Ferret's Competition

Bearsy's Back Yard Creative Writing Competition

Bearsy’s Back Yard Creative Writing Competition The Rules No part of the story must take part between 0 and 200ft A.S.L. Somewhere in the text must be the word “secret”.

The story must contain no more than 1000 words.

Photo stories must contain between 5 and 10 pictures.

June 2010 Judged by The internationally published author of Black Flag and 3 times recipient of the prestigious Mrs. Osborne Golden Toad Award

Ferret

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Table of Contents 1. IsobelandCat ....................................................................5 Victim

2. O Zangado..........................................................................7 Postcard from Portugal

3. Janus ................................................................................ 11 The Secret

4. John Mackie .................................................................... 13 Disaster for Scotland

5. Ricksrants ...................................................................... 15 The Circle

6. Pseudonym ...................................................................... 19 Coming Up For Air

7. Sipu.................................................................................... 21 Popocatapetl in the Sunlight Gleams

8. Minty MBE........................................................................ 25 Global Warming; a lesson.

9. Indoles Simulatio ......................................................... 29 Super Short Story

10. Claire2............................................................................. 31 Ballad of the Buried Miners

11. Jaime.................................................................................. 33 A Lighter Underground Experience

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IsobelandCat 328 words

Victim he boy sat in the bottle on the bottom of the ocean. He felt very small and insignificant. He didn’t know how long he had been there.

It felt like a long time. Maybe he had slept. He wasn’t sure.

The diver’s helmet they’d made him wear was heavy, and his head drooped. It was very dark.

Maybe this was what death was like. Maybe he was dead. How would he know?

He supposed they’d come for him eventually. He imagined them swimming silently up to the bottle; making fishy mouths against the glass, then taking him back to the sub; all according to some secret plan he had never been able to fathom.

When they had first started to torment him, he’d been upset and angry. Why are you doing this to me? He’d cried. Why do you hate me?

The biggest one had looked at him almost kindly. Hate, he’d repeated slowly, rolling the word around his mouth like an unfamiliar flavour. Me, he’d said. There is no ‘me’. Then he’d smiled, and any hint of kindness had vanished. He was all knife-sharp angles and bright hard corners. His eyes were lasers; his mouth a shark. There are no whys here, he’d said.

It was very quiet. He could hear the drag of the stones and feel the gentle tilting of the bottle when the waves passed. Part of his brain seemed to be trying to tell him something. It was like a small, small voice. Just a tiny whisper, saying he wasn’t in a bottle; this wasn’t the ocean bed; there were no boys; he could open his eyes and stand up; move; leave.

He was so tired. He didn’t want to listen; didn’t want to think. It was probably a trick; he’d reach out and touch the glass and they’d all be there suddenly, laughing at him. Better to stay still; to wait for them to get him; not provoke them in any way.

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O Zangado 997 words

Postcard from Portugal ear Auntie Araminta and Auntie Bilby I’ve borrowed this computer just to let you know I have arrived safely in Portugal – the trials and tribulations of my journey need not concern you at this juncture - but suffice it to say I have decided to stay for the duration with Uncle OZ in The Cave, (1,570 feet above sea-level to be precise), the final straw being your heartless and, frankly, unwarranted comment a few weeks ago:“Blimey, OZ good luck. I haven’t seen the little pest since she stole one of the horses and headed for Badminton earlier this month. If she arrives with equine, could you keep Eff and sent the horse back. Ta!” Sob! Badminton was a hoot thanks not for asking, but only once I had negotiated the electric fence and barbed wire around the perimeter and which I don’t remember being there last year. Please tell me you didn’t mention at the time anything to the authorities about that unfortunate incident with the stable lad, the long whip and the pitchfork. No matter, I managed to slip a pre-dated application into the entries without anyone noticing and was allowed to compete. The dressage stage was a doddle to be honest, as I had a quiet word in the horse’s ear before we set off, know what I mean?

