Tag: writing

By Stephen Hodgson

HIGHLY COMMENDED in the September 2026 Competition

The salt stung Edith’s cracked lips. She stood where the sand meets the cold of the North Sea, her clothes heavy with damp and her cheeks moist with tears.

Beyond the crashing grey foam of the Northumbrian coast, the horizon remained empty, a flat grey line.

Three moons since those hateful ships had crested the same seas. She had seen the sail first and then the dragon-head. Three moons since the steel, the fire, and the frantic screams of the villagers as the men from the north raided.

Her twelve-year-old daughter, Hilda, had been one of those taken.

Every dawn since, Edith had stood on the shingle, frozen by a desperate, agonizing hope: that the next sail on the horizon would bring her child back.

“Edith.”

A hand, heavy and warm, settled on her shoulder. Alfred stood beside her, his breath plume-white in the bitter morning air.

“She is not coming back,” Alfred said gently, his voice competing with the roar of the tide. “The sea only takes. It does not return what is stolen.”

“They might sell her back,” Edith whispered, her eyes fixed on the distant grey water. “They might demand a ransom. A silver arm-ring. A bushel of barley. Anything.”

“They are not like us, Edith. These men from the North have no compassion. They will have sold Hilda by now (or worse, he thought to himself). She is gone from us.”

Alfred turned her gently away from the water, forcing her to look at their rebuilt timber hut. “Hilda would not want you to turn to stone on this shore. Our hearth is cold, and the village needs its weaver. Come home, my love.”

Edith looked down at her hands, raw from the freezing wind. Tears broke again, hot against her cheeks. “No, I still feel her. She lives on in my blood. I cannot return until I know for sure. I will stay a little while longer.”

Judge’s Comments: ‘A historical tale set in a past of sea raiders, timber huts and a woman’s heartfelt loss. Well drawn imagery that places the reader into a specific moment in time.’

By Maggie Farran

THIRD PLACE in the September 2026 Competition

They carried the ashes down to the beach in a green Waitrose bag for life. It was just before sunset, and they had planned to wait until just before the sun disappeared. Sarah was wearing her bright yellow Crocs, so that it didn’t matter if her feet got wet. Her younger brother, Clive was in his expensive green Hunter wellies. The beach was almost deserted and luckily the tide wasn’t too far out. They stood awkwardly together waiting for the sun to sink. It seemed to take forever.

‘Are you sure this is what Mum wanted? It seems very odd to me’ mumbled Clive

‘Yes, she told me precisely which beach, the sunset thing. You don’t think I made it up just to be awkward, do you? She loved this beach. She used to bring us here every summer when we were kids.’

‘I know, I was there too, if you remember. I used to hate it. All that sand in your clothes and the sea was freezing. You and mum laughing and looking so happy together. I felt so left out and odd. I just wanted to get home and play with my computer in my bedroom.’

Sarah bit her lip, ‘That was fifty years ago, get over it. Look at you now with your millions and your massive house in the country. Mum was very proud of you. She was always telling me.’

“it’s a pity she never told me.’

At last, the sun was almost set and Sarah took the casket holding the ashes out of the bag for life and placed it reverently on the sand a couple of yards from the gently lapping waves. Clive helped her unscrew the lid. They started to throw handfuls of ashes into the sea, until a sudden gust of wind blew the ashes back in their faces. They both started to laugh uncontrollably until sooty tears ran down their cheeks.

Clive gave Sarah a stiff hug.

‘Well, I guess Mum got the last laugh.’

Judge’s Comments: ‘Two siblings reminisce about the past as they spread their mother’s ashes in the sea. Nicely drawn and a very funny ending.’

By Margaret Bromage

SECOND PLACE in the September 2026 Competition

He sits, like the others, his face lifted upwards to better catch the warm rays of the summer sun.  His eyes are closed; his brow unfurrowed.  He seems lost in his own thoughts; perhaps a million miles away on some other distant shore.

But, on second glance: a slight hesitancy as he reaches for her hand and puts it to his lips.  An awareness, as he tilts his head from side to side, to better gauge the sound of the lapping ocean as it dances towards his feet. He is smiling…

I am not adrift when I close my eyes on the shore of the seeing.  I can taste the cool water’s salty spray, as it falls like gentle rain upon my lips.  I can feel the flowing tide and the softness of the sand as they come together to play between my toes.  I can hear the rhythm of the waves, at times a fond caress; at times a thunderous crash and deafening roar.   On this sun-kissed shore – my cares whisked away on a passing breeze – I snuggle in its sweet embrace.  So, wondrous Light:  I grieve thee not.  No endless shade, no bitter tears, no ‘might-have-been’.   I cannot mourn for what was never mine.

