Debussy’s ‘La Mer’
Author: 9jkl
New Creative Writing Competition – July
Well, I have been racking my brains for something lighter than my usual ‘orrible offerings/ideas!
So, without further ado…
Write a short fiction piece, of 1,000 words or less, on the theme of ‘A Midsummer Night’
• Stories should include some reference to music and should mention an animal.
As before, entries can be essay, memoir, fiction and poetry, rhymed or unrhymed. They can also be submitted as photo stories, with a minimum of 5 photos and a maximum of 10.The photos should have a narrative thread/story.
Stories due here by midnight on Friday, July 2nd. (Two weeks from today.)
Thank you!
Hello; sorry about this but I can’t seem to post comments this afternoon. I don’t think it’s a problem with this site Bearsy; it’s my computer since I had the same problem with MyT and hotmail yesterday.
But just to say; thanks Ferret and Jaime. There were loads of great entries which I really loved; I am genuinely and pleasantly surprised…
Ta very much for a setting such a good competition as well 🙂
So what happens now…?!
Ballad of the Buried Miners
Deep within the earth we lie
Untouched by winds of human sighs,
Cocooned in our charcoal chambers,
Safe from what killed and maimed us;
Not for us, the sunlit glade,
The musk rose scent, the dappled shade,
Instead, the stooping, hellish crawl
The caged descent; the monstrous haul;
No rubies, gold or diamonds there,
But foul and fiery, fumed filled air
And then, a blast: get out, get out!
Yellow mist; muffled shouts;
Life’s blind fury was released
To slowly make our breathing cease;
Our flesh and eyes have cracked and peeled,
Our bones now crumble, crack and yield;
We have retained our still bright souls,
Mid sulphur, slate and God of coal;
We, Britannia’s warrior slaves
Through furnace, steam and ocean, gave
Linen, cotton, things to buy
For carpets, secrets, oils and cries,
We screamed and groaned in holes unseen
To build a burnished empire’s dream.
Now three miles under earth our bones
Are Wakefield, Wigan, Sheffield, Colne.
Remember us: we built your world
With blackened lives, with teeth of pearl.
Flash Fiction competition results
Well, I was hugely impressed with the wide range of imaginative and wonderful entries that you all came up with. We had gripping narrative, lyricism, crisp dialogue – and themes from the dark and the violent, to real life shenanigans abroad. I enjoyed every single one. In fact, the standard was so high that I couldn’t just settle for one winner; I went for an overall winner and two joint runners up as well.
Secret Diary of a Grand National Geek
‘You’re doing Ladies’ Day,’ snapped my news editor. ‘At the Grand National.’
It was 2003; I was a cub reporter with no more interest in sport or horses than in, well, origami, or Chinese medicine. But what the hell – it would make a change from chasing fire engines in Warrington
‘Do colour, hats, fashion,’ he said, wearily. ‘But for God’s sake, don’t do the bloody horses’
So, with his words ringing in my ears – and a dire warning not to emulate last year’s reporter by getting drunk and falling asleep on the job, I set off.
It was absolutely pissing down at Aintree. There was mud everywhere. But the place looked very grand, with an impressive array of white, Camelot style marquees.
So I resorted to my first shameless trick – nicking stuff. ‘You got anything interesting?’ I ventured to the other reporters. But I was met with stiff, icy glares; we were all jostling glumly for laptop space amid the chaos and the coffee cups. It was like a workaday version of Glastonbury.
White lies…?
My Mum has joined in now. The great immigration debate, that is.
It all started innocently enough.
‘I went shopping in Liverpool,’ she said this morning.
Cue girlie talk; shopping; sales; where to find the best cut price designer dresses. Fashion talk, in a Spring-meets-recessionista kinda way. Mother daughter things.
Then she drew breath. ‘Lewis’s is shutting you know,’ she said, self importantly.
‘Oh really? ’ I said. I felt a sudden pang of nostalgia. If there was an award for the smelliest institution in Liverpool, Lewis’s Department Store would surely be a front runner, along with the Adelphi Hotel and the Philharmonic Hall.
Mum sniffed, dismissively. ‘Not surprised it’s closing though, she said, lowering her voice, conspiratorially. ‘It’s gone terrible. It was full of ’em you know.’ Continue reading “White lies…?”
Cold Callers
My other half has warned me, time and time again, against the perils of it. But I’ve never been the suspicious type.
So when strangers come knocking at the door, be they double glazing salesmen, Jehovah’s Witnesses or gas men,I usually end up being cornered.
I don’t know if it’s just me – it usually is –but lately I’ve noticed a slight shift, in what you might call quality of cold callers.
When I was a child, in Wigan, it was Jehovah’s Witnesses. Always, every Friday night, without fail. Our estate was virtually split down the middle – Catholics one side, Proddies, as we called ’em, on t’other. Being on the Catholic side, I was bewildered enough by the Protestants. So the Jehovah’s Witnesses were aliens to my eight year old eyes.
Fast forward ten years and it was the TV licence men. They would systematically trawl the university halls of residence in Sheffield. They were merciless and even followed a friend in a cab one night as she tried to foist the incriminating evidence – her granny’s old TV – onto her boyfriend. I escaped lightly; the only telly I had ever had was the broken black and white one sitting in Wigan, complete with coat hanger aerial.
Tales of the unexpected
A friend has given birth to a beautiful little girl.
So we chatted and cooed over her lovely little one during a visit – though the experience made me secretly very glad to have passed those frazzled milk-sodden days…
Apparently, the woman in the next bed had just been told that the father of her child must be Asian or mixed race, unlike her white partner…
Oh, to have been a fly on the wall at the precise moment when the midwife gently broke the news…
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Liverpool Women’s Hospital: better than Shameless any day.
Boadicea's Chariot 