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Bath and North East Somerset Libraries

Writing Competition Winners


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Congratulations to the winners of our 100 Years Writing Competition!

To celebrate our 100-year anniversary, we launched the Centenary Writing Competition. The competition theme was ‘One Hundred Years.’ Entrants were invited to write a short story, poem or non-fiction piece themed on ’One Hundred Years.’

Use the tabs below to read the winning and runner-up entries in all age groups.

11 & Under
Winner: Circles by Iris

Circles by Iris

I am old now, so old that my gnarled and crooked branches have housed generations of squirrels, so old that a hundred rings have grown inside me, so old that my poor roots are crying out for a rest.

Now, little sapling, listen to my memories so they do not disappear with me when my final fall comes.

I remember a slight hand placing me into the ground when I was just an acorn. She came to me every day, child that she was. She tended to me, removing weeds, watering my roots – as I grew from a seed to a shrub, from there a sapling and a tree. As I grew, she grew.

During the hot summers, she would sit under the shade of my branches and swim in the river that curved around me – but best of all, she’d sit on my roots and talk for hours.  In return, I’d rustle my branches and wave my leaves, and she’d laugh – the sound of tinkling bells and running water.

Time passed – days into months and months into years, and she grew and so did I.  One day – a memorable day that – she brought with her a tiny red thing.  It grew until, months later, it was big enough for her to leave it, nestled in my roots, whilst she went for a quick swim, I looked down and saw her in its eyes.

Over the decade, it happened again, and again until there were three of them – running and swimming and paddling and sometimes climbing – on me that is. They grew, and soon it seemed, the youngest was as old as she was when she first grew me.  Then one day she came to me crying – her eldest child had moved out.

Once all her children had moved out, we had happy years together.  But then, she started being late – she still came but she was late – she used a stick to walk, and wrinkles formed on her face like the bends and tributaries of a river.  Although I didn’t realise it then, she was getting old and so was I.

One day, she didn’t come – I waited and waited. Another day went by and then, one day, the fourth by my reckoning, a stone tree went up – in its branches were squirrels and birds and on its trunk is the writing:

Here lies Marianne Foxglove

Born – 1924

Died – 2024

Will be sorely missed by all who knew her

The very next day, Marianne’s children came, the eldest brought his wife and their child’s baby.  They sat on my roots and paid their respects. Then, the baby toddled determinedly to the lowest of my branches and plucked an acorn from it. Wrapping his pudgy fingers around my seed, he planted it in the ground.

Everything is a cycle – or a circle if you will, the cycle of life and death, the cycle of the moon as it waxes and wanes, the cycle of the stars across the heavens and the simple act of a child plucking an acorn and planting it into the earth.

Now little sapling, I have told you the story so that when my final fall comes, I will end my circle of life, peacefully, with a smile on my bark.

Runner Up: 100 Years Ago by Norah

100 Years Ago by Norah

Rain lashes against the window as I stare outside. The wind crashes through the empty streets; lightning splitting the sky in half while thunder seems to shake the sky. Cold, cruel stone houses stare at me, their empty windows seem accusing in the dim light – telling me to back off. Telling me to let the past be the past. But l am a journalist and I will find out what happened here 100 years ago.

100 years ago strange things started happening here. People mysteriously dying. No cause, no disease, no idea what was happening. One by one dying for seemingly no reason until people started calling it a curse. Everyone moved out or died; there were no survivors in the town. Tests were conducted, journalists sent but nothing seems wrong with this town except no one has ever survived a night here. This place was abandoned, left alone for many years until me. I don’t believe in curses or superstition, something is going on here because am a journalist and I will find out what happened here 100 years ago. 

Nothing seems to be wrong here. I have taken samples of rock, rain – all the scientific stuff and they will be sent to a lab when I get back but otherwise it seems pretty boring. All there is to do now is wait out the storm and then I can go back, because it is currently 12:07am meaning I have officially survived the night. However the storm doesn’t seem to be getting any better. If anything it seems to be picking up pace: the constant drum of the rain on the window is now a rumbling chorus; the wind a howling beast and the thunder its roaring mate. But what -there’s something? After the lightning strike – there was something? Like a dark figure lurking by the building. After another lightning strike I see it again for a second. I am a journalist and this could be how I find out what happened here 100 years ago.

