Story Writing Competition 2016

Screenplay Competition 2016

Many congratulations to all who took part in this year's competition. The HG Wells Short Story Contest 2016 - April 18, 2016 by. This competition is now closed, but you are still invited to read the published contributions. Can you write a story in less than 100 words? 2016 Brittle Star Writing CompetitionIn "Lit mag".

Here you can find the winner of our short story competition 2016

This year' s competition is a celebration of the magazine' s long history of releasing great writers." He' s at work leaving a notice that just says: construction worker in caddies, early gray in caddies. His dad's e-mail said, "Maybe there are things he didn't want me to see.

He' s the one his dad asks later. They' re ordering from China; his dad knows by heart what he wants. You have a formal meal at the dinner tables, the take-away crates are empty on a plate. Imagine her dad taking her to the coach stop and then returning to prepare for the work.

Next morning she remains in her room until his dad goes to work. He was talking about the charities in the city. When she takes the ledgers away, she will feel like her tummy has been abandoned on a heap. Too tardy to get together.

and then they did the touristic stuff. But in the mornings - he wore her scarlet robe, nailed-eyed because he stayed up all dark and watched Blade Runner - he said he thought they had a mouse or something more. While they were waiting for his roommate to find another apartment, they had made obsessive plans: paint walls, loudspeaker system in each room, an alphabetized shelf for spices, locker cabinets, a fireman's bar from room to room, a climb upstairs.

Heard his dad won't find him in the bathroom unless she turns around. He' s an old-fashioned dad. Like they' been together five years, like it's already too long. You' re too slow, his dad says the next day. She' s gonna be a little bit tardy on the coach.

It would just, gradually fill up in this place with the things his dad didn't need anymore: He' s got his dad in the hall with the doors open. She walks past him, takes a razor out of the culinary tray and goes back up. Maybe that's what his dad used to mean all the time.

When we first got in the parcel with paper clips and a chute last Tuesday, we knew that the other five would come in order: one, two, three, four, five, six small stones and then a bigger ruby, usually sitting in the middle of Grama's ring like a narrow axe.

Grandma shakes out the diamond with brow forceps and walks around the ring at a daily pace of one gem. She is a great faithful in the right order. "But my grandma had learned that Poirot was dying in the sixty-fiveth volume and that there was enough sorrow in her own lifetime without intentionally loosing an old mate.

We' saw my grandma evaporating. At the end, my grandma couldn't stay safe in her own house. I don't think she wanted to be with any of her kids. She didn't want to be in a nursing home either. Grama had to be living somewhere, so my dad and his brothers and sisters assembled around the cooking tables and swore together.

Grandma, who has always appreciated the orderly aspect of life in a hospitality, answered: "Why not? But when my dad says it on the phone to one of his sister or his continental brothers, it seems very similar to blame. Grandma is still a great woman for the right order.

" They have abandoned most of my grandmother's senses, but last year, when their teeths began to drop, they did so one after the other; the space in their gum that advanced from the right to the lefthand side of their mouths, as if the deterioration was governed by the same set of regulations as the tide or season.

"We asked each other, smiled on the phone and at Grand Uncle Freddy's burial about our wineglasses. We had all of course listened to Grama's teeths, but we loved telling the story over and over again. "She' still in there," we'd say every single day we would tell the dental story.

We' ve been telling everyone about her tooths. "I' ve never seen anything like your grandmother's teeth," he said. "First most old people loose their front fangs. I' ve never seen one tooth after another fall out. "I' m guessing her fangs like order too. "Geraldine was the 7th of Gramma's birthdays.

Before her were Adam, Brigit, Catherine, Derek, Ellen and Frances, who were the second to last siblings, and lately my family. Grandma never talks about him. Grandma has been in the care home for over a year and still thinks it's a motel. "It' s not the Hilton, is it?" when the only cream starts spinning in the refrigerator, or there's nothing but CSI reruns on TV, or the kitty has peed under the counter and someone has set their feet on it.

It'?s cleaning my dad. It' probably Gramma's last big gag, and she doesn't even get it. She is not particularly lucky in the care home, but she has at last ceased paying the personnel to take her home. Lately my grandma suspects the cleaning ladies are thieves.

It was my dad who did the research. Dad doesn't want to piss anyone off. We' re writing this on post-it memos and sticking them to her mirrors so she can see them first thing in the mornings. She' s overlooked what a good man looks like, but still has faith in my dad, the darling of her seven live kids.

Unique joint connection between hairpins, tissues and shampoos is their capacity to blend into a normal envelop. But we understood that these objects are valuable to my grandma. We' ll be leaving already address stamp and envelop on your nightstand. My dad puts it in the spotlight before I open the cover this mornin'.

Nothing else can be seen this mornin' but a large, shallow building covering the entire cover. There will be two pancakes of boiled prosciutto and a photo of my deceased grandpa blinking in the light on Portstewart beach. When I open the cover, my dad pinches around the edges with the feel of a little bit of jewelry semolina.

My grandma is a World War II kid, thin and sparingly brought up in a widow's age. Crushing the sides of the envelop destroys the boiled hams. As my dad opens the note, he finds mussel flesh, rose flesh and a thin shine of salt solution filmed over the photo.

It looks like my deceased granddaddy is looking at us through the mist or the fumes. "Ew ", my dad says and draws all the wet confusion out of the cover, "she has never sent beef before. "the bacon is wet on the cooking counter, like a tab. "Perhaps we need to talk to Gramma's guardian," says my mom when she starts to wipe the photo with a wet cloth.

At the back of the picture, on which my grandma "Michael, Portstewart, 1953" wrote in her thin, spinning hands, the paint was bleeding and immersed in a blunt range of colours: bluish, blackened, brown and lilac. The way the same finger on the back of my grandmother's grandfather's head could be dancing when Grandpa was feeling emotional, or wasted, or sometimes both; the scent of them, just washing for dinner:

There' s nothing my grandma can tell from a wastage. The boiled prosciutto is lifted off the desk and dropped into the can. If I go back to the desk, the sea's in my mouth, or maybe I cried. from the now drenched cover.

It' my dad puts it in his lips. "Between my father's front fangs for a second, the diamonds are like something a rappers would be wearing, a kind of ornamentment. He then spit it into the surface of his hands and tilts it softly out of his hands onto the cooking area.

"I' m just checking if it's real," my dad states. "So, can't we be sure it's even any good?" my dad asks. "We can' t be sure this shit is any good," my dad says. I grab the diamonds across the desk without asking.

It' my business every single day. Looking harshly at the diamond, I blink my eye until I can imagine them once sitting and blinking on Grama's fingers. I' m looking at my deceased grandfather's photo, away, on the shore and I' m looking at my happy little wife and daughter who still wears their sleeping suits, even though she's almost nine years old.

I think it's about how we organize things: which things come first and which go last.

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