Category: Blog

I know it’s long past the Xmas season, and I also know many of you did not enjoy it as much as in those halcyon pre-2020 days. But here to cheer you up is a story by the wonderful BEULAH LEE HARRIS, winner of last year’s MEGASAGA competition. I hope you enjoy it.

It was a magical time in Little Hampton,  even though snow had yet to make an appearance.  Evergreen winter shrubs bloomed and Christmas lights that adorned shop windows and hung from cottage gutter hooks added a riot of colour.
       Shop owners in their annual show of Christmas spirit, dropped their prices and the pub extended its happy hour to two hours.  There seemed to be a Father Christmas on every street handing out sweets to the children.  The church youth choir was out singing carols every day and even the grumpiest of villagers got into the spirit and sang along. Pop-up stalls sold mince pies, Christmas cakes and cellophane-wrapped biscuits and chocolates.
            The youngest of the village children were on their best behavior, not fighting or snatching sweets from each-other.  They were minding their manners and eating all their food, even yucky cabbage, and going to bed on time.  If they heard a noise outside or thought they saw a shadow at the window, they did not call out for their parents.  They went back to sleep, happy in the knowledge that it was just Wee Willie Winkie checking on them, and they were being very good.

Yes, it was a magical time – until two weeks before Christmas, the thieving started.  One man had his wallet lifted when shopping for gifts in the market, the florist had her till emptied when she nipped out the back to pick foliage, and Sister Annie, the Headmistress at the Convent School was dismayed that the nuns reported a break in.  Nothing of monetary value had been stolen, for the nuns had very little, but the intruders had taken some food from their fridge, a rosary, and a few books.  An elderly couple who often forgot to lock their doors, awoke to find their cookie jar of rainy-day coins and a leather jacket missing.
            The coffee shop was a buzz of indignant and excited chatter.  Who would be thieving in their village?  Who was new to the area?  No-one knew.  Better be extra careful about locking doors and windows!
            ‘Let’s not put our Christmas presents under the tree this year,’ Mrs Allan cautioned. ‘Thieving bastards might nick those too!’
            ‘I never do,’ Mrs Brown replied, her jolly face wobbling with laughter. ‘Our Billy would shake them all broken, scallywag that he is!’
            ‘Nobody could break into our house,’ Mrs Scott smugly said. ‘My George is a locksmith and our house is burglar proof.  You might want to get him in for a quotation, you know.  Not too expensive.

In the early hours of the next morning, the Christmas thieves were sitting on a rug, cozy and warm next to their log fire, unwrapping parcels.
            ‘Ooh, look at this!’ One thief exclaimed holding up a set of earrings. ‘I wonder if these are real diamonds?’
            ‘Here’s an envelope,’ another thief said. ‘Bound to be money in it.’   The card was tossed into the fire and the fifty pounds stashed with the rest of their cash behind a loose brick. 
            The thieves unwrapped a twelve year old bottle of Glen Fiddich, which they drank while they unwrapped the rest of their haul.  Socks, scarves, chocolates, a tin of toffees, and a soap-on-the-rope.  They then went through the canvas bag of other goods they had lifted from the same house:  Two silver candlestick holders, an old pocket watch,  a set of binoculars, a small crystal vase and a wallet containing one hundred and seventy-five pounds and some change. Not bad for one nights work!
Mrs Scott looked rather sheepish the next morning when she met her acquaintances in the coffee shop.
            ‘Know anyone who makes burglar guards for windows?’ She asked. ‘Those thieving bastards cut a hole in the window, just like you see on the telly. Right professionals!’

The already angry community were outraged when poor old Jeff Coggins got hurt one night.  He was woken by his Pomeranian barking.  He got out of bed, went through to the lounge and saw someone creeping out of the door with a bag of goods.  He shouted and gave chase but slipped, twisting his ankle and bumping his head.
            ‘Can’t identify the fellow,’ Jeff told the police. ‘All hooded up from what I could see of him.’
            The chief of police and his three constables were flummoxed – not a finger print to be found.  Scott the locksmith did a roaring trade, as did the alarm company he recommended for a fat conmmission..  

The night before Christmas eve, the thieves noticed an anonymous cottage, one they had not noticed before, on the outskirts of the village. It was half hidden by large firs. No sign of an alarm, no burglar guards.  Unless there was a little yapper inside, this little house was ripe for the picking.

Stealthily,  expertly they let themselves in through a window and the house was plucked clean.
            When they returned the thieves sat on the rug next to their log fire, anticipating unwrapping the parcels.
            ‘I think I know whose house we just robbed,’ one thief said, taking a credit card out of a wallet. ‘J.S. Jones…isn’t that the name of that weird woman, the clairvoyant?’
            ‘Clairvoyant, you say?’
            ‘Mm.’ The thief tossed the empty wallet aside. ‘Ah, great, an envelope!  A nice, fat one too…’
            ‘Stop!’
            ‘Why?’ The thief ripped open the envelope and peered inside. ‘What’s this?  Looks like -’
 Those were last words ever spoken in that little house as a massive explosion ripped through the room. The fire was intense, and by the time the fire brigade got there, the cottage had all but burnt to the ground. There were no survivors.
            Everyone was shocked to the core, even the bomber.  It was only supposed to be a small explosion, one that would hurt or maim perhaps, but not kill.  There was nothing she could or would do about it now, though.  What was done was done.
            The Christmas thieves and their robberies were forgotten as the devastating explosion was all anyone could think or talk about.  A forensic investigation took place and it soon came out that the explosion was caused by a letter bomb.  All but one in the community were utterly baffled. Who on earth would want to harm two sweet nuns?

