Static. Only static. There were never any signals, but she never stopped trying; there was always a chance. The stars were bright tonight maybe that would help. Emily stared at them. They looked so beautiful but so, so far away. They seemed very peaceful up there: very serene, with the desolate landscape below stretching on for miles. But the stars were distant and unreachable, and one of them now had Jessie. Jessie who Jessie—
***
“Emily, Emily, the window drone is here!”
None of the other robots had names. They weren’t supposed to; they were just machines. But Emily had a name. Her factory number was E4M-21, but that had changed now
“Emily, go let it in. I have to go soon!”
Jessie thought everyone should have names, so now E4M-21 was Emily.
The radio was almost out of batteries; Emily would have to recharge it soon. It couldn’t run out—that was vital. First, though, she had to tidy up. Unsteadily, the robot rose. She walked to the edge of the rooftop and began stripping the vines away from the balcony. Weeds may have encompassed the nearby houses, but Emily always made sure this place was tidy. Vine after vine was removed and deposited over the edge to join its brethren on the ground below.
After the tiles were satisfactory, Emily returned to the radio. She spun the dial, but there was only static. There was always static, but it was the only way to contact Jessie. ***
“I’m all packed, but that brass radio won’t fit!”
“Oh, just leave it here, it’s just a piece of junk!”
“Come on, it’s antique…”
“Leave it here, you can get a better one on the ship, I’m sure.”
Emily didn’t know what that meant. Not until later. Not until the humans had gone. ***
The radio.
They were going to have another one on the ship; they could contact her! But they hadn’t.
Emily gazed back out into the night sky, as black as the white noise on the radio. It was so vast, so impenetrable, and so easy to get lost in. She couldn’t stop trying; she had to keep trying.
But there was only static on the radio.
Midday, but something was wrong. Jessie was leaving, but she never left this late.
“Jessie, should I keep your lunch in the acrowave until you get back?”
A flicker of guilt. “No, I can get food when I’m there,” Jessie called over her shoulder, but there was tension written all over her face. “Of course.”
Jessie took her coat off its hook and grabbed her suitcase, opened the door, and vanished. Her footsteps faded away behind her. And they wouldn’t be coming back.
Whirrrr…
A noise startled Emily, and she straightened, memories slipping away like water. What was that?
Whirrrr… PING!
She walked over to the railing, surveying the landscape below her.
Over time, the crisp white façade had crumbled. The skyscrapers that were supposed to last until the end of time folded in on themselves as the wild took over again. Swinging creepers hung from brickwork, and once-paved streets had cracked to make way for millions of tiny seedlings that were reclaiming what once was theirs.
But now there was something new. A humming, buzzing little drone flitting from building to building. Emily recognised it as one of the “window drones” that cleaned and did odd jobs around the houses. But this one seemed lost. Slowly, Emily got up. She walked towards the little robot, but stopped. The radio. She shouldn’t leave it; there might be a signal, something might get through. But the drone was out there and getting further away even now. And there was only static on the radio. Robot E4M-21 gazed up at the stars. She paused, turned around, and decided.
I & II Group Short Fiction Winner Challenges from All Sides
by Corrina Hedderson
Hidden away in a cold, dark cellar in Germany, Marlene stayed frozen for over an hour. Next to her, Rosemarie, her sister, moaned softly and pressed herself tightly against the damp cellar wall where they were hidden. The air smelled of mould and dust, thick and choking, like the walls were closing in on them.
“It’s all right,” Marlene whispered gently, trying to keep her voice steady. “We’re safe here.”
Rosemarie shook her head quickly. “We’re not safe here, Marlene,” she mumbled indignantly. “If we were, they wouldn’t have taken Mama away.”
Marlene didn’t have a response to that. Privately, she agreed with her sister. The thought sat heavy in her chest, like a stone. But she couldn’t say it out loud—not to Rosemarie. She was already so frightened.
Just then, the horrible sound of the air raid siren, which had been screaming above them like a warning from the sky, suddenly stopped. A moment later, the heavy thudding of bombs stopped too. For a few seconds, there was nothing but silence.
Then came the all-clear.
“Finally!” Rosemarie whispered, sounding relieved as she let out a trembling breath. “I thought it would never stop.”
She paused, then muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I’m not sure humans should be in charge if this is what they do to each other.”
“Rosemarie,” Marlene said warningly, immediately turning to her.
“I know, I know,” Rosemarie snapped defensively. “But still…”
Marlene sighed softly. Her shoulders ached from staying curled up in the cramped space for so long. The cellar felt smaller every day.
But she knew she couldn’t stay down here forever. She needed to leave.
Marlene swallowed nervously. “Rosemarie…” she began, uncertainly. “I just need to ”
“No, Marlene!” Rosemarie wailed, grabbing at her sleeve. “You can’t go! You’ll get taken away like Mama!”
Her grip was desperate and tight, and her eyes were wide with fear.
Marlene froze again, torn. She could feel her sister trembling against her, and for a moment, the thought of stepping outside felt impossible.
But somewhere beyond the cellar, people were planning to drop more bombs, execute more people, and she knew that neither of them could stay here forever...
“It's all right, Rosemarie,” Marlene soothed. “I'll just be out for a few minutes to get food, don't worry.”
Rosemarie didn't seem convinced, but the thought of fresh food seemed to have won her over. “All right, fine! Be careful though!”
