Writers Forum #99 January 2010

STORY CONTEST
Writers FORUM
ﬁ ctioncompetition
Congratulations to Rosey Wilkin, Stuart Aken and Hazel Osmond, the winners of this month’s
short story competition. Do you have a short piece of ﬁ ction that could impress our judges?
Any subject, any style is welcome. Turn to the rules and entry form on page 32.
This delicately balanced story keeps the
reader involved as its characters get on
with the sometimes harsh realities of life
FIRST PRIZE £300
The End of the Line
Rosey Wilkin
T
here’ll be snow,’ she remarked to a tabby cat that curled
around her wellingtons. Mary had pegged out the last of the
shirts and lifted the pole to allow the clothes to flap and dry in the
chill wind. She stooped, raising the empty basket to rest against
her old mac. The sky was heavy with yellowing clouds; the thorn
trees were black and frayed along the horizon.
The washing line had signalled the tidings of their married
life for over half a century. The rooks, flung over far fields, had
seen the addition of nappies and tiny vests; watched the hand-me
downs grow in size and number and then dwindle and disap-
pear. For the past fifteen years there had been just his shirts and
her cotton dresses. The two of them existed side by side in this
spot, their habits and routines so known to each other that there
remained little left but for each to plough their own rough furrow
to its end.
Or so it had seemed, until, for a few months that late summer
and autumn, smaller, brighter clothes had waved from the line.
‘She’d have liked the snow, we could’ve got the tin trays out
down Bramble Field,’ Mary thought. suckle. The sheep struggled, its eyes terrified as Bill blew through
Crossing the yard she glanced over to the barn where Bill was his moustache and damn and blasted at it.
working amongst the lambing pens, forking the straw, straight- ‘Leave it, woman,’ he’d spluttered ‘I’ll see to it,’ and she’d left
ening the hurdles, tying them tighter with the baler twine that him grasping a post to heave himself unsteadily to his feet. She
hung in lengths from his pocket. There’d been a pair born early saw another ewe had taken herself off into a corner and was nest
this morning. After a lifetime, it was still a miracle to watch the building, shovelling the straw with her hooves. An old timer,
tiny creatures slither into the world. For a moment, Mary had kept past her prime.
imagined the feel of the child’s ribs as she lifted her to watch, her In the farmhouse, the familiar smells of paraffin, wood smoke
little, red boots resting on the rung of the hurdle. and cooking greeted her as she fretted the stray hairs back under
‘There it is, Granny! It’s all wet! Can I hold it?’ She would have her beret and tucked the washing basket under the sink in the
been so excited. scullery. Then, tying an apron over her dress, she set to baking.
The ewe was not a natural mother, too exhausted or too stub- Three tins of fruit buns every week, the clanging of the scales, the
born to feed both lambs. Bill pinned her by the shoulder in the
▲
corner of the pen whilst Mary lifted the smallest lamb’s head to Continued overleaf
Writers
’
FORUM #99 31
WF99JAN31.indd 1 24/11/2009 10:05:59
Page 1 | Page 2 | Page 3 | Page 4 | Page 5 | Page 6 | Page 7 | Page 8 | Page 9 | Page 10 | Page 11 | Page 12 | Page 13 | Page 14 | Page 15 | Page 16 | Page 17 | Page 18 | Page 19 | Page 20 | Page 21 | Page 22 | Page 23 | Page 24 | Page 25 | Page 26 | Page 27 | Page 28 | Page 29 | Page 30 | Page 31 | Page 32 | Page 33 | Page 34 | Page 35 | Page 36 | Page 37 | Page 38 | Page 39 | Page 40 | Page 41 | Page 42 | Page 43 | Page 44 | Page 45 | Page 46 | Page 47 | Page 48 | Page 49 | Page 50 | Page 51 | Page 52 | Page 53 | Page 54 | Page 55 | Page 56 | Page 57 | Page 58 | Page 59 | Page 60 | Page 61 | Page 62 | Page 63 | Page 64 | Page 65 | Page 66 | Page 67 | Page 68