He used to sleep in the spare room only before a race, in case I snored or woke up crying. Now he’s training so hard he’s there every night. While he fartleks up Slitherstone Hill, I butter a baking tin, weigh everything carefully. I sift flour and cinnamon, like the Queen of Sheba once she […]
As he hefts another crate into the whitewashed cool of the apple store, Clem asks if I’m yet fifteen, if I like being in service, if I have a bed to myself, whether there’s a rug to save my knees when I say my prayers. I’d tell him such matters are no business of
Competition Thirty-One Highly Commended: Where the Apple Reddens Read More »
When they get to green, Mum buys a Senior Saver Return to Waterloo, pickets Parliament in the rain, a laminated picture of an avocado bathroom around her neck. Even The Daily Mail thunders that colour-free conformity has gone too far, splashes her across its front page, her Moroccan Flame poncho perfect against the ash-grey blouson
Competition Thirty Shortlisted: They Start by Banning Indigo Read More »
When she finally opens the bathroom door, the floor’s a savanna of sandy hair. Gráinne’s shorn off her chignon, given herself a buzz cut, dyed it coir-mat brown. ‘Go on,’ she says. ‘I know you’re dying to cop a feel.’ It’s as harsh as sandpaper. ‘But why–’ ‘Guys wipe their feet
Competition Twenty-Eight Shortlisted: My Flatweave Flatmate Read More »
Planning Combine with earth-mother earrings, vegan-friendly clogs, and a plus-sized smock dress that’ll make the spray-tanned bride worry she’s not the only one knocked up by your ex’s not-so-legendary todger. Experiment Go off-piste with your ingredients, like your ex did with that uber-fit ski instructor, leaving you to picnic solo on Uckermark apple bread
That, astride your inflatable flamingo at Bexhill-on-Sea, you bawled your head off when your dad, ankle-deep and careless, let go of its string. Floating to France would be bad enough, but not half as bad as leather-faced mariners laughing at your cute-kitten swimming trunks. That your dad was what your mum called a rover,
Competition Twenty-Four Highly Commended: Things You Can’t Say at Your Sea Scouts Tryout Read More »
In a quadrangle of Cambridge sunshine I tangle my fingers through your tight-spiralled hair while you enthuse about Euclid. You’re square-jawed and strike my chord and we sketch the shape of our lives together. It doesn’t matter that, ideologically, we’re diagonally opposed – you’re isosceles while I’m equilateral – because we’re sexually congruent and
Isosceles and Equilateral Read More »
Mum frowns at my ‘Smash the Patriarchy’ hoodie, tells me to say hi to Granny, hands me yet another foraged-fruit crumble in a twee wicker basket. She’s the first veggie to win SuperChef and tonight’s her date with the guy who won MeisterSinger. I imagine my dad – whatever he looks like – seeing the
Competition Twenty-Two Winning Flash Fiction: Hungry Like the Wolf Read More »
Dawn breaks at last and I utter not a word as Ethan packs a bag and drives off. Then I start baking. I chop home-candied peel, measure earth-mother oatmeal, pour slow black treacle. This is one Thor Cake I will not be sharing with him. I grind a blade of mace to a
Competition Twenty Shortlisted: O that my tongue were in the thunder’s mouth Read More »
The dust on your floaty skirt when I offered you a lift. The swirly writing on the cardboard sign saying ‘Norwich’ which you left on the verge in the dusk. My steamed-up bathroom after your hour-long shower. The leathery omelette you pushed around your plate. Backache from my two-seater sofa because
Competition Eighteen Shortlisted: Things I Can’t Forget from Six Days That Summer Read More »
