Hampshire Writers' Society

Tag: winners

  • March Competition: Winners and Simon Trewin’s Adjudication

    It was a pleasure to welcome Simon Trewin, Head of the London Literary Department of William Morris Endeavours as our adjudicator for March. Simon kindly stepped in when Becky Bagnell had a family emergency.

    The number of entries this month was back to a more manageable number, at 27.

    I am sure that all of the entrants are thrilled to know that Simon cast his expert eye over their work, a wonderful experience even if they didn’t win. Read Simon’s comments and the winning entries below. His choice of winners is:

    1st Place

    HOME TO ROOST by DAVID LEA

    2nd Place

    VOYAGE AROUND MY HEART by LOUISE MORRISH

    3rd Place

    FAMILY MATTERS by JUSTIN STRAIN

    Highly Commended:

    FIREBALLS by GILL HOLLANDS

    BRITISH LAWNS AN OVERVIEW by CHRISTOPHER YOUNG

    Congratulations to all.

    Next months competition is:

     

    Write a steamy love story. (300 words)

     

    The adjudicator will be Alison Spencer, author of Tug of Love, best debut novel, Romantic Novelists’ Association.

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

    Keep writing,

    Sharon

     

    1st Place

    Simon Trewin: ‘This felt instantly intriguing and that the author understood the genre from the inside out. HOE TO ROOST sounds like the sort of book as a consumer I would gladly pick off the shelves’

     

    HOME TO ROOST by DAVID LEA

    ‘Home To Roost’ is a Police Procedural set in Hampshire. The story opens with the discovery of a body at a chicken farm – a young woman’s leg wearing a man’s Argyll pattern sock protrudes from the surface of a slurry pit.

    The victim, Christiane, is French.

    DCI James Gawthorpe leads the enquiry and is attached to the Serious Crime Investigation Unit based in Winchester. Gawthorpe is approaching his fiftieth birthday and the people he has to deal with rarely surprise him any more, whether criminal or police. He has a greyhound called Putin.

    Gawthorpe meets PC Effie Makepeace at the scene of the crime. She is thirty-three years old and of mixed race. She is also extremely bright and very attractive. She went to school at Cheltenham Ladies College and speaks with an upper-middle-class English accent. She has joined the police under the auspices of the Police High Potential Development Scheme. All of the above can result in her attracting jealousy, suspicion and prejudice, both inside and outside the force. She also speaks fluent French and Gawthorpe needs her expertise.

    As the investigation progresses there is no shortage of possible culprits and they all appear to at have least one of the usual motives – lust, greed, pride, envy and jealousy. Most of them have interconnected lives and motives. Most are also known to Roger Humphry.

    Humphry is a grotesquely obese and deeply unhappy man who lives in a large house overlooking the farm. He is a consultant in the technology of surveillance and has hacked into the phones and computers of many of the suspects. He seems to have had a particular interest in Christiane. Effie agrees to meet him and we then fear that she could become the next victim. However, Roger commits suicide, leaving evidence that helps lead to the arrest of the actual murderer.

    Although its setting is ‘cosy’, it is realistic in style and references a number of gritty contemporary issues. Apart from ‘whodunit’, the main plot interest is in the development of the major characters and, in particular, the relationship between Gawthorpe and Effie.

     

    2nd Place

    Simon Trewin: ‘This is bold, ambitious and multi-layered. I knew nothing about Jeanne Baret and this synopsis makes me very intrigued indeed as to how the novel will unfold.’

     

    VOYAGE AROUND MY HEART by LOUISE MORRISH

    Inspired by true events, ‘A Voyage about My Heart’ is set in the 18th Century and tells the story of Jeanne Baret, the first woman to circumnavigate the globe.

    When Jeanne, a humble French herbalist, meets ambitious botanist, Philibert Commerson, the course of her life takes an extraordinary turn.

    Commerson is compiling a grand herbarium, a collection of every plant in France, and desires Jeanne’s herbal knowledge. Working closely together, they soon become lovers. But when Jeanne falls pregnant, Commerson, intent on completing his life’s work, forces her to abandon the baby in a foundling hospital.

    Clinging to the hope that she will be able to reclaim her baby one day, Jeanne stitches a keepsake into the child’s clothes; a muslin bag of carefully chosen herbs, symbolizing a secret message of love for her son.

    But the baby dies within months.

    Heartbroken, Jeanne believes she has little to live for. Within weeks, Commerson accepts a position as Ship’s Naturalist on a voyage of exploration around the world, and asks Jeanne to accompany him as his assistant. Seeking to escape her grief and guilt, and with nothing left to lose, she agrees. Disguised as Commerson’s cabin boy, Jeanne sets sail on the Etoile, a lone woman amongst three hundred men.

    The crew are suspicious of her, particularly the ship’s surgeon, Vives. Over the next two years Jeanne travels uncharted waters, visiting exotic lands and discovering new plants.

    But then the voyage runs into misfortune. Jeanne suffers an assault by Vives, and her secret is discovered.

    When the Etoile reaches Mauritius, Jeanne realises she is pregnant. Commerson leaves the ship to work for Pierre Poivre, the administrator of Mauritius and a keen horticulturist. Desperate to escape Vives, Jeanne chooses to stay with Commerson, continuing as his assistant.

    Jeanne gives birth to a girl, Stella, but soon after, Commerson dies from an infection. His Will leaves Jeanne enough money to live on, if she can return to France to claim it within a year. Jeanne sells herbal remedies to raise money for her passage home, and finally sets sail for France with Stella.

     

    3rd Place

    Simon Trewin: ‘This is a compelling premise for a novel and the synopsis fills me with a hunger to know more.’

    FAMILY MATTERS by JUSTIN STRAIN

    Steven’s family has a secret.

    When Steven’s grandfather dies, his family is shocked to learn of an unknown granddaughter, Stella, who lives tucked away in a quiet Cornish village. Compelled to learn more, and searching for a change in his own life, Steven moves to Cornwall to meet Stella.

    As Steven and Stella’s relationship grows, Steven begins to understand his history from a different perspective. He unearths the long-buried secret of Stella’s grandmother, Margaret, a wartime heroine, in Nazi-occupied France. Through flashbacks and letters, Margaret’s story gradually unfolds, revealing more about her clandestine work for the Special Operations Executive and her London romance with Steven and Stella’s grandfather, at the time a young seaman in the Royal Navy.

    The revelations shake Steven’s beliefs and force him to reconsider his own family ties. Stella confronts him with his estrangement from his sister, his mother and his dying father, and challenges him to rebuild those relationships. Initially reluctant, he comes to realise how much they matter to him. As they begin to forge fragile bonds, Steven learns to accept his family, with both their virtues and their flaws, and to recognise his own responsibility for the divisions between them.

    For Stella also, the revelations have far-reaching consequences. As her anonymity dissolves, she is drawn inexorably into the lives of her new-found family. She too begins to question the safety and comfort of her old life and to embrace a changing future, laying to rest her mother’s disastrous marriage and eventual suicide, and coming to terms with her own mental fragilities.

    As the novel reaches its climax, Steven and his family confront their differences and the reality of his father’s cancer. A chance meeting with an old friend forces Steven to choose between his self-contained safety and the emotional gamble of committing to a relationship. Meanwhile, Stella discovers the story of Celeste and her brief but passionate love affair with Margaret. Past and present collide in Stella’s old family friend, Irene, and the tragic truth of Margaret’s life, loves and death is finally laid bare.

  • February Competition: Winners and Jude Evans’ Adjudication

     

    We were very fortunate to welcome Jude Evans from Little Tiger Press as our adjudicator for February.

    The number of entries has grown again this month and was an amazing 42!

    Jude’s involvement inspired many members to enter more than once. I was amused by the titles of some of the pieces but I’m sure Jude chose the winners with an expert eye. Jude’s comments are below, her choice of winners is:

    1st Place

    Sophie by Andy J Steele

    2nd Place

    Marcelo Wakes the Jungle Up by Kate Prince

    3rd Place

    Ten Little Acorns by Kristin Tridimas

    Highly Commended:

    The Monster of the Wood by Rob Iliffe

    The Boy who Couldn’t Read by Caroline Meech

    Congratulations to all.

    I have noticed that some of you are anxious that your entries reach us and sometimes I take a couple of days to reply – apologies. I have set up an automatic reply so that you know your work has got through but I will come back to you ASAP if anything is wrong with your entry.

    Next months competition is to write:

    A single-page synopsis, any topic. (350 words)

    The adjudicator will be Becky Bagnall, literary agent from Lindsay Literary Agency.

    Keep writing,

    Sharon

     

    1st Place

    Sophie by Andy J Steele

    ‘An original and funny story of friendship, rivalry and moral values, Sophie has an unexpected twist that encourages the reader to think twice about jumping to conclusions. The writing is fresh and vibrant, with a fluid, natural rhyming scheme and a delightfully surreal turn of phrase, shown aptly in the stanza:

    So now I sit alone,

    In a corner of the class,

    Where my only friend’s a pencil,

    And I don’t think that’ll last.’  Jude Evans.

     

    Sophie                        By Andy J Steele

    Sophie is so smart.

    Sophie is so cool.

    Sophie runs a business

    at break-times in school.

     

    Sophie is so pretty –

    and always full of charm.

    Everybody likes her;

    she’s the Bestest Girl by far.

     

    Megan’s Dad’s a lawyer,

    but Sophie’s is a rock star.

    Dani rides a scooter,

    but Sophie owns a car.

     

    Sophie’s good at everything.

    Sophie’s just the best.

    But the more I sit around her,

    The more I feel distressed.

     

    ‘My party was on an island,

    way out into the sea.

    I found some hungry people

    and had them round to tea.

     

    ‘I gave them all my presents.

    They couldn’t thank me more.

    They flew us in their spaceship

    and left me one to store!’

     

    ‘Argh!’ I wailed; a desperate sigh.

    ‘I’ve got a bleeding nose.’

    And if I stay around your lies

    it’ll surely end in blows.

     

    ‘I’ve climbed the highest mountain…

    I’ve sailed the seven seas…

    I’ve got a talking lion…

    I walked a bridge made out of bees.

     

    ‘My best friend’s a princess

    in a far and distant land,

    where together we’ve made water

    from the driest sand.’

     

    ‘NO – YOU – HAVEN’T!’ I shook my head.

    ‘I beg of you to stop.

    If I hear one more lie from you,

    my head might just go POP!’

     

    With a hundred faces staring,

    She took a bag of sand.

    She dropped it in a funnel –

    and from it water ran.

     

    So now I sit alone,

    In a corner of the class,

    Where my only friend’s a pencil,

    And I don’t think that’ll last.

     

    Sophie’s playing football,

    She’s taking on all teams

    by playing in all positions;

    She’s not the liar it seems.

     

    She scores a dozen goals,

    Appears destined for the squad,

    But the teacher doesn’t pick her;

    Lily has it by a nod.

     

    She sees me watching and comes across;

    I try to look away.

