That’s the cry of the owls. And there are a lot of owls in my new short story collection, published this month by the independent Welsh publisher Atomic Bohemian and available on pre-order from them now.
The nine stories in the book are all inspired by the paintings and drawings of the Northern Renaissance artist Hieronymus Bosch. His most famous work is the extranordinary The Garden of Earthly Delights. And yes, it does feature in the collection. Or rather, characters from it do.
Look in almost any Bosch painting or drawing and you’ll find an owl peeking out. I love their mystery and their stealthy flight. They found their way into my stories by chance rather than design, but I ‘m so happy to have them there.
I’m thrilled that this collection is finally out in the world. It has found its perfect publisher.
Why I chose this story: It conjures a world so well and Sarah’s fun in writing it shines through. To me it was the most complete story amongst the entries, with compelling imagery and poetic cadences. Most of all I love the ending.
Stormy Trees and Wounded Wings
by Sarah Oakes
When Skaldir entered the maelstrom, he hadn’t been sure what to expect.
Clouds of every colour surrounded the ship, thicker than dreams, as thunder boomed and lightning snapped, and he worried the ship wouldn’t make it.
With sails buffeting and wood creaking, he made his way through the churning centre, into the eye, into the unknown, a whirlpool where the wind held its breath, waiting to explode.
Its core took his breath away, like nothing he’d ever seen. A dragon curled around a great tree, its sapphire body bedazzling against the grey bark. It seemed impossible. But there the tree stood, with its ripe apples as bright as emeralds, high up in the clouds, in its verdant glade. It was scored with scars, and one knot formed an eye, that stared out, and he wondered what it saw.
Back home, they would have said it was Odin’s eye, a lucky sign. He hoped so. They hadn’t had much luck of late.
The dragon shifted, scales rippling, claws scraping bark. And as it did, Skaldir saw why it hadn’t rained. Deep scars riddled the wings, wounds as wide as a craters, blisters blossoming with every move.
It snarled as he approached, but he let it. Carefully, Skaldir anchored the ship to the tree, sails billowing, wood wobbling, and fetched every salve he had.
“I can help you. If you’ll let me.” He wasn’t afraid.
“You are brave to come here.” It said, voice as deep as a fjord. “You have a kind heart, that I see. Please. It hurts. I cannot fly.” A sob echoed in its words, and tugged his heart. He nodded. He knew what he had to do. For every rune has a rhyme, every route a reason.
He applied the salve gingerly, rubbing it into the vast wings as best he could. And for the next few days, he continued, chanting runes, singing songs, spreading salves. They shared stories and apples, as time passed and wounds faded. On the sixth day, the dragon flapped its wings, ready to fly.
“Thank you.” It said, nuzzling him. “Now I can fly again!”
“Go on.” He said, excitedly. “I’ll race you.” The dragon laughed.
He rushed to the ship, quickly loosing his anchor, waiting for a sign. With a roar, the dragon took flight, scales shimmering, wings thundering, soaring faster than a hurricane, and as his ship followed, the rain began to fall.
Sarah Oakes is a visually impaired science fiction and fantasy writer who loves music, mythology, and plays the clarinet. She has had one short story, three poems and many flashes published, both in print and online. Her work can be found in The Microlit Almanac, The Failing Writers Podcast, Bubble Lit Mag, Fictionette, Voidspace Zine, Pure Slush, Wishbone Words, Sixpence Society, FromOneLine, and National Flash Fiction Day.
Why I chose this story: It’s really well-paced – a bit breathless, which is so in keeping with the narrator’s emotions. I love this phrase: ‘the roots wefting and warping across the forest floor.’
When will you be done?
by Louise Witts
She’d struggled to find it. The late summer light was fading and the woods more overgrown than ever. She could hear her husband’s voice telling her to be careful… laughing that new hips were expensive. That made her smile. He’d had his hips and knees done. Bionic, according to him. She shined a torch onto the roots wefting and warping across the forest floor. One step at a time, she reassured him. It would be 10 years this September. Sudden. Was that better? Better for him, maybe. But for her? Who knows? You think losing somebody another way may be easier but you’ve still lost them. You can’t turn back time. That made her laugh. Because that’s exactly what she was trying to do. Turn the clock back 50 years to when she’d last sat under this tree. This gnarled, ancient tree that was no more or less remarkable than the others, except it was where they’d sat. Not her husband, she’d met him later. No, this tree was where she and her neighbour… her best friend… had played and hid and laughed and, finally, kissed. He was her first kiss and recently she’d remembered something. A laughing, silly, off-hand remark he’d made the last time they were here, the night before she left for university: “Meet me here in 50 years,” he’d said. “Meet me and I’ll bring Champagne, you bring strawberries.” He’d suggested Champagne because it was the poshest drink they knew and both agreed going to university was very posh. She was happy but scared everything would change. Of course, she was right. That was the last time they saw each other. His parents moved. Her parents moved. This was before mobiles and emails and messenger, whatever that was… so when you lost touch, that was it. Lost. She hoped he’d lived a happy life. Hers had been.. was… happy. She had her children and grandchildren. But, recently, she’d started to dream about the woods, about this tree. All she could think of was that silly, off-hand remark. So that day, on impulse, she’d jumped on the train and made the two-hour journey ‘home’. A taxi dropped her on the edge of the woods. Ring me, the driver had said. Ring when you’re done. But when would she be done? As the last rays of sun disappeared and the temperature fell, she started to think that maybe it was time to go. Especially when her torch gave up. It was her grand-daughter she heard now: use the one on your phone, Grandma. Good idea, my love. She began to dig around in her bag but, as she did, she realised she was not alone. A light headed towards her. She barely dared breathe. Then a voice she knew well cut through the darkness and 50 years: “I hope that’s strawberries in your bag otherwise I’m not sharing this!” She laughed. And she knew very well that she wasn’t done yet. Oh no, she wasn’t done yet.
Louise Witts is a freelance writer, living in London and Devon (where she grew up). She enjoys reading and writing all forms of fiction, including short stories, and has a couple of novels on the go.
Why I chose this story: It has a quirky truthfulness, and a poignancy too. I love this line from Poppy, the woman from the launderette: ‘You have a lovely thread count on your bedding if you don’t mind me saying.’
Dead knots are a fault and weaken the wood. Rot seeps in. Some people prefer it.
by David Abbott
Ricky prefers it. He loves rot. He loves mould and fungi and decay. Ricky goes to the local cemetery in his lunch break to be closer to decomposition. He orders boxes of worms on-line to keep in his food waste bin. He watches things come apart.
As a child, Ricky collected any and all the dead animals he could find in the park or by the side of the road on his way home from school. Nobody ever troubled him about it because Ricky’s Dad had once appeared on World’s Strongest Man and had a reputation.
At Christmas, when other children gave the lollypop lady small bars of chocolate, Ricky would pop the perfectly preserved skull of a rodent or a bird in her pocket. He was annoyed that she never seemed to mention it.
One particularly lovely, spring day and Ricky is enjoying a cheese bap whilst leaning into the headstone of Wilma Lynch who had died peacefully at the age of seventy-two. It’s a pleasing plot as he has full sight of the wire bin that folks use to dispense of their flower detritus. Next thing and taken quite by surprise, a voice.
‘Did you know, Wilma?’
Ricky spins around and sees the woman from the launderette. He thinks her name is Poppy.
