Drum roll, trumpets and fanfare and the winner of my competition is:

The judges loved this story with a twist as most short stories of this calibre do! Congratulations!

Count to Fifty

In the years that followed what she always thought of as the day her childhood – her happy innocence - came to an end, Jessica often wished she had just done as she had been told and counted to one hundred. But she didn’t. She made excuses for it; it was cold, it was hot, it was dinnertime, she was tired… The excuses were only ever to herself. And anyway she knew that she had done it – cheated - because she wanted to win. She never won. So she let Martin run off to hide and she started to count out loud. By the time she’d got to twelve she knew what she was going to do. One hundred gave her brother too much time. He was too good at hiding. He spent so much more time out in the garden than she did. She preferred her dolls and her tea parties. So Jessica decided that the only thing to do was to cheat. She’d count to fifty instead. He’d never know, and she could finally be a winner.

            She made her voice quieter so that although she was still counting aloud, no one could actually hear. She reached fifty, paused, opened her eyes and looked around. She saw movement over to her left, a quick flurry in amongst the trees at the edge of the garden. Neither she nor Martin were supposed to go past the trees. It was forbidden. Jessica was surprised at Martin’s audacity, but she’d seen the branches moving, heard the rustling, so she followed.

She assumed that Martin had probably been through the trees many times before. He was just that sort of boy – three years older and thirty years wiser. A proper Just William if only their parents would allow him to be.

            Jessica tiptoed forwards, still counting in her head and glancing behind her every time she reached a zero because her mother was usually watching, making sure there were no grazed knees or banged elbows. This time Jessica couldn’t actually see her; she wasn’t in her sentry position by the kitchen door, ready to run towards whoever had fallen, first aid kit in hand. Jessica felt free. With no mother to worry about, she understood why Martin had taken the opportunity to escape to the field and she followed, her head popping out into the unshaded sunshine.

            Martin wasn’t there. She never did find out where he had hidden that day. She did find her mother though. No first aid kit in her hand now, but instead those reassuring hands were caressing their Uncle James. Daddy’s brother. Hands and lips and tongues, all meeting together in a frenzy, a quick snatched moment which probably felt romantic to the two of them but to Jessica it was disgusting. It was wrong, even she, as a tiny little girl, could see that.

            She wiped her silent tears from her face, saddened, disappointed, grown up now, and edged back into the garden.

            She never said a word.

            But her mother knew.  

            Nothing was ever the same again. 

Congratulations to the winner Lisamarie Lamb, email on its way to do re prizes. 

I hope you enjoyed this competition as much as I did, it has been such fun, watch this space I may run more in the future. Love to hear your comments and feedback on this, I do reply to all.

Drum roll in " 2nd " place of competition

As I am posting these I can feel the excitement mounting. I sincerely hope you are enjoying reading them as much as I did. This one gave me a giggle I must confess. Isn't that what we all want a reaction from our readers!

Congratulations go to Rebecca Emin with her story!

The Passenger

“It simply will not do, I cannot sit anywhere but a window seat or I will get travel sick.”

This shrill noise is the last thing I need when I have a migraine.

“I insist that you do something,” the woman continues.

I roll my eyes behind my dark glasses, but even that movement hurts.

“Excuse me, I’ll swap with you, if it’s that important,” I say to the woman.

The flight attendant flashes me a grateful smile. The haughty-looking passenger swaps boarding cards with me, and looks at the attendant as if challenging her to mention the computer records. Finally, we are on our way.

I buy some overpriced water from a vending machine and take some painkillers. I sit in the departure lounge and close my eyes.

I am starting to feel the pain lessen when I hear that voice again. “How long will we have to wait?”

“Oh please shut up,” I whisper as I exhale.

I need a quiet room, darkness, and peace. The background conversations don’t bother me, and even the crackly flight announcements are okay in comparison to… Elizabeth Wilson, I read as I glace down at the boarding card in my hand. Seat 50 C.

A smile crosses my lips. Fifty has always been my lucky number, not that there had ever been any reason behind it; I simply like the sound of it.

I feel beads of sweat forming on the back of my neck. It’s a hot day and the air conditioning can’t cope with it.

