2020 DG Comp: Third

The Misfortunes of Lady Alice

by Stephen Palmer


Stephen Palmer has had stories published in print and online anthologies and the first of his Manchester set historical crime novels, Scar Tissue, was published in 2013. He is currently working on a sequel, Dolls and Mirrors, due to be published in 2021. He was born and raised in Somerset, England before leaving to study philosophy at Bangor University, North Wales and then Manchester University. The result of these studies, Human Ontology and Rationality, was published by Avebury Press. In order to make a living that writing and philosophy have signally failed to provide, he has worked as a bank clerk, research assistant, civil servant, film reviewer and an assistant on an archaeological dig at the Roman remains in Castlefield, Manchester. He now lives in Manchester with his wife and son.

‘He was eaten by a tiger! That must have been awful for you.’

‘Well, yes,’ I replied, ‘but not half as awful as it was for him.’

We were having aperitifs on the terrace of the Hotel Renoir. The sun was setting and no doubt its light shimmering on the Mediterranean was very beautiful but instead of letting the sight bathe my aching eyes I continued to study my companion. I was wondering what exactly he intended.

His name was Geoffrey or George or John. Something beginning with a G or a J. I wasn’t listening when my niece introduced him to me. He was an archaeologist or architect or some such and, having exhausted the various ways of sympathising with my loss, began to flatter me after we moved into the restaurant to dine. At least he had the sense to extol my intelligence rather than my looks. I have no illusions regarding the latter. My father was American and ugly but very rich which meant he could acquire as a wife a beautiful but extremely stupid daughter of an English viscount. Unfortunately it was my father’s looks I inherited. My face could be described as plain if it weren’t for my bulbous nose and thin lips. My body does nothing to make up for these deficiencies. My chest is flat, I have no hips to speak of and my legs are spindly. And now my eyes are beginning to fail. To the society in which I am condemned to move there are only two things of interest about me; the fortune I inherited and the fact that my husband was eaten by a tiger.

Ah, yes, my husband. Dear, dear, Charles. He was the most egotistical man I have ever met and am ever likely to. He married me for my money but I didn’t mind. Adventure was what Charles sought and he needed me to fund his expeditions. With my backing he climbed previously unscaled peaks, crossed uncharted wastes and hacked through jungles never before explored. He was dashing and handsome and that strange combination; both the most manly of men and a screaming homosexual. I loved him with a passion that caused me misery for twenty years. It was a misery I relished and even now, despite everything I suffered when I was married to him, I regret that he underestimated that tiger.

My companion at the Hotel Renoir was, like all the men I come across, a poor specimen in comparison. I was hoping when I agreed to dine with him that there would be something about him to spark within me some interest. Perhaps he wanted me to fund the construction of a building he had designed or an archaeological dig at the site of some ancient civilisation thus far unexcavated. By the time we were half way through the main course – a most marvellous boeuf bourguignon if I recall – I had gleaned what he was up to from those words wittering from his lips I couldn’t help but hear.

It was my money he was after but not me he wanted. He was playing the long game and who can blame him. I quite admired his forbearance in wishing to marry my niece and waiting for her to inherit rather than being saddled with me. I can, I have been told, be capricious. But not when it comes to my family. I may not have liked them very much but I am nothing if not loyal and Alexandra is the only family I have left.

Alexandra. I would like to say that, now Charles has gone, she is the light of my life but that would not be true. Sometimes I try to convince myself that I’m jealous. Not only will my wealth and estates be left to her when I die but she has the good fortune of having inherited her grandmother’s looks and her grandfather’s brains. She reads Russian novels in the original and looks very pretty as she does so but, much as I would like to, I can’t bring myself to envy her. I wish she was the sort of young woman who was poisoning me or plotting to push me down a flight of stairs so she can inherit without waiting for me to die of my own accord. Unfortunately Alexandra possesses one of those most irritating of dispositions, a sweet nature. She is kind and considerate to a degree that baffles me and so, of course, I am duty bound to protect her from men called Geoffrey, George or John.

So it was on that evening I decided to put him to the test, this Geoffrey, George or John who was buttering me up so that I would not object when he proposed to my niece. I began flirting with him. This is not behaviour that comes naturally to me and must have been a horrid sight but it is remarkable how a smile from thin lips can appear seductive and failing eyes seem to shine when there are several millions in the bank and a vast portfolio of stocks and shares behind them. The poor man was putty in my hands. Very wet putty it seemed given the speed with which his romantic attachment to Alexandra dissolved. He proposed to me over dessert – a wonderful chocolate crème brûlée. I ordered champagne.

So, here I am on the terrace of the Hotel Renoir. It is my wedding night although my husband is not with me. I made it clear that ours should be a companionable marriage. All that sex business would be rather undignified at my age. James – that’s his name, I think – made a valiant effort to hide his relief when I suggested this but failed. Alexandra is unhappy with me, of course. She was quite infatuated with my new husband and fully intended to accept him when he proposed. Her disappointment will pass soon enough. Especially when I put her in the way of a very handsome young Italian count with a fortune of his own who, I’ve been told, spotted her reading Anna Karenina and has expressed an interest in meeting her.