“You know I will. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Marlene?” Rosemarie’s voice was hardly more than a whisper.
“Yes?”
“You won’t get taken away to one of those concentri, coneitr, concenration, concen, the thing that Mama got put in, will you?”
“Concentration camp. No, I won't.”
“You promise?”
“Yes,” Marlene could feel the weight of the promise she was about to make hanging over her. “I promise.”
“Good,” said Rosemarie. “Because you’re the only family I have left.”
Marlene knew that if she stayed any longer, she wouldn’t be strong enough to leave. “Good-bye, Rosemarie. I'll be back soon with supplies.”
“O-okay, bye.”
As Marlene left the bombed-out house (which contained the cellar they were currently hiding in), she planned her route in her head: what houses and vendors she’d have to steal from and what close friends and allies could be counted on to help her.
“It’s a good thing I left at dusk”, she thought. The twilight will help conceal me.
As she rounded a corner, a tall and thin shadow approached her. As it drew closer, she saw that it wore a pale-grey hooded coat that reached below its knees. She watched as it pulled back its hood.
“Marlene? What are you doing here?” it whispered in astonishment.
With a jolt of surprise, Marlene realised she knew this man. He was their school librarian; Mr Braun-Muller.
“Sir?” she said in astonishment.
“What are you doing here?” he asked again. “We as in the other teachers at school—were told that you and your sister were d-dead!”
“They think we are,” Marlene replied.
“But then you must hide! These people do not like being duped! Put that together with the fact that you are Jewish and, well...”
“But sir,” said Marlene, trying to sound braver than she felt, “aren't you Jewish too?”
“Be quiet, Marlene!” he yelled, grabbing her by the shoulders. “No one knows and no one will know! Understand?!”
“Y-yes, I’m sorry, sir.”
“No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted. Oh, and call me Karl.”
His tone then gained a sudden urgency Marlene had never heard before.
“Look, Marlene, you and your sister are in danger here. I’m involved in a secret organisation determined to take down the Nazis.”
“I... why are you telling me this?”
“Listen, Marlene, meet me here tonight at midnight and we’ll make a plan to get you and Rosemarie out safely.”
“I... okay, yes.”
“Excellent. Oh, and take this,” he said, pressing a bundle into her hands. “It contains food.”
“I—thank you, sir! I mean, Karl?”
“Goodbye, Marlene. Stay safe.”
And with that, he disappeared round the corner, his coat melting into the dusk.
Marlene didn't know what to make of this. Was he trying to trick her? Yet the librarian had always been kind to her. She stood there dithering until she remembered Rosemarie; how she’d worry if she didn't get back soon. Making up her mind, she set off purposefully back to the wreckage above the cellar.
When she carefully entered the basement, a whispered voice appeared from the shadows.
“Marlene,” the whisper said, “is that you?”
“Rosemarie?” Marlene replied. “Yes, it’s me, and look what I've got for you.”
“What?” asked Rosemarie, tiptoeing out of the shadows.
“Just look,” Marlene replied, opening the sack to reveal loaves of bread, tinned fruits and vegetables, cheeses, and fresh butter.
“Oh wow!” exclaimed Rosemarie. “Where on earth did you get all this?”
While Marlene recounted the evening’s events, Rosemarie listened wideeyed.
“I can’t believe it,” she said after a minute of stunned silence. “So are you going to go at midnight?”
“I think I have to,” Marlene replied. “It might be our only chance of safety.”
“All right,” Rosemarie said after a few seconds, “but be careful.”
“You know I will.”
That night, after making sure Rosemarie was asleep, Marlene crept out onto the darkened street, hurrying to where she had met Karl earlier.
He was already there, along with a man who looked a good 20 years older than him.
“This,” Karl said, indicating the man next to him, “is Klaus.”
Klaus had dark skin, a frail build, and wispy white hair clinging onto his liver-spotted scalp.
“Are you Marlene?” Klaus asked, his voice slightly hoarse.
“Y-yes,” Marlene stuttered. “That’s me.”
“Excellent,” Klaus said. “Then come with us.”
Marlene followed nervously, wondering where they were going to take her.
“Um, where are we going?" she said. “Will we get there soon?”
“You'll see,” snapped Klaus, “and be quiet.”
Marlene felt both intimidated and annoyed.
“We’ll be there soon,” said Karl, seeming to sense how she was feeling.
After a few minutes, they arrived at what looked like an abandoned warehouse.
“Is this the...” asked Marlene.
“Yes,” Klaus cut across her. “This is where we were going.”
“It’s the only place we can be sure isn’t bugged,” Karl explained. “Come inside and we’ll tell you the plan.”
Marlene followed the two men inside, wondering what “the plan” was.
“Right,” said Karl after they entered a dusty room right on the top floor. “Here’s the plan. At noon tomorrow, several refugees will be making their way from different cities across Germany all the way to England. I want you and Rosemarie to be two of those refugees.”
“I—thank you for this opportunity,” Marlene said, astounded. “It really...”
“Yes-yes-yes!” Klaus interrupted. “We know. You're grateful. We know. You're astounded. We know that. We didn't ask for your sob story.”
“Klaus,” said Karl warningly, “that was uncalled for. So, Marlene, am I assuming that you are taking up our offer?”
“Y-yes, of course,” Marlene replied.