There is a magic that all can feel but none can see.  A fleeting sense – when every heart must pause for breath: when dreamers dream, when spirits soar, and when the soul finds solace here on earth.

He leaves, like the others, his arm linked with hers, barely lifting his feet above the warm sand.  He moves with a fluidity and self-assurance that belies his reality.  No banishment for him to solitary isles. He is beyond all walking and will fly. For there is daylight in his heart.  Only his eyes are blind.

Judge’s Comments: ‘A beautifully written tale of a man experiencing the shore, with a lovely twist. Poetic and moving.’

         By Jo Agrell

FIRST PLACE in the September 2026 Competition                                                               

Matthew stands, looking out to sea, relieved to be alone. He sends a pebble bouncing over the waves. A flick of the wrist, the way his dad taught him, the way he taught his daughter many years ago. Maybe she’ll teach her own child to skim stones one day.  

In the holiday cottage, Yas, arms folded, watches him from an upstairs window.

Three weeks ago, ‘That’s it then,’ he said, taking her hand, gently steering her down a chemical-smelling corridor into an oversized lift.

‘Giving up? Just like that?’

‘Not just like that,’ he reminded her. Two rounds of Chemo. Radiotherapy. Blood transfusions. CTs, MRIs. A body punctured with needles.

Yas freed her hand, ‘He said more chemo might delay things.’

Matthew shook his head, ‘Only for a few months.’

‘What about that trial I read about online?’

‘I don’t think so.’

 With a surge of frustration she turns away from the window, stomps downstairs.

Matthew thinks about Yas. All those hours she spends on her laptop googling miracle cures; crystals, magnets, that batty hypnotist with the green hair. Now this holiday on the coast – as though the sea air will heal him! Still, it’s pleasantly mind-numbing, the regular rise and fall of the waves, the spill of cappuccino foam on the shore.

Labouring up the beach, sad, he thinks, the rubbish people leave behind. He picks up a beer can, ice-lolly wrappers, a broken plastic spade. Tomorrow he’ll bring a bag.

            In the kitchen Yas crushes garlic to a pulp. The window is open. There’s a cool breeze on her face, aromas of seaweed and thyme. At the squeak of the gate she looks up. He’s lifting the lid of the dustbin, dropping things inside. For God’s sake, Matthew, litter-picking when you’re dying! He catches her eye, raises a hand. In that moment she feels such love. Something is happening to her. A sea change. Matthew must have what he wants, a peaceful end.

Judge’s Comments: A deftly written story of a man dying of cancer who has come to terms with the end and yet finds time to clean a beach. Poignant yet with a dose of life assuring humour.

By Francesco Sarti

FIRST PLACE in March Competition

I never thought of grief, or pain, as moving things.

Mum died, and I ran away, all the way to Rome, and now tides of pain fill me up from my sprained ankle, just like the memory of her.

Paolo carries me to a bench between two pizzerias. I burn the back of my thighs on it, but I can’t show it, not if I want him to ask to come up to my apartment tonight. The pain comes and goes; it comes and goes as I curse my heels and the pebbled roads and my miniskirt and my desire to look desirable.

This city is pure heat. The stones, the monuments, the walls are frying pans; the air is a bath, and my swelling ankle sends heatwaves inside my body. The pain comes and goes, but the heat stays, and I want to sweat it out from my hair and makeup, drowning in the smell of cooking oil.

In the liminal space between the pizzerias there’s a relief-sculpture; a piece of street-art. A face, eyes closed, and a woman’s breast above it. All in blue.

I focus on it to forget the pain, to forget about Mum and her secret memoir of Roman lovers.

Paolo’s checking my foot, more for sexual curiosity than concern, as I wonder why going to such lengths to hide a work of art. A sculpture, a book. Oneself.

‘What’s that?’ I ask.

 ‘Vandalism.’

‘I like it.’

‘We’re 5 minutes from Trastevere, and you like that?’

‘It’s a flying blue tit. A pun.’

He stares at me like a gecko.

‘I love puns. In England, blue tits are—’

‘That’s not art,’ he cuts me off. ‘That is art.’ He points at a freshly cooked pizza margherita.

The blue tit disappears behind us, but I’m happy I found it. It seems to me that hiding, like running away, is just a wish to be discovered.

Judge’s Comments: Very evocative piece, full of beautiful description. The writing flowed. Strong rhythm and structure made it an elegant, compelling read.