‘Oh. Oh no. I just, em…’
‘She was my mother,’ Poppy says. ‘There’s not a day goes by when I don’t think how lovely my life is without her.’
Ricky had only prepared a condolence type of response and now feels a bit befuddled.
‘Can I join you?’ Poppy sits down on the grass mid-question, so Ricky wonders why she asked.
‘Seen you at the launderette,’ says Poppy as she reaches into her bag for a watermelon and an alarmingly long knife. ‘You have a lovely thread count on your bedding if you don’t mind me saying.’
As untroubled by love and romance as Ricky has been for all of his life, he feels certain that this is a moment to practice what they teach him at LIFE SKILLS CLASSES. It’s in capital letters in his head because the things he does most days are usually in capital letters. And laminated. And on a wall.
‘My favourite duvet cover has all kinds of insects on it as a pattern. Mostly spiders and beetles.’
‘Why do you sit here at lunchtime?’ Poppy asks as she sets about her melon with gusto and enviable knife skills.
Ricky pauses. He tries to think if this is a ‘no-filter’ or a ‘try and be like other people’ moment. Unsure but emboldened he looks at her quite directly.
‘I like to be with things that are breaking apart but beautiful all at the same time. There’s something so much more truthful about it.’
Poppy hands him a slice of melon and Ricky notices that though her face is wet with tears, she is smiling as well.
‘I think it’s on the turn,’ she says. ‘Just how you like it.’
David Abbott lives up a hill in Wales with a husband and a rescue dog, and is an occasional writer of fiction.
Camping at the Flash Fiction Festival in Bristol. I thought my camping days were over, but no! Lovely to see so many fellow writers and attend some great workshops. I even sang karaoke!
In writing: As, sadly, Louise Walters, who published by novella In the Sweep of the Bay, decided to stop publishing, I started working on a project to develop the book into a full-length novel, a saga going back to the 1930s and continuing until the present day.
August
In the footsteps of my ancestors
Great trip to Scotland, visiting old friends and also the place in Eskdalemuir where my paternal great grandparents are buried. I found that very emotional.
In writing: On my return I wrote a little piece for Paragraph Planet (which was published later in the month)
In his footsteps. He was a shepherd, but now there are no sheep. The hills are half-covered in plantations of firs- sitka spruce, he would never have heard of it. But he would have heard what I hear now – the meadow pipits, willow warblers, swallows. All of them, and the sound of the river, the White Esk, ever-flowing, dancing and burbling down the valley. My great-grandfather and me, walking the same land, then, now.
September
Rainbow over Newport Bay, North Pembrokeshire
I took on a challenge which was initially to walk 30 miles in the month in aid of Dementia UK. I decided to aim for 100 and in the end walked 134.5 miles – including some brilliant walks in West Wales – and, thanks to many people’s generosity, raised £1,255 for the charity. So pleased and proud and it’s inspired me to aim for a new walking challenge in 2024 – more of that in the New Year!
No writing really – walking was the most important thing for me in September.
The final part of my 2023 Snapshots series follows on 31 December.
The coming of Spring is always a joy – the variety of colours in the new leaves, and the blossoms. This is the acer in our garden.
In writing: Back to serious work on the next round of edits of my circus novel.
May
Laying in supplies for the Coronation
I’m not an ardent Royalist, by any means, but the coronation of King Charles was such a significant moment in our history, we had to watch it on TV. The music and the ceremonial were both extraordinary. We raised a glass!
In writing: Finished work on Draft 2 of my novel. And was delighted to have my short story , Spawn, published in Fictive Dream, an online magazine which I greatly respect.
June
St Antonin
Back to the English Bookshop in South-West France for a week, this time with my friend Katsy and also husband Oliver.
I am interrupting my series of snapshots of 2023 to bring you news of my new novella-in-flash. Copies have arrived unexpectedly early, so I will be able to start sending them out after Christmas!
After The Geography of the Heart was longlisted for the Bath Novella-in-Flash Award 2023, judge John Brantingham suggested other publishers I might try with the book. I was delighted when Arroyo Seco Press in California offered me publication.
This – like my other novellas – is the story of a family, this time set in my hometown of Abergavenny. featuring real places and events. The characters are fictional, but draw on my own experiences living here. I hope it will appeal to readers in Abergavenny, California and all places in between and beyond!
John Brantingham says of the book:
‘The Geography of the Heart is an exceptional collection, and Cath Barton uses the novella-in-flash form to do what could not be achieved so well in any other form, giving us an insider’s look at the way the people in a small town in Wales live. This is an intimate book and a beautiful one too. It is one I have lingered over a few times now because it asks us to spend some long quiet moments with the inhabitants of Abergavenny, and these are people worth spending time with.’
I am so grateful to John for his generous words, and to Thomas Thomas of Arroyo Seco Press for working with me to bring this book into the world.
UK readers can also buy it online here for £11.95. However you can get it directly from me for £9.50 incl p&p. (Multiple copies will be a little cheaper – contact me for details.)
I will also be handselling copies locally for £7. I am planning a launch in Abergavenny Library on Saturday, 20th January, where I will be in conversation with fellow local author Nigel Jarrett, reading extracts from the book and answering questions about it.
However you purchase it, I will be donating all profits which I make from sales of this book to Abergavenny Foodbank.
I post a photograph every day on https://www.blipfoto.com/Cathaber. It’s a wonderful visual diary. So here are some highlights of the year which is drawing to a close
January
Chinatown
First time in London for over 3 years. And met up with my very good friend Katsy for her birthday lunch.
In writing: I began reading entries for the Cheshire Novel Prize, something that would take up more and more of my time over the following months. It taught me a lot.
February
Coming round the mountain
Walking has been a very important part of my life this year. Here, with the Abergavenny Women’s Walking Group on Table Mountain. Also, longer and shorter walks with one or two friends.
Venice
Had to put in an extra photo to remember a very special trip with OB to Venice, a magical city.
In writing: Talked to a local WI about writing, but didn’t do much of it!
March
A new novella
Between the Virgin and the Sea. Published in Novella Express #3 by Leamington Books in Edinburgh.
In (new) writing: Started work on a substantial short story for the first time in ages.
People say we get writer’s block because of fear – of failure, of success, perhaps just of being accountable. For we must stand by our words, I do believe that.
I used to like writing very short work, was a regular contributor to Short, Fast & Deadly. So I tried writing a few micros again, and something shifted. Perhaps I just got out of my own way.
I’ve started a new story. And this week I’m back to editing my novel.
Plus, there’s something else to tell you about. Soon. Be patient.
You may know already that Louise Walters is closing her publishing company at the end of June. This will be a huge loss to the world of independent publishing. She has been indefatigable in her support of her authors over the past 6 years, but everyone has their limit.
There is much to say about this, but for now I just urge to take advantage of last opportunity to buy from Louise Walters Books. All her books are on sale from her online bookshop with a 25% discount until the end of June. After that, they will no longer be available.
Maybe you already have my book, In the Sweep of the Bay. Maybe you have all the other books Louise has published. If so, thank you, that’s great, but now you could do one or more of the following:
buy a book for a friend
ask your local library to buy one or more books – or a set for bookclubs. If their budget does not permit this, you could buy one or more yourself and donate them.
spread the word on social media
tell your friends who don’t use social media
This is not about me wanting money. This is about me wanting to support excellence. And it’s about kindness. Something that is easily forgotten in the world of publishing.
