It’s finally that time you’ve all been waiting for. My apologies for how long it has taken to get this post out, I know you’ve all been waiting eagerly to find out who the winners of our 1st round of the second series of micro fiction writing competitions are. Life has been, for lack of a better word “stressful” of late and in the worst timing. It has been difficult but I revel in the knowledge that it will all become part of the grand Mum Life Story that I might just tell one day.
Thank you to everyone who entered our 1st round of series 2, of the Micro Fiction Writing Competition. As always, the entries were all amazing. Picking just 3 winners was an agonising task to say the least. I’d love to make everyone a winner but alas, it wouldn’t be a competition then, would it? 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
- Earth Mother, ELIZABETH SMITH, Great Britain
- I Cannot, KRISTINA ANDERSON, Australia
- Listening In, LAURA TAPPER, Great Britain
- Suffer Little Children, GRACE G MORAN, Ireland
- The Alter, AUTUMN BETTINGER, United States
- The Hollow, DETTRA ROSE, Australia
- The Miracle, RHETT SMITH, Australia
- The Way Home, JULIE MEIER, Canada
- Undisclosed Desires, BROOKE DEBONO, Australia
- Where Things Grow, KRISTINA ANDERSON, Australia
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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)
‘The Way Home’ by Julie Meier, Canada
WHAT WE LIKED: It’s a story of hope, a young mother lost in poignant reflection, influenced by the astute stranger who changes her perspective. We loved the imagery and the emphasis on how sometimes those random moments/conversations we have with strangers can be so fulfilling.
BIO: Born and raised in Calgary, Canada, Julie Meier now lives on a farm where she can appreciate a view of the Rocky Mountains while writing from her kitchen table. She loves the challenge of crafting her stories into perfect little packages and her writing has been published in several anthologies and online journals. Her story These Walls was shortlisted for the Edinburgh International Flash Fiction Award.
AUTHOR’S STATEMENT: I have always been a people-watcher, and writing gives me an avenue for turning those moments spent watching humanity into writing projects. One of my favorite parts of writing is placing my characters into situations which are emotionally charged, and then helping them to see “the light at the end of the tunnel”. This story The Way Home is one of those moments, when the universe gifts you exactly what you need, when you need it – in this case, an unlikely conversation with a stranger on a museum bench.
The Way Home
The museum bench groans in protest as Amber sits, resisting the urge to do likewise. Her lower
back aches from her morning shift at the busy diner, the aroma of stale coffee and burnt toast linger.
Earlier, Jackie had cornered her in the kitchen, a tray of precariously stacked dishes balanced on her hip.
“Have you decided?” she whispered. “You’ll be a great mom, you know.”
Amber still had her doubts. But, if she could bottle up Jackie’s enthusiasm, she would pop the cork and take small sips, feeling the excitement trickle down her throat.
The bench shifts slightly. A man settles himself beside her. Ignoring the intrusion, Amber turns to study the large canvas in front of them and focuses on the waves, imagining what it must have felt like to be caught in such a storm.
The stranger reaches for his lunch, the paper bag crinkling ferociously in the quiet gallery. The smell of egg salad reaches her nostrils, creating a sudden, ravenous hunger.
“Would you like half?” His voice is muffled.
“No. Thank you.” She answers stiffly, her rumbling stomach betraying her.
He hands her half, laughing.
“Art should not be considered on an empty stomach. What do you make of this piece?” he asks, waving his crust at the canvas.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, “but when I look at those immense waves, it seems hopeless. The artist must have felt a sense of desperation while painting it.”
The man leans forward, squinting in concentration.
“Interesting. When I look at this piece, I see a promise for the future. Have you ever noticed the title of this piece?”
“‘The Way Home’ – I’ve never understood it. Surely, the ship would have capsized soon after this scene, never reaching shore.”
“I once heard a mariner’s prayer,” he says, “and it’s always stuck with me.”
In a softly lilting voice, he begins.
“May your compass point true,
May your vessel stay strong.
