The first prize went to ‘Fly’ by José Manuel Dorrego Sáenz, from Madrid, Spain. The winning story was written in Spanish, and its author wins $20,000. There were three second prizes of $2000 awarded to the highest-ranking entries in each of the other languages of the contest:‘Where Do You Think You’re Going?!’ is by Emilia Sheppard, resident in Warsaw, Poland – their story was written in English;‘Woodpecker’ is by Natheer Alzuabi, resident in Vienna, Austria – their story was written in Arabic;‘Pink’ is by Ravit Grossman, resident in Herzeliya Israel – their story was written in Hebrew. In line with … Continue reading Winning stories of the VI edition of The César Egido Serrano International Short Story Competition
One morning he set off on his walk, but when he reached the point where he usually turns back and heads for home, he kept on going. For hours and hours, on he went, and all the while behind him the city was diminishing. Days later, when he remembered to glance back, the skyline had disappeared completely. Each day the road stretched ahead to an unknown horizon, and each day he came upon quiet places to drink and eat. People in these places were thoughtful and generous, taking nothing, talking little, asking no questions. Refreshed, he’d smile and gather himself … Continue reading Gone
I started this story a few years ago in a Roomers workshop. We were using the Lawrence Ferlinghetti poem ‘I Am Waiting’ as a writing prompt. I posted a version here in November 2015. This week I’ve been revisiting the piece. *** He’s waiting for the tram, at the junction. It’s the last of the night, and it’s late. All the while cars stream by. He wonders where people are going at this hour. Why’s he the only one waiting for a tram. Lights change, cars stop, drivers and passengers stare. He stares back, sizing up. Drivers wait for green, … Continue reading Waiting
They’d been playing for most of the afternoon, despite the cold, but as soon as the light began to fade, their mothers began summoning them inside. Time for dinner. See you tomorrows were called with cheer as one by one they left the square, until eventually it was just Martin remaining. He watched the sky swell grand and purple, felt the cold turn piercing, and then made his way out of the square, back to the street, urban branches closing and tugging at his coat on the way. He emerged on the wrong side. The layout was strange and entrancing at this hour, and all roads lead home eventually, he’d been told, by someone at some time. And so he walked, passing long terraces of quiet houses, then he turned right because that felt right, then left because that felt right too.
Continue reading “Just Martin”
It’s a squarish room, plain by day, and nothing to speak of. But after dark, when the lamps are lit and the candles positioned, the room takes on an inviting glow, and were you to walk inside from the chill of a wintry evening, throwing off your coat and rubbing your hands together, you’d think it had the air of an old-fashioned club. A suggestion of wood-panelled age, perhaps; of capacious leather armchairs, and small low tables ready for heavy tumblers of whisky. You might describe it as a pleasant room, a cheery welcoming place. A place where a roaring … Continue reading THE GHOSTS