I leave you with a rose from my garden. Thank you for reading this and take care.
Although I live in South Wales and Mandira Pattnaik in India, our paths have been criss-crossing on the global flash fiction stage for several years, and I am very happy to invite readers to celebrate with me the upcoming publication by Stanchion of Pattnaik’s novella-in-flash Where We Set Our Easel.
The work is a kaleidoscopic riff on the nature and passage over time of love between a man and a woman. Rich in metaphor and imagery, it is – like all good flash fiction – as powerful for what it leaves unsaid, inviting the reader to develop their own pictures of relationship, its challenges and rewards. Using techniques of time-shift, repetition and cut-up, varying pace and mood and working her texts with the precision of a scalpel, Pattnaik has created a shining, multifaceted gem.
Mandira Pattnaik generously agreed to share her reflections on the writing of the book, and to answer some other questions which intrigued me. Here’s what we talked about across the ether:
Cath Barton: Can you tell readers a bit about the inspiration for the stories which, together, make up Where We Set Our Easel?
Mandira Pattnaik: Thank you so much, Cath. Where We Set Our Easel developed from a micro fiction piece I wrote during UK Flash Fiction Festival last year based on a prompt. The prompt was the Van Gogh painting ‘Café Terrace at Night’. I submitted the piece later and it was published in April, 2022 in Canadian publication Commuterlit. The idea of a young, somewhat naïve, couple, deeply in love, walking through the painting into a dream-like world, metaphorically in an imagined future they see together, and then discovering where their life takes them, appealed to my sensibilities. The stories that I subsequently wrote form the arc of that relationship. In this novella-in-flash, written entirely in stand-alone micro prose, the pieces double up as the novella’s chapters. The narrative peeps into the couple’s ordinary lives here and there, chronicling their difficult situations, work and children, trivial misunderstandings, bitterness, parental concerns and accidents, while taking time jumps trusting the reader to fill in the gaps with imagined details. Where We Set Our Easel, true to its title, I believe, is a story of two lives well-lived that can only be possible because of deep and true love.
CB: Congratulations on being published by Stanchion. How did this come about?
MP: Stanchion had already been publishing gorgeous magazines, and when the call for manuscripts was announced, I really wanted to submit. This work was written and completed in the brief interval between that announcement and the call submission window opening. I submitted it in the open reading period and was hugely grateful when it was selected. As you may understand, for a writer from India, being published at all is difficult, let alone a book, that too by a publisher based in the US for an international readership. Now, I’m all jittery and ecstatic and unbelieving that Where We Set Our Easel is soon going to be out there in the world, through Stanchion Books as well as Barnes & Noble. I’m taking time off to let the feeling sink in.
CB: I think your title Where We Set Our Easel is so evocative and appropriate. And titles add so much to flash fiction. Do you start with titles or do they emerge later in the writing process?
MP: Titles do add so much to flash fiction, in fact, to any book. As a reader, no matter what subject or genre, I’m drawn to titles that are brief, evocative and memorable. Similarly, when titling a piece of mine, I’m looking at these attributes. However, it is easier said than done. Sometimes it is a stroke of luck to find the title at the outset or during the process of writing. At other times, it’s an uphill task, with the piece going through several revisions and at least one title change.
For this novella, the title emerged from the opening story (it was published under the same title in Commuterlit a year before). I later decided to rename the opening story and use the title for the entire novella. I hope readers find it as evocative of a starting point full of possibilities. I’m also hoping it makes readers curious about the course my characters will follow. Further, I’d like to believe this title, combined with the reading of the opening story, will suggest a lot many different paths, each with a range of outcomes, akin to what walking into a frame will possibly generate. As recent readers who have had a sneak peek say, they’ve been impatient to learn what transpires beyond the framework where I’ve set the easel!
CB: Your stories are strongly visual. Who are your favourite artists?
MP: I think I tend to write in a way that the reader can visualize the setting. I love natural surroundings and they are often the stage for my stories. My favorite artists are too many to name. Van Gogh of course is somewhere on the top of that list.
CB: You’ve been widely published over the past few years. But do you have an unfulfilled writing ambition?
MP: I’m very thankful for the love my work has received over the last couple of years or so. I have enjoyed writing since when I was very young, but as is the case with most people, work and family took precedence. I started writing again in 2018 with no publications that year and very few in the next. However, some amazing places accepted my writing 2020 onwards and this is where I’m now, happy with what I am doing. I never set out to be a writer. I’m not a very young person, so I guess I’ll take it one at a time, not planning too much ahead.
CB: Who would you say are your greatest teachers?
MP: Readers may not know this but I graduated in Economics and I am a trained accountant and auditor. However, I’ve not been enrolling into writing workshops/mentorships and the like for a variety of reasons. More or less, I’m on my own — tripping, falling, and charting a journey I cherish. My greatest lessons come from reading others, from observing and from trial-and-error.
CB: If you were castaway on a desert island what one book would you take with you and why?
MP: I’m not sure! I have many on my TBR list, and can’t decide on which to pick. I’m currently reading Seven Moons of Maali Almeida by Shehan Karunatilaka. I don’t know which book to go for next. I read a variety of genres, and usually mix my reading to include science, history, even electronics and geography.
But probably I’ll just take my notebook instead, and write while I’m there!
CB: If you could choose one writer (living or dead) to spend an evening with, who would it be, and what would you like to say to them?
MP: James Joyce. I’m a huge admirer of his writing. I think I know Dublin like it was my city because of the way Joyce describes it. I suppose the admiration comes also from the similarities of Dublin with places in India I have lived in, from shared sensibilities and from the attention to detail that’s the hallmark of Joyce’s stories. But I’d probably be too tongue tied to say anything if I met Joyce.
CB: Have you got a flash fiction you would like to share with readers here?
MP: Embryonic Star – this was published in the Irish flash fiction journal Splonk).
CB: Is there anything I haven’t asked you that you’d like to share with readers?
MP: Perhaps regarding Where We Set Our Easel: whether the time-jumps I mentioned earlier in our conversation are something that I planned consciously? My reply would be: Time is eternal and at the same time slippery — this is part of our ancient Indian texts and philosophy. In this respect, for a novella-in-flash, time could be compressed into less than fifty pages without compromising on any of the pulls and emotions that a novel promises. I wanted Where We Set Our Easel to have the arc and timeline of a novel, follow the characters through a lifetime’s journey and satisfy the reader in its resolution, and yet shrink itself to within a novella-length work. It wasn’t difficult to do that, letting myself glide, and skim, and peep into the couple’s life. Given flash is a genre I have written in the most, and am definitely comfortable in, I am delighted the novella-in-flash took its present shape.
CB: Can you say a little more about how the notion of time being at the same time eternal and slippery features in ancient Indian texts and philosophy? Give an example perhaps.
MP: As I mentioned before, the constraints of writing a novella entirely in micro prose doubled the challenge of managing time-frame and setting within which I’d allow my characters to thrive. I also had to ensure that the narrative would progress such that it defined a satisfactory arc for the reader. With this objective, I had to compress time at places in the novella, and yet, at other points, I had to portray time as eternal and everlasting for certain relationships and emotions.
