Festival Competition Winners 2008
Short Story Competition
Adult winner - Jen Dennet, Porlock
Adult commended - Sue England, New Zealand
Young Adult winner - Alexandra Howes, Wootton Courtenay
Childrens winner - Evie Brien, Harpenden, Herts
Short Story Adult Winner
Tranquillity by Jen Dennett
Reclining on her star lounger, after a glass of Chenin Blanc, she worshipped the evening sky. As the light dimmed, tiny silver glints appeared in the deepening darkness above, becoming brighter with the passing minutes. The luminous lantern rose with surprising speed. She studied its imagined face intently. Her knowledge of astronomy was sadly lacking and her appreciation of the heavens was of the romantic kind. Poetic, spiritual. But she had heard of the Sea of Tranquillity. Was that on the brow, or the cheek? she mused. Her mind floated free and she pondered on a peaceful land, the See of Tranquillity, presided over by the Bishop of Bath and Wells. A watery, squelching world where small rivulets joined to form mighty rivers which leapt in waterfalls to a shore beneath cliffs. From her own garden, she could hear the gentle gurgle of a stream over stones and a distant “Who, who, whoooo?” A breathy, rhetorical question which she felt inclined to answer, even if it made her sound like an opera singer, “Me, me, meeee!”
Her thoughts turned to the popular song - Dvorak’s Song to the Moon, Mancini’s Moon River, Cat Stevens’ Moon Shadow, Van Morrison’s Moon Dance. But what about Moonlight Becomes You? How did that work? she wondered. If she lay there long enough, would her corporeal body dissolve into moonlight? Then she could flow lightly and liquidly, enter private rooms, cast shadows and dance, dance endlessly, uninhibited by shortness of breath or creakiness of joint. She felt herself slipping into sleep, lullaby-ed by the hush of the evening and her whimsical thoughts, when…
EEEEOWWW, EEEEOWWW, EEEEOWWW.
Ripped from her evening dream, she sat bolt upright and exclaimed to herself, “God, what the hell is that?” Through the gaps in her fence, she saw flashing lights on her neighbour’s Zafira. Something had set the alarm off, maybe a slinking cat or a fox phantom. Certainly no person was visible. Her mood was shattered. Her silent wish that someone would turn the damn thing off was answered, in a way that sent her mind on a different, less solitary and less ethereal track. Lights appeared in her neighbour’s house, upstairs in the bedroom and, almost immediately, in the downstairs hall. A naked male figure emerged from the door. She caught tantalizing glimpses of his body through the fence and she recognised him by his voice as he was muttering curses under his breath. He pointed his hand at the car and, by the magic of electronics, the alarm stopped. As quickly as he had appeared, he was gone, and the lights were extinguished in the house. Everything should have returned to how it was, but it didn’t. The silence of night was even deeper. And, when she shut her eyes, her neighbour’s naked, moonlit, muscled body danced on the screen of her eyelids. She saw herself, also naked, apart from a diaphanous, floating, white silk robe, folded in his strong arms, her head resting on his chest. Together, they moved fluidly and rhythmically in a moon dance. She opened her eyes, chuckling. “Stop it, stop it, you’re old enough to be his mother.” But, of course in her mind’s eye, her eye’s mind, she was young, lithe and beautiful. She was moonlight.
The disturbing sight of her neighbour’s manhood took her mind back to her own husband and her first sight of his manhood. It had been on their honeymoon. That’s how things happened then. How much better the youth of today dealt with it. Fully knowing each other before committing to a bond that, in her day, could only be broken by death, if honour were to be maintained. Her husband had lectured in English Literature and she had been his star student. He had championed the young, living American writers - Hemingway and Steinbeck. He was one of the first to treat their work as worthy of academic study. Their honeymoon doubled as a field trip. Of course, she had no say. She was a starry eyed admirer, thrilled to be part of his life. A life she assumed would be more than academic.