My camera. I brought a camera. But I will have to go outside, I need a clearer view. Taking a deep breathe and brandishing my camera like a weapon l open the door and step into the derelict town. Immediately I am drenched. The gales whip my wet hair into my face and I can smell the sweet smell of a thunderstorm like wet grass and fresh air. I pace down to the end of the street trying to block out the cold and when lightning strikes once again the silhouette is gone. Now I realise I have made a terrible mistake. A shiver crawls up my spine but it’s not the rain. Slowly I turn. “l am a monster and no one will find out what will happen here today or 100 years ago.”

Young Adult
Winner: Under’s Deep by Jacob

Under’s Deep By Jacob

Date: 1927 AH

It’s been a long trip, but we’re finally here, the “great wreck ring”, a mile wide area that looks like a giant’s dropped wedding ring.  We think it might be some kind of long dormant undersea volcano. The area’s been a hotspot for shipwrecks and downed sea-craft for as long as records of sea voyages have existed. Captain Marlow thinks we’ll get rich from the loot left down here and quite frankly, if he’s going on a trip to get rich, there’s no way I’m not going too. Our vessel’s fairly low-tech, no sonar or anything, but enough space for us all to be worth ten times a king’s ransom, and enough lighting equipment to suit seven football fields! ‘Course, being down here amongst all these fallen ships and downed vessels does make you wonder about the stories the fisher folk tell, of some great beast that guards these waters and claims any vessel stupid enough to try and sail them. But that’s surely a bunch of baloney. What would something like that eat down here? And besides, we can see anything coming with our lights. We’ll be fine.

“All diving hands to the loading bay, prepare for immediate departure”, the captain’s voice rings out over the intercom, so I start getting ready, pulling on my suit and heading down to the airlock. There are a lot of windows lining the ship, and we pirates tend to be a superstitious bunch so no-one was particularly surprised when we all saw the sub and realised we’d be able to see half a mile in all directions from inside it. I look out the window as I walk, desperate to calm down my subconscious. There, see? No monster, no sharks not even a fish for miles around, just us, the ring and the treasure within. I’m being paranoid. Well I am a pirate so that’s to be expected. And I’m not too fond of deep water either. Oh come on, we’ll be a team of fifteen and each of us will be armed with a plasma harpoon launcher. We’ll be fine.

1 hour later.

Well, so far so good. We’ve found tonnes of good loot: Spanish gold (probably on its way back from America), fancy tech stuff being shipped around the place, and some stuff in super expensive looking boxes we can’t open yet. I still can’t shake this unease though, I look around with the light on my helmet set to full glare and can’t see anything out of the ordinary. Except maybe, didn’t there used to be another wreck over there? And didn’t that wall used to be further away? No, can’t have been, walls can’t move, and the wrecks here have been buried for centuries. So what if the light’s been flickering, it just means the battery’s running out. I’ll just grab this last crate of stuff and head back to the ship, captain summoned us anyway. Just pick the stuff up and go back to the ship. Easy as. I’ll be fine.

Date: 1973 AH

The ship was top of the line and state of the art. Fully equipped with torpedoes, sonar, and escape pods. The crew’s aim was to survey the area, for years there had been rumours of a monster, and of a cursed area where all ships would perish, but this was surely nonsense. The only logical explanation the crew had found was that there was simply once an undersea volcano here (as described in the final diary entry of a submarine captain some fifty years before). Whatever the cause of the rumours, the area needed to be mapped, and this vessel was the most capable exploration vehicle ever to sail beneath the waves. Nothing to worry about.

The crew had been mapping for about an hour now, and there had been nothing unusual. The ship had no outside lights, only a highly sophisticated sonar system allowing them to see in all directions without disturbing the local wildlife adapted to see without any light, though those on the lower decks only had access to a traditional sonar system, which could show only dots, direction and distance. Thus far the crew had picked up a few fish schools, and some of the expected shipwrecks, but nothing out of the ordinary. They had just finished surveying a wreckage when they noticed a drop in the sea floor. Unexpected, to be sure, but not unusual. The ship started forward, the sonar quickly losing the reading on the sea floor once they were over the canyon, indicating that it went down at least a mile. Many  nervous gulps were heard by those uncomfortable with sailing blind so deep down, but the sonar quickly gave a familiar ping to show something in front of them. Though, it didn’t show anything on the next rotation. A wayward squid or whale of course, the crew reasoned, and soon enough, another ping was heard to the ship’s left. Nothing to worry about.