            
END

Beulah is a master of the explosive ending, and was Roald Dahl. Her collection of Short Stories is growing… 

Illustration: Carol Morgan

Two stories on the topic of LOVE

…because LOVE is all that stands between us and them. Between the Devil and the deep blue meanies. Because Lil’ Hipsy said she wanted to write something about Love, and I said, crazy! Me too. The rules: 1,000 words only! One day to write it, one to edit. So here are both of them!

IF YOU have a good short Story, 1,000 – 2,000 words on the theme of LOVE SAVES email it to me and if it’s good enough, I’ll publish it here!

STORY 1

DEAR EARTH

By LORNA MALAN (Lil’ Hipsy!)

The letter you hold within your hand will have come to you in many different ways, the content of this letter will have first created within you a deep feeling that you cannot at first explain, it will “tug at your heart strings” ( a phrase I learnt while observing you for some 30 years) thereafter you will wonder, doubt will start forming and conspiracy will be the ‘reason’ for some 8 billion people receiving the same letter. It does not entirely matter what you think, I only ask that you read it until the end. 

My name is Squish and whilst I sit watching my class full of yungins learn the very complexities of your planet, I think back to the year I was sent on an experimental mission from my galaxy to yours. They never sent the ‘big thinks’ on these types of missions, as much as my elders tried to make me feel important, I knew it was only because I was a ‘small think’ and they had no other use for me.

My genetic make-up was different and I had what you would call an ‘under developed brain’ – what they didn’t know though and the very reason I am writing this to you is that , that mission changed the course of the lives of so many ‘little thinks’ for eternities to come and I feel I need to return the favour, by uncovering the paramount essence you hold, however blanketed by the concrete weight of how you in fact lack ‘little thinks’ , the funny thing is that you are capable of both little and big thinks all at once, you are extraordinary and I hope this letter helps you in some way, to separate the rush from the river that runs so deep within you and that you remember the one thing that now has an entire mission named after it, from another world, with what you call aliens inhabiting it.

First of all, we are not the silly looking beings you think we are, I laughed so much hearing all your conspiracy stories and reading books or watching films where you depict us as, quite frankly very scary looking creatures, gosh I too hope there isn’t that sort of reality out there. The only real difference between us is that we are much shorter than you, a little more flexible and most of us have access to both sides of our brains, yes you got it, the ‘little thinks’ well we don’t, so it makes us much like you but even you have more brain power than a ‘little think.’ We also don’t quite die, we only age enough to become elders and we fall asleep only to wake up some hundred years later having regenerated. It’s a whole warped story and I still find it somewhat weird.

Many of us roam Earth, we have one other ‘super power’- we cannot be seen by you, somehow your mind blocks us out, maybe it’s not so much us that have this so called super power but it’s you that is able to sort reality from what you call delusion, very few earthlings have been able to spot us and when they do, they go entirely bonkers. It’s not really good for them because they end up in much trouble with their fellow earthlings, some even locked away, I’ve cried for nights on end watching this happen, little thinks are particularly empathic. 

I was sent here at the age of 10 to watch and observe your behaviour, the elders were particularly interested in how you held the capacity of little and big thinks at once without having full access to your brain. I didn’t quite understand my task but I knew that I wasn’t going back home from the way my poor mum cried. I was an outcast but even still I had a job for my planet and that was to relay information that could help our world grow. Just by my thoughts, they received that information instantly.

I started off by learning the very many different languages, cultural behaviours and religious ethics you hold, as a small think, everything was somewhat confusing in the beginning, I couldn’t understand the way you made many insignificant things such big thinks. I knew from then, I really never wanted to be a big think at all. I learnt your behavioural patterns, your emotions, how they coincided but I knew what your trouble was soon enough and I did this by remaining who I was – a little think. 

It started off one day as I sat in the rain and felt it pounding on my skin, it was a beautiful feeling, I saw how other earthlings enjoyed it too, some sat smiling, others crying, some jumping in puddles with those funny looking shoes that grew up their legs, some twirling around and singing, some couples touching lips with each other, later I found out this was called kissing and of course others shying away from it with umbrellas, some rushing to get under cover, some swearing their gods for this downpour. 