Anyway, he danced like a good ‘un and didn’t put a hoof wrong throughout. I’m sure I read somewhere that a horse’s hoof is all that remains of its paw, so the horse is dancing, in effect, on its one remaining claw, or on one finger if you like.

Day 2, the cross-country section, proved a little more troublesome as it is so difficult to keep the blunt end of a broom handle hidden underneath the horse’s tail while hoofing it around the countryside at thirty miles an hour in front of all those cameras. There is a fad these days for doing a horse’s tail in one of those poncey, folded up plaits with the white duct tape, especially in the dressage, and this makes the concealment of a broom handle up said nag’s fundament somewhat problematic, should you need to do so, but I broke with “tradition” and left the tail hair flowing.

And the least said about the water jump the better. How was I to know that I’d taken the only horse in the stable that suffers from hydrophobia? Anyway, a hefty boot in the ribs and a surreptitious kick on afore-mentioned broom handle did the trick and the nag sailed over the hazard like he had wings, albeit with an extremely startled look on his face, not to mention the worrying trace of a smile.

Sunday dawned clear and bright and the only hurdle (a little equestrian joke there) left was the show jumping. Luckily, the broom handle was still in place and, eased in a little further and coupled with another judicious word or two in the ear, proved to be the margin ‘twixt success and

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failure. The BBC interviewed me as Harvey offered his customary greeting at my victory. Zara sends her regards nevertheless, both of which I promised to pass on to you both. Sniff! On the positive side, I did negotiate a lucrative little side deal and have been photographed in flagrante for page 3 of Nag Fanciers’ Monthly, hot off the presses in July. Regrettably, the stable lad has also sold his side of the story to some of the more down-market Sunday tabloids, but I advise you to ignore the fantasies of this nouveau-arriviste guttersnipe.

It did take me some time to track Uncle OZ down – they don’t call wolves “Ghosts of the Forest” for nothing I can tell you, hence the delay in sending this missive. Anyway, after several days I did eventually manage to find him, but only by using the unique talents that you seem so keen to suppress in me. Ah, the freedom! In fact, my talents were such that, when I first emerged from behind the bush, Uncle OZ quite lost interest (no mean feat, let me tell you) in the goat he was in the process of disemboweling The Cave is a wondrous, secret place to stay. Uncle OZ has given me my own room (and keys!!!) on the lower floor nearest the pool and has been working hard to make the gardens presentable and colourful. OK, so they’re nothing like Auntie Christina’s, but he does his best in the circumstances of a late, but baking hot, Alentejan spring.

I know he’s already published photographs of the approaches http://bearsy.wordpress.com/2010/05/17/a-lope-to-the-cave-for-janh/ to The Cave but I’m the only one of you lot to have seen the real thing and there is even more colour in the gardens than on the track.

And it is not only the gardens. At dusk, Mother Nature provides a spectacular display – let down, sadly, only by Uncle OZ’s amateur photography.

Dawn is equally impressive, but at OFFS hrs early morning, Uncle OZ is still snoring deep in the darkest recesses and no photography is available.

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On the management front, I regret to report there has already been an unfortunate incident when the sight of so much fresh red meat overcame Uncle OZ’s better judgement in terms of your above request re: said equine. Once we arrived back at The Cave and following prolonged drooling and significant restiveness, there was a sudden, but, to be honest, not wholly unexpected flurry of hair and much whinnying followed by the glow of the barbie and the smell of rosemary, garlic and olive oil. And jolly tasty Dobbin proved to be too!

Psst! And don’t believe anything that Uncle OZ writes about Das Fürballen. If the truth be told I haven’t had sight nor sound of them since I arrived, not that there is any connection I hasten to add. He may just be somewhat deluded about their existence, poor old soul.

Your much neglected and misunderstood addendum, Ethel

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Janus 228 words

The Secret t were Whitsun or ‘Oliday Monday (Whichever o’ them you prefer) And Medad says, “D’yer fancy an outin’?

To Blackpool – or some place owert’ there?”

“Ooh, yeah!” says me sibling. “There’s shoppin’ And scarey great rides I love too!”

“And don’t forget t’Tower,” I added.

