henry Wriothesley: 3rd Earl of Southampton – Tudor/Stuart man of mystery, intrigue and action.

    In the style of a Journalist report on ‘the life of’ … with experts and interviews.

    “See his monument in Titchfield Church; his home, the romantic Titchfield Abbey. Walk his canal to the Haven. Look for the ‘Iron Mill’ names, after his works.

    Who really was the Earl of Southampton?

    The Fair Youth of Shakespeare’s Sonnets? What exactly was his relationship to the Bard? Jailed in the Fleet for eloping with Elizabeth’s lady-in-waiting; co-conspirator of the Essex Rebellion – who persuaded the Queen to spare him, whilst Essex and the other rebels were executed? Why did King James free him from the Tower on his accession? Why was he re-arrested in 1604?

    Colonialist, industrialist, canal-builder: he tried to enrich Titchfield – but they burnt his effigy at their carnivals. Handsome, favoured courtier – but hated by many, including the King’s favourite, Buckingham. Patron and lover of literature, poetry and plays – yet hardened soldier, serving in Ireland and Holland, dying there with his son.

    Enter his rich exciting world – and decide for yourself!”

    Highly Commended

    A Head Of Plaited Hair by Rosie Sutcliffe

    I would like to offer a fifteen minute, local interest radio play inspired by the fascinating and unusual artefact on display at Romsey Abbey.

    This is a head of plaited hair, long, lustrous, beautiful auburn hair, discovered in a lead coffin in 1839, having survived the skeleton and any other remains of the lady that it once adorned, believed to have lived in mid to late Saxon period.

    Through a one act, four scene play I will attempt to bring to life this woman, using historical evidence with some speculation to shed light upon this amazing local mystery.

    Scene one introduces two local teenagers entering the abbey reluctantly to embark upon a history project they are drawn to the macabre yet beautiful hair and quiz the local churchwarden.

    Scene two involves the three key characters involved in the discovery of the lead coffin and its bizarre contents, the moment of discovery.

    Scene three is a speculative reconstruction of how the Saxon lady may have lived, who she was and how she died.

    Scene four brings us back to present day, highlighting how the history around us still impacts and touches us today.

    A Hampshire Retreat by David Lea

    There is a meadow near Twyford that slopes down to a valley and which contains the remains of an iron-age settlement. At the top of the meadow is a Victorian reservoir comprised of huge cisterns that are mostly underground: cavernous, domes of brick swirling in precise arcs from floor to ceiling and back to floor again.

    In the 1980s the reservoir was converted into a bunker for the great and good of Hampshire in the event of a nuclear war. It is made of reinforced concrete and has blast-proof doors, air locks, showers and decontamination rooms.

    A company that analysed virus threats to nationwide computer systems used the building after it was decommissioned in 1997, but it is now home to The Natural Death Centre, which specialises in non-religious funerals. Permission has recently been given to develop the site as a dwelling.

    The programme would tell the story of the building and its immediate environment, of the people who built it, of those who have used it in the past and of those will take it into the future. It would use scripted speech, interview and soundscape. The ¼ hour after World at One on Radio 4 would be ideal.

     

     

     

  • June 2016 Competition Results

    It has been a pleasure working with Adrienne Dines, our adjudicator for June. The time between the dead-line and the event was generous which allowed Adrienne to read and comment on your entries, she was even kind enough to choose two commended and has also shared her observations for them. There were 21 entries this month.

    Adrienne’s individual comments can be read below with the winning entries. The winners are:

    1st Prize: ‘For The Dead and The Living’ by Mari Thomas

    2nd Prize: ‘A Lovers Reunion’ by Kristin Tridimas

    3rd Prize: ‘Waiting’ by Andrea Parr

    Commended:

    ‘Lovers Reunion’ by Wendy Fitzgerald

    ‘Peter and Karen’ by Scratch

    We feel that we have been asking a lot from our adjudicators as the entry cut-off date and the event are sometimes very close, so please note that from September the cut-off date will be noon on the 25th of the previous month. Also, to keep the competition fair, entries will be restricted to one entry per member. Don’t forget to read the full competition rules on our website.

    Enjoy the summer and keep writing,

    Sharon

     

    1st Place:

    For The Dead And The Living by Mari Thomas             

    Adrienne Dines: “Written in second person, this is very skilful storytelling. The reader is forced to feel every tense moment as our heroine approaches her reunion. We don’t know the nature of their relationship but we can feel the damage it caused her and we worry for her now. Skilful use of pacing to keep us waiting, wonderful strong voice. This was a clear winner for me.”