    ‘I know you hate me,’ she starts to say.

    ‘I hope we’re friends some day.’

     

    I can’t stay mad. She’s got That Look.

    I hope she doesn’t cry.

    ‘You’ll get used to losing,

    but only if you try.’

     

    Now Sophie’s in America;

    She might be gone all term,

    She’s won the Nobel Peace Prize:

    Some people never learn!

     

    2nd Place

    Marcelo Wakes the Jungle Up by Kate Prince

    ‘With its unusual cast of characters, including a snub-nose monkey, loris, mouse deer and leopard, this is charming story woven from the intriguing characteristic of the snub-nose monkey hero: that if rain lands on their upturned noses, it makes them sneeze. The characterisation and dialogue are strong and the playful use of language would delight children.’ Jude Evans

     

    Marcelo Wakes the Jungle Up By Kate Prince.

    DRIP-DROP

    DRIP-DROP

    SPLISH-SPLOSH

    SPLISH-SPLOSH

     

    DEEP in the rain forests of Northern Burma, Marcelo the snub-nose monkey and his friends Ramone, the Hog Badger and Clara and Kitty, the Striped-Squirrel twins, were walking to Myanmar Primary School for Jungle Animals, when it started to rain.

     

    ‘Quick Marcelo take cover!’ Ramone shouted.

     

    But it was too late!

     

    ‘Aitishoooooooooooooooooo!’

     

    ‘Oh No I’ve started sneezing,’ Marcelo shouted.

     

    ‘Aitishoooooooooooooooooo!’

    Poor Marcelo is allergic to rain!

     

    BOX OUT: (optional)

    Snub-nose monkeys live in the rain forests of Northern Burma; as well as up-turned noses, which cause them to sneeze when it rains, they have protruding ear tufts, a white moustache and beard.

    In the rain they often put their head between their legs to keep dry!

     

    ‘WHAT ever is this terrible disturbance?’

     

    It was Doris the Loris!

     

    She did not seem happy.

     

    ‘This is the second morning you have woken me up,’ she huffed.

     

    ‘Sorry,’ Marcelo explained, ‘but each time a rain falls on my nose I sneeze.’

    And, as if to prove the point, he started to sneeze again

     

    Aitishoooooooooooooooo!

     

    Ramone and Clara started to laugh but Doris was not amused.

     

    As the friends carried on walking, the rain kept getting heavier.

     

    DRIP-DROP

    DRIP-DROP

    SPLISH-SPLOSH

    SPLISH-SPLOSH

     

    ‘Aitishoooooooooooooooo!’

     

    Clara handed Marcelo a hankie.

     

    ‘Excuse me,’ they heard a small voice.

     

    It was Deidre the Mouse Deer!

     

    ‘I’m sorry to bother you but I’m trying to sleep and your sneezes are so loud.’

     

    ‘sorry,’ he whispered, ‘’l promise I’ll try to stop sneezing.’

     

    But, as hard as he tried, Marcelo just could not stop!

     

    ‘Aitishoooooooooooooooo!’

     

    ‘Shhhh,’ Kitty whispered, ‘there are some animals that we DEFINITELY DO NOT want to wake up.’

     

    They all nodded in agreement.

     

    They carried on walking through the undergrowth, past the creek and the crumbling pagodas.

     

    Marcelo sneezed and sneezed.

     

    ‘Aitishoooooooooooooooo!’

    ‘Aitishoooooooooooooooo!’

     

    ‘What is this DREADFUL noissssssssssssse?’

     

    It was Drake the Snake!

     

    ‘I am trying to SSSsssnoozze!’ he said.

     

    ‘Sorry Drake, I mean Mr Snake,’ Ramone replied, ‘we are TRYING really hard to be quiet.’

     

    ‘Not hard enough now ……Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I want peacccccccccccce and quiet,’ and he slithered grumpily off.

     

    ‘Let’s hope the snake is the most dangerous animal Marcelo wakes up with his sneezing,’ Clara whispered to Kitty.

     

    ‘Aitishoooooooooooooooo!’

     

    All of a sudden the little group heard a loud and very angry GROWL!

     

    ‘What is that unbearable racket?’ the voice roared.

     

    Very slowly, Ramone, Marcelo, Clara and Kitty looked up.

     

    It was Victor the Leopard!

     

    He was lounging in a tree.

     

    ‘Oh no,’ Whispered Kitty.

     

    ‘I am trying to sleep,’ he roared again angrily.

     

    Victor stretched his legs and yawned, flicking his tail in Marcelo’s face. The fur made Marcelo sneeze again.

     

    ‘Aitishoooooooooooooooo!’

     

    ‘Is it breakfast time already?’ Victor licked his lips. ‘I’m feeling rather peckish.’

     

    ‘Quick ………………..RUN. I think the Victor wants to eat us……,’ Ramone shouted.

     

    Marcelo, Ramone, Kitty and Clara ran and ran, as fast as they could, until they got to the forest clearing.

     

    ‘We’ll have to find a different way to school,’ Kitty panted.

     

    ‘There isn’t one,’ Ramone gasped.

     

    ‘We’ll have to be very quiet then,’ Clara squealed.

     

    They all looked at Marcelo!

     

    ‘But I can’t help sneezing,’ Marcelo whaled.

     

    Later that day, when lessons were over, the friends walked nervously towards the clearing

     

    It had started to rain again and poor Marcelo began to sneeze again.

     

    ‘Aitishoooooooooooooooo!

     

    ‘Shhhhhhhhhhh,’ his friends shouted.

     

    But Doris, Deidre, Drake and Victor were already waiting at the edge of the jungle.

     

    ‘OH NO WE IS FOR IT NOW,’ Ramone shouted, ‘QUICK … RUN!’

     

    ‘Wait!’ Deirdre shouted, ‘Please wait. We’ve got Marcelo a present.’

     

    And there, on the ground was a brightly coloured umbrella.

     

    Marcelo opened it up and waved it over his head.

     

    ‘It’s Beautiful,’ Marcelo shouted.

     

    Clara, Kitty and Romone began to dance under it

     

    ‘Thisssssssssss might finally give us some sssssssssssssssssssome peace and quiet and I might be able to get some ssssssssssleeeeep,’ Drake muttered.

     

    ‘And I ‘grumbled Doris.

     

    ‘Thank you,’ Marcelo shouted, ‘this will definitely stop me from sneezing.

     

    ‘And I will definitely sleep through breakfast now,’ Victor winked.

     

    3rd Place

    Ten Little Acorns by Kristin Tridimas

    ‘Ten Little Acorns is an economical twist on a familiar children’s rhyme, blending elements of fiction and non-fiction in a clever and accessible way. It introduces facts about the life cycle of trees in parallel with a visual narrative showing the development of our human world: how our landscape, our fashions and our homes change down the generations, during the life span of one great oak tree’ Jude Evans

    Ten Little Acorns by Kristin Tridimas

    Ten Little Acorns

     

    Page 3                                                                      Illustrations

    Title page.                                                                Picture of oak tree.

     

    Spread 1

    Page 4

    Ten little acorns on an old oak tree,                          Oak tree with 10 acorns.

    Brown and ripe and as shiny as can be.

     

    Page 5

    One little acorn falls on stony ground.                      Acorn on gravel path.  Boy and girl on path

                                                                                     wearing Edwardian

                                                                                     clothes.

     

    Spread 2

    Page 6 (top)

    Leaves nine little acorns hanging around.                Oak tree with 9 acorns.

     

    Page 6 (bottom)

    Nine little acorns on an old oak tree,

    Brown and ripe and as shiny as can be.

     

    Page 7

    One little acorn is carried away.                               Squirrel taking nut.

                                                                                     Boy and girl watching.

     

     

    Spread 3

    Page 8 (top)

    So eight little acorns are all that stay.                        Oak tree with 8 acorns.

     

    Page 8 (bottom)

    Eight little acorns on an old oak tree,

    Brown and ripe and as shiny as can be.

     

    Page 9

    One little acorn is pecked by a crow.                        Crow with nut in beak.

                                                                                     Boy and girl play in

                                                                                     background.

     

    Spread 4

    Page 10 (top)

    Seven little acorns hang in a row.                            Oak tree with 7 acorns.

     

    Page 10 (bottom)

    Seven little acorns on an old oak tree,

    Brown and ripe and as shiny as can be.

     

    Page 11

    One little acorn is used in a game.                            Boy and girl use it as

                                                                                     stone in hopscotch.

     

     

     

     

    Spread 5

    Page 12 (top)

    Leaves six little acorns – what a shame!                    Oak tree with 6 acorns.

     

    Page 12 (bottom)

    Six little acorns on an old oak tree,

    Brown and ripe and as shiny as can be.

     

    Page 13

    One little acorn’s taken by the flood.                         Torrential rain, gushing

                                                                                     water. In background,

                                                                                     boy and girl are splashing in puddles.

     

    Spread 6

    Page 14

    Five little acorns are left in the mud.                          Tree bare, nuts below.

     

    Page 15

    Five little acorns grow a tiny shoot.                                   Germination.

    Deep in the ground they form a tiny root.

     

    Spread 7

    Page 16                                                                    Double page -16 &17

    Five little acorns now begin to grow,                        Pages divided into four

    All through the year in sunshine and in snow.          seasons – seedling gets

                                                                                     a bit bigger in each.

     

    Spread 8

    Page 18

    Five little oak trees reach up to the sky.                   

    They want to grow tall and leafy and high.

     

    Page 19

    One little oak tree’s bitten by the frost.                       Fifth tiny tree, leaves

    Leaves four little oak trees and one is lost.               dead and brown, frosty

                                                                                     scene. Girl and boy in

                                                                                     scarves and hats – a bit

                                                                                     bigger – different hair?

     

    Spread 9

    Page 20 (top)

    One year later …

                                        Page 20 (bottom)

    Four little oak trees reach up to the sky.

    They want to grow tall and leafy and high.

     

    Page 21

    One little oak tree is trampled and torn.                    Girl and boy playing,

    Three little oak trees are left all forlorn.                     accidentally step on

                                                                                     fourth small tree.

     

     

     

     

    Spread 10

    Page 22 (top)

    Twenty years later …

                                                                                    

    Page 22 (bottom)

    Three biggish oak trees reach up to the sky.

    Already they’re growing leafy and high.

     

    Page 23

    One biggish oak tree is cleared for a wall.               Third middle-sized tree

    Two biggish oak trees are left to grow tall.                is lying on ground with

                                                                                     man and small girl in

                                                                                     thirties clothes looking at it. There is a big brick

                                                                                     wall and houses behind.

    Spread 11

    Page 24 (top)

    Fifty years later …

                                                                                    

    Page 24 (bottom)

    Two giant oak trees reach up to the sky.

    Already they’re growing leafy and high.

     

    Page 25

    One giant oak tree is chopped down for wood.                Second tall tree being

    One lone oak tree grows as big as it should.           sawn up. Big machinery.

                                                                                     Great-grandfather,

                                                                                     grandmother, father and

                                                                                     baby watching. 1980s.