“Excellent,” continued Karl. “Then you and Rosemarie need to meet us just east of the town square tomorrow at nine a.m. From there, we’ll arrange your further transport. Got it?”
“Yes,” replied Marlene, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. “I understand.”
“Then hurry home, Marlene,” continued Karl. “Get your essentials packed, get Rosemarie ready, and remember the plan!”
Nodding in assent, Marlene left the warehouse in a daze, wondering if this was perhaps a strange dream. When, not focusing, she walked into a wall, she concluded that, as she could definitely feel the pain, this wasn't at all a dream.
Hurrying back to the still-crumbling house, Marlene roughly shook Rosemarie awake.
“Rosemarie, Rosemarie, ROSEMARIE, wake up.”
“Huh?” Rosemarie muttered sleepily. “What's the matter?”
“Get up, come on, pack your things!”
“What?” asked Rosemarie. “Marlene, what is going on?”
“Oh, Rosemarie, we're leaving, leaving the country. Going to Britain where we’ll be safe and not have to worry about being caught.”
“Well, come on then,” said Rosemarie, bouncing up and down. “Let's get packed.”
I & II Group Short Fiction The Trapeze Artist
by Francesca Stodell
I am hiding behind the curtains, listening to the never-ending chants of the crowd. I wait for my cue, which should be coming any minute. I’m too stressed to think about my act, so instead I choose a trick that Mum taught me when I was little. ‘Count down from a hundred,’ she said, and by that time your problem would have gone. I try in my head to keep myself occupied and not let the stress get to me too soon. A booming voice comes on above my head; I hear the friendly voice of my boss speaking to the crowd, telling them tonight’s events. The rest of the acts get called on until it’s just me waiting my turn to step into the ring.
At last, I hear my name. I walk out from the shadows of the curtains. A spotlight falls on me as the rest of the tent falls into darkness.
The jewels on my outfit send out rainbow streaks across the red and white striped tent, causing the illusion of a disco ball. I had spent countless weeks sewing and finessing this outfit, knowing I would like it more than any tatty thing the cheap designer we hired would give to me.
I walk over to the ladder where my act will start. I climb quickly but carefully, my hands wet with sweat making it even harder to climb under the eyes of strangers. Before I know it, I’ve reached the top. Rough breaths explode out of me. I stare down the ladder to see the mixture of faces now all a blur.
I can spot my partner on the other side of the tent in the same position I am, our eyes showing pure terror. I can feel my heart thundering inside me quicker than I can count. My “safe” rope falls into my hands from the ceiling, and I hold it as hard as I can without letting it slip one little bit.
Finally, I hear the sound of the music that follows along with my act. I jump from the ladder, my mind questioning my decision. I close my eyes, only feeling wind brushing past my face from the momentum. At last, I open my eyes, but everything is just a continuous blur. I continue my rehearsed routine, swinging from one hoop to another, trying to reach my partner as quickly as possible. At last, we reach each other and make contact. I grip his hands as we fly through the air. I can see the mouths of children fly open as they watch me in amazement.
Slowly the music stops as we slow down from our constant swings. My partner and I go our separate ways, reaching our original point, nodding to each other for approval. I climb down, reaching the safety of the ground. I turn my head to see and hear the crowd in astonishment, cheers of joy making me only more excited.
I realise it’s the end of the show, not just from the announcements but from the atmosphere. I sneak one final look before I turn into the shadows of the curtains and see the joy of one family to the next, their faces full of smiles. I smile, knowing from now this experience will now only be a memory.
I & II Group Short Fiction Would You Be Interested? by Ted
Burgess
I strutted up to the doorstep. This was it my first sale of the day. I knocked five-ish times before a large and grumpy man appeared at the door, wielding a whisk as if it was a weapon.
“Hello sir! Would you be interested in these new and exciting egg timers? These are the most advanced ”
The door slammed shut with a roaring crash. Seems he was most certainly not interested in these products.
I walked away from his house and moved onto the other houses on the row when I spotted it. A glimmering marble mansion filled to the brim with useless junk, perfect for a salesman like me. I straightened my suit, combed my hair and wiped the dust from my shoes. I once again strutted up to the andesite doorstep in a very confident manner and knocked lightly on the gold-brimmed door.
It wasn't long until I had found a buyer. A quiet and posh old lady opened the door, and it wasn't long before she was interested in my products.
“And that will be £32.50 for an egg timer, bear rug and premium pirate costume.”
“Yes, that is all. Can I pay by cash?”
“Of course, miss,” I responded, not expecting her to grab a pile of 10 pence coins and hand me them one by one.
“Is that £32.50?”
“I don't think so. That is £21.30.”
“Really, because I can see £32.50.”
“It seems you are correct; I am mistaken and apologise for the misunderstanding. Farewell!”
My boss taught me that trick, although it seems to have failed in this case. A few hours later, when the sun was coming down, my shift was finally over. I got in my car and drove back to my house, although I was somehow having trouble finding it. It wasn't long until I had found the street where my house should be, but there was just a pile of rubble where it once stood. I raced to the rubble and began vigorously searching for my belongings, but all I could find was a note reading:
“This house has been demolished, and all contents were transported to Salesman.co as per request of the owner.”
It seems my house and all my belongings are at my job. Great. This might be a new idea from the boss, but it seems a bit overboard for him.