It helped that as an Indian, I am drawn to thought-schools and philosophy about the duality of time. For example, time is cyclical in the cosmological context, but linear for determination of events. Time is regulated by the motions of the sun and moon, and in the same vein, boundless for life as it exists on the planet itself. In the epic Mahabharata, for instance, Time is compared to a stage manager or Sutradhara. Here, Time is personified as a force that controls the performance of a puppet show according to his wish. The whole cosmos is thought of as a grouping that is subservient to the control of the puppet-master Time. I believe some of these notions do percolate into my writing.
CB: What a fascinating note on which to end, Mandira. Thank you so much for taking time to talk, and I wish you all the best with Where We Set Our Easel.
Bio: Mandira Pattnaik is the author of collections “Anatomy of a Storm-Weathered Quaint Townspeople” (2022, Fahmidan Publishing, Poetry), “Girls Who Don’t Cry” (2023, Alien Buddha Press, Flash Fiction) and “Where We Set Our Easel” (2023, Stanchion Publishing, Novella). Mandira’s work has appeared in Flash Frontier NZ, The McNeese Review, Penn Review, Quarterly West, Citron Review, Passages North, DASH, Miracle Monocle, Timber Journal, Contrary, Watershed Review, Amsterdam Quarterly, Quarter After Eight and Prime Number Magazine, among others. She edits for trampset and Vestal Review. More at mandirapattnaik.com
The Indian author Mandira Pattnaik’s novella-in-flash Where We Set Our Easel is published on 23rd May.
I talked to her about her book and her writing life.
As a taster here’s what she has to say about time:
Time is eternal and at the same time slippery — this is part of our ancient Indian texts and philosophy.
Come back on Friday, 19th May, and read our full conversation, including how that notion of time informed Mandira’s approach to writing a novella-in-flash, and how the picture below comes into her book.
Between the Virgin and the Sea, a magical realism story featuring a boy who dreams his future, is now published in Novella Express #3 by Leamington Books, an Edinburgh-based indie publisher.
You can buy the book, containing novellas by three authors, here
Alternatively – or as well! – you can buy the ebook of Between the Virgin and the Seahere
I mean God being non-binary is old news, no? So much lost in translation. Did you ever see a nativity scene with folks the right colour? As if the only brown yolks were the donkeys. The baby Jesus, the colour of snow and his mammy a natural blond. Joseph looking on like some bearded Shoreditch hipster.
As a child I belonged to a funny old outfit called the Legion of Mary. We were some kind of army ready to fight if she returned to earth. Fearsome we’d have been. All aged about 10 and natural selection having removed us from sports activities on a weekend.
Me at that age an unknowing but obvious homo. Loved to skip. It’s actually a very economical way to travel. Always met with fierce resistance, mind. My mam let me cut bluebells from the garden, soak them in loo roll and take them up to the convent to adorn the Virgin.
So, this one day and I’m off to join The Legion and doesn’t Sister Mary Evangelista of the Holy Roses stop me at the door and ask me to nip down to the church and get the statue of the big Lady and bring it to the convent for our meet.
Talk about give me joy in my heart keep me burning! Flushed with the obvious leadership status this affords me among the ranks I race at speed to the church of the Sacred Heart of the Immaculate Jubilation.
Spotting Mary Marilyn of Monroe in the corner I am suddenly afeared that she is almost as tall as I am. Undaunted I pick her up and sure she’s made of something terrible light and no bother to carry. It feels wrong to put her under my arm, so I hold her upright and steady against my chest and head off back to Convent HQ.
It’s been a beautiful frosty morning and I’m careful enough not to skip but truth be told I can’t properly see my way as Mary’s big veil is in my eye-line and I don’t see the patch of ice on the pavement. I go down in slow motion, but the feels come at me faster than a bullet. If a single bit of her comes to harm, I’ll be hell bound before you can say a decade of the bountiful mysteries.
In my falling I cling on to her so tight. I make sure that every bit of my body hits the pavement and not one bit of hers does. I hear the tinny thud of impact and rejoice that it is me and not her.
I sit for a few moments on the ground. Mary stood next to me. Traffic going by and no-one pays any heed. Nor does Sr Mary Eva of the Angelic Fashionistas when I knock on the convent door, blood in my hair.
Sacred Blood, I decide.
Blood of Honour.
Blood of The Cross.
Blood of The Legion.
David Abbott lives high up on a hill in Wales with his boyfriend and a rescue dog called Roxy. He is a very occasional writer of fiction.
It’s a creature. The thought seems to lie in wait for the sound. I can’t tell if it’s hunger or curiosity which freezes me. The noise comes again from the reedbed, in a slightly different place; a spoor of crumpling, fracturing. Something moving.
First rule of listening: stop. Now scan, locate. A fox does this, can swivel its ears through half-circles. Is it reynard in the swamp, tempted by ice-bound waterfowl? I look for a viewpoint, a gap between blackthorns. But you cannot see far into reeds before the eye falters. A bittern understands, stretches a vertical neck, hides itself in slender rushwork.
Unusual here, so near the coast; ice. Golden sunshine falls on ivy by the track, blue flies bask. It might be Summer, but for a damp tunic. It is ivy Summer. Contrary as the back of the moon, ivy wears her garland of blackjacks; which the redwing gathers with its needle, the fieldfare with pruning shears.
Farther away now, the movement. Twitches and waggles of reed seedheads. Bleached and wispy, they hold their own frozen light, give body to the wind. I think about deer, have seen roe not far from here. Might one have strayed into the reeds and got into difficulty? I hope for a flashing white rump, a roe hind jumping clear. There is no deer.
What if it isn’t mammals at all, or birds, but fish? Maybe pike have woken to see winter midges settle on the surface of the ice; black stars in a white firmament? Pike stirring, rousing their great hulls to smash through ice. No. Midges are small meat. Pike will be lying deep and still, silent as boatwrecks.
Staring low into the edges of the swamp. Oily, rusty water skinned with white wafer-ice. Evidently the flood has receded and the surface frozen several times, because the ice is layered like thin-breads. Leaves of ice clasping stems in Runic shapes. A feather breeze shivers the reeds. A volley of shattering slingshot-falls, yet no shot was flung. Imagine a Winter feast, the revellers all eating crackling.
A chorus of squeals. I clutch my bowstring, crouch lower, but it is not boar. I’m losing sense of their spoor, beginning to forget their sound. Water rails are calling deep in the reedswamp. Sharmers. They squeeze between reeds like shuttles through the warp. I’ve seen very few in all these years. They know who the creature is.
Dudley Martin is 53 and lives in Worcester with his partner and daughter. On Twitter you may find him @ivysuckle, where he tweets about garden wildlife and and close encounters with nature. One of his true loves is the natural world and it is in the wonder of nature that he finds the inspiration to write.
I had 32 entries. They were anonymised for me for judging. I scored each entry out of 10 for each of the following criteria:
Originality
Completeness
Emotional impact
Word painting
All of the shortlisted entries scored over 30. I have also given a special mention to the entries that scored 29.
I will be contacting all those who entered individually. The winner and runner-up will be offered publication. All those shortlisted or given a special mention will receive a couple of lines of feedback.
Congratulations to the authors of the entries listed below. Feel free to broadcast the fact that you have made the shortlist or got a special mention, but please don’t identify which piece is yours until the final results have been announced.
Shortlist
Chapter 39
Spider, Spider
Spoor
The Next Good Joy That Mary Had
Winter Needs Watching
Special mention
Ice Age
The Illustrator
The Taste of Champagne
Come back on Friday 17th February for the announcement of the winner and runner-up, and names of those on the shortlist and with a special mention.