“Just like Paris wi’ fish n’ chips too.”

“Okay,” says Memam, “let’s be off then, But one word o’ warnin’, you two: Money don’t grow on trees ‘ere in Slacky So don’t spend like Parisians do!”

In Blackpool it rained wi’out stoppin’.

And Medad said, “It’s clouds from the West!

But don’t think it’s diff’rent in Scar’bro’It’s just Yorkies who say that in jest.”

We did all the usual walkin’ Along t’Prom, and enjoyed the odd ride.

We scoffed a fish dinner at one-ish And paddled our feet at ‘igh tide.

Then I asked, “Can we go up yon Tower?”

“If you want,” says Medad. “Go wi’ Mam.” I’ll be off on my Clandestine Mission; And for starters I’ll ‘op on t’ next tram.”

Memam took us up Blackpool Tower To see all them sights all around.

“If the rain would ‘old off for a minute We could see Irish Coast, I’ll be bound.”

So what’s our Dad’s ‘Clandestine Mission’?

I asked her. She said with a smile, “It’s a secret what makes ‘im so thirsty, But ‘e’s suppin’ along Golden Mile.”

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John Mackie 820 Words

Disaster for Scotland ell since we’ve got this rain delay at the Auchinleck and District Ladies’ Bowling League relegation play-off semi-finals, we’ll just nip over to our Radio Jockland commentator, Jock Scunner, to see if anything is happening at that game in South Africa. Aye weel, Jock?’

‘Aye weel, Weir! You join us with 30 seconds to go in extra time, after which it will be penalties when we will, hopefully, get the usual happy ending. We’ve got a lengthy injury delay at the moment, with Crouch receiving treatment for altitude sickness. Given that Soccer City Stadium is over 5,700 feet above sea level, it was always going to be a mistake to play the skinnymalink in the first place, in my opinion – there can’t be much oxygen up there even for his big neb.

Still, it gives me some time to describe the scene. Away to my right I can see the massed ranks of the magnificent Brazilian fans. Happy, flag-waving, samba-loving extroverts dancing the time away in true carnival style as they await the victory which any true football fan would wish them.

To my left, Them. Admittedly there are quite a few of Them and They pretty well pack Their end except for one small spot where wee Gordon Broon is sitting forlornly, wearing his Raith Rovers top and clutching his flag of St George. When he took his seat all the fans around him got up and moved away, so he’s really Mr. No Mates now as Lord Mandy is at the other end with his chum.

The score is 2 all with two scintillating strikes born on the sands of the Copacabana from the Brazilian maestros. I personally think that both penalties were deserved. In the one case, only a purist would argue that you can’t give a penalty if the tackle is outside the box and in the other, it’s just nit-picking to say that the officials failed to spot that the player was 10 yards offside when he got the ball. Goes a bit of a way to make up for that venal, purblind and incompetent tosser of a Russian linesman in 1966, as far as I am concerned.

They managed to get back into the game with two outrageous strokes of fortune. Gerrard scored with an aimless 35 yard toe poke which the goalie would surely have saved had it not been for the fact that it chanced to fly into the top right corner of the net where he could not reach it. Then Rooney went off on a futile 40 yard run where he luckily managed to stumble past six defenders

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before rounding the goalie and walking the ball into the net. He’s just a big show off and I think the Brazilian defender was quite right to take that wee hack at him which the referee never noticed and which resulted in him being carried off thus reducing Their chances even further. That brought Heskey on. He has already done valuable service for the cause by crippling Rio Ferdinand in training and there’s no way he’ll score.

Crouch is still receiving treatment so just let me remind you that, when the Brazilians win, it will be a triumph for Scotland. As we all know, the game was brought to Brazil by Charles Miller, son of a Scots engineer. Charles founded the first teams and league in Brazil and there is a square in Sao Paulo named after him.

