S W #00056

FLASH
WINNERS 2013 #2
Kerry Hood, Charlotte Josephs, Kathryn Clark, Jennifer Gryzenhout, Chris Connolly, Emma Viskic

very Day by Kerry Hood Every day, she dresses before sun is up; boils chai; scoops yesterdays dhal onto a roti. Next, she takes a bottle of yellow oil and kneads it into her forehead and shrivelled lobe, the greedy skin sucking salve into its corrugations, lapping the lips and tight space below her nose. Amina is thirty-two. Every day she walks through the empty compound, feeling her two sons asleep over the wall of the second enclosure and hearing an old man hurl spit across the grain earth. Every day Amina is sent to the airport. She rides a blue-smoke moped. She pretends its a bicycle. She lifts her feet and speeds down Red Dust Road past plastic bags breathing with flat striped lungs in the ditches. She zooooooooooooooms. along the villas in the Portuguese Quarter, feeling through her closed lids the blade shadows of their shutters. In the real world she must keep an eye open. She stands at Departures, one hand held out, the other making a hunger sign. She does this because she was once disobedient then punished by her husband and mother-in-law with a colourless liquid. Her right eye is burned away. Pleated rinds of scar tissue make it impossible to smile, as if she would with her children hidden from her. They believe she is dead. Every day Amina puts an ear to her tiny window and hears them running breath-heavy from bully cousins. She beats her own head knowing theyll forget her. Only, this day shes still in her room, the yellow oil a glassy lake on her face. Shes listening for the exact silence that means its safe. Shushing herself, she treads across the compound. Soon shes pushing the moped along the road. Shes not going to the airport. The sun is almost up. She must hurry. She has stolen her children. Shes been planning for a month, since the airport worker had folded the note onto her palm. (Lately, porters and cleaners had been staring at Amina, whispering in packs). Now they suddenly appeared, moving forward from all sides. She panicked. Dropped the note. Saw it was an address for Womens Refuge. Knew it would be impossible. She was on her knees. Someone brought her to her feet. The workers began filing past, smiling, filling Aminas hands until despite her baldness she let down her headscarf to catch fountains of notes, coins, messages of luck.

The eldest sits behind Amina on the moped, his arms binding her ribs. The little one is on her lap gripping her sari in his fists. All are openmouthed, afraid, complete. The little one turns to stare at Amina. He traces the ruts from eye socket to throat; lifts the corners of her defaced mouth. The eldest stretches up to her ear. We will have every day! he shouts over the throttle. Every day, mumma! Amina nods. There will be every day to practise but just now she tries, oh she really tries, to do her first beautiful smile.

he Unexpected Arrival of the Black Guy by Charlotte Josephs When I told him Id chosen him as the character in a story, he chuckled and dug his fingers into his bush-like hair. I could feel his right leg vibrating against the table, sending splashes of my tea onto the wooden surface. Call it the unexpected arrival of the black guy, he said. The sun had painted the sky orange and pink with wisps of white cloud when Lauras trip back to the University of East Anglia began. The walk to the train station wasnt a particularly long one, but that day it seemed to take hours. Lauras travel case weighed a ton, and even with the two of us dragging it, the twenty-minute walk was verging on forty. Fucking shitty wheels. Waste of money, this case, she cursed as we dragged it over the icy ground. The case groaned in response; a gritty ripping sound that tore through my eardrums and made me cringe. We were silent for a while, as the frosty wind ripped through our coats and scratched at our skin. Pulling my scarf up over my face, I grunted and forced myself through the wind. The case gripped the earth as we heaved it up the curb and we heard a pop. The second wheel had broken and my right arm was beginning to ache with the strain. By the time we reached the station, Id switched arms more times than I could remember.