    You are sitting in the most uncomfortable chair of your life, the metal digging into your shoulder blades. Sweaty hands clench into fists; you have to force yourself not to fiddle with your clothes.

    Opposite you, two court bailiffs are staring you down. You miss Sally, your contact from the UKPPS, but you know she can’t be here. Too much publicity. Too high a chance that she’ll become the lynch pin in someone else’s carefully crafted fake life.

    Inhale. Exhale. You can do this.

    The door opens. You’re beckoned forward. You go.

    So this is it – the final call to arms. A battle of suits and jargon and you are the centre fighter. The king on the chessboard. You end the game.

    This is, you realise, the most important thing you will ever do.

    With each successive step, you can feel yourself regressing, falling back into your old identity. You dyed your hair blond for this, you remember, and it itches at your scalp.

    You’ll feel better when it’s brown again.

    He’s the very first thing you see when you enter the courtroom. You wonder if he has a new lover now, if he has someone else to smear with blood and kiss in the middle of his self-created carnage. You wonder if he’s found another person to tear apart.

    You take your seat.

    As you state your name and date of birth for the record, he stares at you. His eyes are wide, as if he never saw this coming. Good. You hope it’s unexpected. You hope he never forgets this moment. You hope it feels like the worst sort of betrayal.

    “And what,” asks the prosecutor, “is your relationship to the accused?”

    You look out at the courtroom. Take a deep breath.

    “He’s my husband.”

     

    2nd Place:

    A Lovers’ Reunion by Kristin Tridimas

    Adrienne Dines: “The tension between the exterior and interior voice works perfectly in this story. In a few carefully chosen words and phrases the whole backstory is filled in and we don’t need to know what happens afterwards, only that our heroine will not fall prey to this Lothario again. Beautiful controlled writing.”

    “May I introduce Paul Armstrong,” says the vice-consul and she slides away, her duty done.

    I recognise him straight away: tall, erect, ice-blue eyes, his dark hair now silver at the temples. The slightly cruel twist of his mouth caused by a tiny scar; the result of a childhood accident. He stands out from the small group of talkers. And even after twenty years, I find my heart beats faster and my palms feel cold with sweat.

    “We’ve met.” I give my professional smile, perfected over the years: neutral, dispassionate, efficient.

    In a bar. Or a nightclub. I forget.

    I hold out my hand. For the briefest second my skin touches his and I look into the blue of his eyes.

    Flesh on flesh; thigh on thigh; his lips on mine. The sweet smell of pheromones mixed with aftershave.

    “It’s been a while,” he says and the warm blanket of his voice has deepened. His eyes send coded messages.

    Someone in the group says something. I respond, an automaton; I know the protocol.

    “What are you doing now?” I ask Paul as soon as I can, the measured politeness in my voice disguising my curiosity.

    I never really knew what he did. It didn’t matter.

    My brain whirrs. I should move on, forget him.

    Secret kisses. Snatched moments. Anonymous hotel rooms.

    “This and that.” He smiles and his scar stretches into oblivion. “I import British shoes. They’re very popular here.”

    I sense a familiar frisson of danger.

    I didn’t find out he was married until I was already in too deep.

    “And look at you, Celia,” he says. Haven’t you done well?”

    I nod; smile politely. False modesty. I’m proud of where I’ve got.

    Right on cue, there’s a low murmur in my ear. “Ambassador?”

     

    3rd Place:

    Waiting by Andrea Parr

    Adrienne Dines: “Lovely romantic reunion. The backstory is fed into the woman’s waiting and her pregnancy is hidden until he acknowledges it. We are given clues – the to milky tea, her discomfort – but we have to wait for the ‘ah ha’ moment to realise. A good example of showing, not telling! I particularly liked how this writer varied her sentence lengths to control the tension.”

    Her tea was too milky. One tasteless sip and she left the cup, a pink smear of lipstick on its paper rim. No matter how she shifted, she couldn’t get comfortable. The seat was too hard, too plastic. Switching her gaze between the arrivals board and her book made her neck ache. With a snap, she closed it. She couldn’t concentrate on reading anyway.

    Eight months, two weeks, five days since she’d last seen him.

    “I have to go,” he’d said. “I’m a doctor. I help people.”

    And her. Infantile, selfish. “It doesn’t help me.”