He is also, of course, in the Hall of Fame of the Society for Asserting Scottish Superiority (SASS) along with all the other weel kent names such as Burns, Hume, Smith, Macadam, Dunlop and Susan Boyle. And, in an exclusive, I can now reveal that the SASS’s English National Activities Countermeasures Hardmen have failed in their secret attempt to make sure that They would never win the World Cup properly and without cheating. SASSENACH spotted in the late 1990′s that They were getting quite good at the game and planted a sleeper. Tom McKechnie from Dumbarton was made kit manager by Kevin Keegan.

SASSENACH activated Tom last night. Early this morning, he was in the act of putting the itching powder in the jockstraps when he was caught red-handed by David Beckham coming back into the dressing room. He had been out on the pitch wearing the full Them strip and pretending to score the winning goal.

Still it doesn’t matter. The game’s kicked off again and there’s only one last chance for Them before we get the penalties and the satisfyingly heart-breaking result for the Southrons. The ball’s with Heskey so we’re quite safe.

Aw No, No, No , No, No! Tell me that goal didnae happen. How could that useless streak of pish manage to dae that? That’s another forty years of hurt for Auld Scotia then. I’m awa’ to get blootered and I’ll hand you back to Weir Doomed at Auchinleck.’

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Ricksrants 757 Words

The Circle t is dark and I feel sleepy once again, it must be the gases form the bathysphere or perhaps the pressure I am not sure.

It seems now that I am immersed in water, water all around me, yet somehow I seem to be breathing. The water tastes strange and it is dark. The walls of the bathysphere are squeezing me tight, yet somehow they seem soft and pliable. It must be my mind playing tricks.

The last thing I recall was Steve screaming, “the cables gone, this should not take place between sea level and 200 feet. Further down possible but not so soon”. As we plummeted down into the unknown depths of the ocean we began our emergency evacuation and rescue procedures.

Somehow they all seemed to fail.

Dave was shouting “We’ve lost radio contact, get that emergency beacon out now.”

Jane responded “Beacon away”

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Yet our descent into the ocean continued. The four of us watch the dials reading our ever increasing depth below sea level, at the same time the pressure on the hull continued to rise alarmingly.

We could hear the outside of the bathysphere creaking as the pressure increased. “Increase cabin pressure” ordered Steve, “let’s compensate for the outside pressure, and hopefully we shall be rescued soon” “Who’s going to rescue us?” I asked. “This was a top secret mission with only the small mother ship on the surface and no rescue team any where near us for at least 10 hours.”

“Don’t worry, Uncle Sam won’t let us down. When the chips are down the US navy will send in everything they’ve got to find us” Steve replied.

As the descent continued the creaking became louder and the pressure on our ears unbearable.

After an hour Dave’s nose and ears began bleeding, I could feel the pressure on my chest getting heavier and heavier.

Within two hours Dave and Jane had lost consciousness and I felt like I was high on drugs or pissed out of my skull.

After four hours the hull of the sphere began to leak badly and the seals around the glass portholes had begun to split. Before long the water was up to our waists and Dave’s life signs were zero.

Six hours and the descent continued, by now the water was at my chin, I think I am the only one left. Luckily the cold has numbed most of y body, but I can see the walls of the sphere closing in like a squashed tin can.

Then all went dark.

All I know is it feels warm and soft, I am breathing in the water, I hear sounds. I try to call out but can’t, I feel a tube in me. Then I sleep.

I am awake, I can hear sounds. I hear a heart beat, or it seems like a heart beat, I reach out, then I sleep again.

This seems to go on forever, I wake I hear sounds I sleep. Am I in a hospital, maybe that’s it. They have me in a life support machine, but no this is warm, the walls are soft and spongy Every time I wake the walls seem to have closed in some more, it is getting very cramped in here, there must be a way out.

All of a sudden I am woken up, the water surrounding me has started draining away, I see light at the end of a tunnel, I hear voices, excited voices.

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“Look, there he is, get ready, come on you can do it, just one more push and you will be free” Building up my strength I kick out with my feet towards the light, “rescue at last” I cry.

“Freedom” Then all of a sudden I am squeezed through a small hole, “couldn’t they make a bigger hole to escape from” I think. I am lying on my back, blinking at this massive light above my head.

