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Weekly Contest #373
This story relates to a rescue at sea. Many lives were lost. Night Passage - Uneventful While my crew went about their duties, I sat in my cabin and tried my hardest to write my report. Two days ago, I sailed into an event best forgotten. Truth is stranger than fiction, but I do not expect a living soul to believe it. I now understand that strange things can happen for no logical reason. On 6 September 1983, I was the Commanding Officer...
Weekly Contest #372
What Remains. I’ll never say I hated the town I lived in, but the din from streets jammed with cars crawling towards a full car park, shoppers never looking where they were going, harassed mothers with strollers and toddlers, and market stalls crammed into every corner wore me down. I needed space to breathe and think. After visiting numerous estate agents, I found a cottage deep in the countryside. It wasn’t large, but it was old, full of dark wood furniture, much of it covered in mould. ...
Weekly Contest #371
Janes Song. I love children, preferably other people's, but many years ago, one young lady changed my life. I set my goal of being a millionaire by forty. Keevil House was one more step on the path. I purchased this old house at auction in London. I should have realised that, as the only bidder, something was not right. Overjoyed at my good fortune, I ignored the warnings. From the literature supplied, it seemed it had been empty since the end of World War II, when it had been used as a children's home and school. However, according to the b...
Daffodil Yellow I hate shopping, and Saturdays are the worst. B&Q at four-thirty feels like purgatory: stale warm air, fluorescent lights humming like they’re about to give up, and couples arguing over lampshades or the colour of paint for the garden shed. I suppose for some it is a matter of anything for a quiet life. Mary wants the kitchen painted, and we need to choose the colour. She has a bad back, so I’m the designated lifter and shifter. I trail behind her like a condemne...
Weekly Contest #370
This story contains love and death. Rosewater and Ink Soaked by constant rain, Phoebe Bayliss stared at the mud‑spattered coffin as it settled at the bottom of the water-filled grave. The priest’s words had already dissolved into the downpour, leaving only the thud of earth and the cold ache in her chest. She wiped her eyes, though the tears and rain had long since merged, and walked away. With her father gone, she was penniless, and more alone than she had ever expected to be.  ...
Weekly Contest #369
Hands Off Dark humour. Fun with words. Harry cast his eyes over the darkening sky, rumbling with warning. Rain came hard, soaking the two men as they wandered the back streets of town. Bert glanced up. “Told you it was going to rain. We should’ve stayed in the car.” Harry’s coat clung to him like a wet dog. “It can’t get any worse,” he shouted. Bert’s hair stuck to his forehead in gre...
Weekly Contest #368
THE STAR Kate heard the sharp knocking and opened the door of her sleeping compartment. “Fifteen minutes to King’s Cross,” said the car attendant. “Thank you.” She closed the door, drank the last of her coffee, and packed her washing bag into her backpack. The sleeper from Aberdeen had been her father’s gift. A long journey to Portsmouth, and Kate could do no wrong.“Get a taxi,” he’d s...
Weekly Contest #367
This story contains domestic abuse and death. The War is OverI can’t remember who said it, but someone once claimed the choices we make define us. If that’s true, then I’m a monster. I loved my mum and respected my dad, but for as long as I can remember, I’ve hated Friday nights. Mum worked in the sweet factory when she met Dad. He was the works engineer. The man who fixed everything. He fixed my mum good and proper. She was five months pregnant when they married, but then it takes two to...
Weekly Contest #366
Three Hundred and Sixty Degrees. I should have known better. That’s the story of my life. Perhaps I did know better, but I didn’t care enough at the time. Funny how that happens. You think you’re making small choices, but they turn out to be the ones that shape everything. Anyway, here we are, and it’s a wonderful day. If you can spare the time, I’ll tell you a story. Everyone likes stories with a happy ending, or at least one that has a point. What I’m about to tell you has the truth to commend it. My recollection of these events ...
Weekly Contest #365
Different Objectives. This story contains violence. High in an anonymous grey building in Amsterdam, James Scott paced his office. In his right hand, he held a sheet of white paper. This tall, middle‑aged man stood erect. He moved his head in rhythmic jerks as he walked, keeping time with his feet. James stopped at a window and looked down into the street where people, plain, ordinary people, went about their business. A tramcar passed with its accompanying clatter. The sun reflected off the canal, and the surrounding cafés, ador...
A Night Ashore Blackmail and sex are mentioned in this story. Edward’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Why should I believe you?” With a smile, he picked up the telephone and punched in a number. The Bosun answered on the second ring.“Bosun, there’s a woman in my Day Cabin. I want her removed and dumped on the jetty. If she tries to get back on board, call the police.”Charlie, the ship’s Bosun, arrived wearing a black anorak over a pale blue shirt whose buttons strained across his stomach. He nodded to his Captain, grabbed th...
Weekly Contest #364
Harry Hartley walked out of the prison gates with his head held high and his hands in his pockets, as if he’d popped in for a chat. Behind him, the guard called, “See you soon, Harry.”He didn’t turn. He’d heard it before.At the bus stop, he breathed in the cool morning air. Six years thinking, refining, polishing a plan that would change everything. A plan he’d kept tucked behind his eyes like a winning lottery ticket.The bus rattled him into Winchester in half an hour. Another twenty minutes’ walk took him to a row of tired terraced houses....
Weekly Contest #363
My Last Night On The Atlantic. This story contains the violence of the sea and the weather against people. “Sorry, mate, I’ve got to lock the door, you being what you are,” said the red‑faced sailor. “Okay,” I answered in my schoolboy English, but he had already gone. The air in this tiny cabin smells damp and stale, but I’m safe in the comparative warmth of a Royal Navy ship. They’ve given me dry clothes and a mug of hot chocolate. With time on my hands, I write my story into what will become my journal. The date...
Hobson’s Choice When he was ready, Davy visited the Harbour Master’s Office and advised him of his intentions. Hobson’s Choice slipped her moorings an hour before high tide, easing along the marked passage and out into the English Channel. Once clear of the harbour, he set the sails and killed the engine. Ahead, ships of every size crisscrossed the sea. He knew the crossing could be dangerous until they reached the French coastal zone. The heaving deck forced Tracey below. Her head spun, her stomach churned. Seasickness ass...
Weekly Contest #362
Charlie wiped the remnants of a full English from his plate and shoved the last slice of bread into his mouth. The doorbell rang. He cleaned his face with the tea towel, dropped it on the table, and strolled along the passage to the front door. On opening the door, he saw two men in matching raincoats standing on the doorstep. “Can I help you?” Charlie asked. “Charlie Todd?” one of them said. A puzzled expression crossed his face. “Who wants to know?” As if practised, they removed their warrant ca...
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