This went on for at least an hour, a ping would be heard at one side of the ship, then on the next rotation, another ping would be heard in a different direction. The boiler engineers found it rather soothing, and a few watched the large circular screen before them, taking guesses on where the ping would appear next. Ping. There it was on the right. Ping. Now scouting the edge of view behind them. Piiiing. A slightly longer ping indicated a larger object to their right. Then for a few rotations, nothing. A few of the workers stopped and looked at the screen, the pinging had been shockingly consistent for easily the last several miles, so the silence raised a few eyebrows. Then, without warning, the noise started again, and this time: didn’t stop, indicating that perhaps the people upstairs had them descending into large cave of some sort. Slowly getting thinner, and closer to the ship. Little by little. Footsteps could be heard stampeding around upstairs, likely trying to find a way out of the cave. Nothing to worry about.

Date: 2027 AH

As usual, the crew of the submarine slowly descending towards the wreckages of ships and submarines come before them didn’t believe the stories the fishermen tell of the great creature that lives down in these waters. Well, they didn’t believe the tales a *giant* creature living down here, they believed it to be a simple merfolk, perhaps mutated or changed in some way. That was the purpose of their trip, they told me. Find the creature, capture it and study it. I told them I hadn’t heard of any mercreature living down in these waters, but would be happy to help them look.

Unlike the last group, they had brought lights with them, connected to their diving suits, though they were not to be used unless absolutely necessary. Like the last group, they primarily relied on a sonar system, that would paint the image of whatever they faced to help them move around and look for the creature. Their vessel is much further away from them than the last group of divers who came through here, and instead of heavy suits for walking on the sea floor, they’re using suits to allow them to swim around. They hope this will give them a better chance of survival, as in the tales they’ve heard: “the ships got too close”, and “the divers couldn’t escape fast enough” they told me. I’ve been around long enough to know that this probably won’t help much, but hey, more power to them.

In their radio waves I hear them say that if they don’t find the creature soon, then they’ll try to “flush it out”. I tell them this doesn’t sound like a good idea, it’ll be too bright and the creatures won’t like it, but they don’t listen to me. They’re very sure of themselves, I must say. Now, their chatter gets excited, apparently they’ve found human remains by a downed submarine and I move over to have a look. I recognise the skeleton, it’s a crewmember from a ship around 100 years ago, the one who kept saying he’d “be fine” I believe. They ask how I would know that, and I’m about to answer when one of them yells about how the figure seems to be holding a sign. I squint as one of them turns on their torch and reads out the sign: “Under likes it dark”. Suddenly there’s a shocking amount of panicked yelling for them to “look up” or “turn around”, frankly I’m more confused than anything. What are they looking at? Then all the lights go on. Theirs, the ships, all of them. I close my eyes, and the whole area is rocked by a scream that seems to make a few of them go mad, but is mainly a signal to the wrecks. To the divers horror, the bones of the ships around them stir and seem to start moving around. Some scuttle like crabs, others swim like sharks or rays. The diver’s screams of terror ring out through the ocean as many are grabbed by the wrecks, snuffing out their lights and dragging them down into the sand. I breath a silent sigh of relief as their screams are replaced for a moment by a hopeless silence as their ship is crushed underneath the dark shape of a tail. Screams pick up again though as the wrecks grab the last of them and snuff out their infernal lights. Some cry out “why”, asking for what reason this is happening to them. A stupid question really, I note as I return back to my usual spot; it’s as the pirate from one hundred years ago said: I like it dark.

Adult
Winner: The Hundredth Year by Alex

The Hundredth Year by Alex

“100 years old today”, they said. Though he thought of his life more in terms of “with her” and “without her”. How many years had it been? How many years without her? Why ask himself this question when, of course, he knew the answer? 8 years, 3 months, and two days. “How many years were you with her?” Ah yes, the question he preferred to answer. The answer he preferred to dwell on. 68 years, 6 months, and 22 days. Their happiness didn’t see one hundred years, but it felt as though he lived a thousand years and a thousand lifetimes in those sixty-eight. It hadn’t been long enough. He longed for more. Ached for it now. Like everything else these days. 

Nevertheless, 100 years was not to be sniffed at. Not to be trifled with. An achievement, he supposed. Of sorts. Although, if he were to measure the achievements of his life, he doubted he would include the mere fault of ageing as such an achievement. Perhaps, the day he met June? “Perhaps!” she’d repeat, admonishing him! Of course, not a “perhaps”. A certainty. Or the day they took home his son? Or the day he almost lost his life? One drunken night, long ago. A tale they always liked to hear. A tale he always liked to tell. When Bill had joined his companions from the factory at The Fox and Hounds one Thursday evening. They had talked through the night about all manner of things, he supposed. He’d long forgotten what they spoke of. Bill was often forgetful. Last orders rang and they clambered into Tom’s blue and beaten-up Morris when Bill tapped his pockets, slapped his hand across his face and declared, “my keys!”. He ambled back into the pub to begin the search. “Snooze you lose, Bill!”, they shouted as the Morris screeched and the lads drove away. Too many pints will do that to you – make you restless and impatient. Drunk and, frankly, a little hacked off, Bill strode home, bracing himself for the walk ahead. His head spinning and hands shaking from the ale. They paid for it the next day. Bill could never have grasped quite how much. 

