Our Reader for July-August (open theme)

Our open-theme competition attracted more entries than normal, and our Reader, Kathryn Wills, enjoyed looking through all of them in September.

Kathryn is a member of Didcot Writers who has just completed a PhD in Literature and Theoloy. In her spare time, she writes poetry and short stories and creates clay sculptures.

To read the pieces Kathryn chose as winners, Follow our site to receive them direct to your inbox as they are published! New posts come out on Mondays.

If you would like to be Reader in a future month, get in touch at didcotwriters@gmail.com to tell us a little about yourself and to let us know why you’re interested.

Competition Winners for July-August (open theme)

With apologies for the delay in publishing these results, I am pleased to share the names of the winners from our July-August open-themed competition:

Competition Winner:
No Brainpickers for Her, by Glen Donaldson

Other Reader’s Choices:
Itsy and the Toothbrush, by Tim Alan White
Blossoms and Branches, by Amy B. Moreno
Star Shell, by Fran Egan
That which must remain unnamed, by Solomon Son
No Resus, by Rose Little

Congratulations to all our winners and choices and thank you to so many for entering our competition! We love reading your entries each month, and it’s fantastic to see some of the same authors sending new entries for each theme. The competition is growing all the time, and it’s lovely to be in touch like this and to have the privilege of reading your work.

The winning pieces will be published at didcotwriters.wordpress.com over the coming weeks. Click ‘Follow’ on the site to receive them direct to your inbox as they come out.

Our current theme is Apple – Trees – Woodland (pick one or use all three), and runs until the end of December. A new theme will be announced on 1st January.

Still looking for Christmas gifts? Why not check out our anthologies (available on Amazon for fast shipping around the world, or if you can wait till mid-Jan we can post it direct from Didcot): http://bit.do/didcotwriters-publications

Reader’s Choice (Stranger): Logan Square East, Philadelphia, PA

Logan Square East, Philadelphia, PA

by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal

“A noiseless, patient spider, I mark’d, where on a little
promontory it stood isolated…”
                                                              Walt Whitman

Mother dozes in her Geri chair, the corners
of her mouth cradling oatmeal I’d fed her
earlier. A lifetime ago she told me she’d been
a tomboy. This wilting stranger, once that girl,

once my father’s bride, wakes, grimaces silent,
her hands gripping the wheelchair. Beneath
furrowed brow, her eyes squint shut, head bows.
Could she be praying to a god I don’t know?

I search her wrinkle-lined face for signs of pain,
press random places on her body thinking if I hit
upon a hurt she’ll wince. She’s still. I’m heartsick
not knowing what she’s feeling, thinking, would say

if only the phantom spinner hadn’t seized her
& squeezed her last trace of speech out
weeks ago. Now, only a vacant stare & a patient
all-knowing spider eyeballing me.

—

Ruth Sabath Rosenthal is an internationally published, Pushcart-nominated poet. For more about the poet, visit her websites: newyorkcitypoet.com, bigapplepoet.com, and poetrybyruthsabathrosenthal.com.

Ruth won our ‘Fundamental Change’ competition which ran March-April 2020, you can read her winning poem, Game Theory, here.

—

Our Reader said:

The way this poem compresses time, and re-presents the familiar as strange, is something I waited for in this theme. “Heartsick” is the word the poem uses, and I have little more to say.

 

 

 

Reader’s Choice (Stranger): Familiar Strangers

Familiar Strangers

by Verity Sayer

“Okay now, one last push!”

She escapes my body so quickly, crying out just a little. She seems happy though. I hold onto her body, furled up like a hamster that can fit in one hand. I say hello and goodbye in the same sentence.

In eighteen and a half years we will meet in a café that neither of us know. She will order a caramel latte and a chocolate brownie, I will have a pot of breakfast tea. She will look nothing like I expect. Her spiky black hair will have turned into thick golden waves that rest just below her shoulders. Those tiny fingers that couldn’t even extend out of a fist will have stretched and hardened, decorated by a colourful collection of rings. I will examine her face for traces of that baby, as she examines mine for traces of herself.