I stipulated only one other condition before marrying my second husband; that he should, as soon as the wedding was over, go out and find the tiger that ate my first husband and kill it. The poor fool took this as another example of my well known caprice and agreed. He is even now on his way to India whilst I am enjoying the reflection of a bright moon glittering in the dark blue waters of the Mediterranean. I must make the most of these moments of beauty before my eyesight fails completely.

When he arrives in India my husband will find that I have provided all the accoutrements necessary for a tiger hunt. He will have the very best equipment but, unfortunately, he is not the sort of man equipped for such an expedition. Thus I have high hopes of becoming that most exceptional of my sex; a woman who has suffered the misfortune of having not just one, but two, husbands eaten by a tiger.

2020 DG Comp: SECOND

Printing Over the Pictures

By Valerie Bowes


I’ve always loved writing. When I was no longer needed to drive a truck laden with plumbing materials around the building sites of London, I was free to put my words down on paper, instead of doing it in my head while negotiating traffic. Since then, I’ve had over 200 stories and articles published in magazines and anthologies, seen two of my plays performed on the amateur stage and reached the longlist or above in competitions. 2017 saw the publication of my first book, Battle For Love, a romance set in Napoleonic times. Unfortunately, the publisher folded so I’m still looking for one willing to take on my 4 other historical novels…


Something zipped past his ear. He ducked instinctively, his eyes snapping shut, his heart pounding a warning. His hands hovered, ready to shut out the blast that gave a second’s fraudulent silence before the thunder rolled over the bleak and battered landscape, flattening all before it.

The homely bumble of a bee foraging in the hedgerow and the abrupt clockwork trill of a peevish wren brought his eyes open, slowly, as if he wasn’t sure he would see the blanket of wheat, its green blades splashed with poppies as scarlet as Chelsea Pensioners, the yellow spires of charlock and the purple of poisonous corncockle. But it spread out before his eyes, uninterrupted by deep craters of mud and foul, stagnant water, and roofed by a clear and cloudless sky. High above him hung the bright ball of the sun, bathing his skin in golden light.

No storm. No darkness. No thundering guns. This wasn’t there.

The hedgerow scents, drawn heavenwards by the afternoon, teased his nose with honey and warm wood. Another insect streaked past but he was ready for it this time. Even if its path had collided with his, it would not have burst his head wide open to allow blood and brains to seep into the already reddened mud.

He gazed around at the quiet, gentle field, rubbing an ear of wheat between his fingers to release the flour that would become bread. How little it took, to turn a patch of earth from something that gave life to something that sucked it from you. For a moment, the light went out of the day again. The glowing greens and golds dulled into shades of brown and khaki. The leafy hedgerow loud with hidden birds went silent. It shrivelled, distorted, and grew a skeleton of barbs with a figure, crucified, hanging from the wire.

He’d had the means to help. Had it in his shaking hands. All he had to do was bring it to his shoulder and pull the trigger. Arthur wouldn’t have hesitated. Why had it been Arthur hanging there in no-man’s-land, not him?

Barren mud and shellholes morphed seamlessly back into the ripeness of summer as something moved. He saw the undergrowth quiver not far from his foot. Some small creature, no doubt, living its life, oblivious of the destructive power that could be unleashed at a moment’s notice. He moved along the field-edge, glancing casually down at the place where he had seen the movement.

And the eyes looked back.

Round and amber in a triangular russet mask edged with white and black and streaked with red, they were glazed with fear and exhaustion. Ears flattened even tighter to the skull as he stopped and stared, seeing the tangle of stout bramble shudder as the fox tugged unavailingly at the clutching thorns.

He’d never seen one so close before and stooped, peering. The fox froze, as if by stillness it could make this not to be. A slick of saliva dribbled into the green, tinged with blood from desperate gnawing. Teeth showed white and pointed in the panting mouth. Only a young one, then. But Arthur had been young. So had he.

He straightened. It was none of his business. It would get itself free eventually. If it didn’t, it was only vermin. What did it matter if it was trapped there until it died of thirst and exhaustion? He’d seen what happened when one got into a hen-run. The slaughter was indiscriminate and senseless. It didn’t deserve to live. 

He moved away a few steps. On the edge of his vision, Arthur hung, arms outspread, head hanging like the Jesus on the cross in the tiny village church. If he helped this time, as he hadn’t then, would Arthur go away and leave him in peace?

It would have been so easy if he’d had a gun now, but he had nothing. He bent to rummage in the hedgerow for a heavystone or piece of wood. The fox jerked, frantic at his nearness. Maybe it sensed what kind of mercy he had in mind. He went on searching, hoping the fear would give it added impetus and absolve him of the need to do anything. Why couldn’t it free itself? Surely it must thread its way through brambles every day?

Then, as he reached for a likely weapon, something scored a deep scratch in his hand. He withdrew it with an oath, to suck the soreness. Then he saw the glint where the rust had been rubbed from the wire. The barbs were deeply snarled in the fox’s ruff. He knelt to trace the strand. If he could pull it free…

Brambles were one thing, dirty wire barbs another. His hand stung already and he thought briefly of sepsis. Why should he risk further injury? Why should he risk it for a bloody fox, for Christ’s sake?