I leapt back in my rusty Chevrolet and drove to work at a slow, 30 miles per hour pace. Once I had finally reached my office, my boss was proudly waiting with his wrinkled face beaming at my lamp, which he has named ‘The sun’. Probably all the ‘sunlight’ he has seen in the past 30 years. Our boss never goes outside even though he claims he does. We all think he's a vampire, although the last person that called him that had gotten fired, so now we just call him sir or boss.
He is getting impatient. I entered my office and looked at my boss before asking:
“Greetings, sir. It seems that my house and all its contents were delivered here. Do you have any clue why?”
“I know why,” he answered in his deep, booming voice.
“May you tell me why?” I asked in a slightly too aggressive tone.
“Thomas Bola. We are increasing your shift from 8 hours to 23. You have no choice in this matter. YOU signed the contract.”
“But sir—”
He was correct. There was really nothing I could do. I remember the day they gave me the contract. I didn't think much of it at the time. I was specifically told that work hours could not surpass more than an 8-hour shift until further notice. It seemed that there was further notice.
“You did this. You signed it. You gave us all of your possessions to have a job. And now, until FURTHER NOTICE, you are obliged to work for this set time if you want to keep your meaningless job.”
“Yes sir.”
I would call him cruel, but he is still completely correct. Managers are legally able to do this with nothing stopping them. It seems I am just unlucky.
I travelled back home in disbelief, just to remember it has been demolished and I must get to work before I use up the only thing he does not have control over my one-hour break.
I strutted up to a door at half past 12 and knocked my usual three times before taking a step back and waiting. I didn't expect it to open. Although before I got my hopes up, I looked inside to see a bear? No, a wolf? No, a minotaur? Still no. I'll just have to make do with this thing.
“Greetings—”
“Fluffy! Who are you?” it said in a strangely high-pitched voice.
“Mr Bola, but that is beside the point. Now, this is what we should divert our attention to: a premium—”
“Can I eat it?” Fluffy asked, expecting me to respond with some type of yes.
“Sadly not, this is made of ”
“Cotton candy?”
“No, plastic.”
“Then why would I want it?”
“Excellent question!”
“Thank you,” it responded, as if it thought I was serious.
“You're welcome. Anyway, this is not food but a timer in the shape of an egg.”
“Does it go click clock?”
“Well, it makes more of a ticking sound, but ”
“Can I try it?”
“NO!” I finally snapped, accidentally scaring it and making it hide behind a cupboard for about five seconds until it later emerged with a large grin.
“Why are you so angry?”
“My boss stole my house; I must work 23 hours every day selling the same old rubbish, and I haven't even made my first sale yet!”
“That sounds unfair. Why don't you just quit?”
Fluffy has a good point. I could just quit and spend the rest of my life with happiness. I don't have to follow the contract if I quit.
I stormed away from the conversation, leaving that Fluffy thing in shock, and made my way to my car. I drove home to grab some of my belongings before realising it had been demolished again, and I still needed to confront my boss.
Once I had finally gotten to the office, I pressed the highest floor, which was probably a bad idea at the time, but I am too focused to think about insignificant things such as this. It has taken a grand total of thirty-two minutes to get to the 4356th floor where a large figure was observing several paintings of himself. He has a shiny chain reading ‘Boss’ around his neck and wears a maroon suit with hints of gold, which compliments his extremely large moustache.
“Hey! I quit!” I exclaimed, very loudly and in a slightly aggressive tone.
“That's okay. Would you like to receive your weekly paycheque now or later for a 30 pence bonus?” my boss asked in a very kind tone which caught me off guard.
“Now. Please,” I answered in a matching tone to his.
“Alright! Here is your £40 for working with us. Farewell from Salesman.co!”
“You aren’t going to protest or do anything about it?”
“Why would I do that? This was not in the contract, and you are completely able to do this with no side effects. Did you seriously think we would want to keep our worst employee? The only reason you kept your job is because you’ve worked here for 50 years,” he explained in a degrading tone as always.
“Okay, um... farewell!” I quickly responded before he changed his mind.
“Oh, Thomas Bola...”
“Yes sir,” I muttered.
“Wipe your shoes on the way out, please. It makes our company look bad.”
“Okay, farewell. Again.”
I ran out of the office in a hurry before waiting 32 minutes, then collecting all my things. I was finally free for once. I leapt in my car, started the engine and got driving somewhere far, far away.
III & IV Group Short Fiction Winner
The Edge of War
by Matthew Margolius
It is an eerie silence. Several crows stand high up on the stone walls of the city, the same birds that always appear when awaiting the massacre of war to present them with deceased flesh to feast upon. They do not squawk their usual cry; there is no death for them to celebrate yet. A week ago, the presence of this tranquillity would be natural. But when you know what awaits you, the fear settles. Then grows. Because fear is how the first soldiers fall to the mercy of the courageous. Fear is the white light that clouds your vision just as the steel blade plunges into your chest. It is a sleepless malevolence, one that cannot be outrun. They say the brave are often the first to die. But why, in every tale, is the heroic protagonist always the victor over evil? The terror I feel is one I cannot share with any fictional character. They charge into battle with the ability to slay all in their path. All I can do is linger behind my entire battalion.