On a different day, I sat in the heat of the summer sun, as a small think it was much easier for me to take in the ‘smaller’ details, I searched for a word to describe how it felt to have the warmth of your sun penetrate me and the smell of the air whilst little creatures roamed around spilling magical dust on flowers as I watched them grow and bloom, I saw how they made earthlings happy too, I watched how some would pick flowers and at first I was enraged until I saw them smiling and passing it over to their significant other, causing another bloom that created the perfect colours surrounding them, I couldn’t as a small think quite place what exactly this feeling was called, it bothered me to extremities and I set out on a mission to keep observing the little thinks earthlings had until I could place it, until I could find a word that matched it.

I found myself visiting places where your elders’ gathered children who had no parents, those who had suffered a great deal and needed shelter from much of the harsh realities of your world, only because that concrete weight you carried around on your shoulders, overpowered this magic within you. I saw these children being held by people they didn’t know and hearing their heartbeats slow to a rhythm of bliss, I could feel their hearts relaxing into what you call safety and finally content. I watched them play and sing, embrace one another and grow. These little thinks they had started growing on me. 

I visited many different homes and observed patterns, some weren’t as lovely as others but in every situation I encountered with earthlings, they had these small thinks that changed everything, while they had very big thinks too, it was clear to me that big thinks is what drew them away from little thinks but through it all they seemed to find a way pull through some dark places, ones that left them dreary and sad. 

I had started jotting them down as I got older because I couldn’t quite keep track anymore. I had a little blue spotted diary with Squishy written on it, given to me by my mum if I had trouble forgetting. She told me little thinks generated a malfunction when they came of a certain age but that writing helped with memory. 

Here are a few extracts:

*An aged lady crossed the road today but she was certain to meet her fate if a young gentlemen hadn’t run up to help her with her cart. She smiled at him and told him to be blessed by God, her aged face turned young when her smile reached her eyes. 

*A mother caresses her yungin after a tumble and kisses her little foot chanting “mommy’s kisses make the booboos go away” the yungin believes her and smiles, tears still visible but again I hear the rhythm of the yungings heart as it slows down to this feeling the mother passes on.

*A young man pushes his wife in chair with wheels because she cannot walk, he speeds around the corner with her and she laughs hysterically…they go on to singing a song about never getting old and never dying young. How complex. That feeling is there again. 

* Men come off flying saucers dressed in a strange green, to meet their wives and yungins, they cry, they smile, the wives jump into the men’s arms, the kids hold up little cards and they walk off into their own sunset. Their heart rhythms speak to me again.

* A blind man pets his overly hairy dog as it licks his hand then guides it to where he needs to find the thick paste, he is looking for to put on his white squared food piece, the man smiles and again I feel the rhythm of both their hearts. This feeling is becoming more intense.

*They are putting a child into the ground, he is no longer of beating heart, he has died, this is unfamiliar to me. I watch how people cry, their eyes don’t stop overflowing with tears, the mother puts her hand on the casket, lays a single white rose across it and utters “what is grief, if not love persevering” in her mind it is a quote she knows and holds close and for the first time she uses it and utters “my dear soul, I wish I had written those words but today I say unto you, the memory of your most beautifully intense and energetic love will be what saves me. Rest now my child”

It was right there, right in that moment I knew, that the word I had been searching for to match every rhythm I felt, was “love”. It was always love that persevered, it was love that stopped hearts from combustion as they sped up from anguish or fear. It was love that held families together, it was love that made children believe in magic, it was love that made earthlings kinder, it was love that bonded animals with people, it was love that set young adults out to accomplish dreams and in the same way it was love that was there to pick them up if they didn’t. It was love that kept people holding on when they could have let go, it was those that held so much love within that they could make those who saw the harsher side of this world believe in love again. 

This was the biggest think I had ever encountered as a small think and in that moment, I woke up laying in my mums’ arms while she smiled at me, her own aged eyes filled with tears and in that very moment I whispered to her ” It’s love mama, love saves.” 

Years passed and my story was in every classroom. I wrote a book about love; I taught the elders and went on to become the Ketas first little think to have amalgamated little thinks into a big think and change the course of the world we knew. I took yungins on missions to earth several times to experience the rhythms I had once felt from heart beats, to see the way their little thinks meant so much more than their big thinks. 

I grew old and as my time came closer, I became a teacher. I sit here knowing you’re about to receive this letter. I also sit here knowing my time as a great elder is to come and I’ve chosen to spend it on earth so that I too may utter the words “what is grief if not love persevering” and die as one should, having known it was love who saved me too. 

Squish

STORY 2

Love Saves

Bert Love was forty-three when he realised he was dead. It wasn’t a sudden realisation; he had been carrying on much as usual. Tuesday had followed Wednesday, then came Monday exactly as before. Then, he had slowly become aware that something wasn’t quite right.

He checked the calendar. ‘Mildred!’ He called down the hall. ‘Come here a minute won’t you?’ A door opened further down the corridor and out she came, his eminently blowsy spouse of thirty years. ‘What now,’ she groaned grumpily. ‘I’m in the middle of making gruel. It’s not a good time to disrupt.’