    Spread 12

    Page 26 (top)

    One hundred years later …                                     Double page spread.   Tall oak tree with ten

                                                                                     acorns, like picture p.4

                                                                                     except is in small park

                                                                                     between housing estate and road. Sun shines.

    Page 26 (bottom)                                                     A girl and boy in modern clothes play in play area of park.

     One tall oak tree at the edge of the wood,            They are watched by great-grandmother, grandfather and mother.                                                            

    Grows ten little acorns and that is good.                      

    The sun shines down after plenty of rain.                                                                                    

    The acorns swell and we begin again. 

     

     

     

  • November Competition Report

    by Sharon Garrett

    Writing competition: Write the introduction for a general women’s novel, in 300 words.

    Adjudicator: Literary agent, Judith Murdoch

    Our adjudicator for the November competition was Judith Murdoch from The Judith Murdoch Literary Agency. The number of entries was an outstanding 31.

    Her general comments were that she found them all very readable, though too many seemed rather too domestic in tone, so did not stand out as being anything new. A number of entries felt as if they might work better as short stories.

    She generously took the time to advise; several entries used far too many adjectives, others over-used names of characters, which distances the reader – they don’t need reminding what the heroine is called six times on one page!

    Two authors stood out for strong dialogue: ALL THE FUN OF THE FAIR by Linda Welch, and I WANT TO BREAK FREE by Freddie Mercury. Judith mentions that they might consider writing for radio.

    FIRST MEETING by David Lea – Judith thought was amusing but she would have cut the first two lines. MAIA BAY by Benita she found very atmospheric and her assistant particularly liked the mule.

    Judith said that the three finalists all immediately focused on the main character, placing them in an intriguing situation, which had possibilities for a full-length story.

    She said that characterisation is the most important element in a novel; introducing a sympathetic character on page one who makes the reader feel they want to follow them for another 200-300 pages is what won through.

    Judith selected:

    First place NO MAN’S LAND by Louise Morrish– a powerful situation and an emotional hook, which immediately establishes the heroine as a strong character on a mission. It promises to deliver action, adventure and romance and sets out the date and premise on the first page, which is a great asset when Kindle encourages readers to sample the first page.

    Second place BEDINGFORD OPERA Sam Collins – although a domestic situation it has a slightly quirky, nostalgic feel that made us want to read on – the characters made the ordinary seem a little poignant and more interesting, but the title needs to be more catchy.

    Third place THE LONG REACH TO THE PAST by Margaret Jenness – strong writing with an emotional and intriguing opening, though a little downbeat in tone and I would have preferred it in the present rather than past tense.

    Read the winning entries below.

    First place NO MAN’S LAND by Louise Morrish.

    Mary waits in line, tense and sweating in Edward’s woollen jacket and breeches, as the man ahead of her stumbles his way through the oath.

    ‘I swear by Almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to His Majesty King George the Fifth…’

    Next it will be Mary’s turn to accept the King’s Shilling. A knife twists in her gut at the thought.

    She licks her dry lips, tasting coppery salt. Her scalp itches beneath Edward’s cap and she longs to take it off, but to expose her scandalously short hair is too risky. If the recruitment officer should see through her disguise, he could have her arrested for fraud, or worse yet, treason.

    For surely it’s a crime against the King for a woman to enlist as a soldier?

    She takes a steadying breath, reminding herself why she’s doing this: to find Edward. The telegram from the War Office had reported him missing. He could be a prisoner of war, or lost and wandering the battlefields. Or maybe he’s lying injured in some Belgian military hospital unable to make himself understood. Wherever he is Mary will do her damnedest to track him down. And when she does Mr Walsh will be so grateful to her for finding his precious son and heir, he’ll surely give Mary a job as a journalist on his newspaper.

    So far no one has guessed her deceit; in this place of stale sweat and brittle bravado she is just another young man, keen to do his bit for crown and country.

    If she can hold her nerve and assume the guise of a soldier, she will soon be on her way to the Front.

    The first woman ever to witness the trenches.

    Won’t that be a story for Mr Walsh’s paper?

    © Louise Morrish 2015  

     

    Second place – BEDINGFORD OPERA Sam Collins.

    Shelley Harper looked at her mother warily, as she usually did, in her preposterous flowing gown, held closed only by the most gregarious six-inch brooch.  A peacock, like its owner, its glory displayed.  But it was the beak that Shelley focused on, as if despite its flamboyance, it would tear you to shreds any moment now.

    ‘Not now Sheldon dear, whatever it is, you can see that I am rather busy.’  Indeed she could.  Every kitchen cupboard open wide, the contents spilling onto every available surface.  The rattle and hum of utensils being thrown drowned only by the industrial volume Verdi coming from the ghetto blaster on the windowsill, the sound of which had assailed her from the corner of Parkside Drive.

    ‘You can make this suet pudding with absolutely anything to hand in the pantry,’ Mrs Harper continued, as if reading from some ancient Victorian cookbook.  ‘This one’s rhubarb compote…’

    It had been with a very heavy heart that Shelley had made this journey this morning.  Back to her roots, back to the village, back to the… motherland.  Oh God.  She had even allowed herself a tear or two on the train from Waterloo.  And if she had allowed any more, she felt sure that they would have drowned her face in waves of panic and regret.  She could see it in the murky train window; as if the mildly moist green eyes and undrenched olive-skinned face were not her own.  Instead she saw something paler, shadowed; the eyes half-closed and brimming, the face awash, dissolving before her with the torrent.  And the only sound in her ears… Verdi.

    © Sam Collins 2015

     

    Third place THE LONG REACH TO THE PAST by Margaret Jenness.

    Thursday 1st April excerpt from Alice Carmichael’s diary

    “Tell Olivia I’m sorry”, your dying words, your breathing laboured, your hands clasped mine.  I wanted to hear you ask if the children were coming, to hear you say how much you loved us all. Instead I heard an instruction to tell an unknown woman that you were sorry.

    The nurse was very kind.  She told me to stay as long as I wanted.  She brought me tea and Garibaldi biscuits.  Suffocated by the daffodil yellow painted walls, I took deep breaths before taking a welcome sip.

    I had been upset our children hadn’t arrived in time.   They thought you had rallied.  Craving the relief of normality when death surrounds, they had returned to their daily lives.  After all the doctors had promised,   “He’s mentally strong, a fighter”.  Perhaps you were fighting to see this person one last time.

    “Our family are coming.  Please stay until they get here”, I had begged. How relieved I am now they were too late.    How could they have borne your last words not being for us?

    Who was this woman with such a hold on you that your last words were for her?  In just five words you had destroyed my sense of who I am. Yet, despite myself I traced your features with my fingers one last time.  I kissed you. I hugged you.   I told you how much I loved you.  I said I was sorry if I hadn’t made you happy, if I had hurt you in any way.

    I heard voices in the corridor. The door opened.  Our son and daughter rushed in.  We hugged.  “I’ll leave you to say goodbye”.

    I slipped out. Weeping, I stumbled along the corridor to the nearest bathroom and was violently sick.

    © Margaret Jenness 2015

     

    Don’t forget the December competition:

    Write the opening of a young adult story, beginning with the moment when the main character discovers a secret.

    300 words. Deadline: noon 1st December.

  • September 2015 Competition Winners

    Write a Scene in which the Victim of the Crime is Found

    Our adjudicator was Carl Major, of Waterstones, West Quay, Southampton, and although Carl was unable to be with us he said he thoroughly enjoyed reading all the entries. Carl’s criteria and adjudications follow:

    “Firstly, I was very grateful for being asked to judge this competition. Booksellers – like book browsers – see a lot of books and read a lot of first pages. If a reader has got as far as reading the first few sentences of a book or scene it is worth considering the things they might be subconsciously weighing up about the writing and the writer. The main one must be ‘Is this a story or writer I am intrigued enough to commit money and (more importantly) time to reading?’ The temptation is to grab at the reader with a ‘hooking’ sensational opening or the imagined vividness of the first person. But often – for this reader, at least – it is a kind of confidence in the grasp of the writer and that could be a nice touch of humour, a willingness to trust the reader with a gradual revelation, a telling and interesting detail or simply some small grace of language or observation. I think the reader always wants to know that whatever horrors or twists the story may contain that they are in good hands and often it is the small detail of the writing rather than the sensational content that provides the reassurance. I felt the three winners here all absolutely knew that and put it firmly into practice. It is no small skill. In the case of these three writers I was disappointed that I only had 300 words and would happily have trusted them to lead me on into the world behind this scene.”

    Carl’s Adjudication:

    1st Place: David Eadsforth, (pseudonym Alec Russell) The Artist

    “Extremely well-crafted. The unsensational language heightened the gruesome revelation. Much information about the place and personnel conveyed in passing – and a welcome levening of dark humour! My feeling was that I was in the safe hands of a writer fully in charge of their subject and style. I immediately wanted to know more and read on.”  

    2nd Place: David Lea, Home to Roost

    “Conjured the protagonist’s world in a few deft strokes. The mix of humour and grim detail of Jason’s job set up a scenario in which the discovery of a body was somehow of a piece with the violence of industrial farming. I valued the detail of this writing and the skill of the writer in allowing the content rather than the language to provide the sensational effect”.

    3rd Place: Anne Eckersley, Too Soon to Die

    “This piece intrigued me from the first mention of the missing street lights. I believed the scene I was seeing had a real social context. I felt certain that in this writer’s world murder victims, murderers and police would have a wider context of family, friends, society. The plausible weariness of our protagonist and the deft use of ironic humour sealed the deal. I wanted to read on.”

     

    Highly Commended: Louise Morrish, Dogsbody

    Highly Commended: Avril Stephenson, Untitled

     

    Prizes and Awards:

    The lucky winners each received two signed books by our main speakers, James Marrison and MJ Arlidge as well as certificates of adjudication by Carl Major.

    Anne Eckersley, David Eadsforth & David Lea
    Anne Eckersley, David Eadsforth & David Lea

    1st Place: The Artist – Copyright © David Eadsforth, 2015

    Detective Inspector Ian Chambers stepped out of his car and stared at the blank wall that comprised the front of the industrial unit.  Of all of the crime scenes he had been called to in his career, this would probably have been the least likely candidate.  Detective Sergeant Terman, who had been waiting by the entrance, now approached him.

    “Good morning, Sir; sorry it was such an early call, but the shift here starts early…”

    Chambers nodded and waved his subordinate to silence.

    “Okay, okay; what have we got?”

    Terman hesitated.

    “Um, I think you just better see for yourself, Sir.”

    Chambers shot him a dubious look.

    “The last time you said that it was a naked curate with a plastic bag over his head and a noose around his neck…”

    “This is a bit different, Sir.”

    Terman led the way through the entrance and on to a series of huge doors, around which stood a number of men in white overalls.  Chambers nodded to the chief of the forensic team, a man in his fifties who wore a somewhat grim expression.

    “Morning, Alfred; well, what have you got for me?”