Because it was a life. A life as precious to the fox as the lives of all those young men had been to them. Possessed of sudden purpose, he wriggled out of his jacket and cast it to shroud the fox’s head. The softness of the fur astounded him. He buried his fingers in it, feeling for the barbs, pulling them free with one hand while he held the jacket tight with the other.

Like waiting to go over the top, when you were so keyed up for action you were like to burst, time didn’t portion itself into the regularity of a ticking clock. It seemed to take forever and then, with the suddenness of a shrilling whistle, it was done. He pulled the jacket away from the animal, expecting it to run. But it crouched there, its eyes fixed on his.

He moved back, bundling the tweed to his chest.

“Go on, then,” he said. “Don’t waste it. I couldn’t save him, see?”

The fox moved a tentative paw. Then it was gone, racing flat and fast into the safety of the concealing wheat and the man walked on with a new steadiness in his step, carrying the memory of the soft fur in his fingers and with the first dimming brushstrokes laid over the pictures in his head.

2020 DG Comp: FIRST

Always Plant Your Marigolds in April

by Pam Keevil


Like many people I began writing through a love of reading; a love that began as a little girl when I would climb a tree in my garden, perch in the crook of the branches with a book and a handful of biscuits. Bliss!

But write books? Me? Never! That was for people who did English Literature degrees or had famous relatives who already wrote or published. However,  as a teacher I was tempted to write for children so I began to experiment with short stories and completed an MA in Creative and Critical Writing in 2016. I realised what I really enjoy is the psychological interplay between characters and the relationships between them, using my knowledge of psychology and over ten years studying personal development. My first full length novel, Virgin at Fifty, a  poignant and funny feelgood novel about starting over, was published by Black Pear in 2018. With my husband, I co authored a book on happiness, called Finding Happiness after Covid 19 which was published in July 2020 and am in the process of editing a cosy mystery about estranged siblings who meet and fall in love and is set in Gloucestershire, where I live. I may yet get round to writing a children’s book. 

I’ve won several short story competitions, taken part in Stroud Short Stories on two occasions and the Cheltenham Poetry Festival in 2017, judged competitions, including children’s writing competitions and am an active member of two writing groups. I have a regular monthly slot on Corinium Radio and my website www.pamkeevil.com will tell you more, including how to keep in contact. 

I am absolutely thrilled to have won first prize in this competition!

A shadow flits along the lane, like a man running. Not a jogger. More furtive. I rub my eyes and go to find my glasses. There’s nothing. I’d imagined it. That’s the trouble with being on your own. Things get out of proportion. I know I should go down to the lunch club every week. I might think about it later. Those marigolds won’t plant themselves unless I get a shift on. Stan always said marigolds need a good month before they start to do anything.

Pam Keevil
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2019 Doris Gooderson Short Story – First Place

Playing by the Rules

By Barbara Young

The coppers came to the house quicker than I expected. A stern, frowny detective with a scraggly beard, wearing a shiny grey suit, and a woman in bulky uniform that made her look fat. I had to go to the station for an “informal chat”. Not sure what they meant but Mam always told us to say nowt to the coppers. They asked her to come with me but she had one of her headaches – she was pissed – so my social worker’s here instead. 

“Rose, could you tell us what happened down by the rockpools?” asks the policewoman with a smile.

I think she’s called Tracy, or maybe Macey, I wasn’t really listening when she told me. She’s trying to make me feel comfortable, make me think she’s my friend. She’s got the same cheesy smirk my social worker uses all the time.  

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2019 Doris Gooderson Short Story – Second Place

Letting Go

by Sam Szanto

Amelia’s crying wakes me. The red eyes of the clock say 12.45. For a couple of minutes, I ignore her in the hope she’ll go back to sleep. She turns up the volume.

‘Don’t you know I have to be up for work in six hours?’ I mutter, dragging myself along our skinny corridor. 

There is an unfamiliar, plastic-y smell. I want to investigate, but Amelia’s cries are growing louder. The neighbours have never complained before but it would bug me to be woken by someone else’s bawling baby: my own is bad enough.

‘When’s this going to stop? I need to get you off the breast; you’re sixteen months… shush, sweetheart, shush….’

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2019 Doris Gooderson Short Story – Third Place

The Ladies          

by Vanessa Horn                 

Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat! The Ladies are here again. And it’s different today; I’m down in the hall and Mother’s upstairs. It’s the first time I’ve been this close to them, but I had a feeling they were around our area and my feeling was right – they’re just behind the door.

     The Ladies come every few weeks or so. Not regularly enough to guess exactly which day, though. I’ve never seen them in person, but I always know it’s them at the door; their rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat is different from any other knock I’ve heard. But even when I hear them, I’m never near enough to answer. Until today.

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2018 DG Comp – Third Place

Doris Gooderson Short Story Competition 2018




The Circus of Delight


By Glenda Young



A scarf of red silk drapes over my legs as I work. My stitches are small but no longer invisible as they once used to be. I work quickly, repairing trousers for Freydo and Pav before tonight’s show. If only my fingers could work to repair our tent, but alas I do not have the skill or the material to fix what is needed. The tent continues to leak and lets in much light, even on the darkest of days.