‘Mildred darling dear, corruption of my fetishes!’ Both enjoyed inventing bizarre affectionate aphorisms. ‘Blinding spire of my erections, I beg you: what day is it?’

‘Why,’ she said, ‘most banal and beatific of  Berts, it’s the day before yesterday as it always is. Which is the day before the day before that!’

‘But’, said the Bert, ‘fustian feather of the Finnish forests, potato of the pines, surely by that, time is going backwards?’

‘Oh somnolent sweet sibilant symphony of the seas, exactly right! Have you not heard of that universal tautologous truism, that secret of the spheres – that explains all, encapsulates all, sums the whole of everything in a few words?’

With that she floated up to him, so that her whispering mouth approached his shellish ear. ‘There is,’ she whispered, ‘Life after death!’

‘Really!’ Bert scoffed. ‘anomalous amateur, how bland and bibulous! How often have I visited All, and his sibling, Sundry Religious, every brand your baffled brain may consider, from the Cross-eyed to the Jubilists, from the Brotha to the I Slams, the Jades, the Hind Quarters and even the Bar, hi! Each one, dearest desecrator of delirium, says this: ‘Behold there is Life After Breath! Trust me and it shall be yours. Quoth Erat Demon Stratum!’’

 ‘How nearly! How Almost!’ Mildred cried, clapping her hands in glee. ‘I almost believed ALL of them, till I died!’

‘Pardon?’ For once Bert was baffled. ’What? Why do you say that? Hark! Art dead my love? Or mad in the head? Yet here you are, grinding gruel, boiling beans, burning breakfast as is ever my want! The dead hath no breakfast making powers. Surely! Perfect pudding of a patient partner. Or surely I could not see and hear you as clear as clear?’

‘Ah,’ sighed the woman spectrally. ‘dearest Bert Love. And were you not dead too, you could not.’

Bert swallowed. This information was entirely shocking to him. Only little ago, he was shaking his head, laughing uproariously as he leapt from the roof of the building! Hang on, perhaps that was a clue.

Wait. Just wait. With a horny hand, he reached deeply into his memory. And this is what he found.

*                 *                 *                 *

It was a cloudy day in late May, when Bert Love received the letter. He wasn’t often in receipt of letters. As Network Manager for Grace Notes plc, almost every communication he received was electronic. His life was interspersed with bits and bytes, and pieces of paper were rare. 

         At first he set it aside, rather as a curiosity or something precious to be enjoyed at  leisure, once he had finished setting up the Quondam database for the Sales Team. It was a big job but one he found interesting, and let’s face it, fun. 

         Yet his eyes strayed continually from his screen to the envelope lying next to the keyboard. Fascinating. A hand-addressed envelope. A stamp! Not quite straight and square on the whiteness of the top right hand corner which displayed the Queen’s head as if she was still going strong, still in charge of something. Royal Mail. 

         ‘Mr A Love

         IT Manager

         Grace Notes Ltd

         Albermarle Crescent

         London WC2 5LG’

         Three mistakes. It should read Network Manager. The Company was plc not Ltd. It couldn’t be official. It wasn’t notice to quit. Or a lottery win. And only his mother called him Albert. To everyone else he was Bert.

         Perhaps he should open it.

         No! Still the Database design called! Integrating the advertising, monetising the Social Media responses, ensuring all the formulas worked – – ! Wait. Wait till lunch break.

*           *                 *                 *

They crowded gawping in horror at the mess on the street. Blood, cloth, snapped bones. Some looked up at the horrified faces looking down from the Grace Notes’ cafeteria balcony on the twelfth floor. Somebody’s shaking fingers dialled 999. Somebody shaking fingers prised the note from the hard-clamped fingers.

                   *                 *                 *                 *

‘I perceive you might be right, my sprite, my flight of glee. Seems I am dead! How did this come to be?’

Mildred sighed phlegmatically. ‘Twas the note I wrote’ quoth she.

‘Twere yours! Those words scrawled upon paper – your paws!’ He sputtered. 

‘How sad,’ she said, ‘That a mere jest could break your head. And mine!’

‘I recall….’ Quoth he, ‘Culled in our prime!’

*           *                 *                 *

Extract from the Evening Standard, 15^th May 2023

“….A lovers’ lunch date ended in tragedy this afternoon as both Mr Albert Love (34) and his wife Mildred (30) met a terrible end in  Albermarle Crescent this afternoon. Witnesses describe how they saw Mr Love (33) waving frantically from the twelfth-floor balcony of the staff restaurant, apparently trying to get the attention of his wife who was passing by on the street below. Beano Jobson, a window-cleaner on an adjacent building described what happened. ‘He was laughing his head off, shouting down to her to gain her attention. Then she saw him and looked up and exactly at that moment, he lost his hold and fell twelve floors, straight onto the head of his missus. She didn’t have a chance!’

*           *                 *                 *

Here be the note, saved by me from the cold dead fingers: “Dear Bert, See! I can still write! If you get this, let’s do lunch! I’m in the West End this afternoon! You say where! Big xxx Mildread”

IF YOU have a good short Story, 1,000 – 2,000 words on the theme of LOVE SAVES email it to me and if it’s good enough, I’ll publish it here!

