Well I hope you have all had a great Christmas and holiday time. We had a quite one, just me and my 5 and a lovely video chat with my family over in Western Australia. We ate way too much food, spoiled the kids and made a mess of the house, but isn’t that half the fun of this time of year? As much as I’m sure you love hearing all about my Christmas, I’m sure your even more eager to hear about the winners of round 2 (Series 2) of the Micro Fiction Writing Competition.
Thank you to everyone who entered our 2nd round of series 2, of the Micro Fiction Writing Competition. This round was themed ‘Infancy’ 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. 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
- Crying Time Again, LAURA TAPPER, United Kingdom
- Deep Breathing Into Motherhood, SARAH M. JASA, United Kingdom
- It’s A Boy, ALISON RICHARDS, Australia
- Look Up, CLAIRE SCHÖN, Austria
- Mother Tongue, RACHEL SWABEY, United Kingdom
- Motherhood, RHETT SMITH, United States
- None Of The Clocks Tell The Right Time, ELIZABETH SMITH, Great Britain
- Sleep, ALYSON HILBOURNE, Great Britain
- The Plea, ROSEMARY GEMMELL, United Kingdom
- Time Line, JO HOLMES, 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)
NONE OF THE CLOCKS TELL THE RIGHT TIME
Elizabeth Smith
WHAT WE LIKED: We really enjoyed how this story was structured, the analogy of the dandelions representing time and the restraints it puts on our ability to enjoy life and those who are the closest to us.
BIO: Elizabeth Smith lives in Scotland and writes whilst masquerading as a housewife. When she’s not dreaming or chasing after her children, she loves to escape into a good book. She placed third in the Oxford Flash Fiction Prize 2021, and has been published in Firewords Magazine and The Cabinet of Heed. Elizabeth tweets very infrequently @Smithinamillion.
AUTHOR’S STATEMENT: My story started with the dandelion – a plant I used to think was a weed. My children love playing with the seed heads and they are extremely beautiful, yet to have a lawn full of dandelions would be seen as neglecting your garden. The game of dandelion clocks led into an examination of how we spend our time with young children, how it’s both endless and too short, and all the pressures put on parents by themselves and others. I found writing to be an invaluable aspect in keeping the adult part of me alive when the children were small, and often find myself drawn to this period of time in my stories.
None of The Clocks Tell the Right Time
Leo is transfixed by the perfectly spherical, white globe. He squeals with delight as she holds it to her lips and blows away the tiny cloud with each puff of air:
“One o’clock, two o’clock, three, four, five… Dinner time!”
They tumble in the overgrown grass, amongst the seed heads which wait like little ticking time-bombs. Bang – she is pregnant. Boom – Gary leaves her, muttering about not being able to turn back the clock. Her life detonates. Now she must care for her son, who only sees his dad on alternate weekends, and go to work, and cook, and clean, and make time for endless chores. Every time she looks at a clock she thinks it must be lying about how much time has passed, or how little.
This weekend it is her turn to have Leo, who woke at dawn and refused to accept it wasn’t morning. He plays, and she sits on the step with another coffee. She had expected sleepless nights but assumed that they would end – perhaps nine or ten months of disruption – then, by the time her maternity leave ended, Leo would be sleeping through. Instead, at eighteen months old, Leo has not given her a single night of unbroken sleep and she wakes at unearthly hours even when he is not there. She is living out of time, as though permanently jet-lagged. She thinks of her bed and of how soon she can get Leo down for a nap and then talks herself out of that dream; she must cut the lawn or it will grow even more unmanageable – already it is choked with dandelions and countless other weeds. Mowing was Gary’s job.
Leo starts to wail. He is opening and closing his fists in bewilderment and it takes a while to solve the problem – he has dropped the dandelion he picked for her. After much consideration he finds a substitute and proudly hands it over.
“One o’clock, two o’clock…”
Together they travel through the markers of the day, past breakfast, snack, lunch and dinner, the remaining seeds clinging on obstinately. Finally, she brings her hand up, like a magician, and when it falls the stalk is empty.
“Ten o’clock – bedtime.”
She carries Leo upstairs before he has time to protest. Eventually, his breathing slows and his hand, sticky with sap, releases her own.
Back outside the air has grown warmer and she really should cut the grass while it is dry, but instead she lies down in it and closes her eyes. She is a child again, one for whom time has no authority. The drone of a mower starts up a few gardens away and close to her ear there is the answering buzz of a bee. She imagines Leo waking up to find the clocks have lost their faces. And for what? Because someone, a long time ago, decided that these beautiful plants were weeds? She sits up, chooses a clock and blows. It is her time now.
100neHundred by Laura Besley
2ND PLACE ($20 prize + digital copy of anthology)
CRYING TIME AGAIN
Laura Tapper
WHAT WE LIKED: We felt this story was very relatable and aptly captured the reality of how babies can sometimes impact a relationship negatively, especially when one party is not ready for the responsibilities.
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: I was queuing in a supermarket, when I noticed the woman in front of me doing the ‘mummy rock’, with a sleeping baby strapped to her back, while she juggled her credit card and shopping. It catapulted me back to the days when I, too, seemed to have discovered the secret of perpetual motion and when life was lived feed to feed, nap to nap. During a consultation, a doctor at that time asked me to stop swaying, but I assured him that it was inadvisable, if he wanted me to hear anything he had to say. When you have a baby, birthdays, adult conversations, world events and even husbands take a new place in the list of priorities. That was the inspiration for my piece.