I reach to the table to pull yellow silk to my workspace. I mend Freydo’s yellow trousers with red cotton because I have to make do with what I have, not what I would like. I do not notice Freydo approach the open door to my van. He coughs gently to alert me and I look up and smile. I break the red cotton with my teeth and drop the silk to my knee.

“The trousers are ready?” he asks.

“And the tops are almost done. Sit with me, Freydo,” I ask.

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2018 DG Comp – Second Place

Doris Gooderson Short Story Competition 2018



Quality Time

By Dianne Bown-Wilson


Sixty-two minutes:

I glance at my watch counting down the time remaining until, once again, it will be over. Out of the 168 hours in each week this is the only one that matters, each minute as precious as a droplet of water to a parched desert-traveller.

Apart from me, the room is empty. Three easy chairs crouch round a watermarked coffee table and I perch on one, mindlessly ironing my skirt with my sweating palms. Looking around, everything I see is shamelessly functional: cream woodchip walls, cheap floral curtains, and serviceable carpet tiles contribute nothing to homeliness and if it were possible, seem to become even less welcoming week by week. Clearly, whoever designed this space believed that those who have to come here deserve nothing more.

The door opens and Myra’s face appears, creased but comforting like a well-used road map. “Ready, Eva?”

I nod.

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2018 DG Comp – First Place

Doris Gooderson Short Story Competition 2018



32 Ivy Close

By Janette Owen


I feel like the richest man in the world on bright days like this, though others beg to differ. I’ve seen ‘em, wrinklin’ their noses and muttering under their breath while they’re passing by, showing their ignorance. Druggy indeed; vagrant – cheeky beggars. I’ll have them know I have a place of my own and it’s finer than theirs, I bet. There’s wrought iron gates with fancy scrolls, and a flagged path what’s knitted together wi’ moss right up to my place; 32 Ivy Close. You should see the flowers arranged around it, and the pretties that take pride of place on my shelf. If any cared to look, they’d see that they’ve no room to turn their noses up. Still, they can think what they want if they leave me in peace.

Ah, the paper shop. I’ll cross the road while it’s quiet and have a sit down and a read afore I go to see our lass. She’s not been right well, you know, and it’s been too long since I saw her.

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2018 Doris Gooderson Short Story Winners and Longlist

Congratulations to our 2018 winners:

First: 32 Ivy Close by Janette Owen

Second: Quality Time by Dianne Bown-Wilson

Third: The Circus of Delight by Glenda Young

(To read the stories, click on the links.)

Here are the shortlisted stories – congratulations to all those who made it this far!

“Fitting In”

32 Ivy Close

A Leap of Faith

A Novel Experience

Before Midnight Strikes

Broken Chard

Cody’s Escape



Ernest and the Women

Evidently Sylvie 

Exit Strategy

Grass Widow 

I Don’t Have a Wooden Heart

Isle of Song

Lavender and Old Lace

Life Is Full Of Surprises!

Loose Cannon

Loosening Up

Quality Time


Taking a U Turn

The Circus of Delight

The Coach Trip

The Inevitable However 

The Maiden’s Garland

The Old Man

The Very Peculiar History of Hamish Anderson

The Will

The World is Silent

Time to Go

2017 Doris Gooderson Competition Third Place – Papa Bombo

Papa Bombo

by Mike Watson

Bamboo is not just a plant. It is a banner in the breeze. A whip in the wind. As supple as rope and wire strong. Bamboo is loose limbed with more fingers than hands can hold. It is a “hoo” and a “haa” with rhythm tapping roots and jazz filled leaves.

Bamboo is not just a plant. It is spears in the sunrise, sharp in the bright and tasselled in the breeze. And, when the big moon rises and silvers the ocean in the bay, bamboo is the hush and ghostly sway.

Bamboo is not just a plant. It is where Papa Bombo lives. Everyone knows that Papa Bombo has lived there forever. He was there before you were born, before the village was born and before the first footprint in the sand. Papa Bombo has always been there.

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2017 Doris Gooderson Competition Second Place – Snakeskin


by Michael White

Beth closed the black-painted cottage door and hurried up the lane.  Perhaps a blow in the sunshine would help.  She had often walked up on the moor with Mike.  On a clear day you could see Newcastle, thirty miles to the South, and the peaks of the Lake District, fifty miles West.  Today the wind had combed high clouds into plumes and tendrils against a blue sky.  She climbed the ladder stile and went on up the path through sheep pastures.  When the path steepened through heather and bilberry bushes, she unfastened her jacket.

A steep scramble between huge red-brown boulders led to the top.  She sat on an overhanging rock to get her breath back, dangling her legs in space.  To South and West it was dark: rain before nightfall.  Beth zipped up her jacket and thrust her hands into the pockets.  A hand closed on a wad of paper: Mike’s letter.  The world contracted as she tugged it out, cold fingers hooked round the crumpled envelope.  She made to throw it away, but it remained in her palm.  She straightened it and pulled out the single sheet.  Mike typed everything: he could never bring himself to write neatly.  But even the typescript was illegible to Beth’s stinging eyes.  She crammed it back in the pocket and patted it flat.  It wasn’t as if she didn’t remember what it said; she’d read it enough times.  Tangled hair blew across her face.  The broken rocks thirty feet below were uninviting.  She’d better go back to the empty cottage.