CONGRATULATIONS TO EVERYONE ON THE SHORTLIST!

Just to get to the shortlist is an excellent achievement! You can be truly proud of having impressed our four cynical judges with the quality of your writing, your imagination and your bravery in sending us your wonderful stories.

Before I announce the winners, here’s that shortlist – with names, this time! If you have not yet done so, you can read their stories here: http://jonelkon.com/the-shortlist-2/

JUNIOR

WANAWI JENJE for your stories LITTLE WORLD BIG CHILD, VENGEANCE’S BITTER CONFECTION and PECULIARLY STRANGE WORLD

LIHLE NDODA for GRANNY IS SICK

CALVIN KAMPHINDA for RAINY PANDEMIC

SENIOR

PAVLOVA MAHARAJ for BLEEDING HEART

BEULAH LEE HARRIS for BERTIE’S, MORNING 

SHAUN HARRIS for TSUNAMI

GRIGOR HINES for (Untitled)

AND THE WINNERS ARE: 

For the JUNIOR prize of £25, the Judges eventually chose WANAWI JENJE’s ‘VENGEANCE’S BITTER CONFECTION. Wanawi has such a sure, confident touch and a honed style that it was difficult to choose between the three stories submitted, but eventually this one made it to the top of the pile – despite the excellence of the competition. This is a young writer who will, I am absolutely certain, become a major success. 

For the SENIORS’ £100 PRIZE finally BEULAH HARRIS’ undoubted quality could be ignored no longer. While I have read many of her excellent stories, which always have a sting in the tail, the judges hadn’t and didn’t know the names of the writers. All her stories submitted have the quality and feel of some of the best short story writers, including Roald Dahl and even classic writers like F Scott Fitzgerald and O Henry. The winning story was MORNING, even though in a way the reveal does not have the sting of some of her others. ‘Not enough blood!’ one said. Nevertheless, the Judges agreed that it was wholly unexpected and the lead-in was masterly. Beulah is an immensely talented writer who, if there is any justice, will make her name in this difficult game.

WINNERS

The winners were asked for a profile, and a picture. Here they are:

WANAWI JENJE winner of the Junior section of MEGASAGA 4 2021!

I am Wanayi Jenje, I reside in Johannesburg, South Africa and am currently schooling at The National School of Arts. I am a bibliophile with an undying passion for literature and art. I enjoy baking and playing violin. I especially have a knack for analysing people’s thoughts and behaviour, mostly fictional characters (I really wouldn’t want people to think of me as creepy). In my free time I avoid human contact, read and analyse books and write as much as I can. I have no vivid memory of when I began writing, but I know it was all sparked by my 7th grade play script and English teacher. I aspire to become as influential and expressive as I possibly can through my writing, and hope to evoke reactions and thoughts from a large audience. 

BEULAH LEE HARRIS – winner of the Senior Section £100 MEGASAGA4 COMPETITION 2021

I live in a small fishing village that has to have the kindest and most helpful community.  I spend a lot of time on my laptop, the view beyond  my screen is ocean wherever you look and this time of year, whales jumping right out of the water.  It’s a soothing inspiration to write by!  I am 57 years young, am married and share my passion for writing with my husband, Shaun, who is an award winning financial journalist. Between us, we have 5 children and 4 grandchildren.
I have spent most of my career in the recruitment industry and work with my sister, who is also my best friend, who has her own agency. I have also worked for the Sunday Times in advertising sales and did some freelance feature writing and advertorials.  Writing has been something I have been doing all my life, as cliche as that may sound.  I remember being so proud in junior primary when my poems adorned the classroom wall.  I still have all my certificates for creative writing, and although I was a tiny, insecure little mouse, when I was on that stage reciting my work, I shone!  Writing was my world fifty years ago and it still is.
The lyrics of one of my songs has been produced by BlackByrd and it was quite the hit here in South Africa about  7 years ago.
  I have a following on my own Facebook page of short story ‘groupies’ who truly are an inspiration as it is so rewarding to write for them.  Once again, based on one of my short stories, I am writing my second novel.

The best stories from MEGASAGA 4

CAN YOU PICK THE WINNERS?

Dear readers and writers

Here they are at last! Choosing the best out of the many many entries has been a huge task. This year for the first time ever we have added a Junior Division and entries flooded in – most of them from South Africa, which makes me very happy. In fact, the seniors were vastly outnumbered, leaving us (the Judges) faced with a massive decision: the playing field was no longer fair. How could one possibly award just one prize? Hence the decision to add a special extra £25 prize – approx R493 for younger writers. The Senior winner still gets the £100 promised (R1975 at current rates)

READ the stories and the comments. This year I won’t put the author’s names with the stories, until Thursday afternoon. That way people can judge the stories as they stand, and not the person who wrote them. Did you know that the Metropolitan Opera in New York – or is it the NY Symphony orchestra- makes people who are auditioning play their instruments behind a curtain? That’s what we are doing here!

