First Page Competition 2018 - THE RESULTS!

Owing to the volume of entries to this year's competition, we're a little later than we'd hoped in releasing the results of our First Page Competition 2018 and we thank you all for your patience. Congratulations to everyone who entered, the overall quality of entries was very high and judging was incredibly difficult. In no particular order, here is our longlist, shortlist and winners ... [JD Smith - Editor]

Longlist

An Entry in the Yellow Book by Dianne Bown-Wilson

Beneath the Apple Blossom by Kate Frost

Bloodlender by Zoe Perrenoud

Fall of Meredith by Alison Woodhouse

Gospel of Eve by Nastasya Parker

His Lie Her Lie by Abby Davies

Mot and the Gates to Hades by Julian Green

The Bicycle Project by Michele Ivy Davis

The Days Have Worn Away by Gill Darling

The Gatherer of the Dead by Julian Green

The Immortalist by Tracy Fells

The Stillness by Louise Cato

Uncle Raymond by Rue Baldry

Under the Lighthouse by Rowena Cross

What’s In a Name by Vanessa Horn

Yesterday's Love by J A Silverton

Shortlist

A Woman Walked into a Life by Francesca Capaldi Burgess

Better to See Him Dead by Amanda Huggins

Born From Red by Stephanie Hutton

Civil War by Tom Szendrei

Don't fear the Rapper by Andy Smith

Handle with Care by Beth Madden

Independence Day by Rod Cookson

Sweet, Bitter Spring by Mark Robberts

Sisters by Alan Veale

Treasure in the Tidelines by Jess Thomas

Up She Rises by Damhnait Monaghan

Weaponised Skeletons by Kate Lowe

Where the Mermaids Go by Pat Black

THE WINNERS

First Prize £500

Málenki Robot by Mary Cohen

Second Prize £100

Handle with Care by Beth Madden

Third Prize £50

The Diarist by Julia Underwood

Judge’s Report by Jane Davis

The last writing competition I judged was for ‘vignettes’, not a term I’d stumbled across before. The premise was that anything went, provided that the entire piece came in at under 15,000 words. Soon it became clear that I wasn’t being asked to judge like with like. Poetry collections were pitted against novellas. I am fairly confident that I picked the right winner, because that strange and wonderful piece called The Walmart Book of the Dead has just been made required reading at Princeton University.

When Words With Jam asked me to judge their First Page competition, I assumed (foolishly) that the process would be simpler. After all, I write novels. I know exactly what first pages must deliver:

The language must speak to me.

I should be transported to another time or place.

Questions should be planted in my mind and I must be emotionally engaged and invested in finding out the answers.

I must want to know more about the characters.

Key themes should be introduced, either familiar themes (in which case they must be handled in an original way) or unfamiliar (in which case the quality of the writing will have to carry me through).

I should understand what is at stake.

I must be able to see that the content has the potential to be developed into a novel. And that’s the difficult part of not judging a whole. I don’t know for sure if the rest of the novel has been written, if the first page is part of the Work in Progress, or if the story exists only as an idea - although I can take an educated guess. If the novel is complete, the first page will have been revisited, revised and rewritten. We will be parachuted into the action at a particularly compelling part of the story. It will be apparent from the way in which the author introduces their first character (a fully-fleshed person) and their themes (an original take). Many of my early drafts of first chapters don’t feature in the final versions of my novels. But there are many ways into a story and you need to write first chapters that end up on the cutting-room floor to work through the creative process.

More important is the question, ‘Do I believe every word that is written on the page?’

I can say with absolutely no hesitation that my winner is Malenki Robot. I loved the premise - a very precise set of instructions (‘Bypass the beggar woman who sleeps in the gutter on Kairaly u. Watch out for the pothole.’) - and our character, who goes to the assignment but does the very opposite of everything he/she’s been told to do. It’s a confident beginning. I am expecting something dark, quirky and original, most probably although not necessarily crime. There are hints that the author isn’t writing in his or her first language (references to a ping pong racquet rather than a bat), but it could be that our narrator is a foreigner in an unfamiliar country. I simply don’t know - the point is that I really, really want to find out.

Fourteen remaining entries. My second and third choices will be the result of painful and slow elimination. I cannot claim that this stage of judging is ever entirely fair. Twelve green bottles have to go. Several entrants have used the theme, ‘new beginnings’ and so they feel ‘samey’. Several start quietly with beautiful prose, but hold back on the promise of what is to come. One totally wins me over with the first paragraph but then introduces language that completely turns me off. I have no way of telling if this has been done deliberately (in which case it was one hundred percent effective and I owe you an apology). And now there are five. All completely different.

