The results are in for our 6th and last round of this series of micro-fiction writing competitions. It’s sad to see the competition series come to an end but I’m excited to say that we now have 60 stories for our second Mum Life Stories Anthology, which is shaping up to be a number 1 best seller (hey, I can dream can’t I?) Let’s see if I can get it finished and published by Mothers Day. It surely makes the best Mothers Day gift and an all-round beautiful keepsake. Wish me luck as life just seems to get busier and busier.
Quick snap shot of whats been happening for me! I recently moved my little family over 1400km’s away to the suburbs of Brisbane city, to be closer to my nearly 20-year-old twin boys and provide my daughter with more opportunities for study and work. We are loving it so far but it has meant a very busy life and not a lot of time for writing or creating. Looking forward to getting back into it all very soon.
Thank you to everyone who entered the 6th round of series 2, of the Micro Fiction Writing Competition. This round was themed ‘Empty Nest’ 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
- Driving Home For Christmas, JO HOLMES, United Kingdom
- Falling in Folds, CHRIS TAPPER, Australia
- Mothering Swans, GEJA HADDERINGH, Netherlands
- Moving On, ROSEMARY GEMMEL, United Kingdom
- Mums Empty Nest What’s App Group , ALYSON HILBOURNE, United Kingdom
- New Home, BEVANNY STEARMAN, United States
- One More Hug, NISHA PATEL, United Kingdom
- Our Nest Isn’t Empty. You Can Visit Anytime, CONNIE BOLAND, Canada
- Porcelain Mirror, DOUGLAS PEREIRA, Canada
- You Can Never Say When It Will Rain In Mecca, YANA SPENCER, Saudi Arabia
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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)
MOVING ON
Rosemary Gemmell (UK)
WHAT WE LIKED: We really enjoyed the descriptiveness and visual imagery of this piece. A very well-written tale of nostalgia, change and moving forward.
BIO: Rosemary Gemmell is a published Scottish author of novels, short stories, children’s
fiction, articles and poetry. Scotland greatly inspires some of her stories, as does exploring
family relationships and nostalgia. You can find out more on her website:
https://www.rosemarygemmell.co.uk
AUTHOR’S STATEMENT: Although I also write full length fiction, I love the immediacy of shorter stories and love the
concept of the Mum Life Stories that address each stage of a mother’s and child’s life
together. As mum to a grown-up son and daughter, I had mixed feelings when they
eventually flew the nest: a tinge of sadness at the sudden silences, but also pride in the
independent adults they had become and excitement at a new stage in my own life. My
daughter’s room in particular inspired this (fictionalised) story, Moving On.
Photo by Emma Frances Logan on Unsplash
Moving On
I sit on the bed, surveying the room with a multitude of feelings: loss, pride, anxiety, and a smidgeon of hope.
The bedroom is immaculate. The usual clutter littering the dressing table has gone: half-used pots of cream; rainbow-coloured make-up brushes; the variety of bracelets and necklets that used to slither and coil around each other; half-chewed pens; paper hankies liberally dotted with flesh-coloured foundation; fragments of poetry captured on scraps of envelopes and torn-off notepaper. Gone is the mounting array of empty glasses and stained mugs of camomile tea, always the worst offence when they suddenly appeared in the dishwasher at one go.
I glance at the windowsill, now bare of the miniature soft animals, the candleholders with their melting contents, and the pretty photo frames. I can almost hear echoes of the frequent arguments.
“How can you keep the room clean with all these bits of rubbish all over the surfaces, Ellie? Just look at the state of your windowsill. You can’t even see the colour of the paint for the clutter, never mind get near the window to wash it.”
And always the scathing reply. “Oh, Mum, chill out. It’s not rubbish, especially not the stuff on the window ledge; they’re all memories. I can’t help it if I have so many friends! You can’t expect me to get rid of their gifts.”
Of course not, I silently agreed in my more rational moments. They were mementoes of birthdays and Christmases, of exams and graduation, much treasured congratulation gifts. It was always the same with us; the clash of two strong wills.
I soon stopped wasting my breath and took to closing the door over, as though shutting out the sight of the unkempt room would make it tidy.
Now there’s a strange, alien smell of disuse and hollowness in the room almost as though the heart has been taken out of it, emphasised by the curtain-less windows and this bare mattress.
