Quiet as a Mouse (WINNER, JUDGES’ PICK)

By Heather Haigh

I can hide behind the sofa and count and sing Three Blind Mice. Silently. Twice for bread and marg and a cigarette for Dad—the red blob on the end will dance in his fingers. Five times for two slices with sugar on top and two cigs and a big drink of whisky which makes Dad smell funny and he'll sing himself to sleep. 

I never did sixteen before. Seventeen is loud voices and banging, twenty-one the front door slamming; twenty-five is peeking and seeing mouse blood on the floor. The shouting has gone outside. 

I can count to fifty. 

Monsters Above (RUNNER UP, JUDGES’ PICK)

By Olivia Todd

Lie still. Lie still. Hold your breath and count ’til dawn. Listen for the twist of the doorknob. Listen for the pad of those ten-toed feet. Listen for the creak of the springs. Wait for their groaning cry. Wait for the pressure to crush your spine. 

Block out the squeals and jumbled sounds. Don’t jolt at the thud or rattle of something you know not the name for.

‘Silly Daddy, you dropped the book! Goodnight.’

Be as subtle as motes. If they find you, you’d be ripped out. Remember what the shadows taught you—the monster is a light sleeper. 

Just not today…

By Morwenna Wilde

Today was not the best day to go out. It looked like rain. Maeve ignored the umbrella in the corner that Sam bought her for Christmas.

Today was not the best day. Didn’t she have a list of jobs as long as her arm? The toilet would not scrub itself.

Today, when Mrs Upperdine bustled up the garden path to take her out, she hid behind the curtain, hand on her chest, heart thumping, until the doorbell stopped ringing.

“Don’t be silly, darling.” She told Sadie on the phone. “Of course I go outside sometimes. Just not today.” 

The betrothal and marriage of Anger and Fear

By John Petrie

They met in wartime. Introduced by friends, they formed an instant connection and, to the disquiet of many, became inseparable. A conscientious few objected but most succumbed to their invidious charm. Their courtship prevailed, their influence grew, and marriage was proposed. Cold feet and hot blood notwithstanding, their big day came. 

‘I, Anger, take thee, Fear, to be my wedded spouse, to fight or flight from this day forward, for bitter for worse, in strictness and in stealth, to grudge and disparage, unto death.

Massive years later a singular divorce separated them, but their offspring follow in their footsteps.

Night Terrors

By Holly Sissons

They’re here. 

I want to race to the bedroom, but I can’t risk them hearing my footsteps.  The creeping is torture, especially when I catch the mournful whine of the hall door and know I’ll soon hear the groan of the broken fifth step.  I can’t help but crawl faster.  I’ve reached the bedroom when I hear it, there’s still just about time to fold myself under the bed.  Please don’t find me.

I count the steps, six, seven, eight…

Don’t let them find me.  Not yet.

Wait until they’re climbing in to bed, until their ankle is in reach.

Procrastin…..

By Lisa Vercelli

The paper is stark and white. Barren. Apart from these three sentences. All the ideas that were in my head…good ideas…original ideas, they won’t come out. Any that do aren’t recognisable as ideas. Some of them are hardly recognisable as words. The black type in front of me swims into one vast puddle, where creativity goes to drown. I feel a sickness deep inside. It asks who do I think I am? Mocking me, scornful that I dare to try to put something out into the world. I’m paralysed. I can’t write anything. Or maybe I just did.

A Hand on her Shoulder

By Val Roberts

It is dark. She should have got a taxi.  Footsteps behind her. She crosses the road but the footsteps follow. Her stomach lurches, heart pounding, she fumbles her key out of her bag, makes a fist and holds it like a makeshift knife. She starts to run, the footsteps quicken and a hand grips her shoulder. His breath is hot and urgent in her ear.

“Miss, you dropped your purse.”

She turns to see a gangly, hooded boy. He hands her the purse, smiles, unaware of the fear he caused her, and runs back to his friends.

I’d Prefer a Lethal Injection, Please

By Sharon Hancock

 A fly wanders around on the filet mignon I cannot eat. 

“Go ahead. Life is short. One of us should enjoy ourselves before we die,” I tell the fly. My voice drips with envy. 

 Footsteps clomp toward me. Jingling keys, my escort arrives.

The fly abandons ship, flying directly into the hand of my garrison.

Smoosh

My warden wipes his hand on his pants.