Perhaps I’ll feel more decisive after lunch.

(Later)

I’m wracked with guilt, having whittled the shortlist down to three. But I still have one more to lose. I write my notes in the hope that this helps with the final elimination. It does.

In second place is Handle With Care. A classic dilemma. You’ve fallen in love with the wrong man, but you’re trying to be a good mother, so you have to put your children first - or do you? Original use of voice - this woman isn’t going to take things lying down, so plenty of scope for conflict. I can see that Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car will be the soundtrack the film version.  

In third place is The Diarist - someone has just killed someone, the police are arriving and she has a diary which must be hidden, we assume because it reveals her guilt. Some wonderful imagery - the corners of the night porter’s newspaper wafting in time with his snores. Tension extremely well-handled.

Congratulations to all who entered. I especially want to commend Civil War. The writing was totally authentic. I believed every word. The reason I eliminated it was because, rather than a set-up for a novel, it was a complete piece of writing in itself. 

First Prize £500

Málenki Robot by Mary Cohen

‘Head towards the Jewish district, through the park with the broken streetlamps (don’t get mugged).

‘Bypass the beggar woman who sleeps in the gutter on Király u. Watch out for the pothole.

‘If you are offered directions, do not accept. Do not tell anyone where you are going.

‘Székely u. is “dog district”. You may find yourself tailed by anything up to twenty strays. Walk quickly, but no sudden movements. Do not stroke or feed the dogs.

‘There is no marker on the bar. Look instead for a lit window and keep an ear out for music. You should hear jazz. If you don’t hear jazz, it’s a bad time, come back later.

‘Front door is always locked. Use window instead. Be sure not to break anything on your way in.

‘No eye contact with anyone until you’ve ordered. Acceptable drinks to order: beer. Do not ask for whiskey, gin or rum.

‘You will meet a man named Thovas, usually found at the bar or near the window. He will have a racket in his pocket and will most likely be drinking beer with a slice of apple.

‘He will offer you a game of ping pong. Do not accept.’

I strolled in through the window and ordered myself a whiskey.

Thovas was easy to spot. He sat by himself and the bare bulb overhead fell on him like a spotlight. He had half a fruit basket floating in his beer.

He sensed me immediately as I approached and his neck snapped upright. His face was wrinkled but alert. Electricity flowed from his eyeballs. I wondered if they were hooked up to the lighting in the joint.

I gestured towards the racket protruding from his coat pocket. His eyes grew an extra 60 watts.

‘Ping pong?’ He asked.

I nodded.

Second Prize £100

Handle with Care by Beth Madden

The first night police showed up at the house we’d just moved in. My teapot was on the table, porcelain gleaming in a nest of newspaper and curls of used tape. I knew jack about tea. Only that you drank the stuff. But I did know I wanted that pot. A handful of hints two Christmases past was all it took for Dad to shell out its disgusting value in cash. But I couldn’t reach the top cupboard. I had to wait for Mitch to ramble home from his snack run. The police waited for him too.

He got off with a fine. No conviction recorded.

They came again a few months later. Up to my elbows in suds and second-hand cutlery, I yelled for Mitch to get his arse out of the garage. ‘You wanna tell me why Barry’s here?’

‘Popped by for a visit?’

Oily rag stuffed in his jeans, Mitch brewed Barry a cuppa while Constable Burke scouted out zip-lock bags. I blathered at her nonstop. Guess I was never much for tension.

Mitch got an order, community-based. He never shirked an appointment, ever ready to piss on cue. I lived on pins, my only prayer that he’d piss clean.

But the law came by again. We had a casserole in the oven. The dish burnt and battered by decades in their honorary grandma’s kitchen, I turned down the heat and packed the kids off to their room for homework.

‘What’s Barry want Mitch for?’ my eldest asked, eight and uneasy. I told him not to worry.

‘Mitch isn’t the one with a spelling test tomorrow, love.’

I smiled, a painful postscript left unspoken: not a written test, anyway.

The dirty sample breached his order. He got imprisonment. ‘I don’t want to see you here again,’ the magistrate warned, suspending it. Mitch’s fervent nods swung on a hinge. And the cops were back before long. This time Dad’s old slow cooker bubbled and steamed. They’d learnt dinner was when to catch us.