    Alfred Bingham did not reply, but instead grasped the huge lever that was placed on the front of the door and swung it open.  A gust of bitterly cold air hit Chambers’s face and Bingham indicated that Chambers should enter.  Chambers entered the huge refrigerator and stared at the vision before him.  In the centre of the chamber stood a huge block of ice, two meters square, and inside it was the naked form of a man, his arms and legs stretched out in an ‘X’.  Chambers was silent for a few seconds, then he turned to Bingham.

    “Um, we’re not calling this suicide, are we?”

     

    2nd Place: Home to Roost – Copyright © David Lea, 2015

    Jason had started at 6:30, as he did every day during the holidays: out of bed by 5:45, cup of coffee, cereal, on his bike and away. No need of a wash because he had bathed very thoroughly the night before. He bathed very thoroughly every night, lying in the suds, knackered and dreaming while his mum and his sister watched the tele down stairs. He dreamed of a future when he wouldn’t have to work on Guy Featherstone’s farm, a future when he could afford a motorbike, or even a car. When he could afford some decent clothes.

    When he could afford a girlfriend.

    Girlfriends are costly.

    Anyway, he smelled.

    By 8 0’ clock he had almost finished the cleaning. The electric lights were on eighteen hours a day to give maximum laying time, so it was already hot. The hens were housed in rows of metal cages three tiers high, with three or four birds to a cage. Four long alleyways of birds, all shrieking and squalling and pecking. And shitting.  But Jason’s first job before the shit shifting was to remove the bodies – five or six a day. They were so bored and cramped and demented that they pecked each other to death. It usually started when one bird was laying an egg and the other birds pecked around the hole as the egg squeezed out. Jason wondered how they decided which one to attack. Perhaps they chose the weakest, like at school.

    Although Jason was a loner, nobody messed with him.

    He trundled the awkward, overloaded shit- machine to the trapdoor and pulled the lever to release its load onto the pile below.

    It was then he noticed the leg, naked and white.

    Except for the Argyll pattern sock.

    And then it disappeared under the slurry.

     

    3rd Place: Too Soon to Die – Copyright © Anne Eckersley, 2015

    This tax year council savings and vandalism had turned off all street lights in Woodley, so just before midnight Longmoor Road was as dull as a dead man’s eyes.  But death in Jonas’ world rarely occurred in broad daylight.

    The rain had stopped. Puddles the size of lakes and the stench of sewage its legacy.

    Jonas shivered. He wasn’t cold, thick jumpers, waterproof trousers and heavy boots made sure of that.  Parking between two police cars he headed towards the motorway flyover. The noise of cars passing overhead amplified by the silence of the night.

    Signs warned of danger of death from the electricity substation or the risk of prosecution from trespass although missing sections of fence provided easy access. The area had always attracted graffiti artists and the homeless who clearly ignored the signs too, but then rising water levels over the winter should have worried them more.

    The police hadn’t bothered to open the gate and Jonas opted for the shorter route too. His phone’s torch helped him pick his way through floating debris to the blue and white tape stretched round the scene.

    A tent had been erected at the river’s edge. A number of silhouetted figures were moving around. Jonas sighed. He would have liked to be alone to assess the scene before anyone demanded answers or foisted information on him. Those first few minutes were crucial. The position of the body. The arrangement of the clothes.  Seventeen series of Silent Witness had a lot to answer for. Nowadays everyone in the country was qualified to express an opinion.

    A noise on his left made him spin. Suddenly he was face to face with four bundles huddled round a shopping trolley and several cardboard boxes who were watching his progress with evident interest.

     

    In Conclusion:

    The competition secretary, Jim Livesey, thanked everyone who had entered. Crime proved very popular as 18 entries were received, a good start to our new season.

    The competition for October is to write a ghost story – 300 words and the adjudicator will be Carolin Esser-Miles, Medievalist, and Senior Lecturer, English Language, University of Winchester.

    Please email your entries to the Competition Secretary, Jim Livesey competitions.hwsAThotmail.com by noon (BST) 1st October 2015. (Please replace AT with @)

    Please read HWS Competition rules

  • June Competition Winners 2015

    ‘Write the First Page of a Memoir of a Real or Imaginary Person’

    In the words of one of our guests, it was a shimmering evening with Lady Antonia Fraser. Lady Antonia was in conversation with John Miller who was also our adjudicator. A task he found very enjoyable but quite exacting with twenty-three entries.

    John’s Adjudication:

    1st Place: John Quinn, Trust and Tectonics

    Jun 15 GALA John Quinn_0063“The opening sentence immediately catches the attention, so the reader is interested in the denouement. Leaving the baby in the car may not have happened to the author, but his telling of the story has the ring of truth.”

    In any important relationship there are surprises: incidents or moments that shift the tectonic plates of trust.

    Some shifts make a relationship stronger. But, mostly, they open up fault lines of suspicion that have lain deep, buried and neglected for years.

    I don’t mean those Grand Canyon types of things, like finding your partner is a drug dealer or a pimp. No, those will march trust to a dark swamp from where it rarely, if ever, returns.

    I mean those subtle shifts that insert a coloured lens over the iris, forever tinting the blue of trust with a hint of danger red.

    To us older men who are granted the privilege of fatherhood later in life, being a Dad is never taken for granted. In the most stressful of times, even as first teeth fight their way through red-raw guns accompanied by non-stop tears and screams, it is still the most prized of possession, to be taken out, polished and re-examined with wonderment.

    As a new father galloping towards his 40s, I was no exception.

    My frequent forays under the pretext of ‘giving Mum a rest’ saw baby Finn, me and pushchair cavorting down a pavement in the quite suburb of Fair Oak. Or, heaven, having Finn snuggled into his carry chair, strapped into the passenger seat and facing me as we explored Hampshire’s backwaters via its B roads.

    We would return home, Finn and I, both normally shattered, and I would tell his Mum every last, boring moment of our trip. Finn’s every cough or sniffle were recounted in detail, every new sight reported upon, every person we met or said ‘hello’ to or any dog patted was proclaimed as if worthy of front-page news.

    It was halfway through such a detailed account, as we drank tea from a pot I had just made and as my wife was about to demolish a shortbread with chocolate chips, that she uncharacteristically interrupted me.

    ‘Where is he?’ And then more loudly ‘Where is Finn?’

    In a moment of time too short to measure, I realised where.

    He was still strapped into his carry chair in the passenger seat of the Saab. And the Saab was in the locked garage in the garden.

    I flew from the room without answering her question, grabbing the garage and car keys with a lying nonchalance as I went.

    Sweat puddled and crazed thoughts invaded during that 20-yard epic journey.

    Houdini could not have opened the locks quicker.

    And what did I find? Silence. Broken only by the quiet and rhythmic breathing of our baby boy as he dozed and dreamt his little dreams.

    Had I been more perceptive, a little more worldly in such things, I would have heard another noise: a low rumble of continents slowly but unmistakably colliding as tectonic plates of trust realigned.

    I was never, actually, banned from taking out Finn alone again. It was more subtle and, therefore, unable to be challenged.

    Before the shifting of deep plates, my ‘You put your feet up and I’ll push Finn around the park’ would be greeted with a warm smile and a gratitude kiss on the cheek. Now it was volleyed back by a quizzical look and ‘I’ll come, the fresh air will do me good!’

    Over the years I would like to think I’ve proved myself to be a good, reliable and trustworthy parent. Proved that to my son, myself and, mostly, to my wife.

    I’ve served my sentence.

    Now Finn is 22. And if we inform his mum, my wife, that we are popping out for a small adventure together she no longer suggests joining us.

    But her eyes lock on mine and that same quizzical look is arrowed toward me. And I know I’m still on probation. And always will be.

     

    2nd Place: Celia Livesey (pseudonym Katie Rush), Suez

    “An evocation of time and place that conjures up a child’s-eye view of Egypt in the Second World War. The word-pictures are vivid and totally convincing.”

    Forget time travel, nothing takes you back to a place and time like smell! I grew up in ‘The City of Beauty and Enchantment’. That’s what the Egyptians called Ismailia but I can think of several alternative epithets for it. The curious mixture of delight and disgust between delicious street vendor smells and walking too near the banks of the ‘Sweet Water’ canal remain. Other things remain; I was a child caught up in war and my eyes were opened. Perhaps the catalyst that made me an avid writer by the time I was eight.

    A tearful Nan came down to the docks to see us off from Southampton. I was barely more than a toddler. I had my fourth birthday on the boat, the SS Empire Orwell, and was given a fountain pen; prophetic or what!

    The boat was full of army wives – hogging two irons while my mother had to wait. I watched with interest when they were sick as we crossed the Bay of Biscay. On the last leg of our journey, my mother and I stood in silence at the rail as we passed the graveyard of ships at Tobruk. I hoped the place we were going was not the same.

    But if Tobruk was empty and desolate, Port Said was the opposite; bustling, colourful, noisy, smelly and hot. Nothing prepared me for the assault on my senses. And the heat hit me like someone opening an oven door!

    Dad was waiting to meet us. I turned away, embarrassed, as my parents kissed.

    ‘Katie, give Daddy a kiss,’ my mother urged.

    I scowled. I barely knew this tall blond-haired man. He’d been in Burma when I was born and I’d been brought up by my mum and Nan; men were foreign.

    A car took us to Ismailia along empty sand swept roads beside the Suez Canal. We overtook the odd camel being led by men in gellabiya or passed the occasional army truck going in the other direction but apart from that, the country seemed deserted.

    Ismailia was different, it opened up like a flower in front of us – all tree lined streets, emerald green parks and scarlet flamboyant trees – it truly was ‘The City of Beauty and Enchantment’ – foreign, exotic, exciting.

    Our apartment was in French Square on the second floor. It had large rooms with a verandah, mosquito nets over all the beds, and wonder of wonders, an icebox – with cockroaches. This was to be our home for the next four years, or so we thought…

     

    3rd Place: Louise Morrish, Dorothy Lawrence – A Female Soldier in the First World War

    “An imaginative re-creation of what it might have been like for an enterprising and brave young woman entering the war zone in France. One wants to know what happens next to her.”

    It was June, 1915, and I was a young, female journalist, cycling alone into a war zone.

    From England, I had sailed to Le Havre, my borrowed Hercules bicycle attracting more attention than the fact I was a lone woman, travelling without a chaperone. My big, white, linen bag, strapped to the handlebars, was stuffed with provisions: a spirit lamp, half a loaf of bread, two candles, matches, a saucepan and a bottle of precious water.

    On reaching France, I had mounted my trusty steed, and made Paris in two days. The city was a scene of intense activity, the shops shuttered, Red Cross ambulances and army vehicles clogging the roads, the pavements swarming with green British troops and the shabby blue uniforms of the French poilus.

    In a street café, my bicycle propped beside me, I had carefully selected my partner in crime; a kind faced Royal Engineer, one amongst thousands in France, and the only person, apart from my Editor, who would know my secret. It was easy to strike up a conversation, as we ate our egg and chips. ‘I want to get to the Front as a soldier,’ I had told the Royal Engineer, keeping my voice low, watching for his reaction. ‘Will you help me?’

