There are a wealth of fabulous stories here for you to enjoy, many of them winners or runners up in our annual short story competitions. Find out about this year’s competition here…
A Chapter of Accidents – by Will Tate
Commended at Cambridge Writers Short Story Competition 2013 A bunch of them clever professors up at Harvard, or maybe it was Oxford, England, or someplace, reckon the whole universe was caused by accident; some Big Bang or something. Now I ain’t too sure what the good Lord has to say about that partic’lar theory, but I do know that a lot of folks come into this world accident’ly. Plenty of the folks I knew left it accident’ly too. You never know when an accident will come a-sneaking up on you. Especially on a farm cos farms is mighty
Of the fathers – by Alice Turner
First prize at Cambridge Writers Short Story Competition 2013. They said the sky could drive you mad. Wide open, flooding light, far as far to see. But I think he was born crazy. They said on a full moon you could see them standing on the banks, feet in the black earth, hurling rocks at each other across the drainage dykes. Silly untrue stories about villagers with too many features in common in too small a gene pool. He didn’t wait for any moon to throw his stones. Sitting up in one of the trees along our lane. ‘Get
Three Little Piggies – by Stephen Hammond
Recommended at Cambridge Writers Short Story Competition 2013 ‘What’s this story called?”It’s called THE THREE LITTLE PIGGIES OF THE APOCALYPSE.”How does it go, Mummy?”Once upon a time -”What time?”It’s a story. That’s the way stories begin.”I want to know exactly.”Ten o’clock,’ ‘A.m. or p. m.?”P.m. Once upon a time, at ten o’clock in the evening -”It says here the world is in grave peril from atomic doom and I am an all-action superhero and I and only I can save the world, Mummy, is that true?”Absolutely.”Hastings twenty miles. We’re not nearly there yet. I’ve got a roaming multidimensional death ray.
Fallen Angel – by Will Tate
Awarded 2nd place in Cambridge Writers short story competition of 2012 It was a quiet day at police headquarters. I hoped it would stay that way. If I could be bothered to haul my feet off my desk and stare out of my window at the busy street below I could maybe convince myself that all was well with the world. Some hope. Crime and corruption were everywhere; even this town had once been shaken by the news that the mayor had sold his wife. I was trying to look busy, working on a seedy case against a local bookseller
Every Shepherd Tells His Tale – by Will Tate
Read at Cambridge Writers’ Short Scripts Meeting, 19 June 2003 “WRITER VALERIE LAWS HAS BEEN AWARDED A £2,000 GRANT FROM THE NORTHERN ARTS COUNCIL TO CREATE ‘WALKING POETRY’ BY SPRAY-PAINTING WORDS ON TO SHEEP. UP TO 15 SHEEP WILL HAVE ONE WORD SPRAYED ONTO THEIR FLEECE. AS THE SHEEP WALK AROUND, THE RANDOM SENTENCES THEY CREATE WILL BE TRANSCRIBED INTO POEMS.” From the National Farmers’ Union “Countryside” Magazine, February 2003 BILL DRIBBLE: Welcome to another edition of ‘One Poet and His Dog’ and this week our cameras have come to Arcadia Farm on the banks of Rydal Water. It’s
The Porlock Institute – by Will Tate
Sunday 5th February “Every addict thinks that he can stop- just like that. But it isn’t that simple. It gets in deep. He tells everyone, especially himself, that he’s okay. He can handle it. But one day he wakes up, looks in the mirror and realises it’s got to stop. And that realisation is the hardest step of all on the tortuous road back towards a normal life.” I write these words just twenty minutes after settling into my room at the Porlock Institute in Bloomsbury. I think they have impact and will engage the reader. A staccato
Lingering in the Lane – by Helen Culnane
“There’s a dead body in Pasture Lane,” said Michael. “No there’s not!” said Susan kicking him hard under the table. “Don’t speak with your mouth full,” scolded their mother who was struggling to coax a spoonful of mashed carrot into the mouth of the baby in the high chair. Success! She turned and asked, “Now, Michael, what did you say?” “Nothing,” said Michael and immediately shoved a forkful of baked beans into his mouth, bringing an abrupt end to the conversation. His mother shrugged and returned to the task of feeding the baby. Susan narrowed her eyes and fixed her