‘Sorry, April,’ said Barry, smacking Mitch on the shoulder. Then he steered him out the door. Again.

Barry liked Mitch—Mitch made it hard not to. The officers smiled at him like a family who treasured their beloved black sheep.  Our tidy suburb’s obliging problem child. He was such a lovely guy. And he was mine. But I couldn’t take much more of this. 

Third Prize £50

The Diarist by Julia Underwood

1966

Nearly home.

Her boots crunched in the snow as she hurried from the Underground station, pulling her coat collar up around her neck against the chill. Her laboured breath fogged the air.

It was terrible, but he’s dead now. It’s over.

An empty, brightly-lit bus trundled past in stately silence; not a night to be out. The plane trees stood like sentinels at the snow-muffled kerb. The buildings’ lights created pools of gold on the white mantle.

Careful not to slip; disastrous. No-one must see me.

In minutes, she was climbing the steps to the flats. Bert, the night porter, snoozed at his desk, an Evening News folded across his face, its corners wafting in time with his snores.

She crept up the carpeted stairs. The noise of the lift with its clanking gates and grinding mechanism would wake him.

Reaching her sanctuary, she leaned against the closed door out of breath and with her heart pounding so hard it vibrated throughout her body. Her mouth was dry as a husk. She removed her coat and boots, put them to dry and made tea, her hands shaking.

In the bedroom she changed her clothes and then snatched the blue leather diary from beside the bed and took it into the living room. No point in turning on the television; it was almost time for closedown. Her terror abated, replaced by relief and even serenity.

Opening the diary’s shattered cover, she perused the closely written pages. Memories stirred emotions that she thrust aside. The handwriting, initially neat and controlled, had gradually deteriorated. In those last tortured months, when she poured such hatred and misery into the book, words became knotted and mangled, devouring the pages until, in the last paragraphs, they stopped in prosaic finality. She slammed it shut.

Mustn’t waste time. Hide it where no-one will look.

A car drew up outside. Doors slammed. Several pairs of feet crunched up the steps. The car’s light flashed blue, slicing the icy air and reflecting on her curtains. A pause, and the lift rattled to the second floor.

Bert will have woken for them.

Panic. She spun around, seeking a hiding place.

She lifted the sofa’s front legs and, her supple wrist twisting unnaturally, thrust the book up deep amongst the springs. The seat dropped to the carpet, the fringe trembling as it settled.

Then the doorbell rang. 

Well done to our winners. We'll be in touch in due course to arrange your prize money. JD Smith - Editor

The Long Road to Publication #2

By Andy Smith

Since last time I’ve been trying to figure out how to get my novel into readers’ hands. For the moment I’ve been sticking with the ‘submitting to agents’ route. (Other routes into publication are available, but you’ve got to try sending a submission letter which includes “and I won the First Page competition”, haven’t you?) I said I’d tell you how I was getting on. I also promised to tell you a bit more about how I’ve got a comic fantasy novel which mixes a few other things together. So let’s do them both at once, shall we?

Breaking the Lore is a fantasy comedy which follows the events of a very strange police investigation. In modern-day Britain, a policeman discovers the body of a crucified fairy. There’s an army of demons on the way, but before he can stop them the policeman must overcome one major problem: he doesn’t actually believe in magic. Unfortunately for him, this is a detective story with elves, dwarves, mystical beings, cigarettes, alcohol and lots of jokes. Think Inspector Morse, as written by Tolkien - after several plates of magic mushrooms.

Because it’s a comedy, you can get away with things that you couldn’t otherwise; and you can mix things up. So there are sci-fi references, which are thrown in as comedy pastiches. There’s love interest, which is there to give Inspector Paris a bit more character, and to make him uncomfortable for comedy purposes. There’s explanations of the world I’ve created so the reader knows that everything does hang together. (Because fantasy fans - me included - are big on coherent world building, even silly worlds. And the explanations are usually deflated with some more comedy anyway.) The detective story is what enables events to move along and provides a plot around which everything else takes place. But, basically, it’s a comedy, which just happens to involve lots of fantasy elements.

Also because it’s a comedy, you can sneak in things under the radar. Things like how people who are different from yourself are not necessarily bad, and can actually make a valuable contribution. I don’t beat anyone over the head with it, but that’s the underlying theme of the story really; something which I think is a very important message for the times we’re living in.