    He had blinked at me from behind wire spectacles, but to his credit, had not walked away. Now, why did a pretty little thing like me wish to do that, he wanted to know. Did I realise there was a War on?

    I had to take a steadying breath, restraining my temper.

    ‘I’m a journalist,’ I had told him. ‘And I want to report the truth of the War.’ But our own war-correspondents can’t reach the Front, I went on to explain. Those big men, with their cars, and credentials, and ready cash, they can’t get beyond Amiens.

    But what do you want me to do, the engineer had asked, his eyes huge behind his lenses. I was ready with my answer.

    ‘I first need a soldier’s uniform,’ I said. ‘And some bandages, and a pair of sharp scissors.’

    After the longest silence, he had nodded. Later that day, clad in the garb of a Royal Engineer, my breasts bound tight, my hair cut short, I had pedalled away from Paris. Heading north, I had followed the rumble of the guns, the sound like distant thunder, growing ever nearer. That summer was one of the hottest in living memory, and I sweated beneath my strange khaki uniform, my head itching beneath the ill-fitting cap, wondering at my decision.

    But I meant to get into the very thick of it. If I died in the attempt, well, that was the sacrifice I was willing to take.

     

    Highly Commended: Linda Page, Remembering a Murmur

    “A child’s mispronunciation of ‘memory’ leads into reflections on family traits as the years advance. It underlines the importance of memories for all of us.”

    Highly Commended: Diana Batten, Fire and Sun

    “An innocent lazy afternoon for a child is suddenly shattered by a fearsome explosion. The mood-changes are cleverly evoked.”

     

    The prizes were signed copies of Lady Antonia’s book ‘My History: A Memoir of Growing Up’ and a Certificate of Adjudication by John Miller.

    There was a really good response to this competition and Jim Livesey, competition secretary, thanked everyone who had entered.

  • May Competition Winners 2015

    ‘Write a comedy script for a sketch in 3 pages.’

    Chesil Theatre: Mary Mitchell & Norma York
    Chesil Theatre: Mary Mitchell & Norma York

    The winning entry was performed by members of the Chesil Theatre Group.

    Cecily O’Neill, a renowned authority in Drama in Education was the adjudicator for the May competition. Cecily has worked with students, teachers, directors, and actors throughout the world; leading drama workshops, speaking at conferences, and carrying out research. She said that the task of writing a comedy script was a particularly difficult one but the Hampshire Writers had risen to the challenge.

    Cecily’s Adjudication:

    1st Place: Paul King, PTFE

    “You have taken a typical comedy format, where one actor is the straight man and the other delivers the funny lines. But within this framework you’ve cleverly subverted the stereotype of the elderly countrywoman and created an amusing sketch.”

    2nd Place: David Lea, Taking Stock

    “Within the tight three-page limit of the brief you managed to draw us into the concerns of the young couple and you achieved this as much by what was left unsaid as by the dialogue. You have allowed the comedy to develop gradually and provided an effective and believable denouement.”

    3rd Place: Nikki Wakefield, Coming Out

    “This sketch is full of lively dialogue and comic misunderstandings. The gradual build up of frustration is very well handled, and the cheerful acceptance by the parents of their son’s unorthodox lifestyle provides an unexpected and pleasing conclusion.”

    Paul King & Nikki Wakefield
    Paul King & Nikki Wakefield

    Highly Commended: Karin Groves, Billy the Banker

    “An amusing and topical take on the economy. A comedy of contrasts as 10 year old Billy demands to be taken seriously.”

    Highly Commended: Celia Livesey, Three’s a Crowd

    “The relationship of the sisters is clearly displayed in the subtle insults they exchange at their mother’s funeral. They get their come-uppance in a surprise ending.”

     

    The prizes were signed copies of David Nobbs’s books and a Certificate of Adjudication from Cecily O’Neill. The winning entry was performed by Mary Mitchell and Norma York of the Chesil Theatre Group, much to the delight of the audience.

     

    1st Place: PTFE – Copyright © Paul King, 2015

    On stage – two ‘older women. They speak with slow, west-country accents. Throughout the scene, using a tea set and plates: tea is poured, stirred and drunk: biscuits and cakes are offered, taken and eaten. Music to top and tail the sketch; something English and rural, like the older version of the ‘Archers’ theme for example.

    Music to establish the scene then it fades.

    Woman 1: Cup’a’tea?

    Woman 2: Don’t mind if I do.

    Woman 1: Biscuit?

    Woman 2: Don’t mind if I do. (Pause) P.T.F.E!

    Woman 1: They be ginger nuts, baked ‘em myself.

    Woman 2: No! … P.T.F.E!!!

    Woman 1: What?

    Woman 2: It’s the black stuff on the bottom of your frying pan.

    Woman 1: There b’aint be no black stuff on the bottom of my frying pan thank you very much! I use they Brillo pads.

    Woman 2: No, it’s s’posed to be there.

    Woman 1: Well it might be s’posed to be on the bottom of yourn but it’s not s’posed to be on the bottom of mine.

    Woman 2: No, it’s the non-sticky stuff.

    Woman 1: Definitely not my pans!

    Woman 2: No… it’s on all of ‘em!

    Woman 1: I bet the Vim gets it off; that’ll shift anything.

    Woman 2: It’s compulsory: if you got a frying pan you’ve got to have the PTFE. They do call it a ‘non … stick … coating’.

    Woman 1: They do?

    Woman 2: Listen to this … poly … tetra … fluoro … ethylene.

    Woman 1: What’s that then?

    Woman 2: Polytetrafluoroethylene.

    Woman 1: You’ve been practicing that.

    Woman 2: That’s what they do call the black stuff on your frying pan.

    Woman 1: How’d you know that then?

    Woman 2: I googled it!

    Woman 1: You googled it?!

    Woman 2: I did!

    Woman 1: What made you do a thing like that then?

    Woman 2: Well, thing is, I be downsizing … getting a smaller frying pan like.

    Woman 1: Your Peggy could do wi’ some ‘o’ that downsizing ‘n’all.

    (Pause.)

    Low fat fairy cake?

    (After a pause Woman 2 takes a cake. There is another pause.)

    Woman 2: So … I goes on-line and I finds a frying pan that suits my purposes.

    Woman 1: Couldn’t you a just popped down Lakelands?

    Woman 2: No; I wanted to exercise my rights as a consumer … make a choice like, from the best available.

    Woman 1: Why’d you do that, then?

    Woman 2: I be a fan of that programme off the telly, that ‘Watchdog’. You watch it?

    Woman 1: No.

    Woman 2: Oh you should. I learnt all about exercising my rights as a consumer and making a choice from the best available off that ‘Watchdog’.

    Woman 1: I always thought it were about pet training.

    Woman 2: So … after due deliberation and intensive comparison, I saw this one frying pan that do seem to fit all the criteria; one that were the best value for size, weight and the durability. I read all the reviews, you’m have to do that these days. Everyone does it.

    Woman 1: Do they indeed? Fancy that.

    Woman 2: So anyway, I read that it had a … ‘non-stick coating’! Well I was curious I don’t mind telling you. What’s a non-stick coating, I says to myself? And is it something I wants to be party to? So that’s when I did the googling; I looked it up on that there Wikipedia. ‘Non-stick is often used to refer to surfaces coated with polytetrafluoroethylene … P.T.F.E.

    Woman 1: You learnt that off by heart as well didn’t you?

    Woman 2: I likes to expand the horizons of my knowledge and add to my vocabulary whenever possible.

    Woman 1: Right.

    Woman 2: Have you got one of they computers, then?

    Woman 1: Oh yes, I got a computer.

    Woman 2: What you got then?

    Woman 1: I got a Macbook pro with fourth-generation dual-core and quad-core Intel processors! It’s got that Wi-Fi and Thunderbolt 2.

    Woman 2: That that sounds very nice.

    Woman 1: They do say it be … ‘state of the art’!

    Woman 2: Do they indeed?!

    Woman 1: They do.

    Woman 2: What’s that mean then?

    Woman 1: Don’t rightly know … but I do finds it very good for the porn.

    Woman 2: Oh … you use that porn then?!

    Woman 1: Well I gotta do somethin’ ent I … what with my Albert passing over and that … thing is … my imagination’s not what it used to be. (Pause. She offers another plate of biscuits.) Ladyfinger?

    Music.

    In Conclusion:

    The competition secretary, Jim Livesey, thanked everyone who had entered the competition. It had been a good turnout with 16 entries.

  • April Competition Winners 2015

    ‘Write the First Two Pages of a Novel in an Exotic Setting’

    Last night we were very lucky to have as our adjudicator Rebecca Smith. Rebecca studied History at The University of Southampton, and now teaches the undergraduate modules in creative writing, and the MA module, Writing for Children and Young People.

    She is the author of 4 novels, her first book The Bluebird Café was published in 2001; her first novel for children, Shadow Eyes, is a story of big wild cats in Scotland and was shortlisted for the 2012 Kelpies Prize.

    From autumn 2009 until summer 2010, she was the ‘Writer in Residence’ at Jane Austen’s House Museum in Chawton, Hampshire, and continues to work closely with the Museum. Her first work of non-fiction, Jane Austen’s Guide to Modern Life’s Dilemmas, was published in 2011 by Ivy Press.

    Unfortunately, Rebecca was unable to be with us last night but sent her adjudication by email. She said it had been very difficult to decide between the entries as they all had been so good, and selected another highly commended entry because of this.

    Rebecca’s Adjudication:

    1st Place: Linda Welch, Frozen

    “You have a great opening line. Your evocation of the landscape made me want to read on. You made very good use of sensory detail and imagery. I do hope you will finish this novel. ”

    Outside, the pure white of the snow provided a blank canvas onto which Sillitoe projected his thoughts and memories like a flickering home movie. Against the stark background he saw Nina’s tear-stained face as she waved him goodbye on the dockside.

    ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, over and over again. ‘Why did you agree to go? You hate the cold.’

    But six months on a research ship in the Arctic would put him in another league, open doors for him that had been shut for years, give his career the shot in the arm it needed.

    ‘I’ll grow a beard,’ he teased, ‘to keep my face warm.’

    And it would give him six months to decide what he wanted to do about Nina.

    He had only been here a week, but already he loved the landscape. It was so crisp and bright that it could blind a man if he stared at it for too long without dark glasses. He loved the peace, no sound at all to interrupt his thoughts, except the wind, often, or the bark of a seal, sometimes, or the soft panting of an arctic fox, seldom. He had found one on his first day here, a fuzzy white mound on the flat white snow. He only noticed it because of the splash of red blood oozing from it. It allowed him to approach, too badly injured, too weak to run, and he crouched on his haunches, watching its breath fog the sub-zero air, listening to the panting grow slower and slower until it stopped.