    She twisted her fingers. Glanced up at the clock. Rechecked her phone.

    His flight number inched upwards. Long before it reached the top, she moved to the barrier, the metal cold under her grip.

    People streamed in from the arrivals hall, piled luggage obscuring each other. So many, her heart raced until his familiar figure finally appeared. Tousled brown hair, rumpled from the flight. A slight frown creasing his face as his eyes slid anxiously over the crowd.

    When he saw her, he stopped. The crowd flowed around him. Like the sun dawning, a slow smile spread across his face. In two strides he was pulling her close, careful not to crush her against the barrier.

    “I was so scared you wouldn’t wait.”

    “Of course we waited.”

    Almost too quiet to hear, he said,

    “I’m sorry I left you.”

    He’d gone because he needed to. She understood that; she accepted it. She smiled as he bent to face the full moon of her belly.

    “Your daddy promises he won’t go again.”

    Tangling her hands in his hair, she tugged his head up. His breath whispered warm against her cheek.

    “I love you so much.”

    Her mouth found his. That was good enough for her.

     

    Commended:

    Lovers Reunion by Wendy Fitzgerald:

    Adrienne Dines: “Lovely complete story with an ending that suggests there is life afterwards – absolutely what a short story should do.  The characters (particularly hers) are well drawn. We know that they will stay together and she will be the stronger. His love for her is captured in a couple of killer lines!”

    He had trudged endlessly beside his father, leaving behind angry bombs, jagged buildings and the broken bodies of his mother and sister. Hunger and exhaustion were constant companions across lands and angry seas; the makeshift sprawling camp a welcome haven.

    He recognised Lili immediately. Tousled dark curls, light grey eyes and the scent of home. They became inseparable.

    ‘Tomas, we must attend the school,’ she told him. ‘Education is everything, even for girls! History to learn from; science for our future, languages to talk! Besides, it’s warm there, and there is always food!’

    He went because he would have gone with Lili anywhere. It became their refuge, their playground, their home.

    Until:

    ‘We’re leaving, Tomas. We go to Germany, to distant family.’ Tears streamed down dusty cheeks, whilst a sickening abyss opened up before him. ‘Promise me you will keep learning. Look,’ she pointed to the battered globe, ‘the capital Berlin. Meet me there when we are grown!’

    ‘But how, and where, Lili? Cities are big!’

    ‘There’s a ‘Brandenberg Gate,’ she said carefully. ‘Midday, the first of January, every year after we turn eighteen. Auf wiedersehen, dearest Tomas!’

    She hugged him tightly, fiercely; he felt warm soft lips fleetingly brush his mouth; then she was gone.

    Desolate, homeless again, he complied. He worked tirelessly, driven; maths to afford a better life, precious languages to talk. And here he was full-grown: thin, serious, shyly handsome, in Berlin. Waiting.

    It was bitterly cold, but he perspired with fear. Would she come – that girl he had once lived for? Would he recognise her? Could life ever be that kind?

    Then – a slight figure with dark curls hurtled towards him, his name on her lips; laughing as she launched herself into his arms. Familiar, and unfamiliar, all at once – but she smelt of home.

     

    Commended:

    ‘Peter and Karen’ by Scratch

    Adrienne Dines: “Voice, voice, voice. We were straight into the head of this cool teenager with his patter and his vinyls. The opening was particularly strong. I’d like to see this continues as a longer story – staying in the past as the relationship develops.”

    I pretended I liked the Bee Gees but I was really into Motorhead and Punk. On Wednesday afternoon I’d bunked off maths, nicked a copy of God Save the Queen from Menzies, and hid it in my wardrobe. I was going to play it for Karen on Saturday afternoon when my mam was out but then couldn’t find it amongst the junk. It didn’t matter because we got distracted. It was the first time we’d been as distracted as that. Karen had been doing ballet since forever, so sidelining Lemmy for Barry Gibb was a price worth paying.

    We’d started going out on sports day when Anne-Marie Rigby collapsed onto the parched grass after winning the 1500m. Her pounding stomach was mesmerising. She’d her legs bent and was too gassed to realize that every lad in my form could see the curly black pubes sprouting from either side of her maroon knickers. Karen followed me over to the long-jump pit and asked why I’d moved. I told her it didn’t seem right to gawk at someone like that, she smiled and that was it. Love.

    *

    “Peter, someone who knew you from school rang”. My mam explained about the planned reunion.