Now that’s how I see it. That’s how everyone who has read the whole story sees it too, and they’ve all enjoyed it. (Including Alison Morton, judge of the First Page competition, and a proper author with actual published books!) A few months ago I was a finalist in the Writing on the Wall ‘Pulp Idol’ competition, where I had to read out the first chapter to the judges and audience. Afterwards, I received feedback from numerous members of the audience who said “I’d buy that book.” They were people of both sexes, all ages, and readers of various genres. Recently I took part in the Sheffield Novel Slam, similarly involving reading out to the audience and getting their feedback, and I received a similar reaction: people telling me they liked it and wanted to hear more.

But, when I send it off to agents - slightly different response.

Like most people who try to get something published, I’ve got a growing pile of rejection emails. I’ve found that most of the time you either get no reply at all, or you get a variant on the “thanks but no thanks” message. I’m building a fair sized collection of a different type of rejection; one which basically says “your writing’s good, the story’s great, but I can’t sell it.” AARRGGHH!

Deep breath.

Conceivably I’ve got too many things going on in the book. Maybe I’m being too ambitious. However, I’ve got people telling me they want to buy my novel. I know for a fact that I’ve got a potential audience out there. I just need an agent who can help me to reach them. So if there are any of you reading this blog and want to be that one - please get in touch! My potential readers are waiting for you!

The Long Road to Publication - Part One

When First Page Competition Winner Andy Smith contacted us to ask our suggestions for what next, we gave him a bunch of ideas and had one of our own. Why not share a diary with Words with JAM readers, detailing his progress from competition winner to published author? Happily he agreed. 
You can read Andy's winning First Page here 


I’m Andy Smith, the still shell-shocked winner of the First Page competition. I’ve officially got a good opening page, plus some great feedback from Alison Morton. But how do I know if the rest of the novel is any good? I could enter more competitions: Best Second Page, Best Third Page, etc. I reckon I would need 194 more competitions to get the end of the book, which might take a while. So I think I’ll try a different approach.

I’ve been working on editing, tidying up, sorting out and general polishing of the whole novel (not just the first page) for quite some time now. I’ve got a number of beta readers who’ve provided comments - good and bad - which I’ve incorporated. And, most importantly, I’m a member of a writing group who provide serious critiques and criticisms when required.

(Aside: in my humble opinion, if you want to improve your writing, the best thing you can do is join a writing group. Pick which one you join carefully though: not one where everybody goes “Yes Mabel, that’s wonderful” to everything they hear. You want one where people will point out flaws and tell you honestly when things aren’t working. I’m in South Manchester Writers’ Workshop, something I mention as a thank you to the folks there rather than as a plug - we haven’t got room for any more members at the moment! However, there are lots of other groups out there. End of aside.)

As a result of all the above, I think my whole novel is now in a sufficiently good state to try and get published. That’s the next step. One giant leap sideways for crab kind.

Important decision time. Do I send it off to agents and publishers and fight the uphill battle against rejection letters? Or do I self-publish, and fight the (possibly even more uphill) battle of making it stand out from the 47 billion other self-published books?

Answer: dunno. I think I’ll try both, and pick the brains of the good people at Words With Jam for their ideas on the self-publishing route. As you’ve probably gathered from the competition results, this is a comic fantasy novel which mixes a few other things together, and thereby gives agents a bit of a dilemma. (Doubtless more on that in future posts.) But if I self-publish I’ve got to sort out a professional editor, someone to do the cover, etc, etc. Why do I get the feeling this where the hard part starts?

Another thing I’m going to need to do is consider a pseudonym. When my Mum and Dad were naming their children they never thought about one of them trying to be an author. Hence I’ve been lumbered with ‘Andy Smith’, which is about as noticeable as ‘A. Nonymous.’ I could try Eric Blair, perhaps? Dorothy Parker? Peter Parker? My spider sense is telling me that none of them would be right.

Watch this space.


About Andy:

I was born in Liverpool but now live in Manchester.
The people there are great, but we don’t talk about football.

I work as a project manager for a software company, which really is every bit as exciting as it sounds.

Writing is what keeps me sane.

First Page Competition 2015 - THE RESULTS!