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2017 Doris Gooderson Competition First Place – My Grandmother, The Deep Sea Diver

My Grandmother, the Deep-Sea Diver

by Tracey Glasspool

Mrs Ki surfaces and breathes out sharply, a high whistling shriek. She holds an octopus aloft then swims for the boat.

“Your grandmother hated octopus,” she says as she hands it to me, “I’ll try for abalone.” A deep breath and she’s gone again.

I push the octopus into a sack; change my mind and drop it back into the sea. I also dislike the taste and the sack is already full of clams and sea-urchins. Besides, I’ve watched octopus in aquariums back home. I like them; their intelligence is obvious. Back home. My stomach contracts with guilt.

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2016 DG 1st – Mountains and Pebbles and Sand by Douglas Bruton


 By Douglas Bruton


There are fish bones in the mountains, pressed between the flat prayer-palms of stone, and ammonite shells shiny and ridged, and impressions of things that once swam in the sea caught in rock the colour of seabed-sand. That’s what Edwin’s grandfather told him. He said it was the earth’s story and it was like going back to the first page of a book and starting the story over, always going back.

And Edwin’s grandfather beginning in on a story of when he was a stripped-back boy, telling it like it was a new story even though he’d told it a hundred times over, not leaving out even the smallest detail, the smallest grain of sand.

‘It’s a pebble you want. Pebbles are best.’

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2016 DG 2nd – Yesterday’s Pastries by Carole Stone


By Carol Stone


She arrives at Paddington on the District line. Well-worn suede shoes, lace-ups, a shade of blue-grey with a thick flat sole. She is a stranger to this line. From where I sit it’s always the shoes I notice first. The polished city brogues, shiny patent stilettos, athletic sneakers. I’ve seen them all but never shoes quite like hers.

Amidst the rushing bodies she stands on the platform, the map she holds turning this way and that. Beneath the rim of her knitted hat, wisps of caramel hair protrude which float wildly as the air is sucked through the tunnel. Brushing it from her eyes she glances around, confusion on her face. Then my watching eyes meet hers and a smile comes my way, not fearful or sympathetic but the genuine kind not usually reserved for the likes of me. Momentarily I forget myself, forget where and who I am. Then a man rushes by, kicking my feet, sharply returning me to reality. I burrow down into my sleeping bag, hoping she won’t be there when I next brave a peek. Except the suede clad feet are already heading my way. Before long they are beside me.

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2016 DG 3rd – Lasting Impression by Jacqueline Cooper


By Jacqueline Cooper


‘He wants you to go to him to sign the divorce papers?  Don’t you dare!’ Sally’s mum sounded outraged at the very idea.  ‘You were at that man’s beck and call for 10 years. Let him come to you if he wants something. In fact let him come here to the house. I’ll get your Aunt Tricia and Aunt Betty round,’ she said grimly.

For a moment Sally pictured her soon-to-be ex-husband walking in to face her mum and the aunts, who’d be sitting in a row on the settee, arms crossed over ample bosoms, ready to lay into him.  The image made her smile but she knew it would never happen.  Greg, her ex, was the biggest wimp going.  He wouldn’t dare face her family. Her mum used to think the sun shone out of him, so once the truth about their marriage finally came out, mum had taken it particularly hard, especially when Sally had to move back in to the family home until she got back on her feet. At thirty years old she’d ended up sleeping in her old bedroom, working two jobs to pay off her half of the debts she hadn’t even known Greg was running up.

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2015 Doris Gooderson Short Story Competition Results and Winners

The 2015 Doris Gooderson Short Story Competition

The Winners.

Congratulations. The winners are:


1st place was Alyson Hilbourne from Yokohama with story “Stars in your Eyes”:

Alyson Hilbourne currently lives in Yokohama, Japan where she works as a teaching assistant. She enjoys writing short stories and travel articles in her free time. She has been published in UK magazines, online and in several anthologies. Her goal, whenever she has time, is to write the novel that has been fermenting in her head. She is a member of Writers Abroad online writing group http://writersabroad.spruz.com/


2nd place was Jacqueline Cooper from Bradford with story “The A to Z of Adultery”:

Jacqui Cooper currently lives in Yorkshire with her husband, a cat and a snake. The cat, she wanted, the snake, well that’s another story. She has always written but didn’t always submit her stories – until a couple of years ago when she gave herself a good talking to. Since then she has been published in People’s Friend and Take a Break. She has won the Henshaw Press short story competition and been placed or short listed in various others, including runner up in the inaugural 2015 Ann Summers short story competition. She also has a story in the Romantic Novelists Association anthology, Truly Madly, Deeply.

