For the first outing of WM’s exciting new slot for creative writing submissions, we asked for fiction and poetry inspired by Ian Ayris’s brilliant three-part series on character and voice (WM Feb-April). Our inbox has been flooded with submissions and we’ve been thrilled to see the high quality of work that you’ve sent us. Picking pieces to showcase has been a hard task, but we’re delighted to present our selections!
Highly commended
Alan Brett; Debbie Casey; Gerard Cole; Catherine Davis; Manjit Dhillon; Ellen Evers; Sue Gregory; Wendy Hall; Sheena Hussain; Lesley Mason; Sue Moules; Peter Richardson; Helen Spiers; Liz Wilson.
POETRY
Portrait of Mrs Mulgrew By Amber Phillips
She should have been tragic, The ageing war widow at the end of the terrace. But she polished the medals every day, And we were always welcomed By the smell of baking, and the sight of Fresh daffodils arranged neatly in a jug.
She never lived in isolation. The women on our street set the world to rights From her kitchen table, Debating love and freedom over pineapple cake.
Remember when Nancy Pettifer came round To show off her noisy baby, And we thought that he looked like an egg? She carefully took that ovoid child, Balanced him in the crook of her elbow And cradled him for over an hour.
She could take a piece of dirty glass And cherish it like the brightest sapphire.
• How beautifully the telling details work to convey character in this wonderful poem, all leading up to the luminous beauty of the final couplet. Amber Phillips shows how Mrs Mulgrew was the heart of the community through the way she interacted with the people around her, revealing a person with an extraordinary gift for finding beauty in unlikely places.
PROSE
BARRY O By Claire Keogh
If my love were a piece of music, he would be a trance party song, an electric piano solo with a dance beat.
He would be a radio disc jockey from the 1980s, with a smooth voice and perfectly groomed hair.
Weatherwise, he would be a storm, because he would always find a place to shelter from the rain – a bus-stop to take him to his next destination.
He would be a pizza, a personal one with pepperoni and mushroom and extra cheese, just like we had on our first date one Sunday afternoon in that place on Suffolk Street, all those years ago.
He would be an eclectic piece of furniture like the fibre optic lamp we have on our glass sideboard, beside the chair and sofa where he sits while we listen to hi