The other soldiers enjoy a supper filled with a plethora of cheese, meat, and wine. Yet my mind does not allow me to indulge in these delicacies. Of course, my normal self would never shy from a leg of mutton, but I cannot bear to cheer on an upcoming battle which may lead not just to my own demise, but to my loved ones’. Any man who can stand on his two legs is participating in what will soon be conflict. We fight for a king who cares only for power and his own glory. To him, the lives of a few men matter not. If he can keep the city, which is currently unlikely, he will not tend to those who inhabit it. Unless it affects his ever-increasing wealth, the situation is of no importance to him. But our opposition, I worry, are no better. Their warlord wishes to exploit the city for its resources and living space. He is very keen on his people following his insane ideologies. I hear those who defied him are no longer alive. The way I see it, the two leaders cannot see past their own arrogance. Perhaps it would be best if this stronghold burns to the ground. There is only one more sleep until battle is nigh. I hope, for my sake, that my slumber is eternal.
My eyes flutter open. I awake to shouts and the clanging of metal. My gaze turns to the city centre out the window. The soldiers are already claiming their weapons. My heart stops. The time is upon me; I am not ready for it. I never will be. One foot steps in front of the other, moving me forward like clockwork. But this clock is faulty, and its speed has decreased considerably. I feel my gulp descend my throat. As my every footstep drags across the gravel, I know my quick, sharp breaths release in time with them. Staring out over the walls, I take in the beautiful orange sunrise, probably the last I will ever see. It illuminates the dull grey stone beneath it. Reluctantly, I take a sword from the blacksmith’s barracks. It trembles in my panicked grip. The metal is slightly rusted with age, but the sunlight does not fail to brighten it somewhat. While everyone around me sprints fiercely into their impending doom, I walk.
Closing my eyes, I try to picture my wife and children. They laugh innocently, dragging each other across the cornfield. All three of them, beaming. My youngest trips, although she does not hesitate to get back up. Wait. My eyes reopen. She does not hesitate to get back up. She does not flee from failure. She wouldn’t want me to do so. I love her. I love them. I could die in the face of a merciless killer a well-trained swordsman who finds spilling the blood of others some sort of game. Or I could go out swinging. The sole thing that would stop me is the thought of actually seeing them again; being able to watch my children grow to become the men and women of tomorrow, shaping a future for all who choose to share their path. I would be shunned, looked down upon by all my peers. But if it means I get to spend my life as a father rather than a corpse, then I would not hesitate. Just like my daughter.
I halt. Soldiers return to the city, but not my own brethren. No. I stumble backwards, my legs refusing to obey my command. Run. A large man charges into me, similar to how a rhinoceros would, smashing the back of his blade into my forehead. I topple backwards. Keeping my consciousness is impossible.
This time, I wake up to find myself tied by rope to a wooden pole. I don’t know where I am. This can’t be in the city. My memory returns. I remember being struck to the floor. I was only knocked out. To be honest, I was certain that I was going to die. But my headache resonates clearly. I can hear chatting to my left. The fabric walls are incredibly thin, so their shadows are visible. One shadow moves closer.
The fabric walls open, and the guard's eyes turn straight to me. He unties me and grabs my shoulders, lifting me up carelessly. He grunts as he takes me past what I assume is the material of a tent.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask groggily, the words barely a mumble. The guard does not reply. As I enter the next section of the tent, I am overwhelmed by the vibrant colours I see. The tent is a light red, while the table before me is a deep brown, and the crimson drink being poured is some sort of alcohol. But the primary thing that catches my sight is the man that holds the bottle. There is no mistake of his identity.
“Would you like a drink, soldier? You look thirsty.”
“You’re the warlord,” I say, my surprise that I could even get the words out is blatant.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“N...no thanks.”
He takes a seat, indicating to me that I do the same. “Why do you fear me?”
“What?”
“Everyone does, you see. But why do you fear me?”
“I do not fear you. I fear the feats you are capable of.”
“Perhaps you should.”
I shuffle in my seat uncomfortably. Perhaps I should. Each word took about as much courage as it did to walk on the battlefield in the first place. And I barely did that. I could not see his eyes. His hood covered them, casting a darkness over the remainder of his facial features.
“I take pride in my people. They are fearless. They await my command, completing it flawlessly. You are different. You almost amuse me. Tell me why I should let you live.”
I want to see my family. My thoughts and feelings are clear, but my words cannot form an adequate response. I want to see my family again. My eyes water. I try to stop it, but the tears flow nonetheless. I sniff and look down at my feet awkwardly. I just want to go home. The warlord’s ego inflates to fill the room in its entirety, and I cower to fill whatever space is left free. Killing me would be like stepping on an ant to him. His conscience is nonexistent. Why should he let me live? Because it is not yet my time. I can’t fade away into the void. I can’t. I won’t. If this is who I must get through to lay my eyes on my wonderful children and wife one more time, then so be it. So be it.
III & IV Group Short Fiction Against Expectations by Lola Gold
The grounds lie before me, daring me to step closer. “You want this”, I remind myself. The cold morning air slides under my sleeves as the sharp smell of freshly cut grass and sunscreen drifts across the courts. I step out onto one and I immediately feel them staring, hear their conversations falter. I knew it was coming, I could sense their judgement from a mile away. I try to keep my head held high and go and pick up a racket and tennis ball. Everything about this place screams youth; white skirts, glossy ponytails, effortless confidence. Then there was me. Sixty-two, grey roots pushing through dyed hair, wrinkles carved deep into my face and already short of breath. I tighten my grip on the racket. I can’t even imagine their faces if they knew I was trying out for the most prestigious tennis programme in the country.