WINNERS TO BE ANNOUNCED ON 27th JULY

MAKE COMMENTS BELOW! WHICH IS THE BEST JUNIOR? SENIOR? WHY? Are the judges right or wrong?

KEEP AN EYE ON THIS POST. THERE WILL BE UPDATES ALL THE WAY TO THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE WINNERS

JUNIOR

Little world, Big child.

Sam’s head was in the clouds, literally. His long giant legs caused chaos in the world beneath him and he had not known this. All he could see, was the entrancing rainbow with different skin shades on.

Yet, with every thunderous leap he took, the ground shook. Litter on the street flew up, and fell into the surrounding trash cans, trucks filled with library books and fresh loaves of bread fell to the ground in front of the homeless people and the eager children who ran and seized the opportunity.

However, Sam was just a boy.

Jon says: the vocabulary, the descriptive writing is excellent – we had nno choice other than to include this on the Shortlist. Hard to believe this is written by a youngster! I predict a great writing future for you.

JH: Delightful and whimsical. Reminds me of Roald Dahl. Like the unexpected reversal of the universal order in the title.  Also enjoyed the last sentence. The author has flair and sense of style.

Only criticism is the clumsy “entrancing rainbow with different skin shades on”

L: I absolutely love this story however the writer has left a contradiction (in my terms) by using the word “literally” in the beginning. This would have been my favourite story if it didn’t leave me a little confused. Is Sam literally a giant in the clouds as “literally” is used,or is this a play on words and metaphorical in every sense. I loved this story but it’s left me slightly confused because Sam is just a boy.

V: A well written, uplifting and engaging story in just a hundred words. I like the use of language, especially with words like ‘entrancing’ and ‘thunderous’. Double check grammar including the use of commas but otherwise very original and very readable short story. Well done!

Granny is sick

One day my granny was ill and my parents were called to the hospital. I couldn’t go with them and I had to stay at home instead of waiting at the neighbour’s house. My father ensured that all the windows and doors were securely locked when they left.

I reached for the cricket bat in the corner and with my heart beating at a terrible rate. I heard noises at my parents’ bedroom window. When I reached the window scraping and scratching could be heard clearly.

This was a good result for my brave deed.

Jon says: Such good writing for someone so young! Keep practising, keep improving! Congratulations on reaching the Shortlist!

V: Good, clear descriptive language especially when detailing the sounds you heard at the window and also high on readability score because of the simplicity of language. I’m interested in finding out what happens next! Whilst it potentially lacks in originality and a story like structure, you make up for it through engaging the audience with suspense in the second paragraph. Double check capital letters and the use of commas.

JH: Possibly a very young author. Sentence structures need work and I did not understand what the result of the brave deed was.

L: This story did not draw me in at all until the last line. I am intrigued by the results of the brave deed however there is no certain indication as to what the brave deed could have been. Grammar I know is not judged here but I find it affected the writer’s way of getting the story across. I’d like to see more of their writing and like me, to practice more punctuation. However you can tell that this young writer has huge potential and I look forward to seeing more of his/her work!!!

Vengeance’s Bitter Confection

The idea was to get every single guy’s attention by the end of my last school year at Adamson Academy. Just the attention of the guys that mattered that is. And that meant, speaking to people and, dare I say it, socializing. Socializing with the people I had caught marking their book’s page numbers by either folding the page or pressing the book by its spine and recklessly leaving it open with the book’s inside lying flat against a surface, and just for the sake of this thoroughly thought-out plan I would have to constrain my annoyance.

Jon says: when I read this I instantly thought of CM Stunich’s YA novels – you assure me this is your own work! Your voice is so assured, so finely tuned, I am extremely impressed with your talent.

JH: Interesting with a nice use of detail. I feel the first 2 sentences are a bit contradictory.

L: Diligently written, it’s very snobbish and I like it, I want to know more. I loved the visualization created in this one and find it could certainly turn into a YA fantasy of some sort. However it lacked substance and for a lack of better words, I wasn’t particularly excited.

V: Sounds like you really don’t like people that damage books! I like the use of adverbs like ‘recklessly’ and ‘thoroughly’. Some mistakes with where you put your commas. It does sound like you are narrating but that does take a little bit from its readability. I think you needed more than a 100 words to produce a story around the annoyance of your character and what he/she does.

Peculiarly Strange World

Anyone could’ve sworn that Ravenwood High was a slaughterhouse, an abattoir. Except this slaughterhouse would’ve been designated for humans. The sound of Sydney’s footsteps echoing was the only thing that could be heard. Especially that morning at exactly six o’clock, which was her usual time of arrival. The sun’s light was usually not yet visible. An odd thought, that gloomy clouds surrounded the top of the school’s building occurred to her. In fact, the air reeked of eeriness, so much that the walls appeared to be listening and swallowing in on the sound of Sydney’s echoed footsteps.

Jon says: another extremely assured and evocative piece from this writer. I look forward to seeing more of your work – and especially to your first novel!