I cant believe Im not gonna see our Gaz for six months and he hasnt even come to say bye, Laura sighed as we waited on platform one. The train left in ten minutes. He just sent me a text asking where we are. I told him what time my train was at yesterday. Hes at ours. I sighed Thats shit and it was. Were pretty close, the three of us. We even bought each other the exact same Christmas presents, just in different colours you know the saying, great minds. The sky grasped our attention as we waited. Stars were beginning to crawl into sight as orange faded to blue. It matched my mood as the clock counted down to the departure of my twin. Looking over to her, I saw that she was as miserable as me. She looked up and shrugged at me in understanding. We went back to watching the stars. The train waiting at the red light when we heard him. LAURRRAAA, he called in his classic Tarzan expression. His brown afro bobbed up and down as he ran, flailing his arms and legs in the air like a clown. It was clear by the colour of his face red, rather than his natural caramel brown and the heaving of his breath that hed run the entire way down from our house. Bet you didnt expect to see me here.

he List by Kathryn Clark I wake with the taste of burnt cabbage in my mouth. I never sleep in the day. It must be the tablets. The world outside has been silenced by snow. Here, in the house, the light is pale green. Its like waking under water. I look at the clock. Time to go to school. I fill my pockets with spare gloves and miniature chocolate bars. Cutting up the snicket and across the field, the snow goes over my ankles. Mine are the only footprints. No one else has walked this way. When I get to the lane an old Land Rover rumbles ahead, churning the snow to porridge. At the school gate, I stop. The playground is crowded with snowmen, staring with stony eyes. The home-time hum is starting up. Parents

coming to pick up their children pass by me with eyes turned away. I shouldnt have come. Laura! Laura! Sandys calling out to me. Shes waving as if weve arranged to meet. Swathed in a pink and red shawl, shes like an exotic flower against the heavy sky. She hugs me; stands with her gloved fingers on my cheeks, like a lover staring into my eyes. We start to walk. Look at the snowmen, she says. Arent they amazing? I nod, but they scare me, frozen there, doing nothing, stuck, unable to move until they melt away into nothing. We bribe her boys with chocolate to come away from the snowball battle. Theyre flagging anyway, faces sore from snow and snot. Benji, the youngest, accepts my offer of dry gloves; then puts his hand in mine. At his touch an arrow shoots up my arm and into my heart. These are Jems gloves, he says. I nod. Where is he? he asks. Hes with his Dad, I say. Do they live with their Dad now, him and Meena? Theyre sort of on holiday. Theyre missing all the snow, says Benji. Sandy makes tea while I sit at her kitchen table. Her to-do list sits in front of me. I remember it, the list. In the middle between phone plumber, Freddie new trainers, workshop plan, nit lotion, tax return, I see my name, highlighted, starred, underlined. I take up her pen and cross me out. I havent written a list for months. No need, once there was only me, once everyone was gone. Nothing I had to remember, except to take the tablets. I flip over the page to a new sheet and write: To do list: 1. Get my children back

Liminal World by Jennifer Gyrzenhout An orange half-light pokes through the tent flap turning the inside aglow. He slides a lumpy red sleeping bag over our unclothed bodies, and the two colours twist and clash into a yolky dome above us. The flap flutters with each puff of air as we cavort zealously. Utter chaos. Some coalition of nervousness and longing, of the cool draft seeping in from outside, vying with the hot air inside, of being on the cusp of discovery in this liminal world of tangled limbs and joints. His name is Richard and his breath plays a terse tune like that of a trumpet against the point where my neck meets my shoulder. I move my legs in time, like an awkward child learning to dance on a crooked stage, haphazardly spinning pirouettes and fumbling for balance. The crickets chirp from behind the wings and the leaves in the trees rustle appreciatively. Afterwards we sit outside gulping at the fresh, cool air, holding hands. We watch the fronds of grass whisper as frogs jump and croak in the enigmatic night. Weve conquered a mountain, discovered a secret hidden in the depths of the deepest, darkest sea, a treasure trapped inside a treasure chest and only we have the key. We think not of permanence but only of the moment as delicious as every juicy drop of a bright red strawberry on our tongues in the hot summer. It is a good thing we do not yet know how quickly it will fade.