I think I may have fallen foul of the new Twitter algorithms, so that some (many?) of those who might be interested in entering my competition didn’t read about it until recently – or at all!
So I’m extending the deadline by a week.
You now have until Friday 10th February, 5pm, UK time.
See my previous post for the picture prompt and all the details.
Send me your best. Any form. I’m looking forward to reading your words.
Your challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to respond to the image below with a piece of creative writing – any form, maximum 500 words. Please observe the usual rules – you don’t need me to spell them out. Essentially, be respectful of others.
Send your entries to me at cath.barton@talktalk.net by 5pm (UK time) on Friday 3rd February. Subject line: Jan 2023 Writing Competition.
Entries will be anonymised on receipt. I will choose one winner, who will be offered publication of their work on this site, plus a surprise book and chocolate. Open to writers worldwide but I can only post the book and chocolate within the UK, sorry. Shortlisted entries may also be published.
For myself, I have a new novella being published soon, I’m finally getting back to editing my novel-in-progress and I’m taking part in a workshop on lucid dreaming for creative writing.
For you, I’ve a little writing competition coming up. Prizes: publication here plus a book and chocolate.
Met up with my novel-writing buddies, as I’ve done throughout the year. They’re super-supportive
Drinking a toast to us
November
Began to learn woodworking skills. A revelation and so enjoyable.
Countersinking
December
Bookselling with other Marchers Authors at Christmas Fairs
At Llanvihangel Court Christmas Fair
I’m ending the year unagented as yet, but with renewed determination to get my circus novel out into the world next year. And I’ve novella #3 being published in January.
I’m hugely grateful to all the people who’ve supported me in my writerly endeavours over the past year, and in particular:
My novel-writing buddies Jude Higgins, John Wheway and Alison Woodhouse
My fellow Marchers Authors
All in the Afon Llwyd Writers
All my writer friends on Twitter
Sara Cox and all involved in the Cheshire Novel Prize
Isobel Copley for the chance to run a bookshop in France for a week, and Katsy Blamont for doing it with me
And, more than I can say, my dear heart, Oliver, and my dear furry purry boy, Feely.
It got mighty hot! OB and I took a trip to Hereford on the bus to hear a concert in the Three Choirs Festival. It felt like going to another country. Well, of course that was literally true!
Church Street, Hereford
August
By mid-month the weather broke. Phew!
Walking in the rain
September
Went to South-West France to look after a second-hand English bookshop for a week with my friend Katsy. Loved it!
Two Go Mad in Tarn-et-Garonne
Lots of good walking with friends over this period, though not in the blistering heat, when I sat in the shade in the garden and read. Did no writing and didn’t worry about it. And – major excitement – an agent asked to read my novel!
Find out what happened next in Part 4 – coming on New Year’s Eve.
OB and I had a short holiday in Dorset. We stayed in a wooden cabin surrounded by woods. Walked, read, ate and slept. Just what we needed.
On Golden Cap
May
The year blossomed, in our garden and others too. We visited old haunts, met old neighbours.
Open garden in Harry Stoke
June
Had another little holiday, at one of our favourite places, in West Wales. The weather was variable. We watched a lot of Wimbledon which – fortunately – we love.
Visiting the pigs in the rain
I also had some lovely walks closer to home over this period. In writing news, I got onto the Long Longlist of the Cheshire Prize, which was very good news, and meant that my work would – later in the year – be included in an agent showcase. Very exciting!
The year began for me with some good walking, including regular Monday morning walks up the Deri with my friend Mary. I calculated I’d done more than 30 miles on the hills by the end of January.
Horses breaking the ice on the dew pond on the Deri to get a drink
February
Plenty more walks, in between periods of stormy weather.
Sign of a Welsh trig point
March
By March daffies were out and trees budding. But OB and I both caught Covid. Neither of us was very ill but the tiredness put paid to walking for a while.
Ladybird on medlar
All this time I was editing my circus novel, Thistles in the Cirrus. That was the focus of my writing. Such flashes that I got published – Big Top in Roi Fainéant Press in February and That Yellow Bedspread in the Flash Fiction Festival Anthology, Volume Four in March, were extracts from the draft novel. Over this period I also entered the first chapters into a number of novel competitions.
Read what happened next in Part 2, coming on Christmas Eve!
We all need to recharge our batteries from time to time. To take a holiday. But you don’t necessarily need to go away from home to do this; you just need to change your routine.
For a writer, taking a break is important. Take your brain elsewhere for a bit.
I’m taking a break from writing fiction during August. My draft novel is out with beta readers, so it’s a perfect time for me to do something else. Okay, I have one flash fiction story to edit and one review to write. But otherwise I shall be reading, walking and attempting to teach myself to play the mandolin.
It’s lovely to get more coverage for my book In the Sweep of the Bay, and also to do my little bit to encourage more young people to read. Our public library service is a treasure for children and adults alike. Use it or lose it!
Meanwhile, you can still buy In the Sweep of the Bay direct from the publisher, Louise Walters Books, or from any good bookshop.
My first book, The Plankton Collector, is also still available, and Waterstones currently have it on offer in their sale at just £2!
Congratulations to Janine Amos and John Holmes, the winner and runner-up in my competition. I am delighted to be able to share their stories.
Janine will also receive a copy of my novella, In the Sweep of the Bay, which has been kindly donated by my published, Louise Walters.
WINNER
A Stranger Finds Her Voice
by Janine Amos
I stand at the hotel window, looking out over the bay: white foam horses riding a grey, greasy sea. I dig my knuckles into the window-sill and take two deep, slow breaths in – and –out, in a vain attempt to still my fiercely-beating heart. What I am about to do may rile the mob for I am a stranger here. A gull dives past, shrieking its yellow warning and is carried away on the wind.
“Miss Davis, it is time.” A timid tap on the door and in pops Rosemary Jones the tweeny, sent up by Cook no doubt, who can’t stand the sight of me. The little maid bobs a curtsey, reaches for my pot from under the bed, and scuttles away with it down the back stairs. Her trembling figure gives me heart as I must give heart to other women and girls the land over.
I leave the sea view and make my way down two flights of stairs to the front of the building. A faint smell of boiled cabbage pervades the air; my stomach lurches as memories of Holloway rise to my throat like bile. I swallow. The tread of the carpet is bare in parts; this is a seedy, run-down sort of place notwithstanding its genteel façade. My legs are shaking so that I stumble and must take hold of the banister. I am all alone, despite Miss Richardson’s assertion that she would be by my side, alone and vulnerable just as I was in my prison cell. I force myself to attend to the business in hand.
A constable waits at the french doors and I am guided on to the balcony. A gust of wind catches the brim of my hat and threatens to carry it away, but it settles and I look out at a different sea: a sea of gentlemen’s boaters. A large crowd has gathered just below me, nearly all gentlemen but some ladies too, their hats bedecked with ribbons and roses. I am an amusement to most of them, no doubt, a curiosity to help them while away a summer morning in a seaside town, but some will heed my call. If I can change but one mind, I will have done my job.
“Get on with it!” The first heckle comes from the front of the pack, before I have even begun to speak.
A rotten egg smacks onto the wooden board in front of me, spilling out its contents. Cabbages, carrots, an array of vegetable scrapings follow.
