The results are finally in! After some deliberation and some technical difficulties getting onto one of our winners, we now have all the bio’s and author’s statements from our 3 wonderfully talented writers. Read their brilliant stories below and don’t forget to sign up to the email list so you can be notified when round 5 begins.
There’s only 2 more rounds before production begins on the second Mum Life Stories Anthology, so that means you have two more chances to get your story included in the book. So start brainstorming idea’s for the round 5 (Teenage Years) now so you don’t miss the deadline. Round 5 will begin sometime within the next 2 weeks, so stay tuned.
Thank you to everyone who entered the 4th round of series 2, of the Micro Fiction Writing Competition. This round was themed ‘Middle Childhood’ and writers had just 500 words to create a tale to enthral us. They certainly did that. As always, the entries were all amazing and picking just 3 winners was a tough task. Congratulations once again to all our shortlisted stories this month. If you missed the previous post containing the shortlist, you can find it HERE or just see the list below.
Short List
- After, LUCY HOOFT, Namibia
- Bear Hug, JO HOLMES, United Kingdom
- Building Castles, TRACY KREUZBURG, Canada
- Midge And The Pony, ROSEMARY GEMMELL, Great Britain
- One Small Snare And It Will Never Be Mine Again, LUCY HOOFT, Namibia
- Saint Joan, REDFERN BOYD, Germany
- Seeing Stars, REBECCA KINNARNEY, United Kingdom
- Sisterhood, LAURA TAPPER, United Kingdom
- Taking It On The Chin, ALICE HORIBE, United States
- The Jump, NICKY TORODE, United Kingdom
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Winners
And here they are, our 3 winners. Congratulations to you all, you should be very proud!
1ST PLACE ($50 prize, printed copy of anthology + a digital copy)
AFTER
Lucy Hooft (Namibia)
WHAT WE LIKED: We really enjoyed the visual descriptiveness and raw emotion of this piece which brought a glimpse into the reality of the intense grief a mother feels at the loss of a child, and the resulting, uncontrollable actions that may manifest.
BIO:
Lucy is a mother, nomad and jack of all trades. She currently lives in Lüderitz, Namibia with her husband and three young children, setting up a school, crafting stories and making films about the adventure of growing giant kelp. Writing is a passion that she fits in when time allows. She loves the concision of flash and micro fiction – the ability to open a whole world with just a few words. It is also the perfect balance to the long haul of writing a series of spy novels. Lucy’s first novel, The King’s Pawn – the opening of the Sarah Black series, will be published by Burning Chair later this year. You can find her on Twitter – @HooftLucy
AUTHOR’S STATEMENT: This story was inspired by a shop mannequin in the local Salvation Army shop in the town where we used to live. The mannequin, wearing donated childrens’ clothes, had a terrifying blueish tinge and it made me think about the shock of seeing your own child’s clothes on the blue-skinned boy. The out of place curl was an image from when my own son was recovering from a general anaesthetic in hospital – luckily for a very minor procedure. As a mother, handing over your child to medical professionals to fix them, is an enormous exercise in trust. Alone in a recovery room with a still-unconscious child, watching and waiting, an active imagination finds itself diving down a warren of ‘what ifs’, even when the circumstances are quite minor. The story was a place to explore some of those what ifs. I often find myself turning to micro-fiction as a way of working through those moments in life that provoke something buried deep in the sub-conscious, the images that startle, the sudden awareness of life’s turning points when you tie your lot to the whims of fate. And the line about the mould being old is inspired by the inimitable Richmal Crompton’s Just William story – William Goes Shopping.
AFTER
The curl of hair at the back of your neck looked out of place, hardly yours. Too long, too tightly wound. I must have missed it with the scissors, a survivor when your impatience wriggled you away from my inexpert hand.
I focussed on the curl, not the blue sheets, not the tied-gown, wondering how long you would still let me cut your hair. How long before you would care about the curl left behind?
We had laughed about the ancient mannequin in the charity shop window – a small boy with cheeks gone blue, with apple smile spoiled, hair like curdled milk. That one came from a mould that’s old, you’d said. You’d pretended he was alive, offered him your hand, ducked to avoid his glassy gaze.