My vision is blurred, I try to thank my rescuers, but seem to only be able to croak and wail.

I hear voices, not clearly, obviously from the pressure, “It’s a boy, you have a lovely baby boy” Then I am lifted by a giant and passed over to a smiling woman covered in sweat, she then exposes her nipple to me and holds me to it. Instinctively I start to suck, at the same time all my memories of the sphere, my friends and what happen start to disappear, all I can think of is warmth and food.

Then???

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Pseudonym 442 Words

Coming Up For Air nce under the water she always tried to reach the grill at the bottom of the deep end before completing the length – without coming up for air. The dive had taken her right down through the chlorinated water which stung her eyes and reflected blue from the cracked ancient tiles until she nearly reached the bottom. Two deliberate kicks and she propelled herself further down. This was an old fashioned baths: the deep end was really deep, deep enough for a diving board. So old fashioned were these baths that even now, off the ladies changing room, there was a line of cubicles containing public baths and washbasins, where those without bathrooms would come weekly, in the old days, for their ablutions. The place had been old when her mother was growing up and used to come here with her twin sister to swim.

It always fascinated her, the way the water muffled sounds.

No more hollow reverberating shouts, echoing around the tall ceiling. It was so quiet down there as she reached for the bottom and let her fingers brush the net-covered grill, giving her the rush of secret fear which flushed down her body as far as her toes as she started her slow steady ascent towards the surface, judged to take as long as it took to reach the grab-rail at the shallow end, just as she judged her breath, eking out small bubbles with each underwater breast-stoke and kick. The story heard from her mother came back to her then as always. The reason the grill was covered in a mesh: the girl who had dived, just as she had, and on reaching for the grill she had trapped her hand. It was too late before anyone could get to her, and they severed her fingers to try to save her life. She always imagined this as if it was real memory of her own. The panic in the man who went down to get her, as he came back up and shouted for something to cut her free. The hush, absolute hush at the pool side as everyone waited, the blood in the water, the lifeless body being bought to the surface and an agonised groan of despair from those watching. But all she could hear now was a rumble of background noise and the air leaking like silver streams out of her nostrils. Nearly at the end of the pool, as usual, an almost irresistible urge to pee overcame her as the fear of running out of breath caught up with her, just as her head broke the surface of water and she was safe again.

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Sipu 999 Words

Popocatapetl in the Sunlight Gleams hen I was but thirteen or so I went into a golden land, Chimborazo, Cotopaxi Took me by the hand.

“It will be out secret”, said the priest. “I want you to promise not to tell anybody, not even your mother. Nobody must know?”

Antonio sat silently, on the edge of the bed looking down at his feet, brushing away a tear from his eye.

The priest placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

“Promise me?”

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“I promise, Father”, said the boy.

“There’s a good lad. Here, let me dry your tears away. You don’t want anybody to see you have been crying.” He reached for a handkerchief and wiped Antonio’s eyes.

“Go back to your own bed now and get some sleep. You will fee better in the morning.”

“I am not crying because of the pain,” said the boy.

“I know.”

I dimly heard the master’s voice And boys far-off at play, Chimborazo, Cotopaxi Had stolen me away.

The policeman knocked on the door of the little house at the end of the street. It was opened by a young woman, her long black hair tied in a bun, her face, pale and gaunt.

“Mrs. Alvarez?” asked the policeman.

“Yes. Is something wrong?”

“My name is Sergeant Rodriguez. May I come in?”

The woman stood aside to let the man into her living room. She showed him to a chair.

When they were both seated, the policeman said, “I want to talk to you about your son, Antonio.”

“What about Antonio? Is he all right? Has something happened?”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He is at the mission school in St Simeon”.

“Did you know that he was ill?”

“Well, yes. He had been complaining that he was not feeling well when he came back from school for the last vacation.”

“May I ask what did you do about it?”

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“I took him to the clinic, of course. The doctor gave him some medicine and sent him home. He said he was alright and that he could go back to school. That was two months ago. I have heard nothing from the mission. What has happened to my boy?”