Winners

1st Prize Winner

A Piece of Broken Sky by Claudia Cruttwell

2nd Prize Winner

The Little Black Pig by Sharon Bennett

3rd Prize Winner

The Taste of Cider by Catherine Edmunds

Shortlist

Nathan Kane by Rebecca Kemp

The Book of Mercies by Barbara Weeks

Linger and Die/Port Phillip Dreaming by Neil Brooka

The Red File by Alison Morton

The Penitent by J. J. White

Bigglesdyke by James Robinson

Blues After Hours by Mo Foster

Mother Runs by Natalie Newman

Golden Tesserae by Elizabeth Willcox

The Anatomy of a Hat Pin by Vanessa Matthews

Dead Branches by Benjamin Langley

Deep Feelings by Alan Coley

Delivery by Angi Holden

A Bow Full-drawn by Don Wells

Judge's Report by Guy Saville

The moment I sat down to start going through the shortlist, I was struck by the difficulty of the task that lay ahead. There was such a wide variety of subjects and styles that I didn’t know where to start. In the end, my decisions were instinctive - and so entirely subjective. If you’re not one of the winners, do not see this as any judgement on you or your writing. Just as with the real world of publishing, a book can be rejected by one editor, then be picked up by the next and become a bestseller.

A couple of general observations. There was a lot of sex and illness in the entries! What this says about WWJ readers I’m not sure. Perhaps you’re fans of Freud… or Woody Allen. On a more serious note, if I had one piece of advice after reading so many first pages it’s this: be wary of overloading on information. A number of entries were weighed down with too many characters, and too much scene-setting. Try not to make too many demands on a reader when they first start your book; let them settle in. Keep your first page intriguing, but also focused and simple.

Here are my winners:

1st Place - A PIECE OF BROKEN SKY by Claudia Cruttwell
I liked the title of my winner, and titles are something never to underestimate. They are the first words any agent, editor or reader will encounter. Make them count. The first paragraph sets the scene, implying the heat of the night with the open window and cicadas. But instead of the usual chirrup from the insects, they are ‘lamenting’. This unexpected word drew me in. A few paragraphs later, there’s another unexpected moment: a roasted pig’s head which the narrator illicitly snacks on. This combination of striking imagery and simple, evocative prose is why I chose this as my winner.

2nd Place - THE LITTLE BLACK PIG by Sharon Bennett
I was intrigued by this entry. A man finds a message in a bottle washed up on the beach. I’m sure it’s something we’ve all imagined. The message begins with a confession of petty shoplifting, and ends with something much more ominous: talk of a gun. It’s a great narrative hook and suggests a plot of mystery and danger. I’d certainly want to find out more.

3rd Place - THE TASTE OF CIDER by Catherine Edmunds
I promise there will be no pigs in this choice! There are, however, ewes… and some great writing. I thought lines such as grass ‘aching where sheep have trampled’ were wonderfully evocative. It’s not all in the language though. There’s also a hint of conflict and jealousy between the narrator, Patrick and his wife.

Winning Entries

1st Prize Winner
A Piece of Broken Sky by Claudia Cruttwell

It is late at night. The window is open and the cicadas are lamenting the newly clipped lawn. I step out of bed in my nightdress and shy away from the mirror. I do not wish to encounter myself. The moon picks out the room’s simple furnishings, selected by my husband who has made an exhibit of my childhood home. I leave him to sleep. His seed lies in a fine crust on my thigh.

I mount the stairs to the living room. Here, the window lets in, not just the moonlight, but also the distant lights of the town. The town where I was once a chambermaid. The town which, according to Papa in his craziness, was never there before. The town which lay unseen behind a stone wall. It seems to be saying to me, ‘You were never hidden from view. Nothing that you did, or that others did to you, went un-noticed. There has always been a window on you.’

A centipede scuttles up the wall: a thin line of silver with legs stuck out straight on either side like an ariel mast. Its many legs carry it quickly to a crack in the wall through which it disappears as if it has been sucked in by a straw.

I am hungry. I go to the kitchen and open the door to the fridge. Manila has put away the remnants of the feast in uncovered bowls. There is nothing but hardened vegetables and wilted salads. I close the door and see, there on the dining table, the roasted pig’s head.

The skin of its face is dark, the eyes shrivelled and glazed. I take a knife from the drawer and stab an eyeball, drawing it out whole with ease. Yes, I cannot resist. A little nugget of juicy fat, easy and pleasant to chew.

I tear off a piece of the crispy skin and suck on its sweetness. I take the knife to the right ear and eat this also. It is salty and crunchy. Grease dribbles over my hand.