I hadn’t thought, why hadn’t I thought? The clothes we’d brought that day, the trousers that clung to your calves and t-shirts faded, I could have asked for them back. I could have had more of you. More to put together as pieces of a whole.
But after the bed and the curl and the stiff leather chair and the waiting and the waiting and the waiting for the news that turned bad, the smiles that spoiled, there was too much.
After – there was too much. You left me swimming, cut adrift.
After – I swam past the shop window and there he was. The blue-lipped boy wearing your favourite t-shirt, the one with the top hats on it, smiling his blue-lipped smile.
I flailed in, wailing, ripping the shirt over his old-mould head, tugging it over painted hair and cracked skull, howls coiling from deep in my guts. Batting back at soothing hands and shocked faces.
And the worst bit – or was it the best? – that even then, even as I flailed, as I tore your favourite shirt from the lifeless mannequin, as I struggled against the currents pulling me under, no longer swimming just drowning, even then I wanted to tell you…
Everything.
Because I knew it would make you laugh. That laugh where you try to hold your top lip still to cover your oversized teeth, but the laugh always wins. That laugh that we share, that ends with us laughing at the laughter.
That ended with us laughing.
That ended
100neHundred (micro fiction) by Laura Besley
2ND PLACE ($20 prize + digital copy of anthology)
TAKING IT ON THE CHIN
Alice Horibe (United States)
WHAT WE LIKED: It was interesting how most of the story took place in the dialogue and a story was told between the characters. A relatable tale about the mischief of boys.
BIO: Over the years Alice has been a daughter, friend, wife, mother and good neighbor. Later in life she discovered that she had also been an avid collector of stories. Usually they are small stories of small moments that have added up to big laughs or large revelations or even that little extra something that makes for a perfect slice of a day.
Writing has been a joy.
She is especially appreciative that her three sons enthusiastically (or sometimes reluctantly) allow her to share their remembrances with her readers.
Follow Alice’s blog at alicehoribe.wordpress.com
AUTHORS STATEMENT: My son and I are separated by miles, and increasingly, attitudes, opinions, and worldview. We are connected by a deep and abiding love. We try to keep our conversations safe and pleasant. However. One of us will say something like, “I saw an article online,” and soon enough we will become tense, then irritated, and will say, “Well, I’d better hang up now.”
My goal is to enjoy my son’s company while avoiding conflict. And so I think back to the lessons of his youth, and that inspired Taking It On The Chin.
TAKING IT ON THE CHIN
My son, Evan, and his best friend had run out of things to do.
“Hey, do you know where your mom put the boxing gloves?”
Mark’s reply was firm. “We’re not allowed to play with them.”
“But do you know?”
“I guess so, but what does it matter?”
“Well,” Evan paused to think it through, “she only put them away because she said we’d kill each other.”
“That isn’t what Mom said. She said one of us was going to get hurt. It was after I gave you a black eye and she had to call your mother.” Evan rubbed his still purplish eye and winced.
The two boys tried to think of something else.
“Basketball?”
“The ball’s flat. G.I. Joe?”
“Boring. Mario?”
“We have to stay outside. Remember?”
“Yeah.”
Silence.
“How about we ask your mom if we can have the gloves back and we’ll only hit from our neck down.”
“Sure!” Then Mark added, “You tell her. She likes you.”
Mrs. Crane listened patiently. After all, she was a patient person.
“We promise we will only hit under the chin and we promise we will keep it soft.”
Both boys pleaded in harmony, “Pleeeease. We’ll be good.”
Mrs. Crane knew their intentions were pure, but that is how it was with these two. “I told your uncle this was the world’s worst gift but since they’re here…” and she retrieved them from the top of the fridge.
“Thank you!” “You’re the best mom ever,” “We’ll be good!”
The boys bounded out and donned the boxing gloves, tying them on for one another. They practiced their fancy footwork, then ever so softly, grazed each other on the torso, laughing and rollicking, playful jabs to the stomach. Now, they were laughing so hard that their arms were rubbery.
And Mark coughed a bit in a fit of glee and……clipped Evan’s chin.
Evan’s head jerked back.
“Oh, sorry dude.”
“Sorry?” Testosterone morphing the red spot on his chin to two angry red splotches on his cheeks, “I’ll show you sorry!” as he wacked Mark in the face.
