Christmas Flash Fiction Results
ONCE AGAIN YOU ARE
ASKED TO READ THE RULES!
OK, I admit there were very few rules but one that was utterly obvious was the word count. Ninety-nine words. When one writer commented that her entry might be the first, it was. First in the bin. Why? It contains 840 words. Enough said.
Two entries did not supply the
requested four first class stamps, so they were promptly discarded. At least
two had a line which immediately disqualified them (© plus the writer’s
name) too close to the entry to be easily seen and cut off before the judge
received it. I think it's understood that competitions are best judged
anonymously.
The minimum rules did mention “a story with a Christmas flavour.” One had no
mention of Christmas, so that went in the bin too.
I’m a bit of a traditionalist
as far as Christmas goes, so for me it’s a time “of good cheer” although
there I times when I act like Scrooge. Consequently, the several entries
that were quite depressing saw the bin very early on.
During a second reading, entries were discarded for a variety of reasons:
the story didn’t capture my imagination; there wasn’t much of a story; or
the entry was merely a recollection about Christmas (therefore not a
‘story’).
One entry stood out and was put aside quite early. I liked the observation
of a very familiar tale from a completely different perspective. All writers
should try to write a piece like this. It's a good workshop to try too.
There were only 34 entries, and I was disappointed with that. The opportunity was there to win a copy of The Artists’ & Writers’ Yearbook 2007, two copies of which had remained from the donation by Writers’ News and Writing Magazine after the Festival of Writing.
The stamps covered the cost of
posting the books and the packaging, with several left to help NAWG’s costs.
For your delight here are the two winning pieces, the first by Sally Zigmond
of Harrogate, the second by Muriel Kerr of Torquay.
ON DUTY
I should be home with the wife and kids but they cancelled all leave. So here I am stuck in the desert on patrol duty. By midnight my boots are killing me. I’m just about to go off duty when this old bloke appears out of the darkness with his wife.
“Left it a bit late, mate,” I snap, checking his papers. “You’ll not find a room for love nor money.”
I send them on their way and march back to barracks. I don’t need a lantern. A brilliant white star is shining overhead as bright as the sun.
COMING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
The big fir tree in the garden flashed blue pinpoints of light. Inside, the house was festooned, a logfire leapt, wrapped gifts under the tree looked like big Cadburys Roses. Dad and I added ours and greeted Mum and Tim shyly.
Mum hugged me and said: “Bobby! Bobby!,” her nose in my hair.
The table groaned with Christmas fare – great after Dad’s ready meals. We wore paper hats. They drank wine. I wished we could stay forever. I know Dad did too.
After, we opened the presents. They kissed under the mistletoe.
Mum’s present to Dad was pyjamas