By the time we are finally called onto the plane my head is pounding, nausea is swirling in the back of my throat and it takes all my effort to stand and walk to the doorway. I take my aisle seat, and as I spot Elizabeth Wilson fussing with her bag and making a drama of getting it into the overhead storage area, I quickly say “hello” to the attractive blonde to my left. If I was feeling healthy, I would have made more of an effort, but I shut my eyes and doze instead.

I sleep heavily. Miraculously, when I wake up, the painkillers and rest have cleared my head. The cool temperature of the cabin feels refreshing.

The blonde next to me smiles as I glance in her direction. “Hi, I’m Paula,” she says, offering me her hand. I take it and smile at her, hoping my just-woken look doesn’t put her off. But three hours later when the flight is coming in to land, she gives me her card, and I slip it into my jacket pocket as we continue to talk.

I say, “Goodbye,” to Paula, and walk off the plane. I spot Elizabeth Wilson ahead of me. I hear her piercing voice again. “I wish to lodge a complaint, that flight was dreadful,” she proclaims.

I glance at her. I spot a patch of something unidentifiable on her sleeve, and as I walk past, hear her ranting about the toddler she had been sitting next to on the flight.

I smile as I pat my jacket pocket and walk on by.

An email whizzing its was to you regarding your prize, congratulations!

Trumpet call in 3rd place of competition

Another great post it was very tight between the top 4 entries but this one made it as 3rd place. A member of MWC and a inspiration to many menbers.

Still Rocking

Half a century – 50, the actual number seemed to be more significant than its ten year younger sibling yet the celebrations for my fortieth birthday involved much intrigue and surprise, and for my brother’s the planning and organisation was horrendous.  There’s only two years between us and we’ve always been close so I get to see milestones a couple of years after the dust has settled and I’m distanced enough from it to appreciate the event.

When I turned fifty I was separated from my husband and had slipped out of different circles of shared friends. My parents hadn’t been alive for my fortieth, two other brothers and my sister live in Australia and I’d recently moved too, so a big party was never on the cards. The kids plagued me about what I might like as a gift and it struck me that they were really all I was worried about in my life now. I asked for a photograph of all four of them. There seem to be so few occasions when they’re together nowadays.

My favourite daughter – my only daughter – organised the boys for a snap when everyone was home and injury-free (they all play rugby) and presented me with two prints. One in a leather frame features a colour shot and another in a silver frame is a wonderful black and white. She made sure I had a huge bouquet of lilies too, I’ve trained her well. It was a very low key day and suited me fine. I was reluctant to party and go out to dinner, not because of the age, that didn’t bother me but I had alopecia and somehow dressing up in my glad rags and killer heels seemed a waste of effort when my crowning glory had to be styled in a comb-over.

The lack of fuss just proved life goes on regardless of what milestone you might have reached. I feel I am much wiser, though I may not act it. I am more accepting of different attitudes – I’ve discovered I don’t have all the answers and finally the arrogance of youth has stayed its side of the hill. I am relaxed, content and confident and the me I want to be. Admittedly I’m not as fit as I used to be but that doesn’t worry me, though I do resent the aging process and how it causes aches and pains. Hey, it’s a fifty year old body that’s survived plenty of abuse, a bit of wear and tear is expected. 

My brother’s fiftieth birthday was celebrated with my birthday gift to him – tickets for Deep Purple. It was a blast from the past and an excellent night out head banging, singing along to old favourites and being among a crowd of smokers with a sense of humour who knew nothing about being politically correct. The only thing about being fifty and seeing them now rather than when we were teens was being able to have a beer.

Congratulations Siobhan, email with details of prize on way to you.

In 4th place competition entry

Another fabulous entry, brought back memories for me, Thank you so much for entering.

Meus Michael  Meus Culpa

I stroke Michael's face as he wanders to sleep. I am entranced by his perfect face, now so peaceful. It seems unimaginable that the screaming fifty minutes ago could have belonged to either of us. 

I smile at how quickly my loathing; boarding on hatred; towards him changed. How fifty mins ago, I’d have done anything to walk out on him. Now I could think of nothing more incredible than staying in bed with him. My fingers tingle as I long to stroke his face, but know if I do, he may wake and our previous disagreements surface again.