He was late for work in the morning. “Not enough sleep and too many libations Bill!” shouted Ted. But he was the first to arrive of the lads. He laughed to himself. “Maybe it won’t be so bad for me!” thought Bill. But Joseph, the floor manager, looked stricken. Broken. Crying? How odd, he thought. “Joseph?” Bill asked. “Whatever is the matter with you?” “It’s John, Tom and Ed. Bill, don’t you know?” “What, Joe? I was with them last night. I left them all in Tom’s old Morris!”. “Dead Bill. Ploughed the car into the post box on the Farley Road. Did you not know? How could you not know Bill?”

How could Bill not know? Well, it appeared Bill did know something. Some part of him had known to retrieve his keys right at the wrong moment – or so he’d thought. Do you suppose that’s how these things work? But how could he have known that? A lucky escape then. One of the many in his life, he imagined. The trigger finger that never worked. The train he’d missed that one morning. The tin of tuna he’d thoughtlessly thrown away. Although if they light all those bloody candles, his last lucky escape may well have passed him by. 

“Are there one hundred candles on that cake?” He hoped not. That seems excessive. A waste. Although these were not war days anymore. Not days to “waste not, want not”. Not days to care whether you throw away things or bother to fix them again. Strange days, he mused. He preferred the old days. The old times. Although he wasn’t sure he liked birthdays. Did he? “Yes, you did!”, exclaimed June.

June. Yes, he thought of June often. Of the burnt smell of her pink roller set first thing in the morning. When she sat by the radio, steadily drinking her milky coffee. “Caffe latte, I’ll have you know”, she’d chide. From one of those powder sachets they liked to buy at M&S on a Saturday morning. Or she did, rather. He preferred to trail her around, grumbling, waiting for it to be over. Or at least hoping she’d buy that nice chocolate he liked, with the gold foil and the creamy centre.

She always drank that powdery concoction in the mornings from her favourite mug. The Oxford one. A gift from their son – her proudest achievement. Not the mug, the son. He liked that joke. And his proudest too, although June liked to argue with him about this: “You can’t just choose that one because I did Bill!” “Of course not, my dear. Allow me to choose another then.” Bill pretended to think on it. “Easy. The day I found you”. “Oh, stop it Bill”, she’d laugh and bat his arm. “But do go on”, she meant to say.

So, he did, often. As he thought of her often. The new girl in the village, with her pin curls and bobbed chestnut hair. Sitting in the church, prettily reading her prayers, and singing the hymns. An angel made evident to him, Bill, in pew three. How exquisite she looked beneath the pale light of the stained-glass window. Afterwards, he traced behind her as she left the church. He made an excuse to speak to her: “I beg your pardon, but do you recall which verse the Vicar read from at the end of his sermon?” “I believe it was 1 Corinthians 16. “Do everything in love””. Bill smiled. “Ah yes, I remember now. A fitting notion for this fine Sunday morning.” June blushed. She did that a lot in those days. A blushing rose waiting to bloom. Her eyes were the most beautiful shade of blue when she dared to look up under that furrowed brow. Her eyes reminded him of quiet sunsets at the end of a hazy June’s day. “It is so easy to compare her to a summer’s day”, Bill thought. A silly thought of a young foolish man. Though, she must have found him agreeable enough because she walked beside him to the pub, along with the rest of the church goers. Her hand strayed so close to his own as they strolled down the cobbled path. Occasionally, the tulle skirt of her dress would faintly caress his awaiting hand. He savoured the feel of it, wishing he could softly place his hand in hers. However, on that morning, he was content to merely walk beside her. This thought came to him many times over their happy years together. It was a privilege to walk beside such a woman. If that was all she had ever offered him he would have been a happy man. He would take anything from her. However small. It was always the way. 