    When I got there everyone looked the same, just 20 years older. I stood at the bar wondering about Karen, then a voice behind me. ‘Pete, it’s me, Kaz,’ she looked different but her smile was still the same, ‘I’m glad you turned up, I’ve something that belongs to you…’ she held out The Sex Pistols single, ‘I shouldn’t have taken it. Sorry. Probably worth a fortune now.’

    ‘It’s funny how some things appreciate over time, Kaz. You married?’

    ‘Divorced. You?

    ‘Still single,’ I held up the record, ‘tell you what, let’s see if they’ll play it for us.’

     

  • May 2016 Competition Results

    Emma Scattergood, Senior Lecturer in School of Journalism, English and Communication at University of Bournemouth and also Editorial Director of Fresher Publishing kindly stepped in as our adjudicator for May. The number of entries this month was 18.

    Emma’s comments are below with the winning entries but her choice of winners is:

     

    1st Place

    ‘The Surgeon’s Mate’ by Louise Morrish

    2nd Place

    ‘The Silver Thread’ by Louise Morrish

    3rd Place

    ‘Occitan Jewel’ by Amicia Bentley

     

    Highly Commended:

    Amanda McCarthy – On the Parish and W Fitzgerald – Denial.

     

    Next month’s competition is:

    Write a lovers’ reunion (300 words)

    The adjudicator will be Adrienne Dines – author and creative writing tutor.

    Please remember that I have set up an automatic reply informing that your work has got through but I will come back to you ASAP if anything is wrong with your entry.

    Keep writing,

    Sharon

     

    1st Place

    The Surgeon’s Mate by Louise Morrish

    Emma Scattergood: “This piece pushed the idea of a steamy love story to its limits! It was fast paced, exciting and full of peril. The final sentence both rounded the story off nicely and pointed forwards to a possible continuation. If I had my way, this would be expanded into a full-length piece – I’d love to read that and learn more about the characters and their backgrounds.”

     

    DOWN on the orlop deck, the fetid air stank of bilge water and blood. Holding my breath, I watched as the ship’s surgeon, Mr Vivez, rootled amongst the bottles in his medicine chest. ‘Glaubert’s Salts… Spirit of Hartshorn…’ he muttered to himself. ‘Tincture of Opium…’

    Hurry up! I willed him.

    On the operating table – two sea-chests laid end to end, with a sheet of sailcloth stretched over them – Tyler lay moaning, his shattered leg covered in blood. Here, deep in the bowels of the ship, only Vivez and I could hear him.

    The surgeon scraped a finger round his ear, inspecting the tip for wax. His fingernails were long and yellowed, like slivers of horn. Then he turned to me. ‘The leg’ll have to come off,’ he stated, opening a case containing knives and a bonesaw, blades peppered with rust, the sight of which near buckled my knees.

    ‘What about this, sir?’ I stammered, holding up the screw-tourniquet, a length of leather with a brass screw attached. Vivez faced me square, his gaze pinning me, needlesharp. Beneath the gloomy light of the candle lantern, his glinting eye seemed to see right through my skull, into my terror-addled mind.

    ‘New-fangled rubbish,’ Vivez declared.

    ‘But Tyler’s bleeding to death, sir…’

    ‘Laudanum and rum, that’s all he needs, I tell you.’

    ‘But listen, sir! If we can cut-off the circulation with the screw before we amputate the leg, Tyler stands a chance of living…’

    ‘He’ll live till he dies.’

    Vivez was nothing but a glorified butcher, I realised.

    I took a steadying breath, and felt the planks heave beneath my feet.

    ‘With all due respect, sir,’ I swallowed. ‘I think you are wrong.’

    Before Vivez could stop me, I slipped the leather strap round Tyler’s bloodied thigh, and cinched it tight.

     

    2nd Place

    The Silver Thread by Louise Morrish

    Emma Scattergood: “Here is a writer who, in just 300 words, gives us not only conflict and resolution but also a strong sense of character and the challenges with the narrator faces now and in the future. Whispering already below the surface are questions about the narrator’s relationship with her husband, her ability to cope so far from home, and whether this one conflict will only lead to another and yet another. Here is a woman under pressure – and I want to know what happens to her!”

     

    EVERYTHING changes in a heartbeat. One moment, my husband has the bible open on the lid of the chest, his ragged fingernail pointing out a passage to the chief; the next, men are shouting, and the chief’s guards are aiming their spears at our throats.