Crying Time Again
‘Sorry, what did you say?’
I rolled the pram back and forth with my left hand, failing again to catch the punch line of the joke Steve’s mate had told him in the pub the night before. I had hoped we’d at least be able to enjoy our coffees before Toby got going, but the café was busy, and the waitress had taken her time flirting with the guy on table four.
“Come on, little man.”
I lifted the baby out of his buggy, looking from his grizzling face to my husband’s disgruntled one.
“Some celebration this is going to be,” he said.
“I’m so sorry. Mum was going to babysit for a couple of hours, but she got called into work. It’s like this every morning. I have told you.”
It was true. You could pretty much set your watch by Toby, to the point where it was becoming embarrassing at mother and baby groups. The other mums would nod in our direction and then to each other at about ten thirty, knowing the screaming would start any minute. It usually lasted at least an hour, no matter how much I rocked, rubbed, paced and cuddled. More than once, I’d landed on Mum’s doorstep in tears myself, swearing I would never go out again. Colic, the health visitor said. It was only supposed to last sixteen weeks. Five months in, we were still struggling. Of course, Steve had missed most of that, working thousands of miles away.
“Can’t you stop it? Feed him, or something?” Steve took a sip of his latte, looking around the café with a pained expression, as his red-faced son turned the volume up a notch.
I popped Toby up to my shoulder, which did sometimes help, although it brought the racket closer to my ear.
“Does he look like he’s in the mood for food to you?” I said, raising an eyebrow as I abandoned my seat to begin the mummy rock, which I did everywhere these days: standing in the supermarket queue, talking on the phone, brushing my teeth, waiting for the microwave to ping.
He scowled at me, hungover from his lad’s night out. “I just assumed a bit of boob might work.”
“Because it would for you?”
For a moment, things calmed enough for me to snatch a mouthful of my own coffee.
“Can’t you stop that, either? It’s like we’re on-board ship.”
“If you’re feeling sick, it’ll be the beer.” The brief lull was over, so I manoeuvred Toby to his favourite position, facedown over my forearm.
“This is pointless. I’ll pick up something for lunch from Louis’s Deli and see you at home.”
Steve downed the rest of his coffee, grabbed his jacket and stalked off. So much for flying back to celebrate something for the first time as a little family. I watched a sparrow peck at some cake crumbs on the floor, feeling Toby’s hot cheek against my arm.
Happy Birthday to me.
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3RD PLACE ($20 prize + digital copy of anthology)
MOTHERHOOD
Rhett Smith
WHAT WE LIKED: This story was so relatable. The rollercoaster of emotion that mums experience in those first few months, months of sleep deprivation and working through the obstacles that are thrown at us. The feelings of frustration, hopelessness and loneliness are replaced by overwhelming love and awe at the miracle of motherhood.
BIO: Rhett Smith is an avid reader and author. From a rural town in southern Georgia, Rhett spends most of his free time reading, writing, and trying to perfect his craft, coming up with new and fantastic tales of science fiction and other genres. He has been published in several small anthologies and his short stories have been included in many different collections. He hopes to one day publish a full length novel.
AUTHOR’S STATEMENT: Inspired by the theme, the story was written with my wife in mind. Together, we have two children, both much older than the infant in the story. I know how hard and frustrating it was for her at times with both of them only eighteen months apart. The mother that she is and how she is able to deal with everything involved is truly one of the many blessings in my life. I think we could all use a little hope in this world and when we become frustrated, the knowledge that it will always get better. I think enjoying the good moments of both life and parenthood help us become better in both life and as parents. I hope this story can inspire someone the same way my wife and children inspire me.
Motherhood
Clare wanted to scream.
She wanted to cry, to yell, to hit something. Anything to rip the frustration from her grasp.
And yet, all she did was sit there, holding the screaming child as he wailed in her arms, hunger and sleep eluding them.
In that moment, she hated this. She hated being a mother. She hated having a child. She hated everything.
This was not how motherhood was supposed to be. It was not supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be happy, joyous. She was not supposed to be crying, lying in her chair in the middle of the night trying desperately to feed and coddle her screaming child.
She was at her wits end as she looked up at the ceiling, a silent scream of her own forming on her lips before she looked back down at the babe, the tiny creature now nestled in her arms still wailing for more milk.
“Please,” she said. “Please…”
Her voice somehow managed sound calmer than she felt, her nerves on end as the baby suddenly stopped, those big brown eyes staring back up at her, the screaming, for the moment, coming to a pause.
And it was in that moment that she understood. She understood the joy of being a mother again. That was all it took, a simple look from the sweet child, a small glimpse into the little boy he would become. And she knew.
One day, far into the future, she would miss this. She would look back on this day with fondness instead of the angst, joy instead of frustration, wishing she had more time.
And it was with that thought that she placed the baby’s mouth back to her breast, holding him tight as she watched him take, watching him begin to drink.
She cherished that moment. Or she tried to, as much as her sleep deprived state would allow.
He was her son, her baby. And there was nothing she would rather do than hold him in this moment. Not even sleepless, screaming nights could keep her from loving this sweet little child. Her child.
And as she lay there watching him, she knew, this was the life of a mother. The frustration. The anger. It was all a part of something bigger, something so miraculous and wonderful.
This would not be the last time she grew tired or frustrated, nor would it be the only time she felt the need to scream or yell. It was all a part of the journey. And for every time she felt that way, there would always be moments like this. A moment truly worth those hard times, and a moment she would cherish for the rest of her life. And that was truly what motherhood was all about.
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