I finally stand up. Opening the door of the walk-in wardrobe, I marvel at how much room there is in the emptiness. Only the dusty imprint of treasured books and games remain on the shelves to prove their one-time existence, while the clothes rail seems bereft and naked without its skirts, trousers, tops and jackets. I wince at the expanse of old carpet now visible
on the cupboard floor where school books and bags, empty carriers and hastily discarded shoes used to fight for space.
But it’s finally time for me to move on, to accept the inevitable independence of a much-loved only child. All of life involves change and my heart is full of precious memories, while my mind looks forward to planning my own new adventures.
The sky is already beginning to darken when the telephone rings.
“Hi Mum! The flat share is brilliant. Can you come over on Sunday, meet the other two girls? Miss you already.”
And my heart lightens for all the memories still to come.
2ND PLACE ($20 prize + digital copy of anthology)
YOU CAN NEVER SAY WHEN IT WILL RAIN IN MECCA
Yana Spencer (Saudi Arabia)
WHAT WE LIKED: The uniqueness of the storyline and setting. The relationship between food and family life brings a warmth to the narrative that draws our attention to the relationship between mealtime and family bonding. There’s that sense of loss intertwined with joy for the next stage of her relationship with her children.
BIO: Yana is a journalist and women’s advocate. She runs Tamu, a social enterprise which empowers
vulnerable women and girls around the world through baking therapy. She splits her time between
empowering women and writing. Her literary work, like her charitable work, focuses on women’s
experiences – frequently through the medium of food. From the deserts of Rajasthan, to the plains of
the Maasai Mara, the mountainous coast of Oman and the bustling streets of Hanoi – Yana takes her
readers on a journey of discovery of their lives.
Website: yanaspencer.com
Blog: cakehour.wordpress.com
AUTHOR’S STATEMENT: When I first heard about Madoos, a traditional dish from Mecca made from collected rainwater, I was
intrigued, and this curiosity formed the kernel of the story. The mother character is a composite of my
various interviews with women from the Gulf region – both in the Sultanate of Oman and the Kingdom
of Saudi Arabia. My intention is simple – to give readers a unique glimpse over the high walls that
traditionally surround homes in the region and show how women in Saudi Arabia now stand at the
crossroads between tradition and modernity, whilst showing how the sense of loss felt by empty-nest
mothers is universal.
YOU CAN NEVER SAY WHEN IT WILL RAIN IN MECCA
You can never say when it will rain in Mecca – there are never any clouds in the sandstorm-grey sky. From the beginning of November, Mariam religiously tops up the stash of rice, lentils, dried fish and tamarind paste in her kitchen cupboard, as she has been doing since she was fifteen and first entered her husband’s house. Thirty years and seven children later, her tradition lives on.
She pours the lentils into a pan, sifting through them. She tuts – Ahmed, the storekeeper, has cheated her again and sold her misshapen ones. This one is a bright orange, reminding her of her daughter Reem, now a dooctoore (Arabic pronunciation for ‘doctor’) in Riyadh. These two stuck-together ones are just like Sarah and Noof, who despite one year’s difference in age are studying IT together in Qatif. This oval shape one is, of course, her youngest, Abood. He is into business, like his uncles, who he is shadowing in Kuwait. This beautiful one with stubborn dirt clinging is Fatimah, who, despite her pleadings after her marriage, ended up moving to Dubai. This chipped one must be wayward Ahmed, always driving somewhere too fast in Jeddah, jabbering on his phone. As for this grey one… is it herself or Nour, who married a local boy and has already had one kid after another.
As she pours water over the rice, she catches her reflection and quickly dissolves the wrinkles, saggy bags under her eyes and greying hair with a flick of her hand. Only yesterday Abood was two years old, putting his fingers into the dried chilli powder, then running around shrieking after rubbing his eyes. Reem would try to wash his face, practicing her knowledge before a biology exam. Sarah and Noof would laugh, teasing him as he squeeled “Halas, ummy, halas!” (Arabic for “enough, mummy”). She can hear all this over the deafening silence which echoes through her house nowadays.
Splip. Splap. Splop. Mariam rushes to get a jug, wraps her scarf, grabs a niqab and runs outside into the downpour. It’s not easy catching the sacred rain drops, this job was always done by the kids – falling over each other to see who could collect the most. “Ummi, I collected the most, so only I can eat madoos”; “No, I collected a lot, so I bring us good luck, health and prosperity.” The voices of her children echo in Mariam’s head.