“All right, everyone!” the coach calls. “Pair up for practice matches.” Names begin to be read aloud, one after another until finally my name is said alongside someone called Daisy. A loud sigh cuts across the court. She takes her racket and jogs over to the opposite side of the net. “Come on then,” she calls, already sounding bored. Daisy twirls her racket in one hand, barely glancing a me as I approach the baseline. I toss the ball in the air and drive my serve low across the court. Surprise briefly flashes across her face, before she smirks, firing the return deep into the far corner. I sprint, my legs screaming in protest, but I lunge forward anyway, swinging at it moments before it makes a second bounce. Daisy has already turned away before I reach the ball, but to her surprise it flies back cleanly across the court. She jerks her head up too late, just as it skips on past her.
“Daisy!” The coach barks. “What are you doing?”
A small pulse of satisfaction ripples through me.
“Sorry,” Daisy mutters, though the sharpness in her voice suggests otherwise. She snatches another ball from the basket beside her feet and bounces it hard against the court. “Again.”
The coach folds his arms, lingering by the net now. Around us the other pairs have started slowing down too, and I feel their attention land directly on me, clearly expecting me to crumble under the next rally. Daisy serves this time, fast and vicious, the ball hurtling towards me with enough force to sting my palm even through the rackets strings. My arm jolts backwards upon impact, but I keep the return low. She rushes forward immediately, lips curling with confidence, and slams the ball back towards the opposite corner. Once again, I run. Pain shoots through my knees, hot and familiar, years of practice carrying me onward. I remember being Daisy’s age, my whole life ahead of me. I was just nineteen when I lost my first award. It was a local competition and I was up against someone that, frankly, I thought I had the upper-hand over. They had just recovered from an injury and I was an arrogant teenager, convinced I would win. To my absolute dismay, she beat me. Looking back, I bet she felt like the most powerful woman in the world, and now it’s my time to take that win.
I am flashed back to the present, as the world narrows to the white blur of the ball spinning just inches above the ground. I reach it at the last second, flicking my wist. The ball clips the net and for one awful moment, it just hovers there. Then it drops softly onto Daisy’s side. Silence spreads through the court before someone near the benches lets out a quiet, stunned laugh. I’d done it.
III & IV Group Short Fiction The Witness
by Bart Fynes-Clinton
Three days before Christmas Eve, my family’s decorations were well underway. The sap-covered tree sat in the living room, the one that took Beth, my mum, an hour to find. She’s obsessed with finding the perfect tree, but every year, without fail, she finds something to complain about. The ornaments I made in Year 4 out of clay, with my dad’s name, hang on the thin, bendy branches. The star on top is where my sister and I have our yearly argument on who will put it on.
This year was shaping up to be a good Christmas. My dad wrapped and placed the presents under the tree; my mum was still indecisive about what type of meats to get and how many Yorkshire puddings for Christmas dinner; my aunt was accidentally telling the entire family who’s getting what from her. We were looking forward to seeing our grandparents, who live down south, but soon Christmas would be the second thing on my mind.
It was Christmas Eve’s Eve, what my family called the day before Christmas Eve. I woke to find my quilt pulled tight, and a warm spot against the back of my ankles. It was my dog, Ruby, half on my bed, fast asleep. I reached for my phone—6:45, it read—the harsh white light scalding my eyes. I chucked my head back down on my soft, warm pillow and fell asleep before I could stop myself.
Suddenly, I jumped up from my bed. I looked at my wall clock in the bright morning light, or so I thought. The clock read 11:22. Ruby had fallen off the bed and onto the floor and continued her slumber. I jumped from my bed to my wardrobe and chucked on some fresh clothes and sprinted downstairs. I cut a bagel in half, albeit very wonkily, and put it in the toaster. I grabbed a glass from the shelf, filled it with lukewarm water before the tap ran cold, and downed the entire glass in three gulps. I didn’t even butter my bagel, just took it from the toaster and tossed it in the air over and over so I didn’t burn myself. I put my shoes on and went out the door.
Today, I was planning on seeing my friend at 12. They lived on the other side of town, about 30 minutes away. I got out the door at 11:31 and started walking. In town, I noticed that it was strangely quiet. The fountain wasn’t on, and the main street was almost deserted. I started through the side alley towards my friend’s house, and then I noticed a teenage boy following me with a piece of metal clutched in his hand. I started to walk a little faster. As I turned the corner, his eyes followed, and he tucked the piece of metal behind his body so I couldn’t see it. I also couldn’t see his face. As I turned another corner, I glanced at a bottle, and in the reflection, I saw his hands raised above his head. I spun around and caught his wrists as they came down. Suddenly, he dropped whatever he was holding; it clattered to the floor. Only then did I realise what it was. He was following me with a knife.
I sprinted towards it, like a cheetah to a wounded animal. I scraped it up off the floor, the harsh surface scraping the skin off the top of my hands, and turned to face him. Before I could see him, I felt a shoulder slam into my torso. My hand flew up, and I felt a warm liquid dripping onto my hand. It was his blood. I ripped the knife out as quickly as I could, but the bleeding became much worse. He slumped to the side and fell to the floor. I started to walk, then jog, then run. I was running and running. I heard a shout, but I didn’t turn back.
