Competitive Streak

I entered my first writing competition - 100 words on the subject of “Waiting.” Neither of my attempts “troubled the scorers.” The first was inspired by my father-in-law’s war memoirs, the full [and true] story of which featured large in my biography about him. The second, a little less dramatic, was prompted by a visit to the Lickey incline south of Birmingham to see the steam locomotive Princess Elizabeth hauling a special train up the hill, with help from two ex-GWR panier tanks.

I waited with bated breath for the results to be announced. Nothing. I checked the website. No mention of my name. I then hoped that the few people I had mentioned it to previously had already forgotten that I had let it slip about my entry.

Surely, there must have been a reason that I was ignored? Maybe I had not followed the rules for submissions. Maybe I had counted my words incorrectly. Maybe, because I had re-jigged something I had already dealt with elsewhere, it did not qualify as “original” [though neither my father-in-law or I had ever entered a 100-word competition before and everybody has to get their ideas from somewhere]. Maybe I just don’t get the difference between fact and fiction. It was, after all, a fiction competition.

On the other hand, maybe my entries were crap.

Lifeline

Our stranded hulk creaked and groaned with every crashing breaker, as he hauled himself onto the gunwale. Wrapping his arms and legs around the greasy lifeline, he slid down into the darkness –then stopped. He’d reached the lowest point of the rope. Inching his way forward, one arm over the other, deadweight legs suddenly dropped, were taken by the next wave and smashed against jagged rocks. The swell wrenched him from his grip and he fell, screaming, into the foam. I slowly lifted my gaze. Lantern light flickered dimly on the distant beach.

“Your turn,” said the voice behind me.

Steam Special

Late arrivals jockey for position along the field edge, beyond which, polished rails reflect bright afternoon sunlight. Birdsong is interspersed with urgent murmurings about lenses, lighting and apertures. A normal service diesel unit clatters down the slope, past the expectant crowd and out of sight. From some distance, a shrill whistle pierces the air. Cameras and recorders of every description, are lifted and poised. The watchers shuffle tensely. The regular, purposeful beat of a steam locomotive working hard uphill is unmistakable and almost upon us. All eyes are fixed on the curtain of trees. The show is about to begin.

Most likely they just weren’t good enough. Must try harder.