3rd place was Janet Hancock from Ferndown with story “The Pencil”:

Janet lives in Dorset. She has had several short story competition successes, and stories published online and in anthologies. She is working on a novel set in Russia and England in the early 20th century; a previous draft was longlisted in the 2013 Mslexia novel competition and shortlisted for the 2014 Yeovil literary prize; the opening chapter and a 500-word synopsis won 1st prize at the 2011 Winchester Writers’ Conference. Janet grows fruit and veg in her garden, from which she emerges at least once a week for several hours’ choral singing.



(Profits from the competition go to the Severn Hospice.)

Severn Hospice logo with charity number (2)

 The Shortlisted Entries

The following entries have made it through to the shortlist for the final judging. Congratulations to everyone listed here, and thank you to everyone who entered, because we’re able to make another donation to the Severn Hospice this year.

  • The Sun and the Moon – Cassie Beggs – Caerleon, Gwent
  • Shadow Over My Shoulder – Sheila Hollingberry – Etchingham
  • Nemesis – Wanda Pierpoint – Tamworth
  • Out for the Count – Marcia Woolf – Hastngs
  • Only In The Dark – Jim Waite, Perth
  • Born Again – Jacqueline Zacharias – York
  • A Paddling of Ducks – Elise Hawken – Gainsborough
  • Over the Limit – Andrew Giles – Darlington
  • The Other Mr Chips – Andrew Giles – Darlington
  • Worlds Apart – Kate Westgate, Ellesmere
  • Too Late to Remember – Malcolm Maxell – Guildford
  • The Idyll – Josie Turner – Hitchin
  • Neighbourly Spirit – Norman Kitching – Gosport
  • Absconding – Elisabeth Kondal – Worthing
  • The Pencil – Janet Hancock – Ferndown
  • Where’s Dad? – Jane Byle – Carnforth
  • Losing Lyn – Bruce Harris – Seaton
  • The Sand People – Jonathan Slack, Bradford-on-Avon
  • A Dish Best Served Cold – Myra Godden – Ashford
  • The Debt –Kevin Chant – Worcester
  • A Present for Teacher – Sarah Lovett – Lowestoft
  • The Open Cage – Pamela Keevil – Stroud
  • Free Range – Dianne Simmons – Bath
  • Stars in Your Eyes – Alyson Hilbourne – Yokahama, Japan
  • Jimmy – Clare Connolly – Weymouth
  • Other People’s Lives – Gillian Gardner – Shrewsbury
  • In Confidence – Ian Burton – Bournmouth
  • Waiting for the Pigeons – Tony Oswick – Essex
  • Rock Goddess – Karen McDermott – Hove
  • The A – Z of Adultery – Jacqueline Cooper – Bradford
  • A Special Vocation – Stephen Gage – Essex
  • Grandma’s Needles – Alison Wassell – St Helens
  • Thin Lizzy – Jo Derrick – Rugby
  • The Book – David Mathews – Bath
  • Galloping in Vain – Michael Callaghan – Clarkston

2015 Doris Gooderson Short Story Competition – Third Place

The Pencil


Janet Hancock



‘There’s nothing to it, Sajid,’ insists Manu. ‘All you have to do is push, shout -‘.

            But Manu, you have two arms, I want to say; two hands and two legs, skinny, yes, but tough, propelling a bony ten-year-old body; Manu thinks that’s how old he is. He has a cast in one eye.

            I don’t know my own age but I’m sure it isn’t ten.

            ‘Anyway,’ adds Manu, ‘as soon as they spot you, they’ll feel sorry for you.’ And Manu is off, along the platform. Continue reading

2015 Doris Gooderson Short Story Competition – Second Place

The A-Z of Adultery


Jacqueline Cooper

A is for my no longer secret admirer. A is for attraction. For anticipation. It is also for affair. And for Andrew, my husband.

B is for boss. For the buzz I felt when I first saw him. For the butterflies in my tummy right now as I wait for him. It is also for betrayal.

C is for the chase. How long has it been since anyone looked at me the way he does? C is for my curves which he says he loves. It’s for the control I feel slipping away as I nervously pace the floor. C is for the curtains I half close in case he’s lying about my curves. It’s for the clock I can’t help watching. It is also for cheating. 

D is for daring. Who’d have thought I’d ever be in this position?  D is for discretion, of course – that goes without saying.  And for desire. Dear god the desire! After twenty years of marriage I thought this giddiness was behind me. My mouth is dry. Should I open the wine? I have no idea how to behave. D is also for doubts. And dishonesty. Continue reading

2015 Doris Gooderson Short Story Competition – First Place

Stars in Your Eyes


Alyson Hilbourne

We cheered as you marched past, smart in new uniforms, heads erect, arms swinging, hobnail boots ringing on the cobbles.

The town gave you a good send-off. The colliery band strode in front along the route to the station. We lined the pavements to watch, sitting with our feet in the gutter to wait. They gave us children paper Union Jacks to wave.

I craned forward to see, brandishing my flag. 

“Papa, Papa!” I shouted. You didn’t turn your head but I saw your moustache twitch so I knew you heard. You were between Maud’s father and Willie’s older brothers. Half the colliery had signed up to go. You were all so straight and tall. I felt my chest swell as I pointed you out.