    ‘What did you say?’ I whisper to Jeremiah. Not for the first time, I wish he had left the conversing to me. While he has been preaching and pontificating these past weeks, I have sat with expectant mothers, tended the sick and wounded, bestowed scraps of ribbon and buttons on the feral children. Slowly, gently, I have nurtured these people’s trust. But if Jeremiah isn’t careful, all our efforts will soon lie trampled in the cowry shells that cover the floor of the chief’s hut.

    ‘Exodus, verse twenty,’ Jeremiah mutters. ‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me. Perhaps it’s advisable to leave now, Elizabeth…’

    But where would we go, I want to cry. The natives know every nook and cranny of this island; there’s nowhere to hide. I glance at my bare feet, half buried in the tiny, porcelain shells shining like glass in the firelight. It has grown so very hot in here.

    Silently, the chief points a long, brown finger at my necklace. My own fingers instinctively reach for the fine, knotwork Celtic cross hanging from its silver chain. The natives have long coveted my necklace; their dark eyes flash whenever they catch a glimpse of the intricate design. It is like nothing they have seen before, for all the beauty of their island.

    ‘Give it to him, Elizabeth,’ Jeremiah hisses.

    He has never liked me wearing the heathen sign.

    I fumble to unclasp the chain, my hand shaking as I offer the chief the thin, silver thread connecting me with home.

     

    3rd Place

    Occitan Jewel by Amicia Bentley

    Emma Scattergood: “This is clearly an extract from the heart of a novel, so we are left to surmise the details and extent of the narrator’s dilemma, but the portrayal of the domestic scene, as the narrator wrestled with a solution, is engaging and we get a real sense of her resourcefulness as she tries to craft a meal from a near empty fridge. I particularly liked the silent presence of the mother here, and the suggestion of this being a quieter yet maybe equally significant pressure upon the protagonist also.”

    ADELINE patted her mother’s hand and quietly left her side.

    In the kitchen, she found that there was not much in the larder, just a chunk of stale bread and a few over ripe tomatoes. Taking a sliver of garlic she wiped it along the breads surface and then cut everything into small pieces. In a large bowl she combined it all together with her hands, letting the red juice soften the bread. Her movements were disconnected from her thoughts and everything she did was functional. The shocking events of the day were beginning to sink in and she found herself going over everything that had happened in her mind, trying to piece it all together. When she had finished mixing, she cleaned her hands in the sink and wiped them on the side of her apron. It was then that she remembered the Occitan cross, coiled deep within her skirt pocket.

    Of course, she thought, if she sold the cross it would be more than enough for Simon’s Hospital fees. Then she stopped, her face fell and the idea diminished. The cross did not belong to her; she knew that Claudia was its rightful owner and where to find her. Regrettably, Adeline realised that she could never bring herself to use the jewels value, knowing that she had stolen it. She felt the cool metal with her fingers and the image of Monsieur Lauzier’s glowing hat and Claudia’s liquid eyes full of pain came flooding back. She promised herself there and then that she would keep the pendent safe until she could find the time to return it.

    Adeline picked up the bowls of food and took them into the main room. Silently she gave one to her mother, who just held it on her lap and did not attempt to lift the fork.

  • Allie Spencer and April Competition Results

    It was a pleasure to welcome Allie Spencer as our adjudicator for April. She is the author of Tug of Love, which won best debut novel, Romantic Novelists’ Association.

    It seems that many of you were too shy to write romance, the number of entries this month was only 18.

    Allie assured me that she enjoyed reading them all. Her comments are below with the winning entries but her choice of winners is:

     

    1st Place

    NIGHT AMBUSH by ANGELA CHADWICK

    2nd Place

    SECRETS by MARI THOMAS

    3rd Place

    STEAMPUNK LOVE by SUE SPIERS

    Highly Commended

    A STEAMY LOVE STORY by JOHN QUINN

    Next month’s competition is:

    Write the narrative of a viewpoint character in a historical novel solving a conflict. (300 words)

    The adjudicator will be Dr. Peter Middleton, Senior Lecturer, English, University of Southampton.

    Please remember that I have set up an automatic reply informing that your work has got through but I will come back to you ASAP if anything is wrong with your entry.

    Keep writing,

    Sharon

     

    1st Place

    NIGHT AMBUSH by ANGELA CHADWICK

    Allie Spencer: ‘This piece pushed the idea of a steamy love story to its limits! It was fast paced, exciting and full of peril. The final sentence both rounded the story off nicely and pointed forwards to a possible continuation. If I had my way, this would be expanded into a full-length piece – I’d love to read that and learn more about the characters and their backgrounds.’