“So it’s madoos for dinner” chuckle the next-door kids. This hearty dish of lentils and rice, finished with dried anchovies and fried onion, is only cooked on rainy days by stranded-at-home Mecca mums.
Mariam’s phone rings. “Mum, we are coming over now before we get flooded in at home. Make sure you make enough madoos for us!” – says Nouf.
“Hamdulilah for the rain!” Mariam calls to her neighbour busy plucking washing from the line.
It is impossible to say when it will rain in Mecca
3RD PLACE ($20 prize + digital copy of anthology)
FALLING IN FOLDS
Christine Tapper (Australia)
WHAT WE LIKED: We loved the unique interpretation of the theme and the association between the old life and the new, the metaphorical reference to life before and after children.
BIO: Christine lives in Perth, Western Australia. She has always loved words, books and language.
Creative writing classes intrigued her and led her to join an affiliated, local writing club over
twenty years ago. She writes fiction and nonfiction; short stories, articles and poems. Her
stories have been broadcast on radio – leading to publication in a school curriculum, Making
Connections in English, by Oxford university Press. Christine has also penned several
fractured fairy tales. She’s been published online in The Fairy Tale Magazine and Bedtime
stories; and also in anthologies and magazines. This mother of three and grandmother of four,
continues to enjoy success in writing competitions.
AUTHOR’S STATEMENT: This story was inspired by a denim skirt I sent to an op shop.
A few weeks later, a writer friend arrived at a session in a similar skirt. She’d bought it at the
op shop she volunteered in. It was the same brand and size as the skirt I’d discarded. We both
laughed at the absurdity, and she quipped, ‘You’re not getting it back.’ She had altered it
from the top to make it shorter in length but larger in the waistline. It seems my subconscious
came up with the story – from the skirt’s point of view. The fictitious characters, Mara and
Penelope, bear no resemblance to me or my writer friend.
I like the psychology of ‘You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.’ Joni Mitchell sang
those classic lyrics back in the 1960’s. They are still relevant today.
FALLING IN FOLDS
Penelope is attacking her wardrobe. Since her children flew the coop, she is bent on downsizing. She’s moving to a smaller place and has no further use for me.
For five years I’ve belonged to Penelope. She wore me at first but now favours shorter or longer skirts. I am calf length, indigo denim with buttons down the centre front. I came with a matching shirt but when the fashion police turned cold on double denim she wore the shirt with anything but me.
She dumps me in a recycling shop. The future looks grim. Will I be ripped up for cleaning rags? Used by a mechanic to wipe greasy hands on?
A volunteer, shop assistant grabs me and shakes me with such force I fear my buttons will fly off and skittle across the floor. Her hands rove across my fabric. Searching for flaws? She won’t find any. After clipping a skirt hanger to my waist, she hooks me on a rack with other cast offs, all shapes, sizes, colours.
Customers call by, scrutinise us, pull faces. And just when I’m tired of being pushed around and have given up hope of seeing the sunshine again, a lady doubles back for a closer inspection. In the fitting room, she tries me on and checks how we look from different angles in the mirror. Hands in my pockets, she studies how I fall in folds from her waistline. It’s hard to believe – but the next thing I know, she cradles me in her arms, and pays at the counter with her credit card.
Then I’m on the passenger seat of her Toyota travelling down the highway. At her unit, she places me on a sewing table alongside pins, needles, scissors. She measures my length and, like a surgeon, chops some off.
OUCH!
The sewing machine whirrs, stitching my new hem in place. At last, the operation is over and I am reinvented as knee length. My adoptive mum, Mara, loves me to bits. Literally. That bit she chopped off is now a scarf. She is an empty nester who fills her days by working; she wears me to her job at the library, to cinemas, museums, beaches, shops, cafes, parks. She’s unconventional and not afraid of double denim.
Time passes and one morning when Mara’s car is being serviced, we catch a bus to work. We choose a window seat. A few stops further along, a commuter climbs aboard and sits beside us. Guess who? Yes, Penelope of all people. She takes a sneaky peek at me but I doubt she recognises me. I‘ve been worn and washed so often I have faded to an attractive pale blue, similar to chambray which is right on trend and modelled on mannequins in shop windows everywhere.
Penelope’s fingers brush my fabric. Twice. I bet she’s wishing she had such a lovely skirt. That’s the trouble with people like Penelope. They don’t know what they’ve got till it’s gone.
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