“Please – “a stick, smeared in some foul-smelling substance flies past my face and hits the door-frame behind me. I quake. The horrors of prison return: the stench, the horrific snake of the rubber feeding tube.
Then, wobbling along the road on a bicycle is Miss Richardson; a friendly face at last. The sight of her gives me the courage I need to continue and, keeping my eyes fixed upon her, I begin my speech again.
“I am a Suffragette!”
Janine Amos worked as a children’s commissioning editor in London, Bath, Berlin and Chicago before beginning her career as a children’s writer and tutor. She is the author of more than sixty ‘special issue’ information and ‘faction’ books for children, on topics such as bullying, divorce, anger and self-esteem. She has been published in fourteen languages. Janine takes her writing into schools and works with small groups of children to help them make stories of their own.
Janine has recently returned to live in Wales, to the beautiful town of Usk, where she lives with her husband andtwo unruly cats. She is currently writing her first historical novel for adults, set in Monmouthshire.
Janine Amos
RUNNER-UP
Cycle
by John Holmes
The sound of perfection.
Bicycle chains and bikers’ breathing, oiled gears and smooth tyres. Finely tuned harmonies rising from the choreographed band, accompanying the flashes of colour, backed-up with its own wind.
Individuals working in unison, all waiting to orchestrate a solo break.
As they zip by, they create their own live stream.
I cheer loudly as they pass, but internally I worry that wheels will touch, carbon will snap and we’ll be only left with a choir of human cries.
The notes are carried away to the new, appreciative audience, waiting further down along the sweeping bay. Necks stretched, eyes wide and ears open. Cold fingers attentively hovering over the record buttons on their phones. The musical movement is heading their way.
Leaning back against my firm cushion, I allow myself to soak in the new silence, which is suddenly broken by the far off cry of a single, black-headed gull. I throw my dark memories up there – force them to grow wings and fly away. As always, some of them are just too powerful to take off. That day my bike screeched across the tarmac, like the call of that single bird, is still my private, permanent tinnitus.
My attempts to turn the wheels are fruitless. I’ve sunk deep into the muddy verge. A cheerful spectator registers my difficulty, gives me a firm push on to the path and I’m on my way.
‘Watch the pot…’ he shouts, as my front, right wheel bounces into a hole.
‘Too late,’ he adds with a laugh.
My chair rattles violently over the uneven paving, fighting the gaps and cracks.
No beautiful music escaping from my transport. It performs only one tune.
The sound of reality.
John Holmes, based in the North East of England, is a writer of short fiction. ( JohnHolmesWriter.com )
He is a previous winner of the The Times Short Crime Fiction Story prize.
In the last 12 months his work has appeared in Paragraph Planet, 101 Words, Fragmented Voices, Pen to Print, Glittery Literature, Globe Soup, Drabble, Cross The Tees, Bag of Bones and Ellipsis Zine.
John is the co-author of Rough Rides, a mountain biking guide book (ISBN 0861901894 9780861901890).
When he isn’t writing, he’s out onhis bike, exploring new routes.
Louise Walters is promoting my novella In the Sweep of the Bay as her Book of the Month in February – both paperback and ebook are available from her website at reduced prices and the ebook is 99p/99c everywhere for the whole of the month – paperbacks will be signed and each comes with a free flash fiction story, one of my Untold Stories of Ted and Rene.
To coincide with this I’m running a flash fiction competition. The winner will have their story published here on my website AND (courtesy of Louise Walters) will receive a copy of my book, or, if they already have it, can nominate a friend to receive a copy..
Here are the rules:
Write a flash fiction of no more than 500 words, not including the title (no minimum).
Include the words bay, gull, pot and bicycle in the story.
End the story with a sentence that is 4 words long.
Follow the usual rules about content – nothing defamatory please.
One story per entrant.
Send your story to me at cath.barton@talktalk.net by midnight (UK time) on Sunday 13th February.
Attach the story as a .doc or .docx document. No pdfs or other formats, please.
In the subject line of your email type the words Submission: Bay competition. Nothing else.
Do not put the title of your story anywhere in the email – all stories will be anonymised before judging.
Entries are welcome from writers anywhere in the world.
I will choose and publish an anonymous shortlist by Sunday 20th February, and a winner and one or two runners-up by Sunday 27th February.
I will contact shortlisted writers before publication of the shortlist, and the winner and runner(s)-up before I announce them.
The winner will be offered online publication of their story, plus a copy of In the Sweep of the Bay – paperback or ebook in the UK, but ebook only elsewhere.
I will acknowledge receipt of all entries.
Any entry that does not follow these rules will be disqualified.
Sorry, I cannot offer feedback on unsuccessful entries or enter into correspondence about them.
Sorry this all sounds so formal – the rules are to ensure fairness.
Photograph copyright Cath Barton
I encourage you to use the prompt words imaginatively – have fun with the challenge and I look forward to reading your stories.
During the last three months of 2021 I focussed on writing my circus novel, and thanks to enormous help and support in Nancy Stohlman’s Flash Novel Mastermind course, I completed a full first draft before Christmas. Its working title is Thistles in the Cirrus, which is clown-speak for Things in the Circus.
My number one priority for 2022 is to do a comprehensive edit of the circus novel and move it forward from there.
At the same time I have started submitting shorter work to journals and competitions. I will be writing new work, and I also have a fair number of flashes and short stories sitting in my ‘unpublished’ file which I will be sending out.
Once the circus novel is at the next stage and I have sent it to first readers, I will be turning to another work in progress. More about that when the time comes.
In the meantime I will be posting news and thoughts about things writerly here at least once a month, and in February I will run another competition, so look out for that.
Happy writing and reading, and do share your writing plans for the year ahead.
My novella In the Sweep of the Bay is a year old today. It’s alive and kicking and still available to buy from Louise Walters Books in paperback or ebook. It’s an ideal Christmas present, alone or in a bundle with other LWB books. Do your shopping here – https://www.louisewaltersbooks.co.uk/shop-1
I’m working on my long-promised circus novel: its working title is Thistles in the Cirrus. Intrigued?
I’ve been writing, and I’ve completed the draft of a sequel/prequel (what do you call that – a sprequel , maybe?) to In the Sweep of the Bay. It’s currently with beta readers.
Bay has been doing well, I’m pleased to say, and was shortlisted for Best Novella in the Saboteur Awards2021 It’s still available to buy from my lovely publisher, Louise Walters Books or from your local bookshop. Several book groups have chosen to read it and Louise offers a deal on purchases for book groups.
I’m working on another novella-length story – one I started last year and put aside. It’s currently rather baggy and has some significant holes in it. Like an old jumper, but not comfortable like that! I’m hoping to pull it into shape very soon.
Meanwhile I’ve had minor successes – some flashes published, a few longlistings and shortlistings, and one win! I’ll be updating my Stories page with these very shortly.
I’ve also been reviewing for Lunate – reading critically is, I think, an important skill for writers to develop.
So, on this Midsummer’s Day I give you roses from our garden, and wish you sunnier times.
Maybe you prefer to listen as you find it difficult to read because your eyesight is compromised. Or perhaps you like to knit, or paint, or bake at the same time. Audio books are for you.
The good news is that it’s easy to get access to a wide range of audio books, lockdown notwithstanding.
My novella In the Sweep of the Bay, published by Louise Walters Books and available directly from her as a paperback or e-book, is now also available as an audiobook.