I stare up at the ceiling. Beside me, he is sated and I feel his body soften as he slumbers.

I bask in a warm glow as my body sings. I allow a small smile to rest on my face. 

Its only then that I begin to feel a sapping energy with its daggers sinking deeply inside me, ripping me apart and exposing me to the world.

I see cobwebs needing to be brushed down from the ceiling and a wall that needs repainting.

My fecklessness in my life’s role darkens my soul. Guilt swallows me.

He is still sleeping, but I wonder if its just for show.

I try to even my breathing as I inch out of bed. He stirs and moans in his sleep. His hand reaches onto the empty pillow.

I freeze. The hand goes limp and he drifts again.

Perhaps, I reason,  I could lay here a little longer, soak up the ecstasy of the moment, the feeling of oneness and completion.

Dark guilt, fed by the piles of washing on the floor raises it ugly head and taunts me. My home screams attention while I laze in bed. 

I inch further out of bed, taking every movement slowly before I am upright.  My feet seek slippers for a quiet getaway. 

I turn for a last look at that perfect form laying in my bed. The sheet casually draped over his chest and an arm flung above his head. I reach out to gently caress his face, but  I know it was a mistake the moment it’s over.

Eyes spring open as his tiny mouth twists in retribution of being roused and abandoned.  With Michael's shrieks, tears of exhaustion and frustration spring into my eyes.

I wrap him tightly, pop him over my shoulder and I begin my endless walk. Fifty steps up and back measure the hallway. I make soothing noises and promise never to leave him.

The blunt knife of guilt twists deeper as I contemplate following advice to bottle feed rather than to feed on demand as I’ve been doing.  To trade the certain feelings of ecstasy of connection with the possibility of more sleep tantalizes me. I continue to stumble up the hall as the tendrils of guilt wind their way around my heart and resolve.

Meus Michael  Meus Culpa.

Congratulations Annie, it was a close call

In 6th postion Competition entry

Here is the story judged 6th in my competition, I did think maybe the author of this piece was talking about me! I think we have all been there and done that, hindsight is a wonderful thing.

Fifty Things that make me an Idiot.

In a time of little creative inspiration, I wrote a blog about the 50 things that I do to make me happy. Reading the list back I realised something astounding, something so monumentally ground-breaking and earth moving that I had to have a cup of tea with 2 and a half sugars:

I am a complete idiot.

The list consisted of things that, at the time at least, I thought sounded exceedingly quirky and intellectual. I had visions of my readers sitting at their computers saying things like 'Oooh! Wow, she's a social maverick! Look at her take convention by it's wily horns and shake it about a bit'. I think one of the 50 things went along the lines of: 'On my country walks, I breathe in the air and thank Mother Nature for her awesome awesomness and I take a leaf from a passing tree and present it to someone as a gift laaa dee loo laa laaay.'

I shuddered to read it back, shuddered I say. What a pretentious goon.

Pretty sure it was Aristotle that said wisdom goes hand in hand with knowing yourself; one of the hardest parts of gaining a tiny bit of the wise-stuff is realising that all of your life to date has probably consisted of you behaving like a bit of a twat.

I wonder if Katy Perry or some other teen-boppy person will ever look back, chuckle to themselves over a cup of chamomile tea and say, 'Oop, that hair style was a mistake and lord knows why I thought eating sushi through a straw was cool.  And no, 'Boom' doesn't rhyme with 'Moon', gawfaw.'

I resolved, after this quarter-life realisation, that I will no longer behave thus. However, even this steadfast resolve brings with it a sense of arrogance; who the heck am I to resolve anything? I have a fair few years to go before my clogs pop (I hope) and making a vow-in-stone leaves me far too much scope for making a prize idiot of myself all over again.

If being wise constitutes knowing yourself through the acceptance of your past idiocies, then I can't think of harsher life lessons than a box fringe, leather trousers and teenage poetry.

Next time I think I should write a list of 50 things that make me a Spaceman. It would provide me with just as much entertainment and I'm pretty sure my answers would be more insightful and grounded in something real than the ones I provided for my 'serious' list of 50 something-or-others. 