She will comment on my eyes, “They’re blue, just like mine,” and I will respond with a smile and nod.

She will ask me about my life, my career, my interests. She will look for anything that she can latch on to, and ask no further about those things which differ from herself.

Her mother – her real mother, will be nearby, perusing the latest releases in an independent bookshop. She will be there simply as a safety net; her daughter will be too scared to come otherwise. At this point, I will have children of my own, two boys who I will adore with my whole heart. I will have memories of singing them nursery rhymes and blowing them kisses on their first day of school. I will have bad memories too: of them drawing on the walls in the kitchen and slamming their doors screaming that they hate me. And I will have all the boring, everyday memories in between. But there will be no memories of me and her.

I will only have this. I will have kind conversations about how beautiful she is, how talented. I will have harder ones when she asks about her father, and I will bow my head because I have no answer for her. I will love her, but not like I love my own children. I will offer her money if she needs it, even though I know she would never ask. In between the awkward silences, we will make each other laugh as I retell stories from a life that I chose to remove her from, and she will describe a happy childhood that I wasn’t in.

At the end of our meeting, her mum will thank me and I will see in her eyes she means more than just for today. I will smile at her daughter; my eyes will brim with tears that I will be embarrassed about later. We will shake hands because we aren’t quite ready for more. And I will say, “Well, Abby, it was lovely to meet you.”

—

Verity Sayer is a graduate from the University of Edinburgh and has started writing for fun in her free time.

—

Our Reader said:

This bittersweet snapshot into two lives is so beautifully written. I really enjoyed how the huge gravity and strangeness of the moment described, didn’t dally or overstate; a moment in life, where life was before, and would continue after.

Reader’s Choice (Stranger): Blood Orange

Blood Orange

by Freya Dolby

Lacey left the hospital on a hot day in August. The sliding doors parted and she stood still, blocking the door slightly so a young couple had to break hands to walk around her. Cut grass and heated tarmac dislodged the smell of antiseptic that sat at the back of her tongue. She looked to the top of a row of plane trees that framed the road ahead of her, furry clumps of tanned pollen fell from their branches and piled at the sides of the pavement. A blackbird hopped to the end of a fragile branch, assured that the spindly wood would take its weight. With no place to be, she waited, watched as it opened its beak eager to add its song to the chorus. Behind the bird, the sky was a vivid blue, littered with clouds that lay flat and transparent like ice forming on a sheet of glass.

A stall was set up outside the hospital, selling fruit, oranges in perfect prisms that made her mouth water. She hadn’t eaten anything since the night before. “One please”, she pointed at a blood orange on the top of the pile. Her voice sounded unfamiliar and she coughed with her hand in front of her mouth, checking that she was still breathing. Searching her pockets Lacey found that she didn’t have 20p to pay for the orange that was already weighing heavy in her palm. Her cheeks reddened and when she tried to say “I’m sorry,” the words caught in her throat and her voice was lost. The grocer waved her hand and told Lacey to keep it.

As she walked, Lacey passed the fruit back and forth between her hands, running her fingers over the dappled skin, trying to ground herself in its pores. She felt like a stranger in her own body, with every step that took her further from the hospital bed she was coming undone.

By the time she reached their street, she had begun to convince herself that her mother might be waiting for her but when she turned the key only emptiness hung behind the door, filling the air like smoke. In the kitchen she went to open the window but couldn’t, her thumb had worked through the skin of the orange and into its flesh, it was stuck. The juice stung the bitten skin around her cuticle, the round orange a bulbous extension of her body. She lay her hand on the rim of the sink looked at the four smooth fingers and the engorged orange thumb. If she removed it would she return to herself or would she always feel like something was missing?

In one sharp movement, she pulled her thumb free, letting sweet red sap spurt over the countertop. The damaged orange rolled into the sink and she found her mother’s voice in her mouth, “Wipe it up now or it’ll get sticky.” She reached for the window and pushed it open.