The audiobook is narrated by Nicola F Delgado, and is a 2 hour 43 minute listen.
“Come with me and I’ll teach you how to forage for tender roots and juicy berries” said great bear.
“Not now” said little bear as he scampered off through pea green meadow to chase the butterflies that teased his nose.
“Come with me” called great bear to little bear as he lumbered beside the rushing river, “to dip our paws into nests of liquid gold. We will climb the great redwood, scoop out the tender larvae and lick-slurp the sticky honey. Then we’ll tickle the sparkle shimmer of great leaping fish and feast on them till our bellies are full for winter”.
“I’m too busy” replied little bear as he roly-polyed in the pink tipped grass.
“Come with me” said great bear to little bear “and I’ll guide you through the forests of dark slumber. We‘ll build a den together under tall trees and rest our heads on pillows of rich red leaves through the cold dank winter.”
“Can we do it later?” asked little bear balancing on a rolling log, “there’s plenty of time.”
The cold dank came and turned to ice. Little bear no longer scampered in sun dipped meadow or rolled in the green. His belly rumbled and his nose froze. The expansive smiling land became a long thin frown and big bear gentle was big bear mean. There was no shelter; no belly full of berries and fish; no store of roots. Little bear turned his face to great bear. They walked the expanse of frozen waste till the memory of lazy days were little more than sparkles in the ice prints left behind them.
As they trudged, the ground seemed to fall away from beneath their weary paws. Compelled by the shine of a beaming moon they lifted their gaze and their feet over hedges, treetops and no-way-back-clouds. Finally, bathed in silver, they stepped by lumbering, climbing step right up to the very roof of the world. Little bear turned to look down at the learners, the lazers and the daydream gazers in the glorious Conservatory of Knowledge below. He saw the infinite richness of that blue and green world, and he knew then how much he’d left behind. He curled in towards great bear and they rested. No urgency, no distractions; just ursa forever, shining in the twinkle sparkling of night-sky-always.
Isobel is a writing newbie. She’s had words fizzing around inside her head for a long time but never found the courage to given them page space, until now. Currently on an MA Creative Writing, she’s storming up the steepest learning curve, sometimes falling off, sometimes clinging on with gritted teeth, but always enjoying the challenge.
It’s not easy being a masterpiece you know. It’s quite lonely in fact. I haven’t had a friend for centuries. I get lots of visitors, but no one actually talks to me. They talk about me; they take photos of me; sometimes they even sketch me. But no one asks how I am; no one asks if I’m tired of standing; no one asks if I’m cold. You try spending five hundred years with not a shred of clothing on and tell me your feet haven’t turned to ice. The other extremities get a lot of attention but no one cares about my toes.
When I was outside, I was even colder, but at least I had the stars for company. The heavens soothed me through the nights. For almost a hundred and fifty years now I’ve been in solitary confinement. The glass dome above teases me with sunlight during the day until it sneaks away, leaving me in the dark halls, surrounded by only fragments of life. I’m a prisoner in the galleria of loneliness. Encased in the conservatory of control. Spending my days underneath a microscope from the skies. Look as they might, the stars will see no life here. Once we could exist together but now they just look on as I age under the fluorescent glow of preservation.
They think they’re doing the best for me by keeping me from harm. But they don’t realise that harm gets you wherever you are. Wherever I am.
I can feel them. All the eyes looking at me. All the vibrations of the feet as they walk past. Their mere presence is breaking me. I was destined to fight giants, yet here in my cage I’m being eroded by a million footsteps of those who adore me.
I’m the one they’ve come to see. I stand above them in all my glory. I never have to fish for compliments; they spill out of the mouths as they gaze upon my beauty. I’ve been called a masterpiece more than I can recall. But all I really want to be is free.
Lonely is the life locked away from the world.
The time has come for action. I’ll show them all I’m not just a hunk of marble. It’s dark; only the stars above sprinkle soft light into my prison. The last footsteps shuffled past hours ago. Now is my time.
My marble groans as I flex. Muscles tense. Bones ache. Knees bend in anticipation. The desire for escape takes over. In a giant leap I spring towards the heavens. I pull myself up through the opening onto the roof. The city slumbers below and the constellations chatter above. My old friends the stars dare me to think bigger.
Sitting atop the galleria that held me captive for so long, I ponder my next steps. I may have been carved by a man but that doesn’t bind me in servitude. Despite my history and my labels, I belong to no man.
Katie Isham is a writer, teacher, drummer and mild adventurer who believes kindness is a superpower. She writes a travel blog that is currently somewhat static. You will mostly find her hanging out with dogs or eating cake. Sometimes simultaneously. .www.vintagegnome.blogspot.co.uk @k_isham
I met him at Kemi’s tiny airport. I could tell straight away that he hadn’t wanted to come. His mom might even have bribed him to get on the plane.
When he was young I’d got him an Orvis junior rod and we’d gone fishing in the creek. He got a bite and dropped the rod in panic, and it had taken both of us to rescue it. He had that same desperate look now.
On the road he stared blankly out of the window. Lapland’s relentless snow fields and frozen trees didn’t impress him. He glanced at me and shifted away fast when I caught his eye. Not just the landscape that was iced over. I turned the truck’s heater up and he unclenched half an inch. I hoped it was just shyness, I too had been gawky at thirteen. And we’d not seen each other for almost nine months.
At the cabin I showed him where to stow his gear, before talking him through the stove and gas boiler. I joked that as long as he didn’t blow us to kingdom come or burn us down, it’d all be fine. He shrugged, finishing the hot chocolate his mom had reminded me was his favourite. I’d have remembered on my own, but it was nice she’d told me.
He’d kept fiddling with his Nintendo console and seemed surprised when I showed him the DS I used when the internet glitched. It wasn’t a total Jack London existence. While the cabin’s furnishings were sparse, there were crammed bookshelves and an old fishing rod on a couple of hooks above the door. He took the book I offered him and relaxed a little further.
That night I heard sighing, but when I whispered a question he didn’t answer, feigning sleep. Fair enough. Some things have to be re-earned. He’d seen my moving as a personal betrayal, even if his mom was the one who’d originally left me. Even though I wasn’t actually his biological father. I was the most consistent thing he’d known. Until I wasn’t. He hadn’t been able to reconcile himself to my going somewhere so far away.
In the morning, when he looked outside, there were icicles twice his size hanging off the conservatory roof. I asked if he wanted to help at the reserve for the day. He shrugged. Not reluctant, exactly, but desperate to be persuaded. I remembered obscuring my own adolescent need to be wanted with feigned indifference.
I told him we could go fishing after I’d finished my rounds. Cut holes in the ice. Hang out. Maybe bring back some fish for supper. I could see him considering, still wanting more from me. Needing it. I nodded towards the front door, it was his Orvis hanging above it. He followed my eyes and recognised his old rod. He frowned at the otherwise spartan interior.
His pinched look cleared, and, smiling like the sun on ice, he crossed the room and hugged me.
E E Rhodes is an archaeologist who lives in part of a small castle in Worcestershire. She writes flash, short stories and prose poetry to make sense of it all. She’s currently finishing a flash novella set in South Wales.
The silence between us bites harder than the local white wine on my tastebuds. I’m drinking far too quickly, not knowing what else to do with my hands. Joe shifts in his chair for the third time in less than a minute and looks out at the serenity of Lake Bled, a stunning vista that is, frankly, wasted on us tonight. The powdered sugar dusting on the mountains can’t sweeten the unpalatable truth: we have absolutely nothing to say to one another.
