10 days ago I published a longlist of 22 entries for our short-story competition. After careful deliberation we have now shortened the list to 9 and I would just like to offer my commiserations to the 13 authors that have been lost from the longlist and sincerely hope that they were happy to know just how highly we rated their stories.
So here are the 9 stories that have made the shortlist, in alphabetical order, with the first paragraph of their story.
- Coin-Operated Boys by Kirsty Logan
That August, Elodie Selkirk became the latest lady in Paris to order a coin-operated boy. Despite her hooked nose and missing pinkie finger, Elodie was suffering from a rash of suitors; unfortunately for them, she was in no need of a gentleman. Elodie glanced down the hall to make sure that the maid was still safely in her room, as instructed – it was best to keep the boy a secret until she could check him over. She straightened the silk bow at her throat and opened the door.
- For All Time by Jean Marino
Sage watched the Heron skim the trees before its slow descent to the nearby marsh. When it dipped out of site, a shadowy mass in a maple tree caught her eye. Her dog growled, his silver scruff rising. Her initial trepidation waned, and she drew nearer, urged by her curiosity. A soft gasp escaped at the sight of a man dangling from the branches. Was he dead? As if in answer, his body twitched, sending her dog into a barking frenzy.
- Howl by Rheanna-Marie Hall
The fast moving mass of cloak and steel converged upon the hillside, a black spot against the dirty green of marshland scrub. Progress became slow as the riders snaked left to right in search of sturdier ground, their steeds’ hooves sinking into bog. Heavy armour only added to the difficulty.
- Scholar’s Reprisal by Thomas Dipple
“Scholar! If you stop that horse one more time I’ll let them kill you! Now ride!” Pursa felt the horse bolt as Carden slapped its rear with the flat of his sword blade. The beast charged on through the forest and Pursa cried out as his face was whipped by low hanging leaves and twigs.
- Senescence by David Rudden
My father built coffins for our village’s dead. He was a small man, his eyes two nail marks in an umber mass of beard and sun-darkened skin, his hands gnarled masses of knuckle and nail. When he worked, old scars shone white under sweat, a nonsense-scribble of forgotten wounds. As a child, my world was made up of things that he built; the walls of our cottage, the wide, low bed that we shared, the simple toys he had carved.
- The Dwarf by George Poles
Now it was the fashion in that state for beauty to seat itself by ugliness. How could the splendour of the graceful palaces of the rich truly be appreciated without placing them within sight of the poorest slums? How could the elegant lines and delicate colouring of the finest artists be understood without the contrast of the rude sketches that were placed next to them? Most of all how could the shining faces, slim bodies and gorgeous dresses of the young ladies of fashion truly be seen without the darkness of the malformed and misshapen beside them to reveal their light?
- The Hearing by Mark Torrender
The courtroom smelled of cedar and wood polish. Exactly what Jack Deacon expected. I bet all courtrooms smell this way, he thought as he straightened his Sean John gold paisley tie which he hoped would make an impression on the judge, daft as he knew that sounded. Jack had never been to court before – hadn’t even done jury duty – but here he was now fighting for justice. No one had ever done what he was attempting to do, and if it meant emoting blood, he’d emote blood.
- The Price of Envy by Stephie Hall
I distinctly remember that as a child the forest was a welcoming place. In my mind, it held a Narnian lamp-post, shining brightly with a welcoming yellow glow through the wintry storms. It was a place to play, where crisp new snow lay undisturbed by the rowdiness of my playmates. My secret place, where I could withdraw and dream up stories that were, in my mind, equal to those of the venerable Mr Lewis. I would hold out in hope, praying earnestly, in the way that small children do – how God must smile to hear the sweet, sincere prayers of those still untouched by the cynicism of Life – that a faun, brown coated and cloven hoofed, would come and invite me for tea. And my faun would be far superior to Lucy’s because in the forest of my mind there was no great evil, no Lilleth to bring her icy coach and tear us away to an evil place.
- To Ashes by Kat Zantow
I was twenty miles from the city of ashes when my eyes started sliding shut of their own volition. My body demanded coffee, and I obligingly cut off a honking sedan to make the exit. I followed the ramp to a small string of shops sandwiched between a church and a motel. The café looked familiar, so I parked out front. I hadn’t been to this place since I had escaped the City on the Hill with—
The above 9 stories are all now with Frank P Ryan, who will be selecting a winner and 2 runner-ups which we will announce on Tuesday (November 1, 2011) and published exactly a week later.
Congratulations to all who made the shortlist.
Please note: Although all short-stories have now been read not all may have, as of yet, received their free ebook. Over the coming days and weeks I will be cross-checking all submissions to ensure that all have had their details sent through to Swift Publishers. (Please feel free to leave a comment on this page if you have not received your free book.)