Tomorrow the bulldozers will bash down our sixties semi, won’t care about its double-height rococo chapel. It’d been our single garage until Dad went to a Billy Graham Crusade, came home saved, and extended it heavenwards. The council’s routing its relief road through our cul-de-sac so we’re moving to Blackpool where Dad can still run
Competition Thirty-Five Shortlisted: Michelangelo of Morecambe Read More »
We wait at the window, watch for his Hillman, open the door before he’s parked. Mum shouts goodbye, doesn’t come out. We hope it’s an Army Day: the Imperial War Museum, a parade at Aldershot, even another walk around Windsor Castle. Once, when he still lived with us, we all went to the Farnborough Air
Competition Thirty-Four Shortlisted: Crusader Knights of Carshalton Read More »
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 »