I continue to explore with my knife and fingers. The meat at the temples, just above the eyes, yields a particularly tender and juicy delight. There are little sealed pockets, fatty cavities, all over, which I break open to find the meat inside still warm, even though it is many hours since it was cooked.


2nd Prize Winner
The Little Black Pig by Sharon Bennett

Robert picked his way over the rock pools, zigzagging towards a discarded bottle at the base of the grassy cliff. The carelessness of holidaymakers irritated him and he was keen to add this piece of rubbish to the black sack swinging by this side. The cork was still wedged in the top of the bottle, but it felt light. He took a closer look. There was a note inside. A prank surely. Straightening up, he looked around to see if anyone was watching, but there were only a few people left on the beach, mostly locals, and nobody was interested in Robert’s activities as a voluntary litter collector.

Once back on the firmer ground, Robert leaned against the breakwater and took another look at his find. The bottle was still warm from the day’s sun and freckled with damp sand. He worked at the cork until it released its grip from the bottleneck, and then tipped it upside down, giving the bottom a pat. This made the paper inside expand and cling to the sides, so he tried reaching in with his middle finger, pressing the paper against the glass and rotating the bottle.

The A5 paper came out dry. The writing on the page was neat, written in biro and with wide margins. A little black pig had been drawn in the top right hand corner. Not a doodle, but a carefully drawn black pig with a little curly tail.

I have two confessions, he read. The first is that this bottle, selected from a supermarket near my house, has not been paid for. This is my one and only experience of shoplifting. If I had ever made it home that day, I would have realised my mistake and gone back to the shop to pay for it. But I didn’t make it home. This bottle has stayed in my bag since that day and travelled with me, unopened, for three months. Today I opened it, sitting on a beach miles away from home. I poured myself enough to fill a white plastic cup and tipped the rest away. Then I buried the gun in the sand. That’s my second confession.

Robert paused to take another look around before studying the drawing of the pig again. Something nagged at the back of his mind. He continued to read. 

 
3rd Prize Winner
The Taste of Cider by Catherine Edmunds

Patrick keeps a small flock of sheep on the fellside beyond the last bridge, grows turnips and leeks the other side of the wall. He’s part of this land; it’s grown him. I imagine God finding him drinking cider one day, high in the dales and saying, “Yes, he’ll do.”

Early March, cold, and I’m helping with the lambing. We work the rhythm of the ewes in labour, wipe the birthing muck off the newborns, the last few; too cold out on the fells this year so we’re in the byre.

Edna comes in, says hello; Patrick answers. I don’t. I’m busy, have to be busy. She watches us together. I wish she’d go. She ought to be making tea, pretending she’s the farmer’s wife.

Go on. Get out of here. Leave me alone with Patrick and the lambs. I need this time.

Patrick’s hair is red and his beard is red and when he takes a lamb in his broad hands it’s safe; its mother trusts; and when he wipes it down with straw, the sweet smell overpowers me and I look at the ewe and the ewe looks at Patrick and he looks at the lamb, and outside the wind lifts the heather and roams away across the fells.

Listen! No, listen! Forget that distant bell, forget the twilit chapel in the village below. This is what matters: this grass, aching where the sheep have trampled—it’s coming back, it’s growing again now I’m home. Me and Patrick, we don’t have to do or say anything, just wait for me to get stronger, and then we can drink cider together, and yes, I know I’m lying somewhere in this, but it’s truthful too.

Has the silly woman fetched the tea yet? Yes, she’s back with a tray and she says something to Patrick and he smiles at her, so I jump up and Edna, she calls after me—“Ros,” she says—“Ros, wait!” But I say something about fresh air and stretching my legs and I’m gone, running up the fell, jumping from tussock to tussock, flying, landing when I know the flat stones lie just below the surface. I don’t want her tea. I don’t want the way Patrick smiles at her when she says hello. She’s not the farmer’s wife, she’s nobody, she’s Mrs Mop, she’s the help, she’s nobody.

Congratulations to all the winners!

First Page Competition 2014 - THE RESULTS!

