Untitled – Shortlisted Furious Fiction July 2021

When Bert died suddenly in a freak gardening accident, Dorothy was inconsolable.  Their large secluded garden had been a shared passion, common ground for two very different people.  It was their place to be together, to make plans and nurture seedlings.  In the garden they would play, fling snails over the hedge giggling conspiratorially and then sit chatting and drinking tea.  The garden was not the same without Bert and that summer she put down her spade and retired back into the house. 

She needed to be busy and started to knit.  Baby booties, bonnets and cardigans, in pale pastels and soft wools.  All were donated to the local hospital. The nurses were thankful, but supply exceeded demand and as the pile of knitted goods accumulated the matron asked her to stop.  Dorothy diversified into cardigans, scarves and hats, and soon the whole village was kitted out.  

As her knitting gained momentum, she moved onto competitions and trialled her own designs.   Time to experiment, challenge knitting traditions and to explore the potential of wool as an artform.   Her nativity scene won first place in the Wivenhoe WI knitting competition.  Her beach scene, complete with beach huts, small figures playing on the sand and a frothing stormy sea, secured a win at the regional finals.  And now here she was at the nationals.

They provided a table for her display.  She asked if she could have a chair and after some discussion it was agreed that a chair was within the rules.  As Dorothy finalised her display, she realised that she had forgotten the knitted snails which were still in a bag in the boot of the car.  She hurried out to retrieve them.      

When she returned, the hall was buzzing with excited chatter.  Crowds milled around and the press photographer ordered people out of the way.  Giggles and smirks….‘Oh My!” 

“Well look at that!”

“Well, there’s a thing!” 

Mrs Hebblethwaite, the head judge looked flustered and perplexed.  She ushered Dorothy over to an ante-room.   

“We need to talk about your work”  

“Yes it is my Bert.  Large as life”.

“Your Bert, does not appear to be wearing clothes”

“No, he’d never wear clothes in the garden…”

“He has a penis!”

“Yes, he had a penis…about that size and shape.” 

Silence… exchanged glances… and then a response. 

“We, at the Women’s Institute, cannot allow you to display a knitted penis. It is pornographic! We would like you to take him away immediately!”

As Dorothy crossed the hall everyone looked in her direction, someone shouted “Well-done! Can you knit me one?”  Then applause. 

Dorothy smiled as she approached Bert, who was sitting with a tea-towel draped across his lap.  “Come on love”  she whispered as she gently lifted him, balanced him over one shoulder and carried him back out to the car. 

BALANCE – (Runner up – Create Nature Competition – University of Westminster – May 2021)

Cold rain splashing against my face, hair soaked and sticking to my head.  My body simultaneously cold from the biting wind and warm from the exertion of running.  Thud, thud, thud … foot following foot.  That regular rhythm and sense of being propelled endlessly forward.  I want to be calm, but serenity is not my strength,

You are sick – radiotherapy, chemotherapy, liquid food through a tube.  You are in pain… So much pain – exist in a diamorphine haze and sleep for 22 hours a day.  We are in lockdown, trapped in the house.  You sleep and I worry – unrelenting fear. At daybreak I quietly leave the house and run as fast as I can along inner-city streets.  Escape!

At first my chest is tight and I gasp for air. I sense the cold and feel my muscles awakening and aching.    Then I notice the park around me – breath and body begin to align.  The trees are emerging into spring, leaves unfurling, each day a little greener.  The rain stops, my pace slows as I feel the morning sun emerge, and gently touch my skin.  I become aware of birdsong – the harsh chatter of a magpie – that noisy, rasping front-man, backed by the melodies of blackbirds, thrushes and the coo of city pigeons.  A joyous avian chorus.  I feel tension melting away, and a growing resilience as each stride becomes effortless.  I smell the fresh damp grass and notice my footprints in the dew.   With each breath I relax, find space for my thoughts, feel my heart become lighter and my spirit lift.  Surrounded by nature I get things into perspective, become myself and feel joyful, alive.  My balance restored, I calmly jog back home. 

In the grotto

Longlisted Furious Fiction Competition December 2020

‘Not good enough!’   Words bellowed into my face as I sit at my work bench on the en`d of the production line.  It is freezing, my shoulders are hunched and my back aches.  We are well behind schedule and have toiled day and night for the past week.  With each exhale I see my misty breath rising around me.  The noise is deafening, clunking machinery, cheery Christmas songs and above it all comes a regular roar ‘Idiot!’ , ‘Wake Up!’.  One of my cheeks is ablaze, rose red, smarting from a slap delivered as my eyelids started to droop.  An unexpected and brutal slap that knocked me off my stool.  I feel broken, my normally nimble fingers have stiffened from the relentless task of attaching felt Santa hats onto the heads of cats.  Not real cats you understand – I am not a taxidermist or a vivisectionist.  These are Grotto Gift cats, compliant, clawless, cuddly plush fur, matching expressions and glass-eyes.  We work long hours in the Grotto and are given just enough food and water to keep us alive, just enough sleep to ensure that we can still produce these high quality gifts.

We came by invitation from the big man himself buoyed by tales of camaraderie and the opportunity to participate in a project to make the world a better place.  We would work at Grotto Gifts located in Siberia, right next to the North Pole.  We jumped at the chance to work with that cheery red-faced man, clean white beard, soft plump hands, all kindness, warmth and generosity.   How shocked we were to see high fences, barbed wire and heavily guarded gates when we arrived.  Immediately rounded up into work teams, separated from friends, our every-day clothes taken away and replaced by our prison uniforms, green tunics and pointed green caps.  Unable to walk outside, our movement restricted by felt boots with slippery soles and long curled up toes.

So here we are incarcerated in Santa’s sweat shop.  We shuffle from factory floor to dorm room, work without pay and receive regular beatings from Santa and his cronies.  The man is a fraud, his image fashioned by the marketing men of a multi-national company and spruced up once a year for public appearance.  He is, indeed, rotund and he does have a beard, but it is a filthy and foul-smelling, and his nose and cheeks are reddened by his copious consumption of brandy.   We are trying to resist, writing small handwritten notes, stashing them in our tunics, passing them palm to palm when no-one is looking.  Each day as we work we tuck them into those cuddly cats.   ‘Please help us! We elves are enslaved’, ‘Made by elf slave-labour’.   Every day we send out these entreaties and hope that one day someone will see our message, start to ask questions, and that we will be freed from this tyrant.