Congratulations to Sarah Bradley.

In 7th Position of competion entry

In 7th position but they were all great entries but as I said yesterday with any competition you can't award prizes for all. I hope you enjoy reading them all!

How P.G. Wodehouse Saved My Life

“I wish I’d strangled your neck the moment you were born,” Mom yelled at me, and threw the class-report in my face. I picked up the report, ran to my room, and went straight to the mirror.

“This time, she’s gone too far.” I said, glaring at my reflection.

“C’mon, you know she doesn’t mean it. She said this, like, 50 times already,” my reflection replied.

“Well, this time, she’s going to be sorry. I’m going to do what she always wanted to do. I’m going to kill myself.”

I went to my desk and wrote a note to my father:

“Dear papa, I am killing myself because I can’t bear mom’s cruelty any longer.”

I returned to the mirror, feeling much more cheerful.

“Before I kill myself, I’m going to read Leave It to Psmith and have lunch at Blue Nile.”

My reflection gave me a beatific smile. I took the hundred-rupee note hidden deep in the maw of my desk and Leave It to Psmith from my school bag and slipped out from the backdoor.

At Blue Nile, I sat a corner table, ordered a mutton biriyani and tandoori chicken and opened Leave It to Psmith. I love every book written by P.G. Wodehouse but this was my absolute favorite.

As I read, I became enthralled by Psmith’s resourcefulness and how he never lost his cool in spite of all the problems he faced. Though I was reading it again, I enjoyed it even more the second time.

I continued reading even after the waiter ceremoniously placed the biriyani and grilled chicken before me. I read it while I enjoyed the banquet of fragrant aromatic rice with the spicy pieces of meat. I accompanied Psmith as he impersonated a Canadian poet to enter Blanding Castle, outwitted the other imposters in the castle, prevented a necklace from being stolen, and successfully wooed the beautiful Eve Halliday.

In Leave It to Psmith, to illustrate the quality of equanimity, Wodehouse narrates the tale of an Arabian traveler who slept on a patch of grass containing an acorn and discovered when he woke that the warmth of his body had caused the acorn to germinate and he was now sixty feet above the ground in the upper branches of a massive oak. Unable to descend, he said, “I cannot adapt circumstances to my will; therefore I shall adapt my will to circumstances, I choose to stay here.” And he did.

By the time I finished the book, it was four o’clock. I was the only customer in the restaurant and felt contented and pleasantly stuffed. The bill included caramel pudding, mango ice cream and ginger tea. I left the rest of the money to the waiter, who had not disturbed me at all while I read the book.

I returned home, feeling the warmth of the afternoon sun on my back. Mom was asleep but she had left my lunch on the table. I went to the mirror and smiled at my reflection.

“Okay, so I flunked Marathi and Hindi. Papa will probably blow his top tonight.”

I held up Leave It to Psmith.

“P.G. Wodehouse says happiness in this world depends chiefly on the ability to take things as they come. And Wodehouse can never be wrong.”

I went to my desk and tore up the suicide note.

Enjoyed this I hope you do!, would love to hear your thoughts on the entries published.

In 8th Postion competition entry

I had many entries and this one I could well related to, so in 8th place!

Fifty Steps

I’ve been ill for over a decade including several months in hospital and a few weeks in Intensive Care.  Since coming out I haven’t been very steady on my feet... everywhere I go I have to have a wall, a person or, more recently, my cane or rollator/walker with me to lean on.  I’m determined to walk on my own and get my independence back but it’s starting to feel like it will never happen.

The fifty steps has to start with the first one though, I’ve just got to find the courage to try and do it.  It’s taken about 7 or 8 years to be able to walk down the stairs while holding onto the rail on one side and the wall on the other side, but at least I’m walking down them instead of bouncing down on my bum like I did when I first came out of hospital!

It’s almost like I’m a young child taking their first steps again, I’m just too big and heavy to lift onto mummy’s hip when I fall now!    I’ve got a wonderful partner and real life friend who don’t seem to mind pulling me to my feet when I fall over and that isn’t happening as much now (cue me falling over and not being able to get up now ).