That day, they ordered a pot of tea and sat in the pub by the fire. He chuckled to himself. June was always cold, especially her feet! He didn’t know this yet, but he would. In time he would learn everything there was to know about June. He relished this. As if she were the unending trivial pursuit of his life. The mastermind of his enduring love. “Still watching that then Grandpa?”, asked his grandson. “Oh, quite. Not so much these days my lad. The eyesight fails me, but I do like the radio. Thank you again for the new one”. “Of course, Grandpa”, his grandson replied cheerfully. He liked to be cheerful. “You know, I could show you how to use one of these new Bluetooth speakers with my phone Grandpa, then you could access hundreds of programmes whenever you like!” “No, no”, he replied. “I don’t need any of that. I’m happy with my radio and corded telephone. I’m too old to learn new tricks.” “So stuck in your ways Bill!”, June would scold him. But of course he was. He was one hundred after all! He couldn’t have told June that though. She wasn’t here. “Thank goodness we had her for so long Grandpa. She had a good innings”. She did, he supposed. He should be grateful for that. But that pit in his belly and hole in his heart told him it wasn’t a good innings. It wasn’t good enough. It was never enough. He could never get enough of June. And he wasn’t grateful. He was angry. Angry she wasn’t here. Angry they didn’t do more for her at the end. “There’s nothing we can do I’m afraid Bill. Old age is a disease. It’s just one of those things”. But June wasn’t “one of those things”. June was June. Sturdy, bullish, brilliant June would pull through. You’ll see. But she wasn’t old June at the end. She was a frail bird. She was ready to fly her nest. The last flight to somewhere he couldn’t follow. He would always follow her if he could. Follow her and walk beside her every day. To whatever end. All he wanted was to walk with his June. “Calm down old boy”. Was that his son? It was, wasn’t it? “We don’t want you feeling upset today of all days, let’s eat some of that lovely cake Meredith made for you”. Ah yes, of course, the cake. The cards. The gifts. The one hundred years. All things to make him happy. All the things other than the one thing that would make him feel happy again.

Yes, he realised now what he needed. What he wanted. He closed his eyes. He thought of June. “Would you take your old man to his favourite chair?” “Yes, Pa”. So, they led Bill over to his chair. They made him comfortable. “Yes, very nice. The radio too, lad. Is the News on at this time?” “I’m sure Pa”, his son replied. 

A rest. A long rest after a long life. He sat back, interlaced his hands over his heart, and thought of June. Always June. With the chestnut pin curls and the warm, blue eyes. Yes, a rest to end this day. Perhaps, it is time. It is time for me too June, to fly this lovely nest we made together and walk beside you once again. 

Runner Up: Tears and Saltwater by Conrad

Tears and Saltwater by Conrad

Five

‘Why do you like the sea so much?’ I said.

‘It’s my happy place,’ my mother said. ‘I know what you’ll say, but there’s nowhere like it. I can just let the water wash all my worries away.’ She was still tanned then, and looked like Juliette Binoche according to my grandmother on my dad’s side. I’d never heard of her, but she took it as a compliment.

‘Can I let it wash all my worries away?’

‘After I’ve had a sleep, then I’ll go in with you.’ I nodded okay. She put out her cigarette, leaned back on the towel, and closed her eyes. I waited a couple of minutes before, snuck off the towel and sprinted – as much as I could at that age – into the water.

Little shit I was back then – and still can be – I didn’t understand that mothers were right about some things. So, when the water pulled my feet out from under me and dragged me away from the sand, I cursed myself for not listening to her. Saltwater poured into my gaping mouth and the blue waves spread out in front of me forever.

A hand on my arm. ‘Kick your legs up and down, next to each other,’ she said. I listened that time. My feet braced the sand again. In the middle of coughing and sputtering, she gripped my shoulders and stared. Her eyes were red. ‘Why couldn’t you wait for me?’

‘I wasn’t out that far,’ I said. Her hands tightened and my shoulders pulsated.

‘That doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘You can drown in less than six inches.’ I teared up. She released my shoulders and hugged me. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just want you to be safe. A hundred years from now, if I live that long, that’s still all I’d want.’ Her eyes were still red when she looked at me again; I didn’t understand what that meant, then.

Ten

‘If it’s so easy to drown out there, what do you like so much about this place?’ I said. I turned and looked at her with her shoulder-length hair and small lines under her eyes. I noticed that the group of men leaving the beach stopped to look at her one last time.

‘Your father and I always went to beaches,’ she said. ‘Whenever he had time off, we’d fly somewhere with a beach. Not always an expensive place, but one like this,’ she held her arm out to present the Aegina beach

‘Why didn’t you go by boat?’