Once I was near my friend’s house, I found the rubbish truck going past. I ran to the next bin in its path and shoved the knife as far down the edge as I could and stuffed some rubbish down next to it. Only then did I turn and slump down against the hedge. It was 11:57, and I was only a few minutes from my friend’s home. I slowly ambled over and went to the bathroom straight away. I started to scrub, and I kept on going until my hands were as clean as they possibly could be.
While I was there, there was only one thing I could think about: that voice shouting after me, the shrillness in the voice. I couldn’t get it off my mind. I tried and tried and tried, but I couldn’t shake it. I was caught in the act of running away from a dead man on the floor. They knew it was me, but I didn’t know who they were. I couldn’t do anything.
I Group- LVI Non-Fiction Winner Locked in a Room by Sophie Pascanu
Most people remember their childhood as an abundance of love. I remember mine as an abundance of evidence. There are nooks and crannies in my past, unexplained stories, and impossible tales that never added up. I started small, looking for the truth behind a missing tooth, but I ended up finding the cracks in the world.
The first piece of evidence appeared when I was six. I tucked a tooth under my pillow. I wasn't waiting for a gift, but a mistake. How did a fairy-creature slip into all the rooms of every child who ever existed on earth? Where did the endless supply of coins come from? It felt less like magic and more like a system of bribery, rewarding some while ignoring the kids who were desperate enough to pull their own teeth just to help their parents. I started to wonder if the fairy was biased, or just cruel.
The anomalies multiplied every spring in the garden. By ten, I wasn't looking for eggs; I was looking for proof. My parents gave me the same tired explanation about the Easter Bunny’s ‘barn’, a simple story for an impossible harvest. But bunnies don’t lay eggs. If it wasn't creating them, it must be stealing them and placing them in our gardens for us to find in the morning.
By eleven, my curiosity had sharpened into investigation. I didn’t want Santa’s candy; I wanted admission. I set a trap by the fireplace, not for a toy, but for the truth. When the cookies remained untouched, it wasn't a failure; it was another clue. I realised then that I was being watched. Whether Santa had spied or was a brilliant mind reader, I learned that my only safety was in total silence. I became a master of the blank stare, earning praise for being “quiet” while I built a fortress inside my head. I hid my thoughts so well that eventually I couldn't find them myself. I showed no emotion, no personality…
Nothing.
That is why I am here now. They told me I was crazy, but I hadn’t lost my mind—I had simply found the truth they tried so hard to hide. In this big, white jail cell of solitude, I realise they aren't waiting for me to get better. They are waiting for me to become their idea of normal.
Which, to me, seems insane.
I Group- LVI Non-Fiction
Normal by Abi Uff
I will be discussing the ways in which one word impacts society and how it can be changed.
Why is “normal” so overrated? Why is thinking outside the box supposed to be classed as all the so-called abnormal people? All while the people outside the box are ridiculed, called weird, bullied, strange but they are not. They are just people who are misunderstood and don’t have a voice for themselves. It should be a circle because then everyone can fit into it and no one is left outside, because it can expand and no one is shunned to the side, as it has no “side” and we all share the space equally.
Normal — adjective:
Ordinary or usual; the same as would be expected
Boring
What people expect
The opposite of strange or abnormal
Not unique
Normal. A simple word that means ordinary, usual, what people expect, the opposite of strange. I believe that this one word is overrated and used too much to express the way someone or something is. People say, “Oh good! You’re normal!” as a joke, like it is a compliment or a way to discreetly say, “You fit in with what society thinks about how to make people ‘acceptable’.”
I think this is unfair because of all the different people that are so-called normal just for having a quirk, an abnormality, or some kind of disability or difference. To say that someone is not normal is an insult, and shaming someone for being “different” or “weird” isn’t right.
Society has put all these rules in place many years ago, separating the normal from the abnormal, like they did with segregation, separating Black people from white people many years ago—this still happens today.
Back in the 1800s, people who were classed as “weird,” “strange,” or “wrong” were taken away from their families and put in mental asylums to try to cure them. They couldn’t be cured. Nowadays, we would call it special needs. People, especially neurodiverse people, who usually mask, are some of those who, when confronted, are told they “don’t look autistic,” for example, or are told, “Oh, I didn’t know. You look so normal,” meaning they look neurotypical or not the stereotypical image that has been engraved into our minds for years.
Back then, and even now, people don’t like putting a label on their child for fear of being pushed out of that metaphorical box. When grandparents say, “We didn’t have all these kinds of problems. Kids were either well behaved or they weren’t,” there is often an implication that difference did not exist. But there was always that one kid who kept getting sent to isolation because he couldn’t sit still. See a pattern there? “These kinds of problems” have always existed, but back then scientists had no clear understanding of them and people were placed in asylums where they were misunderstood and mistreated. Then people said they were “not normal” or “crazy.”
Nowadays, we would say someone is “normal” if they can walk, talk, and do things the way the vast majority of people do. It is even taken as a compliment to tell a parent that their child “conforms to what society’s majority can do.”
Normal has many uses, but I feel like this particular use of “normal” to describe people is damaging, as it reduces individuals to a label and puts them into a box with what the rest of the world classes as “normal.”