“He has been taken to hospital in the city. He has been very ill.”

Mrs. Alvarez gasped.

“But he is getting better.”

“But what happened? Why has no one told me?”

“Your son had to have an emergency operation.” said Sgt Rodriguez “How is that possible that he have an operation? I have no money for the hospital. How will I pay?”

“It has all been taken care of, Mrs. Alvarez. His costs have been paid for by a friend”.

“But who? Who would do that? I know nobody with that kind of money. We have no rich friends.”

“I do not know who paid for the operation, but I have this letter for you.”

Rodriguez reached into his tunic and withdrew a long, clean, white envelope. There was neat handwriting on it. She took the envelope from him and held it in her hands for a moment. Then, blushing slightly, she passed it back.

“Read it to me, please”.

The policeman opened the letter. He glanced at it for a moment or two and then cleared his throat.

“Dear Mrs. Alvarez. My name is Consuelo Garcia. I am writing to tell you about your son.

Antonio is recovering well from his operation. Please be assured that all his medical bills have been paid for. You must not worry about this matter. However, he will need time to recover when he leaves hospital in a few days time. I would very much like him to stay here with me where he will be well looked after. I am a wealthy woman and it would be my pleasure to nurse your son back to health.

My brother was Father Francisco Garcia. I think that you know of him and know that he was the priest at St Simeon’s mission. Francisco was very fond of your son. He once said to me that if ever there was a boy who was truly blessed by God, then it was Antonio Alvarez. Francisco said that he had never taught or even known a kinder, gentler, more willing child than your Antonio. He believed that God had great plans for Antonio.

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My brother was a good man. He was a man of God. Francisco gave up many things in order to help those less fortunate than he. Ours is a wealthy family and Francisco could have had all the material pleasures of the world had he so wished. But instead he chose to dedicate his life to serving others.

This was not the first time that Francisco has asked for financial help. It would have been difficult for me to refuse him, as the money I have, would have been his. He told me that your son was dangerously ill and that he was determined to help him in what ever way he could. I was very apprehensive about his decision he was taking though he assured me that it would be all right.

I loved my brother very deeply, and though I am too venal a person ever to have been able to share his deep compassion, I can say with honesty that I was humbled by it. His death has been a great shock to me and my family. It was an infection from the hospital that killed him. But please believe me when I say, that while my loss is your gain, I bear no resentment or remorse for the action he took or the outcome of events.

My dear Mrs. Alvarez, it was the will of God that my brother was able to donate a kidney to your son. My brother died so that your son could live.

May God be with you.

Consuelo Garcia.�

The houses, people, traffic seemed Thin fading dreams by day, Chimborazo, Cotopaxi They had stolen my soul away!

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Minty MBE 947 Words

Global Warming; a lesson. o, Bea decided, it was actually happening!

What to do?

Now Bea, not a scientist or a particularly sharp cookie, had made up her mind. She was not entirely convinced, but given an element of doubt, she decided to err on the side of caution.

Even if the planet did not overheat she was more than convinced of the need to husband the natural resources which were not infinite and Do Something about her carbon footprint. She wasn’t quite sure what this involved but cancelling her annual holiday to the Caribbean was no great sacrifice, if it made life possible for future generations.

Of course, the future generations were nothing to do with her. She had decided six months ago that it would be irresponsible to produce any small creatures of her own to add to the overpopulation problem.

Selling her small cottage by the coast was essential of course. It was obviously folly to live there as a long term plan. The rise in sea level would make this a very bad investment. Having decided that it was foolish, if not positively life threatening she had contacted various estate agents and specified that her new house should be at least 200 ft above sea level and preferably on a bus route, thus enabling her to dispense with her car. Her carbon footprint was looking good.

Sitting in the study of her new cottage, and trying to ignore the noise of the wind farm on the hillside close by, she suddenly felt chilly. The solar heating system was proving to be a mixed blessing. It had rained for months and the clouds were lurking ominously, with no sign of the promised Spring.