He took her to California. It was the first time she had flown. They landed at Fresno and drove a hire car to the small town of Tranquillity. When he had proposed the destination, the name of the town had bewitched her. The location was sublime - in the Salinas Valley, with the Diablo Range to one side and the snow capped Sierra Nevada to the other. Fire and ice. The Pacific Ocean was only eighty miles to the west. Her romantic expectations were so high that the first night was almost bound to be a disappointment. In the morning, he seemed satisfied and keen to drive to Salinas to explore the cannery and bars described by Steinbeck. She wanted to feel that she was the centre of her husband’s world and she could see that she wasn’t. For her, the earth had not moved. She felt cheated and, at Cannery Row, they had their first marital row. Of course, they stayed together over the decades, taking pride in each other’s publications and promotions. They loved each other’s minds. For bodies, they both looked outside their marriage, but they were discreet and careful not to cause hurt. He was seventeen years older than her and it was his death that parted them.
Lying on her lounger, she shivered. The night air was becoming too cool for her to continue lying motionless. She would go inside soon. It hadn’t been a bad married life but would she have been happier with someone else? She shook her head with irritation. It was foolish to ponder such unanswerable questions. A life is a life and we make the best of what we have. As she hauled herself with difficulty to her feet, the distant owl called, “Who, who, whoooo?” and, also, wisely made no answer.
Short Story Young Adult Winner
Long Lost but not Forgotten by Alexandra Howes
The pride of my youth cradled in my arms, my mind papered in thoughts and memories and my head ablaze with lights and sounds- it is not an unpleasant feeling. I have already allowed reality to slip through my fingers and I can see it now- spiralling away out of control. Pictures flash in front of my eyes; pictures like I’ve never seen before, like I’m wearing red goggles which turn the world a different colour. I allow every sensation to grasp me, to hold me and they shoot through my ears like bullets.
I blink and it all disappears; reality back with a snap. I am left alone, all but for a rush of grim excitement which I do not accept with great satisfaction. I glance at my hands: my fingers are curled around the brass carcass and the tips have turned a lemon-yellow from being held so tightly.
They hurried me up the ladder, overcoming my defiant pleading- I would not have been surprised if they had locked the door- and scurried off before I had time to reason with them. They left threats echoing through the halls and doorways as they trotted away:
“And if you don’t get it clear before we come back…” “Throw it out! There’s a bin in the…” “We won’t do everything in this house…” “You can’t have supper unless…”
I slammed the door on all their remarks, believing with no doubt that all of their chatter would be in vain, whether I had supper or not. They were my three daughters, and almost in their fifties, they had as much dim-witted bounce as they had at the age of seven.
I was an old man and hadn’t long to live- they didn’t want to clear the attic when I was gone.
I can hear the click of the door now as they make their departure to pick up their children in Minehead, leaving enough time for a hot expresso at whichever tea shop they fancy- (a daily indulgence of theirs.)
I breathe a sigh of relief as my ears catch the sound of a car pulling away, and I roll my eyes in agitation.
My gaze is captured by a flicker of light, reflected from the bundle in my arms. It is murky and pitiably unlooked after: swallowed in mud and dirt and sprinkled with dust. But there is a break in the grimy coating where a suggestion of gold is offered.
I give a feeble puff on the mouth-piece but all that erupts is a cloud of dust. I try again with more vigour and a pathetic low note enchants me, rising up into the air. I’ve always loved the sound of a trumpet.
I was playing on top of a hill, the one above the main road in Dunster. I could see the cars speeding past but it didn’t bother me. The trees were a mass of greens: jades, emeralds, limes olives- every shade condensed onto an opaque block.
I sat in tranquillity- the way that I used to like it- my instrument in my palms and a youthful expression on my face. My cheeks were rosy red from blowing so hard and I was casting a cloud of music onto the village below me. My fingers worked quickly and in unison with my breath which huffed and puffed in the morning air.
I cannot remember what I was playing, just anything I suppose.
I recognised his car at once and stopped, poised in mid-tune. I let my trumpet fall to the mossy-earth, my attention fixated on him. My mind was a rush of enthusiasm, my pulse raced and I squirmed with joy. He never came home this early.