‘I don’t know. I guess he didn’t want to think about work when he was on leave.’ Two other people were there on the opposite side of the sand to us, a boy and girl. ‘It was our happy place together, and it’s still my happy place.’ 

I’d stopped listening to her at this point, so I didn’t notice her looking out at the water. I was busy watching the boy and girl on the other end of the sand. They were kissing one another; I couldn’t take my eyes away form either of them.

Fingers clicking next to my ear. I snapped my head round and saw her laugh. She wiped her lower eyelid with her hand and sniffed. ‘You were away with it,’ she said. I didn’t say anything. ‘Race you to the water?’ I nodded and we started for the bluest water I’d ever seen. She let me win the race, pretended to be out of breath ten metres before we hit the water. I put on a valiant celebration. ‘You’re getting faster every day, but you can’t always run from things,’ she said.

‘Like what?’

‘Like this,’ she splashed a curtain of water over my face, and we engaged in a battle.

Eighteen

The three of us were supposed to meet at midnight, but my mother took ages to drop off. She kept coughing and going to the bathroom to vomit. ‘Bad seafood,’ she said. I grumbled something every time she said it and waited for her to sleep.

Second her light went off and she settled, I legged it to the sand. They were both there. We didn’t talk much before we got started. His stomach rippled with contours and angles I still think about, while hers was a flat, smooth surface.

Later, we entered the water together, naked. He started crying. ‘What’s wrong?’ I said.

‘I’m leaving tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I don’t wanna forget about you guys.’ He slapped the seawater over his face, like we hadn’t seen him cry.

‘We won’t,’ she said, and took a hand from each of us. ‘We’ll always have the beach.’ She kissed our hands, then, and we held each other tight.

I didn’t see my mother when I woke up the next morning. Her bed was empty and she wasn’t vomiting.

I found her on the beach, alone, looking out at the water. She had a cigarette and was looking at a bunch of Navy men, on shore leave. ‘Thinking about him?’ I said. She nodded. ‘Race you to the water?’

‘I’m not in my swimsuit.’

‘Neither am I.’ She finished her smoke and we got into running positions. ‘Go.’ I raced towards the water and saw her in my periphery. After a few metres, she faded out of view. I dove into the water and came back up to look at her next to m. But she wasn’t there. I turned to the sand.

She was on her knees, coughing.

‘Are you all right?’

Twenty-one

Lying in that bed, her skin pale like a hospital wall, she tried sitting up when I entered the room. It was sterile and bare, except for her suitcase at the foot of the bed. ‘They helped you pack?’ I said. She nodded, coughed, and wrapped her cardigan tighter. ‘Good, let’s go, then.’

‘I don’t need you to wheel me,’ she said as I pushed her chair.

‘Well I don’t want you to be too tired for when we get there.’ She moaned once. ‘Beach first, or the hotel?’

‘What do you think?’ She elbowed my hip. It felt like a fly landing on me . She massaged her elbow with her hand.

The drive to Feock was silent except for the occasional stray cough. I didn’t play any music, since she kept dropping off. No other sounds but the blowing wind as I navigated the winding roads.

The nearest parking space was a five-minute walk from the sand, but she managed the walk; she had to squeeze my arm, but insisted on not using the wheelchair. ‘Never used a wheelchair to get to the beach before, and I’m not starting now.’

I laid her towel down and she collapsed onto it, wheezing. I passed her a water bottle. ‘Can you do me one more favour pelase, before we rest a couple of hours?’ she said between sips.

‘Sure.’

‘I’d like to be in the water, one more time.’ Even in this condition, she was beautiful.

I scooped her up in my arms and brought her into the water, like a priest baptising a child. My jeans clung to my legs and the water stroked the back of her head. ‘You look so much like him.’

‘I wasn’t as good as he was,’ I said.

‘I wasn’t an angel either, but that’s okay. Just let the water wash it all away.’ She closed her eyes and dipped her head below the water.

Twenty-two.

I waited until midnight before going to the beach. Some students were gathered around a fire, too busy to notice me. I carried her in both arms again, went up to my knees in the water, and knelt.

‘Sorry I couldn’t take you somewhere further away,’ I said. ‘You’ll catch up with him soon though, if you haven’t already.’ I removed the urn’s lid and poured her into the sea. In the dark, I couldn’t see the ashes, but the receptacle became lighter. I emptied it, held the urn close, and cried. A hundred years from that moment, if I were to live that long, I knew I’d still think about it, and cry.

My tears fell into the seawater, spread along the surface until they were gone forever. I didn’t have to worry about her now, and I let the water wash the last of those worries away.