    Lily opened her eyes to darkness. The explosion, when it came, rocked the campbed. The door of the cell crashed open and a guard grabbed her, hauling her upright.

    “Vite! Vite!” he screamed dragging her along. She staggered into an inferno of gunfire. A thud, a gasp and the guard was gone. Lily dropped and lay still. Quiet came, someone moving close.

    A voice like honey said, “Who the fuck are you?”

    “Lily.”

    “English?”

    “Yes.”

    “Stay here!”

    Three lifetimes passed until he returned.

    “You hurt?”

    “No.”

    “Good. Let’s go.”

    “Where?”

    “Anywhere but here, love. It’s wired to blow. Walk where I walk. Keep up.”

    Lily crashed along, desperate not to be left. Hour upon hour, ache upon ache.

    He halted.

    “We wait here,” he commanded. “Chopper will be here before dawn.”

    She was shaking, exhausted body and soul.

    “Eat this,” he said. The chocolate helped, his arms held her, the shaking eased. She could smell him, feel the strength of his body.

    “Are they gone?” she asked.

    “They’re all dead. We came for the comms link,” his voice caught, “We weren’t expecting you and your guards.”

    She reached her hands up to his face, kissed him. She felt him respond. She moved on top of him and there on the jungle floor they gave each other what comfort they could. Later she held him, as he had held her.

    The helicopter crew asked, “Who the fuck is this?”

    “Lily Johnson, the missing aid worker,” he answered, as he handed her in.

    Lily opened her eyes to light. She prayed for her SAS saviour, just like every morning. Then she turned her head to the picture of Paul, grinning in his scrubs, and last night’s engagement ring.

    Her mobile rang. A voice like honey said, “Hello, Lily.”

    2nd Place

    SECRETS by MARI THOMAS

    Allie Spencer: ‘I’ve chosen this primarily for its incredibly tight structure. The running refrain of ‘a secret’ punctuates the piece, making it hang together and pushing it forward at the same time. The effect of such a powerful device in such a short piece of writing is to turn the prose into a kind of poetry. Superbly written.’

    “Hey, Adam. Tell me a secret.”

    “No.”

    “What? C’mon, I told you one of mine.”

    “The fact that you suck at hockey isn’t a secret, dumbass.”

    “That’s not what I—”

    Adam says, “Evan.”

    Evan stops.

    “Shut up.” And he reaches across to crush their lips together.

     

    “Hey, Adam,” Evan gasps out between moans. “Tell me a secret.”

    “Do you ever shut up?” Adam growls into his neck, teeth catching on flesh.

    Evan huffs a laugh as they break apart, pulling off his shirt. “Never.”

     

    Adam is hiding. Evan finds him anyway.

    “Hey, Adam,” Evan greets with a grin. He throws a cooled bottle of water at Adam’s head. “Tell me a secret.”

    Adam snatches the bottle out of the air. “This place,” he snarls, “was supposed to be one.”

    But Evan just smiles.

    

    Evan holds Adam close, fingers drumming Für Elise into the bare skin of his chest. “Hey, Adam,” he says quietly. “Tell me a secret.”
    

    “You’re an idiot.”
    

    “That’s not a secret.”
    

    “I’m an idiot.”
    

    “Neither,” Evan says, a touch gentler, and Für Elise merges into Minuet in G, “is that.”
    

     
    

    “Hey, Adam. Tell me a secret.”
    

    He kisses him instead.
    

    “Hey, Adam. Tell—”
    

    He sticks his hand down the front of Evan’s trousers.
    

     
    

    “Hey, Adam—”
    

    Adam doesn’t look up from his hunt for his shirt. “Fuck off.”
    

    Evan’s grin is savage. “Unfortunately, we already did that—”
    

    Adam can’t take it anymore. “Why won’t you leave me alone?” he demands. “Why are you—you’re always here, always asking that stupid question—it’s nothing, Evan.” His voice cracks. “It means nothing.”
    

    Walk away, Evan.
    

    Evan doesn’t. “Hey, Adam,” he says and his voice lilts in that way that makes Adam want to punch something. “Want me to tell you a secret?”
    