Now they were clutching each other, rolling on the lawn, their arms going full throttle. Mrs. Crane came running out, adrenaline and panic giving way to anger as she pulled the boys up to their feet and yanked them apart.
Mrs. Crane examined the damage. Bruises and grass stains but nothing more serious. As is with boys then as it has always been, they were as quick to cool down as they were to anger.
“Mom, we’re sorry. We’ll be more careful.”
“We’ll be more careful. This time only below the neck.”
“All right. This is your last chance, then they’re in the trash.”
This time it would be different.
That night Mrs. Crane said to her husband, “Please take the trash outside so the garbage truck can pick it up.”
Mr. Crane pushed down the boxing gloves in the bag so he could tie it.
3RD PLACE ($20 prize + digital copy of anthology)
BEAR HUG
J Holmes (United Kingdom)
WHAT WE LIKED: We loved the relatability and the sentiment that most of us as Mother’s experience at this stage of our children’s development. That tug-of-war within us, between excitement about the next step in their life journey, and the sadness over the moments that are fading into the past.
BIO: J Holmes is a keen writer of very short fiction and non-fiction. Inspiration is often found during cycle rides around the many beautiful routes in the north east of England. Recent work has appeared in Paragraph Planet, 101 Words, Fragmented Voices, Pen to Print, Glittery Literature, Globe Soup, Drabble, Bag of Bones and Ellipsis Zine. Also a previous winner of The Times short story competition.
AUTHOR’S STATEMENT: The idea for ‘Bear Hug’ devolved from seeing a charity bag sitting on a neighbour’s wall awaiting collection. Their son, on his way to school, checked to see what was in there and pulled out a bear.
BEAR HUG
Eleven bears, dangling by eleven freshly cleaned ears, dance in perfectly choreographed formation. Twenty one eyes catch the lowering sun, blindly looking for their owner. He’s inside, up in his bedroom, playing with his old collection of Zerby Derby vehicles. One final car chase, before he parks them in the collection box. Just like the bears outside, the cars have remained trapped in time. Henry has outgrown them; they have stayed the same. And his mum, who bought everyone of them, has fertilised that growth in a way that only mothers can. Supporting him as he turned eleven, but sad that he’s no longer ‘her little boy’ anymore. Mum is standing quietly in the hallway, watching from the shadows. She’s enjoying the memories of them both racing the cars across the carpets. Halcyon days recollected; before the iPhone destroyed the need for her to participate in his games.
Now downstairs, she picks up the charity bag and goes outside to gather the bears. They smell fresh, washed clean of all Henry’s past emotions. His friends during nightmares, the doctors healing his bruises and big hearts, at times of sorrow. The soft filling is now ready to soak up the worries of the new owners.
As she unclips One Eye’s ear from the plastic washing line, a rye smile creeps across her face. When Henry had to stay in hospital for over a week, One Eye had stayed at home and slept in her spacious bed. One Eye absorbed her streams of fearful tears; suffered squeezes tighter than a child could bear; listened patiently to her prayers. One Eye had certainly been laundered, but the deep stained memories hadn’t all been washed away.
Henry pushes the kitchen door open with his foot, then, with a thud, dramatically drops his box of toys. Pride is oozing from him. ‘Unwanted toys ready for delivery,’ he announces.
“Good job, Hen. Those new refugees will have as much fun with them as you did.” Smiling, he runs out of the room and pulls a red Zerby Derby car from his pocket.
“I’m going to keep one,” he shouts as he charges back upstairs.
He’s still a child; and will be for a long time.
Mum looks down at the collection of bears and pulls out One Eye. ‘And I’m going to keep one too,’ she says quietly to herself. She kisses his stitched nose and makes a promise to buy him a new eye. ‘Then we can both watch Henry grow even bigger. And you can help me when the time comes that I am also surplus to requirements.’
She pushes Henry’s box away from the middle of the floor and turns to One Eye. ‘What shall we do for tea?’ she asks.
She’s still a mum; and will be for a long time.
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Great stories, all made me want to squeeze my own little boys while I can. Well done ladies.
Isn’t it great how these stories can remind us of how precious life is? 🙂