Runner Up: Four or Five Generations by Oliver

Four or Five Generations by Oliver

Once every four or five generations, Mad Aunt Maeve had said. Mum told me not to pay any heed to her ramblings. She’s mad, after all. But that hasn’t stopped me trying to move things with my mind, or put a geas on Francesca Milton at school. Sadly, it doesn’t look like I have the gift. I still have to pick up my clothes off the floor, and Francesca Milton still excludes me at lunchtime and calls me names. She’s got others calling me Witch Girl now, which my Dad says is tautologous. I haven’t looked up what it has to do with tortoises yet, but it’s on my list. 

I like lists. Lists keep things neat and tidy. Lists help to organise things. I am organised. Well, mostly. Apart from the clothes on my floor. That’s on my list, too. On my list of things I need to do. I also have lists of things I want to do – those two lists do not usually have the same things on them.

Mad Aunt Maeve is in software and she said on computers you can make 3D lists, using tag clouds to cross reference things across many lists. I’d like to see a tag cloud one day, but it sounds a bit too fancy for me. 

This morning is Saturday and I started a new list of “Things that are a bit odd outside”. So far, I have two things on the list: 

Things that are a bit odd outside 

1. The sky is purple. 

2. The garden is full of cats and they aren’t fighting. 

I’m sat in the front room and I swear the cats are looking at me. When I move to go to the front door, I feel like their eyes are following me across the room. Creepy. Things usually come in threes, and it’s not a proper list until there are at least three things on it, so I’m on the look-out for a third odd thing. 

“Where are you going, sweet?” Mum calls from the kitchen as I open the front door. 

“I’m just out to look at the cats, Mum,” I reply, putting on my shoes.

“Don’t be long, it’s breakfast in ten minutes… And make sure you…”

“…Shut the door, yes, I know, Mum!” 

Ten minutes usually means at least thirty minutes, because Mum is usually distracted by her phone. 

#

The sky is really purple, and all the neighbourhood cats are really staring at me and not making any sound

“Hello?” I say, because I feel like someone needs to say something. None of the cats answer. 

I look around carefully. I’m observant, which means I’m good at seeing things that other people might miss. In my neighbour’s tree, I spot a large black bird. It seems to be eyeing me coolly, but that could just be my overactive imagination. I think it might be a crow. “Hello, Crow,” I say to the bird. 

The bird ruffles its feathers and shuffles down the branch. It is huge and has tufty feathers on its breast and a neat set of black hairs on its huge, slightly curved bill. Maybe it’s a raven. 

“Hello… Raven?” I ask, tentatively. 

The bird makes a sound a bit like the start of a klaxon and flaps down to land on our fence. It really is enormous! 

Should I add ‘friendly raven’ to my list of odd things? It isn’t all that odd, after all. We live on a hill and see crows and jackdaws all the time. I am just deciding this, when the raven suddenly takes off. As if on cue, all the cats scatter. The front garden is a flurry of motion, and then it is still. No cats. Even the sky doesn’t look so purple any more. It feels like an important moment has passed. Did I miss something? 

I look around and see the raven has not gone far. I spot it sitting on my neighbour’s wall, at the edge of the cul-de-sac turning circle. It still seems to be looking at me. I walk towards the raven and it takes flight again, over to the wall a little way down the street. It’s almost as though the raven wants me to follow it. 

I consider whether to follow the raven. It is nearly breakfast time, but I still have time for a little wander. And Mad Aunt Maeve always says, “It’s never too late for breakfast.” She says if you haven’t had any breakfast by lunchtime, then your lunch is really your breakfast. I decide to follow the raven. 

#

The raven and I settle into a rhythm. I walk towards it. It flits away to the next wall. I walk towards it again. 

We exit the cul-de-sac where my home is and continue along a couple of side roads, down the hill a bit, then up another hill, past the local library. The raven is never more than a few metres from me. Each time it stops, it seems to look around to check I am still following. I feel certain it wants me to follow it now. 

I see no other people out, which isn’t unusual. We occasionally see dog-walkers near our house, but the streets are often empty. I imagine all the people are indoors in front of screens, like Mad Aunt Maeve. As the raven and I continue our walk, I do notice the streets are very quiet. Glancing around, I don’t see any other birds in the sky or even any insects. We seem to be the only living things in the world. And the only sounds are the click of my shoes on the pavement and the occasional klaxon-like caw from the raven. 