ooks by Chris Connolly You look at her sitting there on the steel bench on the platform, trying not to look like youre looking but hoping she looks up and notices you looking and looks back at you in the same way. She looks good more importantly she has that look about her and you hope youre looking good today too, but its been a long day and its windy your hair must be all over the place so you look at your reflection in your phone, then

look stealthily around to make sure no one is watching as you fix the stray hairs and hope they stay fixed. You keep looking over, but shes absorbed in a magazine Its called Look, one of those glossy magazines that have celebrities on the cover looking either too fat or too skinny. You think she has the balance between too fat and too skinny just right. You look at the timetable 3 minutes then back at her. She really is good-looking. She looks up when she sees the train arriving and you try to look casual yet sexy sexy? How do you look sexy on a train platform? in case she looks at you, but she doesnt, she looks straight past you, and you look to the heavens pleading for some luck, even though you know theres no one looking down on you because you dont believe in all of that. The train arrives, and you dawdle behind as she looks for a seat. You get the one opposite her lucky and shes looking out the window with a dreamy look in her eyes. Maybe shes dreaming about meeting someone. Maybe youre just what shes looking for. Then suddenly she notices you looking and looks you straight in the eyes and smiles. You blush and look away, then look back and smile a second too late. Awkward. She goes back to looking out the window; you must look like an eejit, blushing like a little girl. You look at her reflection in the window now because you dont want to keep looking directly at her in case you look like some sort of a weirdo Jesus, are you a weirdo? and you see now up close that she really looks beautiful. Youre looking for something to say, some way of breaking the ice, but people dont do that really, do they? It looks good in the movies, maybe, but on a crowded train in Ireland on a Monday evening? Youd look ridiculous. You look at her through the window as she gets off at her stop she looks just as good from behind and see her looking for someone. Theres a man there, waiting for her. Hes good-looking. She looks happy. Boyfriend. Just your luck. You sigh and look at them leaving as the train pulls away, root around in your handbag looking for your make-up and wonder to yourself why youre always looking in the wrong places, wonder why you always pick the straight ones.

ost and Found by Emma Viskic I'm drinking hot chocolate with my daughters when I find my mother. A caf is an unexpected place to come across a miracle, but there she is just tables away. Almost within reach of her unmet grandchildren. Something bright fills me and I stand up, heart open. The girls raise their faces towards me like expectant sunflowers. Look, I go to tell them. Look, there she is: the one who gave you your neat pink fingernails, your heel-digging stubbornness, your voices like larks. But the words lodge in my chest, unspoken. The woman is too young, too short, nothing like my mother at all, really. Oh, I say instead. Dont worry. Its nothing. Their heads lower to their drinks, I sit down and the world continues; the colours a little muted after the unexpected brightness. Not-Mum stirs sugar into her espresso and takes a sip. What a ridiculous mistake to have madeMum never drank black coffee. And, anyway, shes been dead for twenty years.

WRITER PROFILES
Kerry Hood has written ten plays including Meeting Myself Coming Back for Soho Theatre (published by Oberon Books, a Sunday Times Critics Choice, British Theatre Guide Highlight of the Year, shortlisted for the Meyer-Whitworth Award, highly commended in London Evening Standard Awards); Caution! Trousers (for Alan Ayckbourn at Stephen Joseph Theatre); Talking for England (Ustinov Theatre Bath, shortlisted 2010 Adrienne Benham Award) and My Balloon Beats Your Astronaut (Tristan Bates Theatre). She has had residencies at Traverse Theatre Edinburgh, National Theatre London and most recently with Writers Guild at RADA to develop her new play These Stretched-Out Streets. Recent stories have been shortlisted/placed in The Bridport Prize, BBC Opening Lines, Mslexia, Lightship Publishing and Limnisa. People Like Her appears in The Bristol Prize 2012 Anthology Vol 5. Of All The Whole Wild World was recorded live in 2013 from Bath Literary Festival and broadcast on BBC Radio 4. Tell us a secret! As a teenager, teachers made me choose between continuing ballet or hockey following a term of me turning up to the former caked in mud from the latter. I gave up ballet, stuck with tap dancing and made the thrilling discovery that you can do a triple time-step even with dirty knees. Which short story would make a great film? Gabriel Garcia Marquez's 'The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World' would make a great (very short) film. It's bonkers and beautiful.