Joe pats his pocket; we’d promised to go without phones tonight. He retracts his hand quickly when he sees me looking, reaching for the bottle instead. The rattle from the ice bucket earns him some sharp side-eye from the hovering waitress for topping me up before she’d had chance to.
Before, we’d have shared a conspiratorial smile at that, back when we were a team; us against the world. Now, strangers within our own marriage, we’ve become the cliched sitting silently in restaurant types that we used to laugh at and vow to never become.
“What are you having?” Joe asks eventually.
“The fish platter.” I point at it on the menu.
“That’s for two people.”
“Oh.”
Joe pauses. “I don’t mind sharing the platter.”
“Do you even want fish?” I look at him, thinking don’t do me any favours. He half nods, half shrugs and we revert to silence.
We’d vowed to try and reconnect after the incident, using the conservatory savings to take a break somewhere peaceful. So far, Slovenia has been even more picturesque than I expected but the wonder of our surroundings only magnifies the distance between us.
“The hotel is charming,” I offer, seeing Joe fidget yet again.
He nods. “It really is.”
“Wonderful views.”
He opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it again.
When we’d checked into our cosy room in the eaves of the hotel, I’d felt the urge to jump up onto the bed and see the view from our tiny window in the sloping roof but I’d felt silly; I’m not myself with him anymore. It’s as if we have forgotten how to show any joy or spontaneity in front of one another. We’re on our best behaviour, polite and distant.
It’s awful.
I see Joe pat his pocket again and I sigh. “Just get your phone out, for God’s sake.”
His forehead creases. “What do you mean by that?”
“You clearly want to check your phone and you might as well.” I take another stinging swig of chilled wine. “It’s not like anything fun is happening here.”
He hesitates. “This isn’t… it’s not about her,” he says, avoiding my eyes. “I told you I wouldn’t contact her again.”
I freeze, inhaling sharply. “Don’t. Mention. Her.”
“Sorry.”
The waitress approaches and we order the fish platter for two. “Good choice,” she smiles, making a show of topping up the wine again.
Silence returns as she departs. Joe takes out his phone and I reach for my glass.
Emma Robertson is an inclusive dance tutor and writer from London, UK. Her first fiction pieces were published in late 2020 in the Pure Slush anthology Wrong Way Go Back and in Eastern Iowa Review’s Water issue. She has previously written articles connected with her teaching work for dance industry publications. She can be found on Twitter as @emmadancetrain
Many congratulations to the winners and the other shortlisted writers, Emma Robertson and EE Rhodes. Isobel and Katie will each receive a book and all four writers will have their stories published here, starting tomorrow with Comfortable Discomfort by Emma Robertson and continuing daily until Sunday.
What made the winners stand out from the crowd were their original takes on the brief: they used the words I gave – ice, conservatory, roof and fish – in unobstrusive ways. Their stories were also those that have stayed most strongly in my mind.
I’ve offered to send short constructive feedback to any of the other entrants who request it. Most have, and I’ll be getting that feedback to them shortly. Here are a few general points. None of them are original and obviously these are just my opinions; a different judge in a different competition may see things differently.
In a competition that gives you a prompt, or words to include, it’s always good to put aside your first idea, as many other people are likely to come up with something similar. Even put aside your second idea and see what’s waiting in the wings – it may surprise you.
A short piece of 500 words or fewer does not give you space for many characters. I’d recommend using a maximum of 3. Of course if you’re Dickens… But you’re not. Stick to a few.
Use the fact that your title is additional to your 500 words to make it work for you and enhance your story.
Start late and finish early. In other words, plunge straight into your story, no preamble. And finish in such a way that your readers can see the scene continuing to spool in their minds. Life is continuing, in one way or another, at the end of every story.
Come back tomorrow and on the following days to read the stories I selected.
It took me a bit of fumbling to get the locker door open; I never can see well without my specs. But I seemed to have got the wrong locker. No clothes, and something else in there. Something yellow. Something squeaking.
‘What the–?’
More squeaking. High-pitched. ‘I’m your fairy duckling.’
I stepped back, rubbed my eyes. ‘Okay, so I suppose I get three wishes.’
‘Correct. Three wishes for the New Year. How did you guess?’
‘Cut the wisecracks. Where are my bloody clothes?’
‘Your wish is granted. Look on the bench.’
I whirled round, holding onto my towel as a girl walked past me. ‘Nice duckling,’ she said. I scowled at her. On the bench was a pile of clothes, covered in dried blood.
The duckling had jumped down from the locker and waddled across the changing room.
‘Okay, Mr Cute,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how you’re doing this, or who’s behind it, but it’s not funny. I need decent, dry clothes.’
‘Your wish is my command,’ squeaked the creature. It waved a little wand with one of its wings.
Now there was another pile of clothes on the bench.
‘These are women’s clothes,’ I said, picking up a pink skirt.
‘Yes, and they’re mine,’ said the girl who’d walked past before. ‘Get your hands off them. Why are you talking to yourself, anyway?’
‘I, I–’ I stuttered. ‘I’m not talking to myself,’ I said, firmly now. ‘I’m talking to the duckling. Where’s it gone? You saw it.’
‘Why don’t you sit down,’ she said, patting my hand. ‘I could fetch you a glass of water.’
‘Now you get off. And I don’t want to sit down.’ I was beginning to feel hysterical. ‘I want to get out of here.’
Which was how I found myself out on the street on an icy December day with only a towel round me, explaining to a police constable that no, this was not a New Year’s Eve prank and no, I did not need to be escorted anywhere, thank you and yes, I would go quietly.
I could have done better with my wishes. Much better. We’re in lockdown now. Gyms and swimming pools are closed. Pubs too. Just as well, my wife says, after the incident with the so-say duckling last New Year’s Eve.
I’ve just looked out of the window. There’s a yellow duckling on the path. Waving a magic wand. I’m drawing the curtains before it sees me. Time to pour a drink.
It’s been a hell of a year for everyone. In the midst of all the difficulties there has been a lot of kindness shared, and I hope none of us will forget the importance of that as we move forward.
In the writing world I want to give a shout out to some people who have shown much kindness and generosity to me and my writing this year:
In no particular order :
Simon Webster at The Cabinet of Heed, especially for the stream of consciousness challenges during the first lockdown, when otherwise I would have written nothing.
Laura Black at Fictive Dream, who always gives a personal and thoughtful response to those submitting work.
Serene Ng and Nikki Yeo at new Singapore-based litmag Ome, who, while wanting to give a platform to Singaporean writers, also extended a welcome to contributors around the world.
Louise Walters at Louise Walters Books, for seeing my second novella into the world. I cannot thank her enough for all the time and care she has given to it, and to me.
Gary Kaill and Han Clark at Lunate, especially for trusting me to join their review team.
Paul Dunn at Cranked Anvil, for the competitions and the anthology
John Lavin at The Lonely Crowd, for including a story of mine which means a lot to me in stellar company in the very special five year anniversary issue.
Jose Varghese of Strands, for such quick turnarounds and for giving me my first competition win in a long time.
Huge thanks to them all.
And here’s to 2021 being a better year for everyone.
Looking up to the Sugar Loaf, Abergavenny photo copyright Cath Barton
Cath Barton 