    3rd Place
    

    STEAMPUNK LOVE by SUE SPIERS 
    

    Allie Spencer: ‘I chose this because it is genuinely memorable: it hung round in my brain for days after I’d read it. The images it creates are both intriguing and powerful. They have a strong visual resonance. The hypnotic, half-poetic style of the writing both complements the other-worldliness of the setting and helps to invoke it. A fabulous exercise of the imagination.’
    

    She was beautiful, hidden by her clockwork mask
    

    Its lenses magnifying her hazel eyes, always wary,
    

    Like an airship butterfly taking wing at any slight air.
    

     
    

    She saw him step from the Galveston Torpedo
    

    as a burst of steam engulfed him from the city’s engine,
    

    his great-coat flapping wildly in the jet, top-hat tipsy.
    

     
    

    Her Uncle’s handshake marked him for the company,
    

    soon uniformed in the Shackledoom livery, him unique:
    

    un-automated, whole animal, fascinatingly full-human.
    

     
    

    She spied him from her window, visiting her Uncle,
    

    risked half undress while her gramophone played,
    

    her golden corsets concealing barely breathing ribs.
    

     
    

    Their eyes met, she sensed a stillness; time-halt
    

    when all relationships are possible in that instant,
    

    when only movement is impossible in that moment.
    

     
    

    He brought flowers and her Uncle sent him gone.
    

    He brought a tiny hare of brass and taxidermy fur.
    

    Her Uncle told him, ‘stay absent’, threatened harm.
    

     
    

    Tears rusted the workings of her mouth, she oiled
    

    the hinges of her lips, but her human heart failed
    

    or seemed to stop its beating until she willed it on.
    

     
    

    In secret they met, too-brief hours when friends
    

    left them talking, falling, stroking, making sparks
    

    ‘til alarm calls sent them bolting to opposite exits.
    

     
    

    Of course the Uncle, suspicious, discovered them,
    

    furious ructions and the powerful man sent ruffians
    

    after the flesh-bound gallant, crushed by steel.
    

     
    

    She stole away his pulped body to a blacksmith,
    

    ordered the finest bronze-nickel to mend his limbs,
    

    delicate automation of more intimate conditions.
    

     
    

    In the lovers’ like-built bodies the Uncle’s objections
    

    faded like the hiss of the Galveston Torpedo’s whistle.
    

    Their human hearts were left to weld a life together.
    

     
    

    Highly Commended:
    

    A STEAMY LOVE STORY – JOHN QUINN 
    

    Allie Spencer: ‘This piece was chosen because it works on so many levels: it is warm, funny, human, poignant, sad and also strangely hopeful. It had very strong echoes of Alan Bennett’s work and the attention to detail, like Bennett’s writing, was beautiful – even down to the way Thelma uses the eiderdown (of which her husband would have approved) rather than a duvet (which he would not) to assist in her suicide attempt. Again, this is a piece of writing which could be extended to full length and would undoubtedly produce a very strong and moving story.’
    

    If asked Thelma would deny it.
    

    But, like many widows and widowers, she takes solace in talking to her husband, despite him being underground for nigh on 20 years. ‘Oh, that damn electric kettle, why I let David get me one I’ll never know. You never would’ve, Harry.’
    

    Thelma opens the cupboard under the sink, roots around for a while and pulls out an old, slightly battered kettle. She half fills it from the cold tap, pushes on the whistling lid and places the kettle on the stove with a welcoming clatter. The gas ignites with a whoosh.
    

    She pulls her old, thick, pink, cotton dressing gown more closely around her. ‘But that’s sons for you. Always doing what’s best, even when it isn’t.’
    

    Thelma picks up the tea cloth, likes she does every morning while the kettle boils, and absentmindedly wipes the copper frame holding the photo of Harry wearing his ill-fitting, double-breasted, demob suit and a smile almost as wide.
    

    The warm, furry slippers shuffle back into the bedroom of the tired bungalow. Thelma pulls the eiderdown from the bed. ‘You never would have one of those continental quilts would you, Harry? “Nothing foreign in this house,” you said, knowing full well they’re made in Huddersfield. You did make me laugh!’
    

    Easing slowly down onto the kitchen floor, so not to startle the arthritis in her knees, Thelma sits, likes she’s about to pray, in front of the old oven. She pulls open the oven door and slides out the trays.
    

    She turns the gas on but does not push the ignition button. Instead her head enters the oven and she awkwardly pulls the eiderdown around her shoulders to form a plug. ‘Soon be with you Harry, my love.’
    

    The kettle starts to whistle.