    He had taken the carcass back to the ship. The cook had skinned it and tossed the flesh, head and paws over the side, and given Sillitoe the fur. He didn’t know what he was going to do with it, but he wanted to take a part of this beautiful and cruel wilderness home with him. If he ever went home.

    There were cracks in the ice to measure, the texture of the ice to be photographed and samples to be taken. There were polar bears and arctic foxes to count and there were a million snowflakes, each one different, to blow around his frozen face and distract him from everything that called him home, and everything that had pushed him away.

    The watch on his wrist, buried deep beneath four layers of clothing, vibrated a warning that he had spent long enough outside. He needed to get back to the warmth of the ship, before his body temperature dropped any lower, but he was reluctant to leave the strange silent beauty of his chosen exile. As he turned to start the mile walk back to the research vessel, something caught his eye, a dark smudge on the clean canvas of white, and without thinking he changed course and trudged towards it.

    It, whatever ‘it’ was, was further away than he had thought and it took him half an hour to reach it. As he grew closer he could make out the shape of two gloves, palms together, the fur trim stiffened into icicles. Why hadn’t the gloves blown away in the wind? he wondered. Who would take their gloves off out here and risk losing fingers to frostbite? When he reached the gloves, though, he could see why they had not been blown about by the wind: they were still being worn by frozen, dead hands, attached to a frozen dead body covered by a drift of snow. Sillitoe didn’t dare clear the snow from the face, didn’t want to see who it was or how he had died, or why the hands were pressed together in prayer. He fumbled with unsteady hands for the flare in his back-pack and lit it, holding it aloft for the researchers on board the ship to see. Several men had been on deck, their binoculars trained on him, since he had changed course to investigate the black speck in the snow. The flare was only to give them an indication of what he had found.

    Orange smoke streaked the pale blue sky, orange for distress, orange for assistance, even though it was far too late for whoever lay beneath the frozen snow.

     

    2nd Place: Laurel Wingfield, No Place for a Woman

    “This is convincingly done and was an excellent response to the competition brief. You established the setting deftly and introduced your characters and themes in a pacy and interesting way.”

    ‘Is this exotic enough for you?’ Alan asked, setting his medical kit on the ground.

    Alan – Dr Alan Gardner – was being ironic. He was the first shock. She never expected to see him again, let alone here. If Lucy had known he was here, she would never have come.

    At first, seeing Alan, Lucy couldn’t speak. She had had some idea of what she would be facing, but the reality was still stunning. The refugee camp stretched away from her, crammed up against the chain-link fence, for as far as she could see. The noise and smell were unbelievable. Thick swarms of flies and dust covered everything. She knew that living conditions for the refugees would be squalid, but seeing the stinking open sewers and the rubbish strewn around the ramshackle shelters took a lot of getting used to. Lucy felt very out of place in her neat khaki cotton and hijab.

    Then there was Alan, like an image in a bad dream. She would have to work with him, and she knew that he would constantly criticize her. Whatever was he doing here?

    ‘I didn’t come here for exotic,’ Lucy snapped, once she could speak again. Alan had always brought out the worst in her. ‘I came here to work. I came here to save lives’.

    ‘Yes, well, good luck with that,’ Alan said. He sounded as smug as ever. He added, ‘I don’t know where you think you’re going to stash all that luggage. Living space is at a premium.’

    He began to turn away, to walk back into the refugee camp. Lucy called after him, ‘wait! Are you just going to leave me standing here? Where am I supposed to sleep? Where’s the clinic?’

    Alan pointed vaguely ahead of him. ‘In the centre of this mess. You can’t miss it.’ He added, still smug, ‘you won’t last a week. This is no place for a woman.’

    He could have helped, but she knew he wouldn’t. As Lucy stooped to lift her bulging shoulder bag and begin to drag her suitcase, Alan picked up his kit and turned to pass between two of the shelters – one an old, patched canvas tent, the other cobbled together from pallets and plastic sheeting – and disappeared from view. Lucy was left to negotiate carefully the tiny wheels of her suitcase over the dried, rutted mud that served as the main thoroughfare through the camp.

    Lucy was already exhausted by the time she found the clinic, and had drunk the last of her bottled water. From now on, she would have to rely on the water brought in by tankers. The UN was bringing in supplies, but never enough and deliveries were uncertain.

    The refugees she passed glanced at her curiously, as one of the rare white women around here, but they were so caught up in their own problems and the constant demands of survival that their interest was only fleeting. She received no offers of help with her luggage. Soldiers armed with rifles patrolled the camp, too. Without them there would be anarchy, especially when supplies arrived.

    The clinic was a newer marquee with big red crescents painted on its roof and sides. Here in the far south of Turkey, just over the border from Syria, the population was solidly Muslim. The clinic was crammed with elderly hospital beds far too close together. Every bed was occupied. The screens around each couldn’t keep out the flies, and some of the patients were bound to have maggots. Keeping sanitary working conditions would be impossible. The reek of vomit, waste, sweat and infection filled the stifling space. By the time many managed to cross the border, wounds had become infected and diseases advanced.

    ‘Hello? Hello?’ Lucy called above the noise, to anyone who might hear. The racket was slightly less in here. There was groaning from all over the tent, and the occasional cry of pain.

    A hurrying male doctor in stained scrubs noticed her at last. ‘Hello,’ he greeted her. ‘You must be the new doctor. You are Dr Lucy Carpenter, on a surgery rotation?’

    Lucy nodded. ‘From Doctors Without Borders,’ she confirmed.

    The doctor nodded. ‘Dr Ahmed Khoury. Can you start work straight away? There will be plenty of work for you here. Plenty of experience.’ His English was accented, but flawless.

    ‘I need to get settled, first,’ Lucy said, breathlessly. ‘I’ve been travelling for two days. Could someone show me where I’m going to sleep, at least?’

    Dr Khoury nodded towards the other end of the marquee. ‘We are billeted nearby,’ he explained. ‘I don’t know where you’re going to put all that luggage. We have dormitory tents for men and women. Make sure you get the right one. There is one bed left in the ladies’ tent, at the far end. We’ll see you when you’re ready.’

    Laurel Wingfield & Louise Morrish
    Laurel Wingfield & Louise Morrish

    3rd Place: Louise Morrish, The Island at the End of the World

    “The voice is convincing and engaging and the location was evoked well. The novel is off to a very good start with your narrator’s predicament established immediately. The idea of a journal written in the margins of a family Bible is immensely appealing.”

    They call this island Noho Manene. When I asked Jabez what the sailors meant by that name, he told me it was the native for ‘journey’s end’. But I fear my husband was not being entirely truthful with me.

    As we left New Zealand, on the final leg of our long journey, I plucked up the nerve to ask the Captain about the place we were headed. He gave me a strange look, and would not be drawn on the subject, except to say, ‘It is not somewhere I normally take young women, Mrs Williams.’ Though I pressed him further, he would only tell me the island was a land apart, a lonely spot. He would say no more, but I thought his sad brown eyes betrayed his judgment of Jabez’s decision.

    It is my belief that the island’s name means something altogether different.

    But I must be grateful that we are finally here, intact, and with no lives lost. After weeks of constant movement, weeks of sleeping on a wooden bunk that pitched and tossed beneath me, there is now firm ground. Only yesterday, little Matthias looked on in mute envy at the men and boys climbing the rigging, so dexterous and brave. Only yesterday, there were maggots in the last of the biscuits, weevils in the oats, and barely enough water left for a thirsty child.

    But those ordeals are behind us now, and new ones must be faced. The ship is gone, and we won’t see it again for another twelve months. I must not think on that too much. This journal I have fashioned from a surplus bible I came upon this morning, as I was unpacking the crates. The margins are marvellous wide and bare, and if I write very small, it will serve me well, I hope. Thankfully, Jabez believes I study the word of God, as I sit here with the book open in my lap. God forbid he should ever know the truth, Elizabeth.

    This is my first entry on the island, and I write it solely for you, dear sister, who demanded a promise from me that I would daily record events of import, until our return home, should that time ever come. God grant that it may.

    I will start by describing this place, so you can picture it. The patch of land we are now to call Williamston, after Jabez, is entirely alone in this remote corner of the Pacific Ocean. It is two hundred miles north of New Zealand, where the natives hail from, and is the only inhabitable land in a fragile atoll of coral reef. There is a small transient community on the island, made up of seven or eight fishermen, and two native women. They all wear alarmingly little clothing, and their skin is burnished to a deep mahogany. Jabez has spoken with the men, about what I was not party. The two women look quite young, perhaps my age of twenty five or so. But it is so hard to tell, as their faces are like nothing I have looked upon before. They watch us from a distance, shy as deer, and will not meet my eye. I have yet to learn any of their names, but Jabez has warned me that the men speak only broken English.

    The islet is wooded with coconut palms and other, nameless trees, and ringed with a pale gold sandy beach. In the centre of the island there is a source of natural ground water for drinking, but we have been advised by the Captain to capture rainwater for this purpose. The heat is considerable, but is tempered by a breeze, and I wear your gingham sunhat, Elizabeth, which provides wonderful shade to see by.

    The natives have been asked by Jabez to sacrifice their driftwood huts, so that we may have shelter. This they have done, but no one will tell me where they now sleep. Jabez and I share the largest hut, Matthias and Arehata the second. Charlotte has the smallest hut.

    Where I sit this evening, on a fallen palm at the edge of camp, I have an unimpeded view out to sea. The sun is fast departing, and soon night’s shroud will descend. Across the water, a path of gold stretches toward the horizon, so straight and defined I could walk it clear and over the edge. I gaze at it, and dream of home.

     

    Highly Commended: Tim Bancroft, The Ochre Trail

    “Great title! You established the setting really well and made good use of sensory detail. The story is set up effectively with a pleasing atmosphere of growing peril.”

    Highly Commended: Lou Merlin, The Legacy of Innocence

    “Your disturbing novel opening was striking for its originality. There is much to hook the reader with this grisly scenario.”

    Highly Commended: Linda Page, Indian Paradise

    “An imaginative and enjoyable response to the competition theme. You set the story up well in this interesting opening. The use of point of view was particularly good. I really enjoyed your use of the Portsmouth location.”

     

    The prizes were signed copies of Catherine King’s latest book Her Mother’s Secret, and a Certificate of Adjudication from Rebecca Smith.

    The competition secretary, Jim Livesey, thanked everyone who had entered the competition. It had been a good turnout with 12 submissions.

  • March Competition Winners 2015

    ‘Write a Romantic Encounter – Falling in Love’

    The lovely, lively Lorella Belli was the main speaker last night and also the adjudicator. She gave a refreshing look at the world of writing and inspired many of our members to try different routes into publishing. Read the main report for the full account of the evening.