So, tomorrow I start walking around the bottom part of the house without holding on to walls.  The way I see it is that if I do fall over I can crawl to the bottom of the stairs and use them to get back on my feet.  Wish me luck!  Maybe I should just aim for fifty un-aided steps without restricting myself to being in the house?  Next time I meet up with my friend I’m going to try walking around in the pub not leaning so heavily on my walker?  We’ll have to wait and see!

Maybe taking my dog for her daily walks would be a better start?  There is a wall at the side that I can wobble in to if I need to and my concentration will be on my dog more than staying upright so I won’t feel as pressured to stay on my feet either.

Am I getting ahead of myself?  Should I concentrate on being able to get around the house without holding on before I even think of walking fifty steps outside, just in case I fall over and can’t get up as well as my pup’s lead maybe coming off my wrist and her getting loose!

I’ve never been any good at making up my mind but maybe walking around the house without holding on to walls is the safest and best way forward... not exactly courageous but I’ve got to start somewhere so why not in the house where I feel safest then slowly work up to my fifty steps outside?  Safety first and all that sort of thing?  I’ll do it, I’ve just got to slow down!

Thanks Amanda for a great entry, I hope you all enjoy reading the stories as they are posted!

Now the fun begins, discover your why?

Hello again,
Well the competition is now closed and thanks and best wishes go to all who entered. Thank you also for all the birthday good wishes. I maybe only 50 and a couple of days but it feels good, so maybe 50 is a new beginning.

Your entries are now with the Judges and as soon as I receive the results they will be posted on here, so watch this space.

Some great entries, wish I could give a prize to all but then that would not be much of a competition if everyone received a prize. Do you remember when schooling became all PC and no one could lose. I don't know about you but it felt like we had become cheated somehow, not me personally, schooling in my day was not politically correct. We were taught that healthy competition was good for you but we were also taught it was equalling as important to take part.

It seems these days in some schools of thought there can be no winners or losers, well I am not getting poetical here as I do not think my blog is a place to share my political views. If there was no winners or losers, everyone was to be equal, how would that effect the Olympics for example?

What are your thoughts?

Do you think competition is healthy? or unfair?

As writers we are in an extremely competitive market, millions of new books every year, new authors discovered. Does that discourage you or encourage you?

What gives you your passion to write when there is so much competition?

What drives you to add more words to your work in progress, to build your author's platform?

In short what motivates you to do what we do everyday?

I can only answer for myself on this point, and no its not money, if it was I may have given up as many writers do, the unfinished work stuck in a drawer somewhere, forgotten. No money is a nice to have, for many writers if they were to rely solely on there writing to pay the bills, many would have given up long ago. For most, will need that  day job! I don't but it still not my driving force, maybe if it was I would write more, blog more, get more done!

My motivation is the stories in my head, I want to make sense of them, I want to share them, with my non-fiction I want to help my readers. If it is from the pain they suffer each day, a health tip, cholesterol whatever it is my motivation in my non fiction is to engage change by empowering my readers with information. In my fiction is where I sometimes struggle, because what is a great story to me maybe not so great for others, so I need to find another motivation for my fiction. My driver at the moment is that I never leave something incomplete, it may take me longer to get to the end goal but I will finish what I start.

So if you take one thing away from my blog today, what is your motivation to keep writing?

If you can honestly answer that for yourself, what your driver is, what keeps you going when all you really want is to hit the delete button!! Write it out if necessary, put it somewhere where you can see it easily, remind yourself daily to keep your why alive.

For some people they may need a visual aid to remind them of their why? Their motivation? Their drive?

If that is you, find a picture of it and keep it close. If your sole motivation is money and for many it will be, we all need to pay bills and eat but apart from letters from the bank manager it is not very exciting. So if your driver is money, or success, how do you measure you have achieved it? What do you want to do with it, once you have it?

Once you are earning enough from your writing it maybe to give up the day job, it maybe to buy a better house, lifestyle? What is your dream, discover what your why is and you will have a stronger motivation to continue writing.

Happy writing everyone. Watch this space for the short stories to be posted in next few days.