—

Freya Dolby works in TV and spends her spare time writing stories, scripts and making pots. She has also written a novel and is currently in the painful editing stage. 

—

Our Reader said:

The simplicity of this story – its everyday-ness, its subtle, permeating sadness – slips straight to the heart of everything we’re experiencing during COVID-19. The detail is so beautifully, heart-wrenchingly dropped in – it’s only there if you look for it, much like in real life. A reminder to be more kind, as in the words of Plato, everyone is fighting a hard battle.

 

 

Reader’s Choice: The baby with skin the colour of walnuts

The baby with skin the colour of walnuts

by Margaret Gallop

Once upon a time in the land of Paspatou there lived a woodcutter and his wife. When their first son was born they planted a hazel tree, when their second son was born they planted an apple, but when their third son was born the midwife said, ‘Who’s this stranger?’ for his skin was the colour of walnuts. So a walnut tree they planted. His mother whispered, ‘My grandfather was the King’s champion from the land of Sassafras. Your name will be Antarah.’

Antarah grew slowly but continued to grow. One day the King’s hunting party passed by. ‘Who is this tall man with skin like the walnut?’

Antarah knelt.

The King said, ‘I have a task for you. The Princess Betony who is to marry my son has been shipwrecked in the land of Sassafras. Go and fetch her.’

‘There is really no rush, father,’ said the Prince, and galloped off into the woods.

Antarah bowed. He wanted to see the wider world. He climbed hill and dale and came to the Land of Sassafras. In the palace orchard, he saw a maid with red hair who offered him a drink. ‘How do I know it is safe?’ asked Antarah, smiling. ‘I will show you,’ she said and dropped in a slice of apple. The apple flesh stayed white and he drank the water.

‘Welcome, Stranger,’ said the Duke of Sassafras. ‘Come and share our table and tell us where you are from.’

‘I am from Paspatou.’

‘Then why is your skin the colour of walnuts?’

‘My grandfather came from Sassafras and left to become the King’s champion.’

‘Then you are of royal blood.’ His eyes flicked. ‘A drink for my guest. What brings you here?’

‘I am sent to aid the Princess Betony on her journey to Paspatou.’

The Duke’s eyes darted towards a curtain. The maid with red hair came through with mead and filled his cup.

‘Do try our local spice.’ The Duke tipped something into the mead, then called for song. The maid dropped a slice of apple into his cup. It turned blue. Antarah took a sip.

He awoke in a dungeon with the maid wetting his face. ‘I am Betony. The Duke wants to keep me for himself. And you are in danger, as the rightful heir.’ Together they stole out of the palace.  ‘My horses, my dowry, will take us swiftly to Paspatou.’

Outside Paspatou the Prince was riding out with his huntsmen. When he saw Betony’s red hair he sneered and galloped away shouting to his huntsman. Betony stared.

The King was delighted with Betony. ‘Wait until you meet my son.’

The huntsman came back trembling. The Prince had tried to jump over a deep ravine. The King’s grief was great. ‘What have I to offer you? I no longer have a son.’

Within a year, Betony whispered in his ear.

‘Very well, you shall marry my champion, Antarah.’  That day the King took Antarah as his heir. His mother smiled.

—

Margaret Gallop: As a teacher I enjoyed reading stories to children, as a writer I love seeing where the story takes me. I live on the edge of Didcot and experiment with different forms of writing.

Margaret’s work has been published by us before: on this site you can read her winning story, Mariella and the Singing Flute, and her poems, Bees, Sour Harvest, April Wayside Blues, and Permission. Other of her works appear in our paperback and ebook anthologies, The Most Normal Town in England, Compositions, First Contact, Museum Collection, A Night at the Railway Inn.

—

Our Reader said:

This was such an enjoyable read: fantastical relief which managed to mire itself – light, somehow –  in the necessary shift of worldviews in the wake of the latest iteration of Black Lives Matter. And who doesn’t enjoy a short, sweet fairy tale?

