2013 Flash Competition Winners
First Prize: Trish Leake
The Cup
He calls my name. Impossible. ‘O for the Wings of a freakin Dove’ and I nail it. Well at least I remember all the words. The judge moves up onto the stage and talks about my sweet, clear voice and phrasing. Some notes were a little breathy, but I can work on that.
He calls my name. I go up on stage and get the silver cup. A silver cup… me… for singing. I walk back to school to the rhythm ‘I won the cup, I won the cup’. It’s heavy and clangs against my coat buttons. I’ve missed school dinner. I go into maths class. They all cheer and I feel I deserved to win it. Home on the bus, it gets heavier and more awkward to carry. My sister’s never come first!
I open the door. Cindy comes running to lick my hand. The house is quiet. Then I hear a hiss - my mother’s in the kitchen ironing.
‘Is that you?’ she calls. I don’t reply but hold the cup around the door for her to see. She screams and leaps up. I’m in the room now, grinning like an idiot.
‘You got first!’
‘Only ‘cos I remembered all the words.’
I leave my mother preening over the shiny silver cup. There’s a place where my name will be engraved. Before I close the door, I hear her murmur, ‘If I’d known you were going to win, I’d have been there.’
The Cup
He calls my name. Impossible. ‘O for the Wings of a freakin Dove’ and I nail it. Well at least I remember all the words. The judge moves up onto the stage and talks about my sweet, clear voice and phrasing. Some notes were a little breathy, but I can work on that.
He calls my name. I go up on stage and get the silver cup. A silver cup… me… for singing. I walk back to school to the rhythm ‘I won the cup, I won the cup’. It’s heavy and clangs against my coat buttons. I’ve missed school dinner. I go into maths class. They all cheer and I feel I deserved to win it. Home on the bus, it gets heavier and more awkward to carry. My sister’s never come first!
I open the door. Cindy comes running to lick my hand. The house is quiet. Then I hear a hiss - my mother’s in the kitchen ironing.
‘Is that you?’ she calls. I don’t reply but hold the cup around the door for her to see. She screams and leaps up. I’m in the room now, grinning like an idiot.
‘You got first!’
‘Only ‘cos I remembered all the words.’
I leave my mother preening over the shiny silver cup. There’s a place where my name will be engraved. Before I close the door, I hear her murmur, ‘If I’d known you were going to win, I’d have been there.’
Second Prize: Laura E. James
Twenty-Four Hours
Try these. They’re a five-and-a-half, with a six-inch heel. I don’t use them anymore. No. Size doesn’t matter. You’re bigger? Yes, funny that. In other respects, you’re so small. Now, walk to the front door. How do they feel?
I’m sorry they’re uncomfortable.
Let’s go outside where you can trip about on the pavement – see how they are on the hard, unforgiving concrete. You can’t get down the steps? The shoes are making it difficult? I understand. Use the hand rail. Don’t mind the passer-by; he’s curious as to why you’re making a pig’s ear of leaving the house. Ignore him. Smile at him. Glare. You have the option.
You glared. Of course.
Let’s stroll to the bus stop and catch the double decker into town. Don’t be daft. It’s not impossible. View it as a challenge. I agree. It is difficult. I expect your soles are ablaze, and your heels are pushing into glass shards.
I’m sorry it’s uncomfortable.
Let’s hop onto the bus. Pay no attention to the passengers ogling you. Ignore the driver’s impatient fingers. Top deck? You can’t? I imagine your ankles are close to snapping and your knees are grinding in on themselves. You feel sick. You’re exhausted. You’ve had enough of everyone gawking and judging you. I understand.
I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable, but you must keep wearing my shoes, then, in twenty-three hours’ time, if you still have the urge and the energy, you can tell me again that I’m clearly not fucking disabled.
Twenty-Four Hours
Try these. They’re a five-and-a-half, with a six-inch heel. I don’t use them anymore. No. Size doesn’t matter. You’re bigger? Yes, funny that. In other respects, you’re so small. Now, walk to the front door. How do they feel?
I’m sorry they’re uncomfortable.
Let’s go outside where you can trip about on the pavement – see how they are on the hard, unforgiving concrete. You can’t get down the steps? The shoes are making it difficult? I understand. Use the hand rail. Don’t mind the passer-by; he’s curious as to why you’re making a pig’s ear of leaving the house. Ignore him. Smile at him. Glare. You have the option.
You glared. Of course.
Let’s stroll to the bus stop and catch the double decker into town. Don’t be daft. It’s not impossible. View it as a challenge. I agree. It is difficult. I expect your soles are ablaze, and your heels are pushing into glass shards.
I’m sorry it’s uncomfortable.
Let’s hop onto the bus. Pay no attention to the passengers ogling you. Ignore the driver’s impatient fingers. Top deck? You can’t? I imagine your ankles are close to snapping and your knees are grinding in on themselves. You feel sick. You’re exhausted. You’ve had enough of everyone gawking and judging you. I understand.
I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable, but you must keep wearing my shoes, then, in twenty-three hours’ time, if you still have the urge and the energy, you can tell me again that I’m clearly not fucking disabled.
Honourable Mention: Claire Knight
Rat Trap
I set the trap using a device that lets out a searing alarm when the infra-red beam is broken. I enjoyed the idea of snaring him with a toy he had given me last Christmas and I didn’t want to use anything that would hurt or maim, it was purely for observational purposes.
Of course my mates at school had all done this before. I always was a bit naïve; I liked to believe what people told me. ‘Head in the clouds,' Mum said, although she did her best to keep me grounded. When she had her ‘visitors’ I was lucky to get a goodnight kiss never mind a bed time story, but even she seemed intent on keeping up the Santa Claus ruse. It was probably the only belief she ever instilled in me, the one constant of my early childhood.
I first heard the rumour in the playground, just before my eighth Christmas.
“He doesn’t really exist,” they laughed.
“It’s your old man, didn’t you know?”
I didn’t know. Why would they say that? Was it designed to hurt or enlighten?
I lay expectantly in bed that Christmas Eve, but anticipation didn’t keep sleep at bay and it was the wailing alarm that tugged my eye lids open.
A shadow moved swiftly across the dim room. I could make out a rotund belly, a snow bearded chin, but the eyes that twinkled at me didn’t match the photograph of dad.
And that disappointment nearly broke my heart.
Rat Trap
I set the trap using a device that lets out a searing alarm when the infra-red beam is broken. I enjoyed the idea of snaring him with a toy he had given me last Christmas and I didn’t want to use anything that would hurt or maim, it was purely for observational purposes.
Of course my mates at school had all done this before. I always was a bit naïve; I liked to believe what people told me. ‘Head in the clouds,' Mum said, although she did her best to keep me grounded. When she had her ‘visitors’ I was lucky to get a goodnight kiss never mind a bed time story, but even she seemed intent on keeping up the Santa Claus ruse. It was probably the only belief she ever instilled in me, the one constant of my early childhood.
I first heard the rumour in the playground, just before my eighth Christmas.
“He doesn’t really exist,” they laughed.
“It’s your old man, didn’t you know?”
I didn’t know. Why would they say that? Was it designed to hurt or enlighten?
I lay expectantly in bed that Christmas Eve, but anticipation didn’t keep sleep at bay and it was the wailing alarm that tugged my eye lids open.
A shadow moved swiftly across the dim room. I could make out a rotund belly, a snow bearded chin, but the eyes that twinkled at me didn’t match the photograph of dad.
And that disappointment nearly broke my heart.