Charlotte Josephs was born into a working class family in 1992. Her mother comes from a small mining town in South Yorkshire and her father is a Jamaican immigrant. She began writing at a young age, at first to improve the "messy" handwriting that her father criticized, and later to exercise her own imagination. Before writing, Charlotte used to tell stories to both her twin and younger sister at bedtime. Charlotte is currently living, working and improving her handwriting in France, but will return to the UK to finish her degree in English Literature and Creative Writing at The University of Hull. Tell us a secret! In Primary School, my twin sister and I were placed in separate classes so that the teachers wouldn't get confused. Whenever we had tests, we'd switch classes so that she always did the Maths test twice, and I always did the English test twice. Which short story would make a great film? I'd love to see Margaret Atwood's I'm starved for you made into a film

Kathryn Clark lives in rural Gloucestershire. She has always written, but kept it to herself until recently. In 2011 she began entering short story contests as a way of getting past the fear of other people reading her work. So far she has been highly commended in several competitions and placed second in one. In between house renovations, the family business, two daughters, a husband and an addiction to DVD boxed sets, she is working on a novel for children. Tell us a secret! Hardly anyone knows that despite looking like a typical middle-aged mum, somewhat soggy round the middle, and with couch potato tendencies, I am a black belt (2nd Dan) in Tae Kwon Do. Which short story would make a great film? I would like to a film version of Alice Walkers: How did I Get Away with Killing One of the Biggest Lawyers in the State? It was Easy. This is a very short story written in the child-like voice of a young black woman. On the surface it tells the story of the narrators youth, but throughout Walker examines issues of race, gender, segregation and civil rights in America. It is a very powerful story, simply told with some harrowing content, and I feel, a hopeful ending.

Jennifer Gryzenhout is from Canada and lives in Amsterdam, The Netherlands. She has also lived in Japan and Norway, teaching in international schools. She leads creative writing lessons for The Writers Studio in Amsterdam, and is studying for her MFA in creative writing through the University of British Columbias optional-residency program. She writes primarily fiction and creative non-fiction, and most recently translated a TV documentary for children from Dutch to English. This is her first real writing competition honour. She has put down and looks forward to the day when she can sit in her new writing room in her new house; to when she can gaze over the Dutch polder beyond her backyard and write, read and tend to her fledgling vegetable garden. In January, she began writing a monthly magazine column about the development of the garden. She is also working on a novel when she can find the time to put the words on the page. Tell us a secret! Something that not too many people know about me is that I was once a hair model. They cut my brown, mid-back length naturally wavy hair to chinlength, dyed it purple, spiked the top and teased it sideways Which short story would make a great film? A short story that Ive always wanted to see turned into a film is The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allen Poe. I would also welcome a modern film rendering of Shirley Jacksons The Lottery.

Chris Connolly was born in Dublin in 1983. His Literary Magazine, The New Guard Review, the Irish Independent, Cranng, WordLegs, The Galway Review, Boyne Berries, the National Flash Fiction Day Anthology 2013, and has been broadcast on RT Radio. In 2012 he was the winner of the Canon Sheehan Perpetual Literary Award. His work has twice been shortlisted for the RT Francis McManus Award and the Fish International Short Story Competition, and in 2012 he was shortlisted for the Over The Edge: New Writer of the Year Award and was a runner-up in the Penguin/RT Short Story competition. He is currently shortlisted for the Hennessy XO Literary Awards. Every Day I Atrophy, a collection of his stories from the website Outsideleft, was published by theSideCartel and is available on Amazon. Tell us a secret! Sometimes, late at night when I'm driving alone, I imagine I'm driving a bus... Which short story would make a great film? The story I would like to see made into a film is Popular Mechanics by Raymond Carver.!

Emma Viskic is a Melbourne-based writer and classical musician. Her musical career has ranged from playing with Jose Carreras to an audience of 10,000, to a wedding where the groom demanded to know where the fourth member of the trio was. She has always been attracted to crime fiction: her first play, at age eight, was a good, wholesome murder mystery. A little more recently, her short story, The Hero, won this years Thunderbolt Prize for Crime Writing. She has also had stories placed or shortlisted in the Scarlet Stiletto Award, the Thunderbolt Prize and the Ned Kelly S.D. Harvey Short Story Award. Emma is currently putting the finishing touches on her crime novel, Resurrection Bay. Tell us a secret! I once walked into a theatre full of people while dressed only in my pyjamas. Why? It's a long story. Which short story would make a great film? The short story I would most like to see made into a film is The Boat by Nam Le.

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