Winners

1st Prize Winner

The Concealment by Lorna Fergusson

2nd Prize Winner

Wake by Jacqueline Molloy

3rd Prize Winner

An Inspired Mess by Georgina Jeffery

Shortlist

The Evening of the Second Day by Catherine Edmunds

Blood on the Booze Aisle by James Collett

Memories of the Piano Revival by William Walker

The Midlife of Dudley Chalk by Peter James Lamb

Netherwood by Gary Power

Superior by Perry McDaid

Condemned to Live by Clare Hawkins

Shadows of the Night by Vanessa Knipe

Heading for the Wall by Caroline Jestaz

The Storyteller by Marlene Brown

The False Prophet by Marlene Brown

Severance Kill by Tim Stevens

Longlist

Message from Alice by Ginna Wilkerson

Lighter than Air by Susan Pope

Running from Sarah by Carly Pluckrose-Gates

Rahul and Sweetie by Martin Cornwell

The Bridge in the Middle of Nowhere by Pamela Robertson

The Red Hill by David Penny

I'm The One by Pat Black

A Hard Trail by Grace Rostoker

Hannah's Voice by Robb Grindstaff

Infixion by K E Coles

Lucifer Matches by Lorna Fergusson

Judge’s Report by Orna Ross

1st Prize Winner
The Concealment by Lorna Fergusson

The outstanding quality of The Concealment, is good old-fashioned fine writing. “I am not a good man,” the opening insists, and a few deft paragraphs introduce us to a man who, through guilt and misanthropy, has locked himself away from others and from the soft comforts of life. Unusual vocabulary -- the “scuttering” of insects, the “sough” of the Canadian wind; the “cresting” of a ridge; a “rickle” of branches -- show that we are in the hands of a confident writer.

Then we find this opening is a prologue and the scene changes, from first person to third, from cold isolation in a strange land to a Mr Thomas Ross, surveying his land and his soon-to-be-built house in its ideal location, a “casket in which to display” his beloved fiancee.

A lot happens in very few words and the quality of the writing, its tone and pitch ideally suited to the historical fiction genre, is here what makes the reader want to read on.


2nd Prize Winner
Wake by Jacqueline Molloy

Humour wins out in Wake: “Lying on your back under a coffin is not the ideal place to eat a chocolate biscuit,” is its opening line. Indeed.

In the paragraphs that follow, we are introduced to the 13-year-old narrator, a confident, independent thinker; a brother and dad, an aunt Sarah who didn’t care all that much about, her now-dead husband, Uncle Frank, and a mother who’s conspicuous by her absence, especially as we learn that the girl has been to at least a dozen wakes in her short life.

Her ordinary world of tea at six o’clock, of making the best of whatever situation you find yourself is juxtaposed with her curious under-the-coffin situation, in which she has to keep quiet. Who or what is she hiding from, as she focuses on the possibilities of the chocolate biscuit?

The lightness of tone, as well as the bizarre situation makes this story beginning irresistible.


3rd Prize Winner
An Inspired Mess by Georgina Jeffery

Tone of voice is what made An Inspired Mess a winner. “It’s a strange sensation, being dangled upside-down over the side of a bridge in the middle of the night,” it begins. “You might say that it brings about a contemplative state of mind.” The offhand, understated tone that is at odds with the content continues, through details of “dodads” and “curios” that the self-aware and self-deprecating narrator tells us he sells on The Black Market.

The market is “beautiful and surreal” while the light shimmering on the surface of the Thames conceals sharp rocks: in this story, it seems, nothing will be as you might imagine it should be, down to the substance he’s been dealing - “inspiration”.

As a beginning, it’s intriguing and compelling and impossible not to want to know more.

Winning Entries

1st Prize Winner
The Concealment by Lorna Fergusson

I am not a good man.

There are some who will tell you that I am; they seek to aid me in my destitution in this foreign land.
They would persuade me to rest on a feather-bed, to sup good food by a roaring fire, to ease the pains of age and agues with fine company and strong whisky. They are horrified by this place where I sojourn.

Sometimes I drop the bar over the inside brackets of the door, though all it would take is a hefty push to burst bar, door and building, to shiver it all into matchwood. I shut them out. I shut myself in.

I lie here, listening to their pleading. I have listened to pleas all my life, it seems.

I will not rise and unlatch that door and let soft hands draw me to comfort, for I do not deserve comfort.

Here is where I must be. Here, amongst scutterings of insects and the sough of Canadian wind, with damp in my bones and my chest glued with phlegm. Here, lying on a rickle of branches lashed into the semblance of a bed; here, low down, where I can smell the cold seep of the earth, waiting for me.

