MICROFICTION: THE WINNING STORIES

There is something marvellous about the best microfiction, we wrote back in April issue when we invited readers to have a go at writing a 100-word story. And you did not disappoint, they were indeed marvellous. We received several hundred stories on the subject of SUMMER, from wistful tales of love and romance to atmospheric rememberings of sunshine and seaside. There was comedy, tragedy, and wit, with some great twists in the tale, too. Our favourites are printed over the page but the winner, as judged by The Simple Things team, did what only the best microfiction can do; she made every word count. A big well done and a package of good books is winging its way (much like the frisbee in her story, right) to Kirsty Boswell. Thanks to all those who entered and look out for more creative competitions soon.

Before the flood

Summer has gone off the rails. Doors slam and the hot sun shakes in the sky, the clouds pull close and raise their arms. She does not blow them away to reveal a clear blue, but pulls them nearer. There are rumours that she has been spending time with Winter. She comes back cold to the touch, icicles hiding in her golden locks, the tip of her nose red and damp. And nowadays Winter has a wild faraway look in his eyes, and pools of water gathering around his boots. Agnes Halvorssen

Don’t look now

‘Beware,’ shrieked the sign on the wall, ‘ignore at your peril.’ Eyes darting wildly, I make a bid for safety, clutching my prize to my chest as if it might evade me at the first opportunity. Lulled by its gentle rhythm, the ocean pulls me to it; the sun’s glow enveloping me as I step out from the dark cobbled streets, trance-like, into the open harbour. Feverishly unwrapping the pristine white paper, I marvel at the molten gold within, and then…GONE. Circling like a feathered storm in a squawking flurry of teacups, my aerial pursuers strike. Bloody seagulls. Bloody toastie. Gemma Smith

Hanami

They were midway through lemon-scented drinks when a wisteria flower descended feather-lightly into his glass and stirred the bittersweet memory of the previous summer. The two of them had hired bikes at dawn and rode across Tokyo, eventually finding their way to Yoyogi Park, where they spent the afternoon beneath purple trees, watching the dancers and talking, while he stroked her hazel-brown hair. A year had passed since then and he still wondered whether they had made the right decision. “What are you thinking about?” his date asked, noticing his faraway gaze, and tucking a blonde lock behind her ear. Christopher P Davis

Summer wardrobe

The seasonal shift sent her packing. Carefully she exchanged cashmere and tweed for cottons in shades of citrus zest and ice-cream scoops. Folding corduroy, she thought of Tom. He was the scent of wood-smoke, a trudge through leaves, crumble, and chilled fingers that had chivalrously scraped her windscreen clear. She transported him to the world of summer: petrol fumes heavy in sluggish air, the pop of fizz, and songs that would grate when autumn came.“Oh well,” she thought, shoving the last zippered package into the depths of the bed, “I can mothball him, till October at least.” Kate Life

Daisy days

The pleasantly warm air of summer has finally tempted my head above the soil, a crown of pure, brilliant white petals encircling my golden yolk of a centre. A young girl is dancing upon the ground beside me, bare feet barely indenting the warm grass beneath. She stumbles over in a fit of laughter, giggles erupting from dimpled cheeks. Chubby fingers clumsily begin to interlock the bodies of my sisters, weaving them into a crown. Then I am chosen to adorn the head of the girl of my dreams. Together we dance toward the sunset. Hannah Pank

“There are rumours that Summer has been spending time with Winter. She comes back cold, her nose red and damp”

“They were midway through lemonscented drinks when a wisteria flower descended feather-lightly into his glass”

Time travel

Dusk is my favourite time in summer. I lie back as the cool breeze glides around my hot skin and shakes summer sounds from the trees; silky, shimmering rustles. The air feels alive. The colours more intense. The foliage hums with energy. My eyes settle on a viburnum, full of white, waxy stars, vivid against the darkening blue sky. All at once, I’m reminded of a glittering firework, a burst of blossom, a settling of snowflakes, four seasons overlaid. I think of HG Wells, I have my own time machine. I see a whole year in one summer moment. Jody Prescott

End of term

It’s never easy switching schools in the middle of term. Jessica’s new school was twice as big as the last one with so many faces to remember, classrooms to navigate and new rules. The first day had been hard. She’d nervously gripped her new leather bag and been introduced to the kids as they mocked her. But summer was here and everything was going well. Sports day was a success and exams were set without fuss. After saying her goodbyes on the last day of term, she put the convertible’s roof down and escaped, nearly forgetting to lock her office. Margaret McDonnell

I believe, do you?

Hannah spent the summer at Granny’s farm. Her brother swam in the river, or played in the cool shade of the trees, while Hannah stayed at home, hoping to spy a ‘Little Person’ going about their business. Liam mocked her for believing Granny’s stories. It was a warm night; Hannah slept with the window open, the moonlight and the breeze carrying music and laughter. A party on the Maguires’ farm? Suddenly, a flash and a boom: rain. Then silence. The next morning, something in the grass at the bottom of the garden caught Hannah’s eye: a tiny, perfectly crafted, violin. Brona Burgoyne

First love

There’s a scar on my knee; from that day we gave chase through jagged rocks. Weeping salty tears at the sting of sand on skin, cleanly sliced. Waves crashed, castles fell, and your vinegary mouth kissed me, silken with lard from our shared poke of chips. Goodbyes whispered with the tinderbox promise of next summer and sunburn weathering like a talisman well into the spring. And still, I look for you here, to prove you were real. Not just a pebble of skin worn smooth by time or a dream baked up in the long heady days of youth. Vera Grace Fletcher

Oxford summer

The long, hot summer before you left, days stretched like elastic; tense with waiting. Too tired to move, we lay naked on the floor; limbs outstretched, fingertips touching. Mouths parched, the awkward words stuck in our throats. Your bedsit tidied into neat boxes, there was nothing to drink. And I hated the tap water, stale on my tongue. We stole powdered milk; mixed it with guilt in the tiny kitchen. Barely palatable, we gulped it down along with our foreboding. The last goodbye arrived; a hurried kiss under burning sun, engine running. And I noticed your hands were shaking. E R Kendrich