Reader’s Choice (Stranger): El Camino del Peligro (The Road of Danger)

El Camino del Peligro (The Road of Danger)

by Amy B. Moreno

The mountain goat bus rattles along, pushing us on bowed legs, towards Huanallo, air as thin as threads. My sloshing stomach reprimands me for forgoing a steading yerba maté[1] and gulping down two cups of sugary black coffee for breakfast.

The canyon is jagged and deep, its lowest secrets hidden beneath canopy and clouds. The bus tyres scrape the very edge, sending dust and pebbles off in a scuttling freefall. The patchwork terraced fields offer a comfort blanket for my fear of heights, but I breathe uneasily. I shift away from the window, sitting on the edge of my seat, cowardly backside hanging into the central aisle.

We stop, and a passenger enters with rolls of woven estera matting under his arm. It smells sweet, like dew. He lies it down on the floor between his feet; a peaceful sleeping giant. Chickens fuss at their feathers, sending up fluff. I force my gaze forward, not down.

From the back seat, metallic music peaks out from a handheld radio, telling tinny tales of lost loves and poison and mysterious mountain words. Passengers crunch canchita[2] and chifles[3]. Hand-rolled stones filled the large gaps in the road and my vocabulary.

The rainbow lady in the seat behind strokes my fine hair, as fly-away strands whistle out through the gap-toothed window.

The bus struggles on crutches, a size too small, and limps to a stop: a row of broad men with cabeza clava de Chavín[4] faces block the road. Their formidable presence doesn’t need their accessories of glinting black guns.

At the arrival of the strangers, passengers flick their eyes from side to side and rustle their pockets of coins and worries. The radio is hidden under a shawl. A chicken squawks. My insides are liquid, and vertigo forgotten.

Two of the men force open the quivering bus door. The tallest boards, face first and shark-like. His face is featureless in the shade, like the inside of a leather bag. He points a gun high and shouts instructions I don’t understand. He walks up the aisle, staring at each person, taking his time, as if selecting – one by one.

My hands are shaking, crushed between my freezing knees.  He looks me up and down for a week and a half. My mind is like the clatter of old keyboards. His steps move on to the back of the bus. Finally, he rolls back; a steamroller in a leather jacket, crushing popcorn and pebbles. The door shut behind the men and the air returns.

“Ay, pobre gringüita, esta asutdadita,”[5] says the rainbow lady behind me, addressing everyone, and patting my shoulder. She tells me they were looking for someone – someone lucky enough not to be on this bus.  Someone unlucky enough to be the one the men are looking for.

And so, we roll on towards our destination – scraping past rocky cliff faces, along a road with hole-punched pieces missing, aware of skirting the abyss, on El Camino del Peligro.

[1] A traditional tea used to treat altitude sickness

[2] Toasted corn snack

[3] Dried banana chips

[4] Fierce stone-carved warriors

[5] Translation: “Oh, poor white girl, she’s scared.”

—

Amy B. Moreno writes poetry and prose for adults and children, in English, Scots, and Spanish. Twitter: @Amy_B_Moreno

—

Our Reader said:

I loved the description of this (to me) foreign, faraway place – the alluring strangeness of it. The adventure and the apprehension. It unpicks the theme in numerous ways, all to great effect.

 

Winner (Stranger): Stranghers

Stranghers

by Sergio

Mawddach’s mouth’s port town. George’s froths blows bless ma own. Yards over years of free explores, discovery, works, steps, journs, life shares. Not alone, always someone around to be known. On the darkest, hopeless moments left behind, ever on own, even where deep felt so. Where there were no humen, an insect, a moth, a lifeform veiling own’s, upon Hers. Above, beyond any human judgement, law or God damned known. Airs, weathers, waters, fruits, life conditions fair shared with any life form around, arounds aware, fund else’s interests, subjected to fortune’s offers, wherever meant fighting, working towards next breathed ale.

With this philosophy worked out healthier lands and seas, wherever found among Hers, life itself, so worked own wisdom, sharp smart roused wits against. Known my roots: do own best, for ever better nexts. Got often over Death, as sciences advances, Her hopes and will remain. So believed, trusted and relied, deep rooted since before made, done, born and birthed in this human shaped and dressed form I’m homed.