Mama stood behind me. Her best lace handkerchief was screwed up in her hand and pressed to her cheek.  Continue reading

2014 Doris Gooderson – First Place

The Charity Boutique


James Whitman


Everything looks washed out when the fog rolls in, cold and wet like a flannel left on a part-time radiator. Makes it even harder to find my way around these forgotten streets. But I don’t want to ask for directions. Not to where I’m going.

            So I wander up and down streets I never bothered with as a child. Lucy skips ahead, her red coat a bouncing blob of colour amongst the pale grey. Splashes and giggles and songs about butterflies flutter back to me; all I have for her are barked warnings about roads and dog poo.

            “Mam,” she says at one point, tugging my arm. “Come and see.” Continue reading

2014 Doris Gooderson – Second Place

Letter From Portsmouth


Jim Waite


Windermere, 1829


As the pony sweated past on the hill, Wilfred Potter winced at its leathery smell. The postman, relaxed in the saddle, touched his cap to the walker.

         “Morning, Sir.”

         “Good morning, indeed. A fine day.” Wilfred swung his stick, cut that morning from a lime tree in his garden, and inhaled the September morning. Below stretched a sultry Windermere; above, mountain-tops pushed into the cooler winds of a sapphire sky. Pebbles crunched beneath his boots. He remembered, years earlier, his little son running ahead on paths just like this.

         The postman had stopped at a cottage, a slovenly bundle of stones behind a wooden fence, with a few dejected lettuces and a cow tethered to a stake. Wilfred saw him dismount, take a letter from his saddle bag and cross to the door. He knocked, firmly, but without interest. Continue reading

2014 Doris Gooderson – Third Place

When Gloria Was Here


 Kathryn Clark


When the two of you end up together, people call you chalk and cheese, say opposites attract, and whisper that the baby will be along soon. Perhaps they suspect that your older brother, Jack-the-Lad, they call him, seduced her and did a runner. Gloria’s father rants from the rafters, bruises kiss her cheeks and you, good boy, do what your mother urges, and offer to marry her. Keep it in the family.

You have another motive, sly perhaps, and more pressing than honour or duty. The caramel flesh of her makes you leap inside and out. And it doesn’t hurt, seeing disbelief on the faces of girls who’ve turned you down and boys who’ve dreamt, as you have, of that soft mouth. Continue reading

2013 Doris Gooderson – First Place

Breakfast in Bed


Barbara Leahy


In the morning he brings her breakfast in bed: mushrooms on toast, and a mug of steaming tea.  She sits up, pulling the sheet primly around her chest, and he laughs.  He opens the curtains a crack and the morning sun creeps into the room, peeling back the night like an unwanted blanket.  A dull ache unfurls behind her forehead.  He sits cross-legged on the bed in his boxers, taking long thirsty swallows of tea, spilling blackened mushroom slivers onto the duvet. Continue reading

2013 Doris Gooderson – Second Place

The Sandwriter


John Samson

‘Some say he is mad. But there are those who believe in the power of the Sandwriter.’ Silas cast a furtive glance around the bar then stood back and pretended to polish a glass.

‘What about you?’ I asked, ‘Do you believe?’

His laugh was a little forced as he shook his head. ‘Oh, no. I don’t believe any of that stuff.’ Continue reading

2013 Doris Gooderson – Third Place

I am Annie


Julia Bohanna



I am waiting.

I hear the slam of a coach door, footfalls hurrying up the stone steps and the voices of expectation slithering into my house. It breaks the creeping silence of the past night where there was nothing to do but to walk the corridors, climb the staircase. I imagine the buttery Jamaican sun that drips thickly through the trees outside. Tourists have come to hear about the White Witch, shiver deliciously as they walk through my world. They will already be twitchy with stories of me, the terrible plantation owner who lived here over a century ago. If only they knew that I am with them in every room, in the long green velvet dress that was my hallmark. I drift with more freedom than I had when alive, undetected. In my bedroom that has been restored and furnished with fine antiques; there is an old mirror with rusty foxing on the glass like a young girl’s freckles. In stories I live again. Continue reading

2013 Doris Gooderson – Winners and Shortlist

With over two-hundred entries received, the Wrekin Writers are proud to announce that the winners of the 2013 Doris Gooderson Short Story Competition are as follows:

First place: Breakfast in Bed by Barbara Leahy from Cork, Ireland

Second place: The Sandwriter by John Samson from Rickmansworth, Herts

Third place: I Am Annie by Julia Bohanna from Caversham, Berks Continue reading

2012 Doris Gooderson – Second Place



Thomas Hancocks

The morning’s work had gone slowly. Interrupted by questions from students and conversations with colleagues, he had not been able to fully use the time he had set. Though still, by midday the paper was nearing completion. On the Essence of Moral Decisions, the follow up work to two exalted books, it would be his last push towards that open Professor of Ethics seat at the university where he had trained, taught and grown in notoriety. This paper would secure that seat, he was sure. And, with time, the life of public speeches, guest talks and book signings which he had aimed for since he was a student and seen others realise for years. The essay was unashamedly bold, it needed to be. What is a moral decision? Was the question it posed and on the way towards answering it would weave through history, literature and art in order to delve once more into the root of rectitude, as he had with his books. This was to be an auxiliary work, supporting those arguments he had carefully laid down at length. Man is a moral being; in man’s essence lies the moral instinct. With this, perhaps sententious, line he would finish. The piece needed to be bold. Continue reading