“It’s time.” He holds the door for me. 

I gulp.

My jelly legs wobble. All I see is…

the chair. 

And the podium where I stand to give my speech.

I wish I was the fly.

The Good Wife’s Guide, 1955

By Fiona Ritchie Walker

Dinner’s in the oven,

tea fresh in the pot,

plates ready, warming

but not too hot.

Slippers by the fireside

for when he comes home,

lipstick freshly painted,

a splash of cologne.

All my news stays hidden

when I ask about his day,

my life must be invisible,

opinions tucked away.

A casual comment last week

turned my cheek dark blue and green.

My saviour? Max Factor,

meaning none of this is seen.

I’ve read the guide so carefully

but never really know

the ending of my evening

once the whisky starts to flow.

On a Bluff Overlooking a Beach

By Felipe Orlans

Our steel coffin reeked of fear. The thick stench of fear, sweat, vomit and diesel fumes. 

I prayed silently, the same words, over and over: “Please, God, please!”

“Fear is your friend,” Sergeant Cahill shouted over the pounding of my heart - every beat a lifetime, dying a thousand deaths.  “Embrace your fear! It will keep you safe!”

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry and I coughed. Then the ramp dropped and we hit the beach. 

Fear will keep you safe.

Ten thousand white marble headstones on a bluff in Normandy mark the lie of those words.

Monsters, Ghosts & Ghouls

By Chris Morris

It’s just the dark. The room will be the same as it is with the light on. Just can’t see stuff. That’s all.

‘Goodnight, honey. Remember, there’s nothing to be frightened of.’ Mum’s smile helps – a little. 

I smile back – a little.

The light clicks off. Mum leaves the door open. Just a crack. A smidge, she calls it.

No such thing as monsters, ghosts or ghouls. That’s what Mum always says. Jack, too. Say it aloud when you feel scared.

‘No such thing as monsters. Or–‘

Somewhere near the window, I hear Jack laughing. Creeping a smidge closer.

Stolen Identity

By Faith Williams

People treat you differently. Some shun you, others tiptoe. A few crawl out of the woodwork. 

“How are you?” Concern oozes with each word.

An image of you puking flashes in your head. You paste a smile on your face.

“Fine… considering.” Considering your left breast is gone along with your hair. Food tastes like metal. And you’re exhausted. So exhausted.

“You brave woman.”

You avoid your reflection in their eyes. Because you’re scared shitless. Treatments strip you bare yet still force you to wear a mask. Cancer has stolen your identity. And you fear you’ll never get it back.

Sysiphus’ Manifestation

By Frances Hodgson

I wake up one morning and I am a speck of dust. A grain of sand flicked and disregarded by the hands of time as they tick..tock. 4.5 billion years of genealogical advancement to worry about whether these jeans make my thighs look too thick.

Steam swirls hypnotizingly from my naked body, as it soaks in scolding lavender oil. I sink below the water line to hear my heart resonate in my ear drums, like the pounding of a funeral procession. Dum..Dum..Dudum..Dum. My own organ mocks me, one..day..this will..end. What is my purpose?

My mother the crab

By Kayleigh Jones

My mother, a crab, scuttles back beneath rocks. Same old spot. 

Invading wellies muddy the pool. Scuddy nets sweep, shake and plop! Into the plastic bucket she goes. Poke. Prod. Pudgy fingers and gnarled twigs. Grab. Smack. Toss her back. 

Crack! Shell split. Claws bruised. 

‘High tide!’ I cry. ‘Let’s escape to the sea.’ 

Mother quivers, scuttles back. Same old spot. 

Until all her fragments are swept and scattered, peach pink, calcium and carbonate, mantle detached, across sea-glass sands.

I dream of drifting free atop foam tipped waves. 

Oh, but I am a limpet, so I stay.

Feathers for Pestilence

By Lisbeth Tull

He knocked at midnight, draped in black, with a wooden staff and a wide-brimmed hat. In the presence of his glass eyes and long beak, brave men fled, but Mother beckoned him in, "They is downstairs, Sir."

In the candlelit basement, her twin daughters lay nestled in slumber, their faces glistening rosily, as if waiting for Saint Peter to snatch them for Heaven.

"Please, Sir?" she begged with hands clasped, "Can you saves them?"

Raising their smocks with his staff, he exposed the festering wounds beneath. His silence was suffocating, like a noose of impending grief tightening around her throat.