The raven and I eventually reach the entrance to the local golf course. The raven is perched on the lifting barrierthat blocks the road to the car park. As I approach, the bird takes flight and rises up into the purple-tinted sky. I watch as it does a slow spiral up and then glides towards a clump of trees on the other side of the grassy course.

Should I follow the raven now? I look at the lifting barrier. There is a “Slow” sign and a speed limit sign with the number 5 on it, but I think these are intended for drivers and not me. Intrigued as to where my companion has gone, I slip under the barrier and enter the golf course. 

#

I sneak across the car park and onto the grass towards the thick row of trees where the raven went. I sneak because despite no-one telling me I shouldn’t be here, I know I shouldn’t be here. But I am careful to go around the edge and not across the neatly trimmed patches, where the flags are. 

The golf course backs onto a road. I reach the trees and peer into the gloom beneath the canopy. I can see through the trees the high metal fence with netting above it, protecting the road from stray golf balls. I feel sure the raven went in this way. It isn’t a deep forest, but there is enough undergrowth to make it a bit tricky to get through. 

I make it past the first few trees before I spot the raven. It is sat on a branch of a fallen tree. The tree has fallen onto the high perimeter fence, which is bending under the weight of the tree. It looks like the tree is snagged in the netting, which has helped to prevent the tree from falling completely onto the road, but the whole thing looks quite precarious. And dangerous. If the tree fell further, it would block the road! 

That isn’t all. The base of the tree looks black and sticky, like the oil on my bike chain. I step forward to take a closer look and my foot clangs against something hard in the ground. I look down to see I had nearly stepped on some sort of large tin can, half buried in the soil. All around the fallen tree I now see sticky black oil and scattered rusting metal barrels and cans. For the first time, I notice the smell. My nose picks up a stench of metal, rubber and a whiff of petrol fumes. It smells like the car repair garage my Mum took me to when she got her tyres changed. There’s another smell, too, beneath the fumes. Something coarse that catches at the back of my throat. I wonder what chemicals have been dumped here, and who dumped them. 

#

In my mind, I am making new lists. I need to warn someone about the tree before it falls further. And I should tell someone about the scattered waste here, too. This is a list of things I need to tell someone about. I am also listing people I could tell. The golf course has a reception office and shop. But I probably shouldn’t be here at all. And what if someone at the golf course is responsible for the mess? I rule out going to the reception office. I could run home and tell Mum, but the library is closer and they have responsible people and a computer and a phone – three things I need right now. The falling tree is the priority. I decide to head to the library. 

#

“A raven told you?” The policeman raises his eyebrow as he peers at me over his notebook. 

“Well, it didn’t say anything,” I reply, “But I followed it, and it led me all the way to the fallen tree and the rubbish dump.” 

“Well, I never…” the policeman looks a bit mystified and wanders off.

When I had arrived at the local community library a short while before and explained the situation, the volunteers there had known what to do. One of the volunteers had let me sit in their swivel chair and had given me a glass of water. The police arrived shortly after, and they had sent another car around to the road to warn drivers whilst the tree was being dealt with. 

It sounded like the fallen tree was the least of their concerns. I overheard them talking about the chemical waste and a big fine. A big scandal, they said! There is an important-looking policewoman in a smart hat talking to the volunteers. She looks up and over at me when she has finished, then walks towards me and introduces herself, shaking my hand. 

“I understand you found this chemical waste dumping ground with the help of a magic raven?” She is smiling and I like her. 

“I suppose it might have been magic,” I reply, cautiously. “It has been a rather unusual morning.” 

“Well, I thank you greatly for your help,” the policewoman says, seriously. “We can take it from here and get that dangerous place cleaned up.” 

She asks me to leave my name and address, so they know how to contact me if they have any follow-up questions, which I do before heading home.

I thought magic would be all about moving things with my mind and putting geas on people I didn’t like. For a gift that only crops up in our family once a century, there ought to be some good geas-laying opportunities. But it’s not like that after all. And the funny thing is, I don’t feel sad about that. 

I do, however, suddenly feel very tired and hungry. 

As I stomp in through the front door, my Mum is there and so is Mad Aunt Maeve. Mad Aunt Maeve is drinking a cup of tea and has a big grin on her face as I come in. Mum’s not on her phone and looks a bit flustered. 

“I was worried about you, little one. You’ve been away so long!” Mum says as reaches out to give me a big hug. 

“I’m fine, Mum. Just ready for breakfast now.” 

“Breakfast!?” She pulls away slightly. “It’s half past twelve!” 

“It’s never too late for breakfast.” I say, grinning at Mad Aunt Maeve. She winks back at me.