And when the winds of change blow,
When the storm seems too much,
May you always find your way home.”
“But they don’t find their way home. They are lost at sea.” She tears up, cursing her emotions, so difficult to control these days.
“Look to the upper right-hand corner of the picture,” he gently urges. “There is hope.”
She approaches the painting and, in a poorly illuminated corner, she sees it. The storm is easing.
“They survive?” she asks in disbelief.
“I know it for a fact.” He nods wisely, picking absently at a paint spot on his sleeve. “A sailor always looks to the skies, hopeful he will be granted safe passage home.”
She places her hand protectively across her abdomen.
The stranger stands, then leans close to whisper, “May you also find your way home.”
Amber reaches into her purse, pulling out an impossibly tiny pair of shoes, and smiles as they sit there, cradled safe from the storm in the palm of her hand.
100neHundred by Laura Besley
2ND PLACE ($20 prize + digital copy of anthology)
‘Listening In’ by Laura Tapper, Great Britain
WHAT WE LIKED: We loved how this story dug deep and brought compassion and warmth into what can sometimes be a cold and clinical service. It drew us into a shared experience with the mothers, through the perspective of those who are both outsiders and participants in the birthing experience.
BIO: Reading and writing have been the cornerstones of Laura’s life for as long as she can remember, providing inspiration, companionship and escapism. As a woman with a disability and a survivor of domestic violence, The Open University offered Laura the opportunity and means to study, so she could achieve her ambitions to become a teacher and writer, like her childhood heroines Anne Shirley and Jo March. In common with Louisa May Alcott, she ‘had lots of troubles, so she [mostly] writes jolly tales’ and she tweets @LauraTapper93
AUTHOR’S STATEMENT: Through my writing I have the opportunity to explore the ‘what ifs’ of life. I’m endlessly interested in the way things might work out if the players in a situation, or the choices they make, are altered. I was inspired to write this story because I was very isolated when I was pregnant, living away from family and without a support network of friends. During my counselling training, my tutor taught me to listen to ‘the music of a conversation’, rather than just the words and that’s what I wanted these midwives to do. For the women who attend the clinic, they might be the only people who can pick up warning signs or ask difficult, but potentially life saving, questions.
Listening In
“How did it go this morning?” Sister MacDonald placed a mug of tea on her desk and handed another to Cassie, who was sitting with a pile of folders balanced on her knees. She always encouraged the new midwives she mentored to make notes and talk things through with her at the end of a clinic: it was when the real learning happened.
“Sometimes, we notice things without realising it,” she’d find herself explaining to anyone who questioned her old-fashioned methods. “Writing by hand gives us a chance to reflect and a computer can’t replace that.”
“Aleisha Bonelli is thoroughly fed up. She’s keeping her kick chart and I’ve booked her in for a sweep on Wednesday.” Cassie checked her notes. “After the terrible time she had with induction last time, I can see why she’s worried about having another one.”
“Baby’s heartbeat was fine, I take it?”
“Yep – strong and regular.”
Sister Mac nodded her approval of the plan. It’s always the mothers who pay the price for babies who stubbornly refuse to follow the schedule. No doubt there’d be plenty of hot curries on the menu in that house over the next few days.
“And what about Kamila Sharpe? What have you got for her?” The older woman took a sip of her drink.
The young midwife opened the next folder in the pile and rattled off some facts and figures: weight, blood pressure, fetal heart rate and fundal height.
“Everything looks good for thirty-four weeks. Mum’s clearly eating well and following all the advice, her birth plan’s done, and her husband seems supportive.” Cassie looked up at her mentor with a slight lift in her brows. “I mean, he certainly knows all the pain relief options – more than she does, judging by the way he answered most of the questions. Just as well: she might feel a bit isolated, now they’ve moved away from all her family and friends.” She flipped through the pages in front of her. “He says he works from home, so he’s been to all the antenatal classes with her.” She tapped her pen against her bottom lip. “She was awfully quiet, though. Has anybody ever seen her on her own..?”