This leads me onto my next point: the topic of “thinking outside the box.” This idea goes strongly with my last point of “normal.” “Thinking outside the box” is basically a way to “fit in” with what society wants. The box is a rectangle with corners. It is straight, no creases. It represents the people in the box who are accepted by society and do everything “right,” who are not disabled, not different, and not classed as “weird.” They are separated from everyone else.
Outside the box is a completely different matter. These are the people floating, unable to enter the box because society does not like what they are, what they do, how they talk, walk, or look.
These are the people who are discriminated against: people who are different, of different races, genders, or disabilities; people who are bullied, ridiculed, misunderstood. Loners and outsiders are all there. The people whom society denies entry.
These people have done nothing wrong apart from being labelled by society and cast out. Nothing wrong except existing in a biased community. This is catastrophically wrong. People are meant to accept each other no matter what. We do not do this.
I propose a circle. Not a box.
A circle can include everyone from all different backgrounds, races, and genders. Everyone is allowed in, and no one can be pushed to the side because a circle has no sides. This will teach society to accept everyone for who they are or want to be. There are no limits to a circle; it can expand, fit everyone in, and stand up against what is wrong.
In a circle, everyone is equal and everyone is allowed to share the space.
You can still “think outside the box,” but instead, allow your mind to be free and explore all possibilities, rather than being trapped in a neat, rigid rectangle where people are afraid of society and scared to become outcasts.
For example, in most schools, children are supposed to wear uniforms to “represent the school,” told how to behave, taught to be acceptable, taught the same thing at the same time as everyone else, and expected to sit in pairs for a year and just go along with it. People work differently: different methods, different ways of thinking, different styles and routines. Children and adults should be free—free to not cave into peer pressure and simply be themselves.
The problem is that no one is truly “normal.” We are all different people, no matter what society says. They can try to make us all the same, but they will fail.
Together, we can challenge this unfairness so that one day we can all be equal.
Think circle, not box. Even though we live on a sphere, this is for metaphorical reasons and to show how unfair all this is.
Why should we conform to what society wants? No one is perfect.
I Group- LVI Poetry Winner
Hansel and Gretel by Anya Vij
Hansel and Gretel, thin as can be, Had parents who said, “Let’s lose them in a tree.”
Well, not in a tree, but deep in the wood, Which, let’s be honest, is NOT very good.
They wandered around with nothing to eat, Till Hansel cried, “I smell something sweet!” A house made of cake appeared through the gloom With frosting and biscuits and edible rooms.
“Should we be worried?” Gretel did say.
Hansel said, “Nope!” and ate half the doorway. They gobbled and munched like kids at a fair, ompletely ignoring the danger right there.
An old lady came with a sugary grin, “Come in, dear children, come right on in!”
(If strangers say that, you should probably run, But no, these two thought it sounded like fun.)
She fed them and smiled… then slammed the cage. “Surprise!” she cackled, “It’s dinner I stage!”
Hansel was trapped to fatten up nice, While Gretel did chores (which wasn’t so nice.)
The witch checked his finger to see if he’s plump. He showed her a bone; she fell for the stump.
“She’s blind as a bat,” Hansel would say, “Just keep her distracted, we’ll get away.”
At last the witch shouted, “Heat up the stove!”
Gretel said, “Sorry, I don’t get the mode.”
The witch huffed, “Useless! I’ll show you instead!” She leaned in the oven bad move for her head.
Gretel then shoved her in with a WHACK, And that was the end. No coming back. They grabbed all her treasure and ran out the door, Much richer (and wiser) than ever before.
So next time you’re hungry and see a cake shack, Maybe don’t eat it. Just… slowly walk back.
I Group- LVI Poetry Escape the Daydream by Penny Beaujeux
Daydreams are an escape route.
They are the hatch you can dive out of when the world feels too much. In a daydream you can be anyone and do anything. In a daydream you are unstoppable. You can always imagine you are winning the battle. In the real world it isn’t like that.
Things are sometimes hard and that is a fact. People are mean and don’t understand What it is like to not have the upper hand. They feel that sometimes you are too much or too different for them to truly understand What it is like to not fit in or to be told you just need a thicker skin.
In a daydream people never judge. The made-up people in the made-up world are the best you’ll ever come across.
They embrace you with both arms and stop you from drowning when the weight gets too much.
The hatch is always open, you just have to look And soon you’ll escape from the sneers and the stares And to a world where everybody cares.
I Group- LVI Poetry Rugby Is My Home by Darcie Croft COMMENDATION
Whether you’re in a ruck or in a scrum, Or making a tackle or on the run. Down the line the try is scored. My family give me a great big applaud.
When I get home to celebrate, There I find my teammates. Within my team, I’m never alone. Proving so was the party that was thrown.
We have a BBQ the week after, With games, food, and lots of laughter. I couldn’t wish for kinder people, Or wish to be treated any more equally.
I didn’t think I would be celebrated so much for my fame, That the whole team turns up to my next big game. I never thought my dream would come true, But now I am standing on a professional rugby pitch, looking up at a sky of bright blue.
I couldn’t have done this without my mum in tow, Or without my brother on the side of the pitch performing a show. I couldn’t have done it without my nana with me, Or my grandad saying, “Come on, Darcie!”
I couldn’t have done it without my best friend, Josie, Or my team and coaches supporting me. Rugby is the place to be. It’s such a lovely community.
I stand as an 11-year-old girl with Welwyn as my team, But becoming a Red Rose will always be my dream.