Chapter One

Canada, 1886

Thomas Ross, mounted on a fine roan horse, crested the ridge and looked down into the valley beyond. It was a gratifying sight. In a few months, he thought, it would be even more gratifying, once the house was built. The situation promised rural peace, yet was not too far from the city. Amelia would be able to visit her friends, attend theatrical entertainments, pay court to her father, all without difficulty. Even Hugh Morrison, the parent in question, could raise no objections to such an idyllic spot.

He urged Jupiter forward, descending with a rattle of pebbles to the valley’s base, hearing the trickle of a stream, then the voices of the workmen. Thomas reached inside his jacket and checked the papers were still there, neatly folded in a packet. His dreams, soon to be made tangible, in timber and stone. The house, the casket in which to display his precious jewel. He smiled at himself for such romantic whimsy - though his heart beat fast, as it always did, at the thought of her - then he pulled his face straight and stern.

2nd Prize Winner
Wake by Jacqueline Molloy

Lying on your back under a coffin is not the ideal place to eat a chocolate biscuit.

I had two primary concerns.

One: I hoped I wouldn’t choke.

Two: if I did choke could I do it quietly?

I’m not allowed to eat lying down, but I wouldn’t normally be lying under a coffin at 6pm in someone’s sitting room. I’d be home having my tea, sitting sensibly at the kitchen table with my dad and brother.

But dad had always taught us to make the best of any situation you found yourself in, so I licked the smooth chocolate off the top of the biscuit and allowed my tongue to find its way through to the creamy mint centre. I sucked at it quietly whilst examining the swirly patterns in the wood grain above me. Did you know that the underside of a coffin is nowhere near as fancy as the top?

This makes sense to me, because if you think about it, how many people are ever going to find themselves underneath one? This was a big cherry wood affair with fancy brass handles and sculpted patterned panels. Aunt Sarah’s choice of coffin for Uncle Frank surprised me. I thought she would have buried him wrapped in Hessian in a cheap veneer box but here he was, laid out in the fanciest coffin I’d ever seen. Before you get all cocky and ask “how many coffins could you have possibly seen given you’re only thirteen?” I can tell you confidently - quite a few.

I don’t keep detailed records or anything but if I looked back over my journals that I’ve been writing since I was eight, there would be at least a dozen wakes mentioned in there. It’s what we’re famous for in Ireland, along with civil wars, potatoes and “tar and feathering”.

I wrote that in a school essay once.

My bum was getting a bit numb lying on the floor but so far I hadn’t choked. I just had to tackle the now moist biscuit base. Should I just shove it all in at once or take the risk and bite it in half and hope the crumbs didn’t backfire all over me.

I held the biscuit up above me and weighed up my options.

3rd Prize Winner
An Inspired Mess by Georgina Jeffery

It's a strange sensation, being dangled upside-down over the side of a bridge in the middle of the night.

You might say that it brings about a contemplative state of mind.

Look at the way the light shimmers over the surface of the Thames, your brain tells you. Probably big, sharp rocks under there, it points out, helpfully. My, the rope around your ankles feels rather thin, doesn't it? Sure hope it's strong enough to continue holding a full-grown man . . .

These were my unfortunate thoughts as I swung helplessly in the breeze. I was especially concerned about my coat slipping slowly down my arms towards the swirling waters below. I'm rather attached to that coat. It's a proper trench coat with lots of spacious pockets - I've no end of elixirs and doo-dads and curios stuffed away inside it. If I lost that coat I'd lose a small fortune in potential profits with it.

There is a tendency to typecast men in trench coats as crooked characters, shady figures lurking on the fringe of the crowd with a range of dubious watches on offer for the discerning patron. This is totally untrue.

I don't sell watches.

“How are we doing, Mr Hansard? Have you reconsidered my offer?”

This was the slick voice of Mr Scallet from high above. It was at his leisure that I was currently being, aha, held.

I probably deserved this, I thought. I'd been going through a quiet period lately; not one of my sales had backfired in the past month, and no one had tried to kill me. This was quite an achievement, considering my usual run of luck was about as long as a piece of string on fire.

This is the sort of thing you come to expect, when you're a dealer on the Black Market. The real Black Market, that is.

It is a beautiful, surreal place where abstract concepts can be purchased in neat little boxes; where success comes in the form of an edible powder and fame can be hung round your neck on a single cotton thread. In need of a little luck? Heck, I know a guy in Blackfriars who can sell you it in a bottle.

I'm a here and there man, myself. I specialise in everything, if you know what I mean.

When Mr Scallet had found me, I was specialising in inspiration.