JH: I felt it was a bit derivative,  but this is often the case with young writers. Some nice imagery, but it reads more like an introduction than a complete story.

L: This is definitely a great writer in the making and I love their use of words. I was pulled in by the first sentence and loved the visualization created with this one too, I wanted to know more, I need to know who Sydney is.

V: Very good use of descriptive language, I awarded you full marks for this. I got a little bit lost after ‘An odd thought’. What was the thought? Spelling and grammar, despite a few mistakes, was good. This sounded like the start of a horror story but not the completion of a short story – I would like Sydney to have experienced something.  

Rainy Pandemic

A woman lies in her couch. It is a cold winter morning, the heavens denied of their light. Blue black, it was quite a vivid memory.

The deadening silence broken by a sudden scream, followed by sounds of sobbing. She prowls like animal hunting prey.

She walks outside, finds her son crying. “Dad’s gone, it was covid “. He runs down the street in distress.

 And just then, two bangs! His gone, the police thought he was a criminal. His skin being his prosecutor.

A sudden call, she wakes up realizing it was a dream. Still under lockdown.

Jon says: An actual story! With beginning, middle and end. Excellent description, highly impressive. The first paragraph is glorious, leading us into the story. A real writer with great potential.

JH: I personally don’t like any story which ends “It was all a dream”  It’s a pet peeve. However there is some good imagery. Basic error “His gone”

L: This story was one of the best for me, had it not ended in “the colour of skin being the reason the boy dies I’d have voted this one as my Top choice for the Youth. I realise many will still use this as grabbing attention however I am tired of stories that end this way. It is compelling and rather chilling to say the least so maybe I’ll put my 2cents aside and vote this one in as my number 1

V: Brilliant imagery! I especially like ‘his skin being his prosecutor’. He’s, not ‘his’ by the way as in ‘he’s gone’. As a story it works very well! I’d cut out the ‘dream’ bit, it’s been used too often before.

SENIOR

Bleeding heart 

There was an electric impulse, the moment their eyes met. Sparks were flying, smiles were widening, words were enticing. 

They agreed on being “friends”, because the repercussions of being more would hurt as much as an arrow being pierced through your heart. 

It was the most alluring three months.. Enticement, lust and intimacy at its peak. 

Along with broken rules and intensified feelings, their desire for each other were like two magnets being pulled together.

They were heading for destruction, despair and heartbreak. 

Is it worth it? 

Is hunger for love worth the risk of a bleeding heart?

Jon says: I have seen quite a few pieces by this developing talent, and each one is more confident than the last. You are developing a delicate capacity to describe emotions. Keep developing this, always avoiding any words or phrases that tend to be overused.

JH; Oh dear, I am just being so mean. I really thought this one had promise at the outset, but then it devolved into generic Mills and Boons and cliche

L: Very good use of descriptive language to evoke emotions. We’ve all been there! Not much of a fan of rhetorical questions. The Romance market is huge, having said that and this writer has talent!

V; A little too romantic for me, but I can see how it would appeal to people who are in love  or would like to be. Emotive language can occasionally get oppressive. Less is more these days!

Bertie’s

The mouth-watering aroma of charring steak wafted out onto the street, drawing customers into Bertie’s.  We queued patiently as the chubby, jovial chef flipped, fried and put together the tastiest burgers in town.
                Obliging community that we were, none of us minded when a policeman politely shouldered his way to the front.
                “Thanks,” he sighed. “It’s been a hell of a day. The mortuary’s been robbed again, third time this month.”
                “What did they steal?” I laughed. “Formaldehyde?”
                “Bodies,” the policeman replied. “Why would anyone want to steal bodies?”
                When Bertie began to twitch nervously, I knew the answer.

Jon says: Hah! Cannibalism is one of my favourite themes. (btw, I read about ‘Autocannibalism’ the other day. Wild.) My first novel Umfaan’s Heroes touches on this, so your story went to my heart. Terrific use of the last sentence kick-in the guts.

JH: I like the darkness and the twist. Dare I say Roald Dahl again? Nice supporting description.

L: This story left me gobsmacked to say the least but this type of catch has been used many times before. I loved the build up, the casual pace and then the shock. I just feel it too cliché. In a manner of judging just writing though, this is a very talented writer who deserves to be heard.

V: I enjoyed the unexpected morbid twist at the end of the story but it did seem like it was necessary to make the story a story. In many ways, I see this as more a slightly longer joke than usual. The conversation itself seems to be one that I think is unlikely to ever happen (a policeman is unlikely to talk about his work like this).  

Morning

As the sky paled, transforming silhouettes into colorful trees and the sun glistened silver on the gently lapping lake, the young mother breathed in the heady, freshness of a new day.  Morning magic had begun.
            She smiled at the antics of her children at play, marvelling at their joyful energy and fun.  Ever mindful of new dangers in a changing world, she was on full alert.
            Footsteps!
            She gathered her children.  In a flurry of bushy tails, they scampered up an oak tree to safety from those who had once fed them, but now wanted to feed upon them.