    Lorella’s assessment was based on the following criteria;

    1. Readability (based on the submitted piece alone, rather than how it might fit into a longer piece of fiction, for example as part of a novel)
    2. Writing itself (both the use of language, metaphors, word association, etc; and even more avoiding clichés, stereotypical imagery, and even spelling, for example)
    3. Originality of concept/idea
    4. Characterization and scene building
    5. Pace, flow and element of surprise/suspense/mystery
    6. Final twist

    Lorella’s Adjudication:

    1st Prize: David Lea, Killer Heels

    ‘This entry won because it ticked all the above boxes: Enjoyable and clear/clean writing (ie. careful and meaningful choice of words, which is key especially in a short piece); well observed, structured and vividly-described scene, one can picture it very easily. Characters well introduced and relatable; good use of dialogue; catchy title and nice element of surprise at the end, it makes you wish to read more of it.’

    We reached Clapham Junction and people bundled over us and around us to get out of the carriage – him on the floor, face grey with shock, and me trying to be a one-woman protective shield. I went as if to help him up, but he made no attempt to move. I should have worn my flatties.

    ‘Why did you do that?’

    ‘God, I’m so sorry’, I said, ‘I thought it was you.’

    ‘Thought what was me?’

    His foot was very long and narrow in his hands. And the hands were abnormally long and thin – delicate without being womanly.

    He is a pianist: I know that now.

    Good job he wasn’t a dancer.

    ‘Somebody was rubbing themselves up against me.’

    ‘And you thought it was me.’

    ‘Whoever it was, he was behind me.’

    ‘Frottage.’

    ‘What?’

    ‘Rubbing yourself against someone for the purpose of sexual excitement – often practised while clothed and in a public place.’

    ‘You seem very familiar with the subject.’

    ‘I went to public school – we know about these things.’

    I had been standing with my Evening Standard resting nicely on the back of the black woman in front of me when I felt something pressing up against my bottom. I knew what it was and tried to shift forward, but he just eased up against me and settled into the rhythm of the train. So I stepped back, took my left foot off the ground and let all my weight go through my right heel.

    I tried to ease his shoe off, but he put his hand over mine.

    ‘It wasn’t me, you know: elderly gent, thin, blue overcoat.’

    He smiled up at me – floppy fringe, knobbly cheekbones, grey-blue eyes.

    And I still don’t know why I did it, but I kissed him.

    On the lips.

    2nd Prize: Honey Stavonhagen, Midsummer Mountain

    ‘Very much enjoyed the writing here, carefully selected and measured use of language; I also liked the originality of this entry, not the obvious theme or scene to describe ‘a romantic encounter’, so it shows imagination and flair. Good sense of pace and great last sentence. It’s the kind of piece one needs to re-read to appreciate the work which has gone into it I feel.’

    Have you ever free-wheeled down a mountain in midsummer? It all starts so innocently; a lingering sip of the view, a heart-warming breath, and then the dive that causes your legs to spin in giddy rotations. You are blissfully blinded by the vibrant colours of the setting sun. The steep mountain path encourages your speed, while the wind entices the air out of your lungs and steals it away. You’re moving too fast.

    Your stomach once filled with moths is teeming with rhinos, agitated and jostling. Lifting your feet from their haven on the crossbar, you try to reunite them with their pedals. But the treadles are livid. They stab at your shins pitting them with bruises and the brakes rigidly mock your pleas to stop. You want to get off.

    You look to the verge. There’s no hassock of grass only a row of hardboiled kerbstones. Weary legs grope for the ground, but the tarmac steals their sandals and your wounded feet retreat like slugs from salt. Forlorn. Your heart fills your ears with its pulsating song. You must stop. Wrenching the handlebar clean off the bike you’re shaking, your steed unbalanced and slaloming. You close your eyes tight and swallow your pride. It will soon be over.

    The front wheel is struck by an unseen obstacle and thrown from your saddle you spiral though the air and land in the comforting arms of a bush. But the pain in your limbs exposes their thorns, which shred your pricked skin as you flail to get free. You sink ever deeper. The sun is eclipsed and you’re alone in the dark, crying and wishing you’d never set eyes on that midsummer mountain, which looked so inviting and tempted you down to the depths of despair. This is love most unfair.

     

    Lorella said she couldn’t separate the third place winners even though they are two very different pieces:

    3rd Prize: Diane Batten, A Romantic Encounter at the Rec

    ‘A witty and entertaining read, characterization spot on, which is not easy to do in a short piece, and lovely use of 1st person narrative (and dialogue to go with it). Good balance of action and description. Lovely punch line at the end. (But not so keen on the usual description of ‘a tall dark haired guy with broad shoulders’, which is used endlessly in romantic fiction and should really be avoided).’

    Northbury has to be the worst place in the Western Hemisphere for night life. Dull brick houses, a couple of dismal pubs which smell of stale beer and school dinner cabbage, and a supermarket. I use the word ‘super’ in its loosest form. Personally I see nothing super about trying to get a tin of beans from the top shelf of an aisle so thin even a super model would struggle to navigate it.

    Northbury was also the home of my Ex Chris. Things had been running along smoothly with him, until he was caught kissing mouthy Martina. Chris claimed he’d been practising First Aid but the Instagram pictures were compelling. After that I trusted the local talent about as much as the kebabs from Dodgy Dave’s Van.

    A visit to the White Lion with Jo met all my expectations. Warm vodka and lime, crisps so dry they could have been unearthed from an archaeological dig and old men clustered like vampire bats outside the side door in a fog of smoke. When Jo said “Lets go to the Rec” it was almost a relief.

    Of course the Burger Van was down at the Park and Jo can never resist a kebab. I went along with it though greasy meat and limp bread isn’t my idea of meal. Someone nudged me and said “You don’t want that do you?” I turned around and saw a tall dark haired guy with broad shoulders, clearly not local. He held out his hand.

    “I’m Phil”

    As I clasped his fingers my stomach lurched. For once it wasn’t because of Dave’s kebabs.

    3rd Prize: Amie Simons, The Girl Who Fell in Love with the Moon

    ‘I enjoyed this modern day fairy tale scene. Original idea (falling in love with the moon rather than a man) and liked the fact it combined the everyday ordinary act of doing the dishes to being magically transported to another time and place, the daffodils being the trigger for it (and as yellow as the moon). Great title and loved the last sentence.’

    On the night that the girl travelled back in time, people from all over the world loved and laughed and sang songs from their souls.

    Aurelia did not mean to time travel but her unconscious was an illusionist, creating unexpected things to the eyes of her world. As she stood at the kitchen sink, delving soft hands into frothy water making it dance, the daffodils that her husband had brought sat patiently on the windowsill in a plastic cup, waiting to be noticed.

    It was as the girl stroked a wooden spoon with a dishcloth that the nostalgic scent finally seized her, in an instant pulling her from one moment to another, as if time and space were as boundless as she.

    By the daffodils the little girl sat once more wrapped in her dressing gown, their crowned heads bowing to the dark sky, a stream of moonlight beams turning the flowers into ghosts. The woods below looked like shadow lands where bony arms and fingers waited to pull her into the depths. But the girl was not afraid because when she tilted her head upwards, sending her eyes flying into the universe, Aurelia discovered a torch. In its primordial arms she was held, her soul illuminated through an unspoken understanding of all things. Over the hill, in the distance, her parent’s emotions could still be heard setting fire to the house. For once though, Aurelia neither noticed nor cared for her heart was on fire too for that was the night that she fell in love with the moon.

    Annie Simons, Honey Stavonhagen & David Lea
    Annie Simons, Honey Stavonhagen & David Lea

    Highly Commended: Linda Page, Didn’t See that One Coming

    ‘A Sweet story which will touch the heart of anyone who cared and looked after a pet. What seems like a clichéd relationship and description at the beginning, turns into a surprising and moving ending when we realize the ‘big, dark, handsome fella’ is not a man.’

     

    The 2nd and 3rd prizes were signed copies of Luke Harding’s The Snowden Files, and a copy of Claire Fuller’s debut novel Our Endless Numbered Days was given to the winner, David Lea. David, as the winner of the last three competitions, already had a copy of the Snowden Files. A signed Certificate of Adjudication from Lorella Belli completed the prizes.

    The competition secretary, Jim Livesey, thanked everyone who had entered the competition. It had been a very good turnout with 22 submissions, and Lorella said there had been an interesting mix of genres and styles, as well as some very good writing.

  • February Competition Winners 2015

    Write a ‘Letter from the Front’, any era, any front, in 300 words.

    We were honoured to have Lt-Gen Sir Christopher Wallace KBE DL adjudicate the February competition. Sir Christopher has had a distinguished Military career and is Chairman of Winchester Military Museums. He is also the author of a number of books.

    • A Brief History of The King’s Royal Rifle Corps 1755 – 1965.
    • Focus on Courage: the 59 Victoria Crosses of the Royal Green Jackets.
    • Rifles and Kubris: Delhi, 1857.

    Sir Christopher said his assessment was based on four criteria;

    1. How well does the entry fit the criteria for the competition?
    2. How well has the entry been written and composed?
    3. How original is it?
    4. How real is it? Is it imaginable?

    Sir Christopher Wallace’s Adjudication:

    1st Prize: David Lea, A Letter from the Front

    ‘This letter is written by a nasty jihadist, typical of those we hear about fighting in the Middle East and elsewhere today. As an entry, it stood out from the rest as different, original, excellent in composition, topical and arresting – in my view, a very worthy winner.’

    An Explanation:

    There are so many real letters from so many real fronts that to write one as a fiction is unlikely to be as affecting as the real thing and would only serve a purpose as part of a longer narrative. Most of the published letters from war zones (both real and fictional) are about acts of individual courage in the face of extreme violence and deprivation, and of fortitude in the face of physical and psychological hurt. Often nobility is found in fighting for a just cause or in personal sacrifice for the good of others.

    However, we have all been exposed to accounts of wars, particularly in Africa, but also in Northern Ireland, Kosovo, Bosnia, Iraq, Afghanistan and now Syria and across the Middle East, where there appears to be little nobility of purpose and where the basest and most vile of human instincts are given free rein. However, there are few letters from any front that are written from the perspective of one of the perpetrators of the brutality that we see, read and hear about on an almost daily basis. Hence, my nasty little missive.

    A Letter from the Front

    Aldo.

    Greetings.

    Missing you already.

     

    How is it for you, Aldo?

    Are you sitting on the sofa watching The News?

    Let’s hope you don’t see me.

     

    Yesterday, a woman, a girl really – let’s call her a young woman –

    She said I must be a very angry man to do what I do.

    To do what I had just done.

    And I said, ‘No, Missy,

    I’m not angry, Missy.

    I rape girls because I enjoy raping girls,

    That is all.

    Not because I am angry’

     

    Me, I would get angry just sitting on a sofa.

     

    So I did it again.

    She wasn’t expecting that.

    Neither was I – didn’t think I had the juice in me.

    Maybe it was what she said.

    Maybe I was angry then, just a little bit.

    But it don’t matter, Aldo, it worked – I enjoyed it more the second time.

    Like sweet chilli sauce on a leg of chicken. – very tasty.

     

    Remember, Aldo? Remember the village?

     

    She said I must be evil – to do what I did.

    To do what I do.

    I told her there is no evil unless there is good.