I saw it all: the car around the corner, spinning out of control, the head on collision. Then the ambulance and the police. I saw profiles of people but not faces, bones of cars but not bodies…It was a haze of unrecognition and I detested it.
I clutched at my trumpet and ran, searching instinctively for a place to go, a place to hide. I sought a cluster of overgrown trees and hedges and burrowed myself inside. I hid for days, oblivious to the world around me, and I wished it no other way than that. For the rest of my life, I determined.
But I was soon found and dragged away. My trumpet had been ferociously covered in mud and filth but I snatched it as they took me. I did not say a word about him after that.
I think about him now. He becomes a man in my head beneath the ambulance and beneath the car. Beneath the anatomies that I watched being unjustly carried out of my world on stretchers and beneath the thicket that I burrowed inside.
I am reluctant to clean the trumpet or even to rub it with my fingers. And perhaps a ghost of my father, instead of a genie will appear if I wipe it with a cloth. So I leave it as it is and admire it in all of its beauty.
I took life how it came, admitting to its cruel and indefinable ways. I rolled through my years like a marble on sand, just keeping going and scraping through with friction scratching at my stomach. It was not the most satisfying way to be, but I was still alive. My trumpet and its music were no longer the centre of my life, but the middle of the attic, long lost but not forgotten.
I catch a flicker of gold as it winks at me, filtered sun from the attic window enveloping it in sharp golden beads. I draw it to my mouth, blowing softly into the mouthpiece in short rasping breaths. My fingers work efficiently, drawing out tunes from the fresh air. I would be content to die this way, with music in my ears and gold in my eyes.
I don’t know what I am playing, just anything I suppose.
Short Story Child Winner
A Hidden Treasure by Evie Brien
The hailstones were streaking down on the village, like an evil stone giant crying. Imogen (also known as Immy) was sitting by the blazing fire with a hot chocolate and a warm blanket. She was daydreaming of a fairy in front of her to grant her a secret…
Her mum woke her up and asked sweetly if she could take a strange package to the dark, spooky manor house! Imogen was scared of the manor house! But anyway all that came out of her mouth was strangely a simple “yes mother”. A few minutes later she was making her way up the slippery, slimy path that lead to the manor house! She finally had reached her destination. She walked up to the door and pulled back the rusty gold knocker…
“Bang!” The door screeched open!...
“I’ve been waiting for you!!!! He he ha ha” laughed the freaky house! Soon after a strange shadow moved inside the house. Imogen walked into the manor house, very slowly and ever so quietly and realised it was an old man who was looking rather stressed. “are yyy..you ok” stammered Imogen. “I am fine” sneered the man, “oy give me that parcel and come in, NOW!!!!!”
“O-o-o-ok” Imogen whispered. When Imogen walked through the door she was shocked to see that the old man had a very spooky, untidy manor house. The man sat down and snatched the parcel off Imogen. Then Imogen asked “why is your manor house so spooky?”
“Well” he said, “it all started when baddies came and stole all of my treasures. My manor house once was a palace. I gave the last one of my treasures to a lady. It was your mum who I gave it to” he said.
“Now can you open it please?” Imogen asked politely.
“Ok” answered the old man. He firstly opened the card on the front, inside it said: remember all of your treasures, remember the good things in your life.
The old man opened the parcel, it was all of his treasures. Then a bright light shone through the window and the old spooky house turned into a beautiful palace.
And this is how the story ends.
Limerick Competition
First prize - Marcia Monbleau, Cape Cod, Mass, USA
Second prize - Sue England, New Zealand
Third prize - Victoria Eveleigh, Lynton, North Devon
Literary Quiz
It was decided to give three prizes, as the following entries all contained very full answers:-
Pamela Rayner - West Porlock
Jen Dennet - Porlock
Mrs Peters - Minehead
Download answers to the Literary Quiz *
Prizes for competitions will be distributed by mid-October.
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