2012 Doris Gooderson – Third Place

Death and Shadows


Ian Bowrey


Death is not something a six year old boy dwells upon and I first saw its shadow when my dog died. He used to limp about and was blind in one eye and bumped into things, and was old – much older than I was, but he was loyal and was always with me and he slept in my room. Then he died and suddenly I had this nagging thought that I was going to die too, and be carried off with my dog to some heavenly place above the clouds in the sky. I was scared. Continue reading

2011 Doris Gooderson – First Place

A Time When Trees Walked The Earth by Susan White

It was Saturday and Usman sat on his trusty wooden bench outside his house in the old city of Kano.  You could tell the days of the week by the old man’s habits.

Usman sighed.  He looked up and down the alley that he knew so well.  The walls, red sand and sinking sunlight gave the whole vista an aura of that of an old sepia photograph resplendent of the colonial days.  Usman sighed a sigh that was even deeper.  He looked down with disgust at his old and tired body, his sinewy hands and his drooping bosom and remembered a time when this body was strong and resilient.  He was famous in the area for being able to carry a full oil drum on his back.  He remembered fondly with a chuckle when he would catch the women sneaking looks at his muscles out of the corners of their eyes.  Now, it took every ounce of strength to lift a cup of water to his lips. Continue reading

2011 Doris Gooderson – Second Place

Darren’s Day Out by Janet Gogerty

Darren’s face was pressed against the bus window as they came to a halt. Today they were visiting a new place and he hoped it would be more exciting than their usual visits to ‘the shops’. Darren trailed behind his mother and the double buggy down a busy street. He could hear her talking to him but he wasn’t listening, the familiar words washed over him. ‘Stay close blah blah don`t upset the blah blah or I’ll blah blah.’ His heart sank as they entered a shop and were soon engulfed by racks of clothes taller than Darren. Continue reading

2011 Doris Gooderson – Third Place

Bits and Pieces by John Enos

I certainly wouldn’t lose on the deal, but I wouldn’t make a fortune either.

I’d spotted the locked Gladstone bag in a dark corner of the Brighton Junque Emporium, as grubby and dust covered as the proprietor. My rummage had yielded nothing of obvious value to me but, at least, this looked intriguing. I felt I needed to buy something to justify the hour I’d spent hunting through the predictable but mainly unsaleable stock, and anyway, I’ve always been a bit of a gambler. The prospect that the bag might yield something of interest, if not value, persuaded me to ask its price. Continue reading

2010 Doris Gooderson – First Place

New Life by John Samson

He waited. The morning heat floated lazily down the dusty road while a cicada clicked out the daily news in competition to the brittle-thin voice on the battery operated radio. Neither bore good news. The beetle spoke of a long, hot day ahead while the voice that floated through the airwaves from a distance capital spoke of economic crises.

Old Man Maloi brushed away an irksome fly with a lazy hand and shuffled into the stifling warmth of his shop. The crises of which the voice spoke had slowed his step and hunched his shoulders but he refused to give in. He would see this through, like he had the last time. He just needed to wait. Continue reading

2010 Doris Gooderson – Second Place

Mum’s Best Friend, by David Wass

Mum changed when Grandad went to heaven. She used to be my best friend, but not any more. The vacuum cleaner’s taken over.

‘Josie! I said your school shoes should be in your room.’

It’s switched on now. In the hall. Mum’s shouting over it.

‘Not by the door where anyone could trip over them.’

She shouts at me all the time. Even when I’m at the dining table with my laptop supposedly doing my homework. Sometimes I wish she’d get a babysitter and go out with her mates again. Continue reading

2010 Doris Gooderson – Third Place

Bewitched by Danielle McLaughlin

Mrs Wilson and the library carpet matched perfectly in one of those rare triumphs of interior design.  I could never look on that particular shade of olive green without her pale, wrinkled face bouncing out at me.  It was no good reason, my mother said, for refusing to wear the almost pristine duffle coat that Sarah, my gangly younger sister, had just outgrown.  But I stood my ground, stubborn as a mule.  The duffle coat also itched about my neck and made me look even pudgier than usual. Continue reading

2009 Doris Gooderson – Third Place

When Clocks Stop

by Rebecca Holmes


You ask me about my obsession.  Well, I’ll tell you.

     It goes back to my childhood, to my grandfather’s house where everything was old, including the air.  The furniture was big and dark, and gave me nightmares.  Carpets were faded where they’d baked in the sun through the windows.  Black and white photographs of stern, stiff relatives long gone glared down from the mantelpiece. Continue reading

2009 Doris Gooderson – First Place


by Diane Simkin

A cold sun shone on the day the old man made his decision.  He left the hostel straight after breakfast and set out to walk the twenty odd miles to the place that used to be his home.  It had been snowing on and off for over a week, and the once green fields were transformed into a white stillness.  He carried nothing and fastened the collar of his mackintosh with a safety pin.  But the inquisitive wind still poked frosty fingers through the gaps. Continue reading