Despite history, human empires, wars, conquers, fights… yet found Her, submitted, exhausted, rendered to our rage, sick, sad, undervalued, betrayed from most, for God damned’ s sake… too often, too long Hers dismissed, forgotten. Wards are meant to work healthier lands and seas, not to fight Her, but to work needs and meets, out of every single mistake, aggression, offence, harm, loss … Yet we learn to share our best by assuming us among, not beyond or above Hers. Not away, apart, unknown, or long kept lost.

Last 3 years went through Hell’s, saved a good friend’s life from death, after went deep involved in someone’s troubles. She got to accept, answer and deal with outer forces calls, so high were her needs, as got to know afterwards.

Learners, we’re all learners in this always changing world we share, using own senses, not abusing but ever abused from any else’s meanwhile, Wrong’s therefore… yet to find, judge, once found their own mistakes’s prizes. Strange to Hers, “Stranghers” around, among, amused, lost, framed & marked or not… behaving as they do, while finding pure acts of natural fair wild life forms… No ones but humen get lost among false wealth and luscious, money and power based on, polluted on polluting Hers… Sick & lost they get, to longer, shorter death… yet we find new ways to help, prevent and work new ways to save.

So inmared finds me an old met mare mate, a Northern friend, long met ago on else where’s port, under elsewhere’ s Moon lights and tones.

“Hi Gio, enjoying your drink? Good to meet yah, in this terrace, no longer vesseled, old sea journed?”

“No, Jon, left seas long ago, shared table?”

He agrees chaired bag and search for services. A waiter comes closer to note last order: “Sea & Lands Omn Home Meal served for  two, please, with whole bread rations…”

—

Sergio: Born in1974’s Barcelona, Highlanders’ s Grandson, having moved to the North after the last Spanish Civil War. Brilliant student, international works, green projects promoter, sailor… 

—

Our Reader said:

Immediately, I needed to know whose voice this was. Strange and stranger, nostalgic and matter of fact, sweeping and deep. This prose-poem, which flits around so many linchpins of whole lives and stories, so many snatches of truth and memory, leaves you no time for breath, no time for pity – only curiosity, only a thirst for life with all its cud and hardness and light.

New competition theme: Sept-Dec

As we focus on getting our next anthology out in time for Christmas, the next theme is going to last for a mega four months! And as such we actually have three themes for you. You do not have to hit all three in one piece – though they are linked.

If you want to enter more than one piece, the usual procedure applies: your first entry is free, and you can enter as many additional pieces as you like for a fee of £5 each. Simply email didcotwriters@gmail.com to let us know how many you’ll be sending and we’ll send you a PayPal money request. If you don’t let us know, we’ll only accept the first entry from any author.

The theme for this autumn is: Apple – Trees – Woodland

Maybe your story is set in an orchard or a forest, perhaps your protagonist is named Apple, or the woods feature as a metaphor for the dark days of their youth. Maybe your characters are trying to construct a family tree, or your story is about the Root and Branch petition and the English Civil War. It’s up to you how you interpret the theme, so maybe take a walk down the nearest tree-lined avenue and see what you come up with!

Full guidelines are at didcotwriters.wordpress.com, as well as the link to the Google form where you can submit your work.

Our Reader for May-June (Stranger)

Our Reader for our ‘Stranger’ competition was Hannah Oliver, who we’ve enjoyed getting to know over the summer at our virtual ‘Shut Up and Write’ sessions.

Hannah Oliver is a writer and filmmaker who won the Didcot Writers’ Competition in February 2020. Her writing’s been longlisted for The Guardian & 4th Estate, and can be found in such places as Lemon Curd Magazine, The Quaranzine and Wastepaper.

Thank you to Hannah who read all the entries and made her selection so efficiently! If you would be interested in being Reader in a future competition, please email didcotwriters@gmail.com to let us know a little more about yourself.