Jon says: another story by this talented writer. Sometimes when reading your work I skip to the last sentence, then go back to see how you have constructed the narrative. I am always impressed.

JH: Cute and whimsical. Unexpected ending. Maybe an overuse of adjectives.

L: Nothing short of brilliant. I was completely enchanted by the abrupt realization that these were in fact squirrels, I think ? Rather than humans. What a twist! A very similar writing style to myself, I thoroughly enjoyed this one and commend the writer on giving my brain whiplash. It was a delight.

V: Is there a hidden story about the realities of this world behind this short story? I think so. Not only do I question what is actually happening in the moment – are people attempting to capture squirrels for food? – but think about how necessity can break norms that we normally live by. What leads the very creatures that were once so giving to want to take the life of those that they were giving to? Are all humans capable of turning on those that they care for under certain circumstances?

Tsunami

Sunrise saw me at the door, about to turn the handle to see if my dream had come true.

Deep thought and study confirmed my dream. Or fear. The tsunami was coming tonight. My modest property would be on the beachfront, tripling in value. Wealth. 

Yet the cost. For the sea at my door would submerge six streets below me. Drown thousands of people. But it might not come and lives would be saved. What did I want? Wealth or the death of others.

I turned the handle and pushed the door. I saw what I had wished for. 

Jon says: I love the basic idea behind this story, and the writing is assured, the narrative well-constructed. I feel, however, that to make the central conceit work more powerfully, you would need several more words. Still, it works because you leave the protagonist’s power and foresight up to the imagination.

JH: The moral dilemma is interesting,  but logic sank it for me. A Tsunami does not result in a desirable beachfront property.  It recedes leaving mayhem and ruins property prices.

L: Wow! This is a very eery story that I read over and over again. It screams reality, truth and the nature of human kind in a way not many people are willing to hear let alone write. This was brilliant,  this is a skilled and honest writer!

V: An interesting story that leads to a cliffhanger questioning the character of the narrator but is there much more to the story at all?

I give up. When I designed them, tbh, it was a bit of a joke. I mean only two legs! I was going through my binary phase at the time, everything in twos. Eyes, hands etc. Then, just to see what would happen, I cursed them with a brain far larger than needed. That done I went off to the more civilised parts of the Galaxy to try out some much more sensible prototypes.

Look what happened! A mere 4 billion years and these idiots have succeeded in making this lovely Planet virtually uninhabitable.  Oh well….back to the drawing board….

Jon says: I know your style well, as you have entered the Competition every year since it began. I love the way your entirely idiosyncratic imagination plays with the mind of the reader. I don’t know whether this is humour or not: I suppose all your work defies categorisation.

JH: I like the theme of this story and the first paragraph is witty and punchy.

I feel the conclusion is a bit preachy and not so well written. The same message could have been put across  in a more original way. A more pithy conclusion would have enabled a title

L: Good point about the big brain! We think we’re so clever, yet we manage to ruin the earth. This works as satire for me. Rather cheeky to write in the voice of God! You will be struck by lightning.

V: Grigor is on to a winner. Humans are destroying this planet but, here’s a question, if God didn’t want us to be this way why did he make us like this?!

The DEADLINE has passed and now the work begins….

Hello writers! Well, stage 1 of Megasaga 4 is over, and Stage 2 begins: Judging.

Entries have been flooding in – but mostly from young writers! Aged 14 – 18, in the main. Since I did my series of Writing Seminars for Afrika Tikkun, (a marvellous Charity which helps pupils from all backgrounds through school and into employment or further education. See https://afrikatikkun.org for more on their fantastic work) I have been deluged with proof of the vast reservoir of talent there is in my Home Country.

As a result, how can I judge their work against older, more experienced writers? So I am initiating a JUNIOR LEAGUE for the first time, and will be awarding a special prize of £25.00 for the best story! The SENIOR LEAGUE will still earn that coveted £100 for 100 words prize….

And the MEGA BOOK, containing all the best stories of the past 4 years will be published before the end of the year. So even if you don’t win, you could be a PUBLISHED AUTHOR by 2022!

SO WATCH THIS SPACE!

THE NEXT STAGE is the shortlisting process. I go through ALL the entries. Stories which are not 100 words or which in some other way don’t meet the rules are eliminated, and I choose the best 20 or so to send to Judges. Their job is to independently mark each one against a set of criteria – originality, use of language, quality and engagement. Then they send them back to me and if we have major disagreements, we will have a Zoom meeting to discuss. I then select those with the highest scores to publish here, on this website for comments by YOU by on or about 7th July.

We will take all comments into account! Unless, of course, they are rude or crude!

Finally, we select the winners, Senior and Junior and this is announced 20 days later.

SO GOOD LUCK! And never stop writing. REMEMBER, most famous authors have had to suffer rejection multiple times. And if one day your work becomes a published novel, you can always turn around to me and say, Nah! Told you so! That would please me a great deal.

Much love