Winner: Barry Charman, an English born writer, currently living in North West
London. He is a past winner of the London Writers Competition "Promis Prize.”
He has had short stories published in a Smashwords anthology, Flash Fiction
World, Microhorror and has a blog on barrycharman.blogspot.com. He is currently working on a
children's novel and an adult novel, and is looking for an agent.
Roots
The tree
was sinking, of this they were sure. Far beneath them, they saw the lava
churning, and knew the tree was done. They had climbed as high as they could,
up the tallest tree they could find, and now they had to stop, and reflect.
The man who’d worked the land was a stout man, who looked at all the fire and
thought of the animals that couldn’t climb. Above
him was the man who’d dealt money, sweating in his suit,
a uselessness of words tumbling from him as he stared, eyes grotesque, at the base
of the tree. Above him was the man who’d spoke for
God, who tried to finish broken prayers. Gone was his recent superiority, his
assuredness assuredly done. His face was pressed to the tree, as if it was
taking confession. Last rites given to flesh from wood, and suddenly not the
reverse. Above him was the man without portfolio. The man who had talked, as if
for all, and only now run out of words. He’d offered everything he had for the chance of salvation. He threw a gold
watch, a bulging wallet, into the wastes. He watched as they quickly burned. He
divested himself of these things, as if they were poisonous, and recognised as
corrupting.
Above him was the woman who’d taught. She was young, and her hair, tied
back practically, revealed green eyes, the last green in all the world. Quiet,
she had poured out her bitterness, she had turned out her anger. She had
climbed, not to escape, but to catch the breeze a last time. To be in the
feeling of a certain calm. To be in the arms of something living as she died.
The ecstasy of a death that might bring
peace.
Around them were rolling hills of fire.
Tumultuous crops of writhing, hissing, steam-snakes. Below, the blackened-red,
reddish-black tides licked against the roots of the tree, and it gave thought to
its passing. Roots curled, and the tips of leaves quivered, reaching out
blindly, and without question.
The sound of dying had passed. All that
remained was the gentle surf of fire. Slowly, the tree gave way at last. The
man who’d worked the land cried for it, the
man who’d dealt money screamed now nothing
could be bought. The man who’d spoke for God
begged to be heard, and the man without was silent, dumb. The woman wondered,
were they the last to be silenced? Would the silence fill her up? With truth?
With echoes? Would she be transformed? Were they to transcend or merely end?
Down there, a recipe like that from which she’d first been cooked, was preparing her answer.
She tried to sing, a last echo of her world,
of its mark, but there were too many songs to remember. So she poured out the
songs, and filled herself with the vision. Fire and roar. And above, the birds
circling as if they knew of somewhere to land. Somewhere that was or was yet to
be.
And the world wound down, with the sighing of
burnt offerings, the slow surrender of pain to grace. And the fire rose higher
than any man ever made. Beyond comprehension, as most terrible things are.
The sort of fire that warms a God’s hearth, or drives a devil out.
Though such things were beyond knowing, the
woman thought, as she passed to other things.
Fire knows. At the end, fire knew everything.
Honourable Mention: Mariam Henna Naushad, IV Semester English Copy Editor, Sacred Heart College, Thevara
True
Abode
He looked around, a hapless victim of poverty, like
a deer searching for better pastures of grass to feed on. Weak from hunger and
helpless before the forces of nature, he took refuge from the scorching heat of
the sun under a tree at a park near the centre of the town. The busy sounds of the
town-life soon began to fade off as he settled into a slumber instigated by the
lullaby of the voices around him.
The moon soon took its course over the town,
emitting dark shadows around. An eerie silence settled in accompanied with the
faint rustling of the leaves, the echoes of the winds and the vicious howls of
the wolves. Being in a dilapidated state, it took all the strength within him
to find his prey for the night. The houses on North Lane embarked a rich look
of sophistication, the kind where families sat down together for quite, elegant
dinners served by the butler. The South Lane was the abode of homes rich with
love and laughter. The West Lane was the heaven of the poor, trying hard to
survive on a meagre income.
His crusade around the city, made him more cynical
of life, as the poison of loneliness swirled around his soul. Having eyed
around in vain for the safest option, he opted for the house on the North Lane
that portrayed the quietness of a tomb. Breaking in with the swiftness of a deer,
he quickly devoured over the remains of the food kept inside the refrigerator. When
the rumblings in his stomach died down, he looked around fascinated at the
wealth of arts and artefacts that made up the house-like-mansion. His mind
wandered off for a second with a flicker of hope of fate providing him with a
chance of luxurious living.
His own silhouette that constantly followed him
around left him feeling frightened and the decision was made to take his leave
from the house. During his attempt to
get out, the burglar alarm (a sneaky and luxurious setting of such mansions)
suddenly went off and he was caught red handed by the master of the house.
After the interrogation by the police, who also indulged happily in hasty
beatings, he was sentenced to serve his time in the dark cells of the prison.
Looming out large, like a true symbol of hell, it is at this place where the
man found his true abode of shelter.