    She asked me if I believed in God.

    You and me, Aldo, we know the truth, don’t we?

    Life is all there is.

    And Death, of course.

     

    And to be in charge of a death, Aldo, that is when I’m most alive.

    To have him in my sights, Aldo.

    To pull the trigger,

    To watch him drop.

    The end.

    Goodbye.

    You must miss that, Aldo.

    You can’t make a death happen from the sofa; can you Aldo?

    Not a real death.

    They don’t allow it. Not in a civilised society.

     

    So I shot her.

    She wasn’t expecting that.

     

    LOL, Nass

    2nd Prize: Celia Livesey (pseudonym John Black), A Letter just before D-Day

    ‘A close second – excellent composition written just as one knows letters were written then, including a reproach from husband to wife made up for later in the letter. The letter concludes with a nice touch at the end – the drawing of a bluebird with an accompanying explanation why.’

    Mrs Kathleen Sims,

    126 Avenue Road,

    Gosport,

    Hants.

    6th of June 1944

    My Darling Kath and baby,

    I’m counting the days until I’m home with you again and our dear little girl. I love you with all my heart and I pray to God each day to keep you safe. Charlie told me about the landmine. Why didn’t you say? His missus said it took out half the road. My darling, I want to know everything that happens. Please, please don’t let me hear about what you’re going through from neighbours.

    I am well, and spirits are high. Everyone is saying the end isn’t far off – next year for sure. Charlie’s a good mate and makes me laugh, and there’s a bloke in our unit called ‘Bing’ who fancies himself as a bit of a crooner. If I ask him nice, he sings our song ‘Arm in Arm Together’. I wish I was back home with you, walking arm in arm, waking next to you and feeling your warm body in my arms, breathing the sweet smell of your hair.

    I’ll take you to the ‘flicks’ when I get home. I know you want to see ‘Gone with the Wind’. We’ll sit in the 1/6s, the ‘P.O.S.H.’ seats, a special treat for my special girl. I’ve still got a bit of that cake left you sent me for my birthday. It’s the best present ever, but you must have been saving up your coupons for weeks. Thank you, darling.

    How is my dearest little Sylvia? Is she walking yet? I wonder if she’ll remember her daddy when I get home.

    Well, my darling, I’ll say goodbye for now. All my love and kisses to you and baby.

    Your ever loving husband,

    Reg.

    Feb 15 Bluebird_1688

    P.S. I’ve drawn the bluebird of happiness. It’s carrying my love to you over land, over sea, and across all the miles that separate us. Know that you are always in my heart.

    x x x x x x x x

    x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

    x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

    3rd Prize: Veronika Moore, WWI Letter written from Cambrai, 15 March 1918

    ‘Well written and imaginable, but lacking the originality of the winner and the breadth of subject matter of the runner-up. I liked it because of the juxtaposition of the letter writer’s relationship with his mother and God, highlighting the truth of that well-worn aphorism that “there’s no such person as an atheist in a slit-trench”.’

    15 March, 1918

    Cambrai, France

    My dearest mother,

    As I sit here upon this damp patch of bare earth, I feel your presence by my side. I know you are here, but I cannot see you, nor can I recall your face. In a moment of panic, I hastily unbutton my jacket and fumble around the breast pockets for my most cherished souvenir: a faded family photograph. This weightless object is my religious shrine, and I come to it night after night to seek God’s comfort and peace in your smiling face.

    Mother, you’ve been with me in my darkest hours – digging with me the heavy French clay of the trenches, fighting by my side on the battlefield at Langemarck last August, and as I lay there half-dead waiting for the quagmire to swallow me you held my head in your lap and sang to me. I thank you a million times over for your unconditional love and protection. I also thank this great war of ours for carving me into a better man, a better son, a better human being.

    The end of the war is nigh. We all feel it in our weathered bones. May the Almighty grant us victory and may birdsong soon prevail where previously gunshots and the sound of bombardment filled the air.

    With love and hope of an early reunion.

    Your loving son Fred

    David Lea & Veronika Moore
    David Lea & Veronika Moore

    Highly Commended: Lou Merlin, The First and Last Letter

    ‘This entry, written by a chariot commander in the period 1200 BC and the reign of the Egyptian Pharaoh, Rameses the Second, is full of cleverness and originality. It just failed to make it into third position because I was a little uncertain about the language used; there were one or two words which I thought would not have figured in the Egyptian lexicon at that time.’

    Highly Commended: Gill Hollands, Letter from the Front

    ‘Gill Hollands’ entry was about the impact upon the occupiers of a house on a cliff-top subjected to a torrential storm, that topples into the sea – hence the cliff-top being ‘at the front’ and, although I don’t think she intended it, the storm being a weather ‘front’. Clever and original in approach, my wife and I, however, are still not clear how a home at the top of a cliff can at the same time result in water coming up to the letter writer’s ankles. Clearly we lack Gill’s imagination!’

    Highly Commended: David Eadsforth (John Woodman) Letter from the Front somewhere in France, 20 February 1916’

    ‘John Woodman’s entry was well written, but suffered from one flaw. It was a letter written by a private soldier rather more in the language that I would have expected an officer to use.’

     

    The prizes were signed copies of Anthony Riches’ books, and a Certificate of Adjudication from Sir Christopher Wallace.

    The competition secretary, Jim Livesey, thanked everyone who had entered the competition, and said that Sir Christopher had said that he was very glad to have had the opportunity to judge this competition, and it was a privilege and a pleasure to be concerned with such a high standard of entry.

  • January Competition Winners 2015

    The Competition for January was to write a magazine article in 300 words about “A Secret Place in Wessex’. Unfortunately our adjudicator, Heidi King of View Magazine, was unable to be at the meeting.

    Heidi’s interest in journalism dates back to when she was 11 years old, with a love for ponies, when her ambition was to work for the PONY magazine. She later achieved this ambition when she was offered a job as a trainee journalist with PONY magazine and within a few years became assistant editor.

    Subsequently she has contributed to over 200 titles worldwide ranging from The Financial Times and The Sunday Times to the Hong Kong Tatler and Wine Magazine. Heidi now edits ‘Wiltshire View’ and ‘Hampshire View’ as a freelance editor, whilst concurrently working on national titles. She still loves ponies, and magazines.

    Heidi’s Adjudication:

    1st Prize: David Lea, A Secret Place in Wessex

    “David’s piece, based on a bunker near his home of which most are unaware, reminds us how scary the Cold War actually was, and how much we owe to Petrov’s clear thinking. Petrov’s decision touched our lives.

    By mentioning his young children in the text – the portrayal of helpless sleeping innocence – David brings home the point that their destiny was in the hands of distant men. Having been behind the Iron Curtain back in the day, I remember how frightening this regime was. Putin’s recent belligerence gives this piece topicality.

    David uses the limit on words to add drama, his simple sentences increasing the tension. He leaves it to his reader to fill in the gaps and understand the significance of what he is saying: he respects his reader. The piece is also loaded with irony, illustrated by the timeline, and David has found and included humour too, a bonus: five lavatories, four for men, one for women, the absurd allocation meaning that a visit to the loo in the underground bunker would result in long queues, but only for the women. ‘Twas ever thus, even in the face of nuclear catastrophe.”

    To be published in View Magazine.

    2nd Prize: Rebecca Lyon, Odiham Castle

    “This made me smile, and remember.

    The first sentence of this piece is prosaic, perhaps just another touristy blurb, almost enough to make me stop reading. If I were subbing it for publication, all mention of the road number and directions would go. The first sentence must be an invitation.

    But from then on, through Rebecca’s adult eyes and the artless observations of the four-year-old child, the reader is reminded of how the places we visit in our youth become almost sacred in our memory as we grow older. We know that because of this visit, the little girl will love Odiham Castle throughout her life and cherish the memory of being there with her mother.

    Rebecca, with the help of a child, has crammed a great deal into her 300 words, and it is a charming conversation. It’s a skill to know which pieces of a conversation to include. No matter how simple and artless they may seem, they can still speak volumes.”

    Driving southwards along the B3349 into the village of North Warnborough there’s a little turning on the left, unmarked except a dead end sign. Take this turn, if you can spot it, and follow the winding track to the little parking area. From here you walk through marshy fields where ponies graze and gorgeous purple marsh orchids sometimes appear. Cross the River Whitewater through two clear fords (fun in wellies) and you pass a house with high walls and towering gates. It has a CCTV camera and shiny intercom.

    ‘Is this Odiham castle mummy?’ my four year old daughter asks.

    I think she’s a little disappointed when I tell her that we have a little way to go yet. Take the footpath through a dandelion strewn field and you’ll come to the green-glassy Basingstoke Canal. Behind a clump of high trees and brambles is the magnificent octagonal keep of Odiham castle.

    ‘But it’s all broken down mummy!’ says my daughter.

    I tell her that although it’s a ruin now (‘who ruined it mummy?’), it was once an important castle where royalty, knights and ladies lived. Built by King John at the beginning of the thirteenth century it’s been a fortress, a home and a hunting lodge.

    ‘It’s not pretty like Sleeping Beauty’s castle’ says my Disney-loving girl.

    ‘Maybe not, but in the olden days those pointy flints were covered with smooth stone. There would have been lovely paintings and tapestries on the walls and pretty gardens too.’

    I decide not to tell her that it was also used as a prison, albeit a genteel one. We feed the nearby ducks until it’s time to go.

    ‘Can we come again mummy?’

    ‘Of course’ I answer. It’s a bit hard to find, but I’m sure it’ll be here for many years yet.

     

    Highly Commended: Sally Russell, A Secret Place in Wessex

    “I’m insatiably curious and constantly looking for information but I had never heard this story about Fanny Adams, so thank you Sally for adding to my knowledge. This is a disturbing true story. I have now looked it up, of course, and the detail of the little girl’s injuries, omitted by Sally from her piece, is sickening. Did she make the decision to draw the line at including this detail because of its terrible nature or because of constraints on the number of words? Deciding what to leave out and what to leave in makes a real difference in a short piece.

    Sally’s choice of story has two hooks, the first being the extraordinary explanation of a much-used, well-known phrase, the second the fact that this was the last hanging in Winchester. This gives her piece news value and would help to make it attractive to editors.”

    Highly Commended: Louise Taylor, Winnall Moors

    “Louise’s description of Winnall Moors and her children’s changing perception and enjoyment of the place as they grow, is a happy piece. She takes me right there with her voles with ‘grassy moustaches’, and her children ‘stacked like pancakes’. Apart from sharing Louise’s pleasure of the reserve, the message I take from her piece is that protected areas such as Winnall Moors are invaluable not just to the creatures that call them home, but to all of us, at all ages, for a variety of reasons.”

     

    The prizes were signed copies of “The Snowden Files” by Luke Harding, and a Certificate of Adjudication from Heidi King. The winning entry will also be featured in View Magazine.

    The competition secretary, Jim Livesey, thanked everyone who had entered the competition, and said that Heidi King had said that all of the entries had been pleasurable to read.