She added another log to the fire, and pulled on her hand knitted sweater, which had taken her six months to complete. She had carefully unraveled some of her ten year old cardigans and cast on.

The fact that it was oddly misshapen and exceedingly unattractive was nothing compared to the

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virtuous feelings it engendered. No small five year old had suffered in the making of this garment!

She did worry a little about how these third world victims would survive without her patronage now. It was not a comforting thought somehow that their misery would be curtailed by starvation.

Anyway, time to start the recycling, which now took about two hours a day. Carefully avoiding the thought of the two hour bus journey into the nearest town, she started to sort out the paper, glass and composting.

Now, the composting. Well, if she was honest, it was not going well. Dispensing with the refrigerator in her new hillside home, she found she was throwing away rather more than she would have believed. A serious attack of food poisoning was now a distant memory, when confronted by the rats which now were invading her garden, and growing bolder by the day.

Poisoning them was out of the question of course; they were an essential part of the ecological scheme of things; symbiosis, she thought; she just wished they would sod off somewhere else.

Of course, living in the middle of nowhere had necessitated her resignation from her job in London, but all that commuting was seriously detrimental to the health of the planet.

The lack of a mobile phone signal was a bit of a blow but she thought that writing letters would be a joy, forgetting of course, that deforestation would be the inevitable result.

Her new found delight in vegetarian cookery was all but destroyed when she discovered that her vegetables had to be washed, and de-bugged. Pumping more water from the well seemed to be defeating the object of the exercise and with the best will in the world, she couldn’t salvage much from the ravages of the slugs and rabbits, bless! All this digging was hard work on a diet lacking in protein. Oh, alright, she thought to herself, it would be easier after a rare steak! Stop that, Bea, an irritating voice advised.

Taking stock, as she waited at the bus stop the next morning, she felt on the whole, a certain smug superiority, which lessened as the rain poured down, and the normally uplifting view disappeared into the gathering gloom. The daily bus was not just late, it didn’t appear. Walking the two miles back to the cottage, she was lost in reflection. What was it all about; did she really want to save the world? Was this all worthwhile?

Looking in the mirror, after a cold bath, she was horrified. Forgoing any cosmetics had taken its toll. She couldn’t bear the though that any animals has suffered in the production of such fripperies. Her hair looked a mess, for much the same reasons. Dedicated to the cause, her ragged cuticles were yet another reminder of her dilemma. Her deep but secret regret was her principles involved the sacrifice of her weekly manicure.

Of course, it was all worthwhile, she knew it.

The noise of running water distracted her. The stream at the end of her garden, one of the Unique Features of her upland retreat, had been swollen by the relentless rain.

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Peering through the window, she could see her vegetable garden was now covered in water. Daisy the cow, who had mysteriously failed to produce any milk thus far, was marooned on an island, which was all that remained of her field.

Bea, without further hesitation, opened the front door and dashed to the rescue. Her last thought as she lost her footing in the raging torrent, and was dragged under by the weight of her sodden knitwear, was how could they have got it so wrong!

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Bearsy's Back Yard Creative Writing Competition

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Bearsy's Back Yard Creative Writing Competition

Indoles Simulatio 18 Words

Super Short Story t is not a secret that most satellite altitudes should be at least 200 ft above sea level.

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Bearsy's Back Yard Creative Writing Competition

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Bearsy's Back Yard Creative Writing Competition

Claire2 172 Words

Ballad of the Buried Miners eep 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.

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Bearsy's Back Yard Creative Writing Competition

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Bearsy's Back Yard Creative Writing Competition

Jaime 66 Words

A Lighter Underground Experience n eerie hoard scattered and layered, resembling torn paper floating in earth: untarnished gold sunk in sod packed into time imbedded like pain What makes a treasure?

Fluttering in the dark contours of earth, shapes overlap on the film’s black field The soil sectioned and sliced to preserve not riches but position: each secret of gold and garnet constellated to the others Their stance a story

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Bearsy's Back Yard Creative Writing Competition

The Winner Claire2

Ballad of the Buried Miners

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