Sister Mac leaned forward in her seat. “What are you thinking?”
“It’s probably nothing.” Cassie shrugged her shoulders. “Although she seemed quite withdrawn, and she did say that she felt scared. He dismissed her, said she was being silly: that women give birth every day, that he would always be there to watch over her. I reassured her, too, but what if she wasn’t talking about the birth?”
Sister Mac considered for a moment, then turned to her computer and started typing.
“Perhaps, on their next visit, there’ll be some essential paperwork for Mr Sharpe to complete in reception, while Kamila is in with us.” She looked over her shoulder at Cassie with a serious expression. “In our job, we need to listen out for more than just heartbeats.”
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3RD PLACE ($20 prize + digital copy of anthology)
‘The Altar‘ Autumn Bettinger, United States
WHAT WE LIKED: This is such a touching tribute to beauty of the pregnancy journey. Full of quirkiness and personality, it reflects the vision all women carry deep down inside of how they desire to be seen by their other half, for the miracle that is nurturing a life inside oneself.
BIO: Autumn is a stay-at-home-mom in Portland, Oregon. Her writing has been published in The Good Life Review and The Journal of Compressed Literary Arts. When not chasing two kids under two, Autumn is trying to find a little writing time after the kids are in bed. Her constant muses, you can find her other love, documenting her kiddos adventures, on her Instagram @pnwmountainmommy.
AUTHOR’S STATEMENT: I wrote “The Altar” as a bit of an amalgamation of experiences. Many of the little moments are moments from my two pregnancies. However, with this story, I wanted to change the perspective. I wanted the story to be about seeing the mother, and the baby to be a secondary character. This is not the normal way things tend to go in our society. Once there’s a baby, mom starts to slip away under the needs of a new little life coming. I wanted to tell the story of a partner who sees their pregnant wife as a whole person, with little quirks and contradictions. Seeing her as miraculous, strong, and complete, and celebrating that.
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
The Altar
She swears there’s a bump at four months. Though when she tells you this, she’s arching her back and pushing her belly out in a completely unnatural way. She tells you the morning sickness has been awful, and demands to sleep in every morning without exception, to calm the waves of nausea. A few days in and you catch her nibbling last night’s pasta watching reality television and looking smug. She claims this is just a brave face and pasta is the only thing that helps. You bring her more pasta.
When she’s seven months, she wears only tight-fitting clothes and beams when people stop to comment on her belly. When she gets home, she immediately complains about the audacity of strangers. She tries not to smile when she says this, but you smile at her, and then she starts grinning. She forgets to book a birthing class or a hospital tour, but she’s convinced everything will go smoothly because she has non-drop candles, a mantra, and a playlist consisting of two songs. She tells you these two songs will be played continuously through the entirety of her labor. You add ‘earplugs’ to your hospital bag checklist.
When she goes into labor it is precisely on her due date (she is convinced this is because she has been telling her belly that September Third is a lovely day to be born). She is in labor for exactly seventeen hours (she claims afterwards that seventeen is her favorite number, though when you first met, she told you it was twelve). For seventeen hours those two songs play on repeat and the candles don’t drip and you watch her pant and flex and exude a strength and fortitude that catches you in the throat and sits there until your love for her melts it down into your gullet and ignites you from the inside out.
When she gets an epidural your muscles untense with hers, your breath squeaking out between your teeth. You wonder how long you’ve been holding your breath and feel dizzy with the next inhale. She slowly uncrunches your hand as the medication eases the pain, and you look down at your now useless, swollen purple grapes that used to be fingers. She does not look apologetic. You offer up your other hand for any potential crunching needs.
When the baby arrives, sliding out in a mess of goo and blood, punching at the air and crying, you look at her and her eyes are shining. Her skin is slick, her hair is matted, she laughs with such relief that she snorts, and you start laughing too. You press your swollen, purple grapes against her cheek and look at her. She is a goddess. And with an offering of soft whispers and kisses, you worship at her altar.
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