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Congratulations to Clacton-based writer, Daisy Jones. Her short story Orbit won the 2024 Frinton Literary Festival Robert Bucke Short Story Prize. 

 

A.M. Obst's Ebb and Flow and Tony Oswick's Shoes in the Wardrobe were the runners up for this year's competition, which was based on the prompt 'WHAT IF?'. This year's entries were judged by a number of authors and creatives including the inimitable Barbara Erskine.​ All judging was anonymous. 

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You can read the shortlisted stories for 2024 below. 

Orbit by Daisy Jones - 2024 winner

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I called at Natasha’s house on my way to Frinton beach. Well, I called at our house – the house where we’d both lived for the past eight years, until two weeks ago.

 

“Do you want to come to the beach?” I asked on the doorstep, the furthest I was now allowed to go, “Should be a great view.”

 

Natasha sighed.

 

“I don’t think so, Henry.”

 

“You’re not going to watch it?”

 

“I didn’t say that. I said I wasn’t going to go with you.”

 

“Okay. Fine.”

 

I shrugged, turning to leave down the cracked brick steps.

 

“You know this is the first time in years you’ve invited me out anywhere?” Natasha said suddenly.

 

“We’ve been places,” I reasoned.

 

“Not like before. You used to dress up smart. Take me to the cinema, or for dinner. Just because. Then one day you stopped. Like I wasn’t worth the effort anymore.”

 

“Is that why you want a divorce? Seriously?”

 

The front door slamming shut was my only answer.

 

I wandered down to the seafront alone, picking out a spot among the gathering crowd. The late sun painted the sky with streaks of pink and red. It illuminated the waves and the sand and the beach huts, casting all in radiant gold before it dipped below the horizon.

 

A cold hush fell. Conversation dwindled, until all that could be heard was the drag of waves and the calls of gulls. In the twilight, a dusky light lingered on the faces of those who had gathered. Our eyes adjusted to the darkness like predators. They were fixed in the same direction: upwards.

 

The wind dropped. The night was balmy, the air close, saturated with the scent of salt. It seemed heavy with a static, electric quality, the way it is before a lightning strike. Sweat beaded on the nape of my neck. There was a great sense of expectation, of a collected held breath.

 

Then the moon rose. It was a waning gibbous: a moon just beginning to turn its face away from the earth, like a departing guest. Its yellowish lustre was sickly, a pale reflection of the sun’s light. And something else rose with it.

 

Its official designation was LV-12; a rogue planet that had steadily been marching through the solar system for the better part of a year. It had no star, and it was coming for ours. It was just a pity that the earth was in the way.

 

It loomed over us, waxen and monstrous. Larger than it had ever been, closer than it had ever come. It moved so slowly it was hard to tell it moved at all. But in the far reaches beyond our atmosphere, it was flying. Flying without wind resistance to slow it, without a course to guide it, without a pilot to save it.

 

The impact was silent. Hundreds of miles from earth, in the vacuum of space, it made no sound that could reach us. Only those with the keenest eyes recognised it. A cry went up, quiet, disbelieving. For a few, bewildered seconds, the rest of us strained to see what they saw. Then the first explosion tore through the moon, and our voices joined theirs.

 

It was like the night was eating the moon. Pieces broke off like shards of glass, jagged edges cutting the fabric of the sky. They burned white-hot, molten as forged iron, spinning out into space where they were swallowed up by darkness.

 

For hours, we watched. The moon, guttering like a candle, dwindled from a pound coin to a penny, to a speck the size of a star. And then, little by little, it evanesced into nothing before the first glimmer of dawn.

 

Seabirds took flight as the sun rose, squabbling and squawking as though nothing had changed. The sea was calm, waves sighing as rosy morning light danced across its surface. I watched as the tide fell. It would never rise so high again.

 

As I slowly walked along the beach, towards home, I realised that no child born from that day on would ever see the moon. To them, it would never be missing from the night sky. They would never remember the festivals celebrated around its waxing and waning. Within a few generations, no one would. How quickly the impossible becomes the mundane.

 

And then I saw her. Natasha. Wrapped in a trenchcoat, her hair flyaway, as though she’d been out all night. How quickly would Natasha forget me? A few months, a few years? How many times would the earth turn before the home we once shared no longer felt half-empty without me?

 

She smiled ruefully as I drew nearer.

 

“You saw it, then,” I said, pointlessly.

 

“I did,” Natasha said.

 

“Will you miss it? The moon?”

 

“I’m not sure if there’s much to miss.”

 

“What?”

 

“Well, look.”

 

Natasha pointed out to the horizon. There, barely visible in the dawn light, a rugged shape hung low over the water.

 

“But it was destroyed?” I breathed, “We all saw it.”

 

“We saw the moon destroyed, yes. But that’s not the moon. Or at least, it wasn’t.”

 

Slowly, I came to the same realisation that Natasha had: LV-12 had obliterated the moon, but not itself – not quite. After the explosion, a piece of the planet was left intact. A piece roughly the size and shape of our moon. LV-12 had replaced what it had taken from us.

 

“Natasha,” I said, “Do you think –”

 

“You can’t come back,” she said quickly.

 

“Do you think,” I said, undeterred, “I could take you out sometime?”

 

Natasha frowned.

 

“Take me out?”

 

“On a date. To the movies, or a restaurant. Wherever you like.”

 

“Henry…” Natasha sighed, “Why are you asking me this?”

 

I looked up at the embers of LV-12, beaten and hammered into shape by distant and powerful forces. Ancient matter made new. In the east, the sun was rising.

 

“Because,” I said, “It seems like a good day to start again.”

Ebb and Flow by A.M. Obst

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The pebble pauses on the cusp between momentum and gravity before dropping into the green-grey waters of the estuary. Widening ripples are the only evidence of its journey.

 

I should be leaving now. The car’s packed to the roof with suitcases and boxes, and Emma’s having one more cuppa with her Mum. I bet she’s wondering what’s taking me so long.

 

Still, I hesitate. Is this the last time I’ll stand on this marshy bank to commune with my old friend the river? Only a few days ago I couldn’t wait to leave and begin my new life, but this moment feels so final.

 

I have to let it go. I turn to follow the secret path that zig-zags between the glutinous saltmarsh rills back to the higher sea wall.

 

A squabble of seagulls overhead seems to morph into words. ‘Thank you for your offering.’

 

I stop and look around, trying to pinpoint where the sound came from. There’s nobody in sight and nowhere to hide out here, just me in this place that’s neither land nor sea yet both at once. ‘Who said that?’

 

The voice deepens into the whirr of winter wind through ash trees. ‘Do you not know me? I have always been here.’

 

Ah, of course. ‘Come on, Gav, I know it’s you. Stop mucking around, barmy idiot!’

 

‘I am your friend, but not he.’ That doesn’t sound like my best mate.

 

‘Who are you?’ There’s no reason to be afraid, yet a shiver skims down my back and I pull my coat closed against the cool air. Am I going mad?

 

‘I am the spirit of this place, where the rivers reach their fingers deep into the land and the promontories stand guard over the estuaries.’ The voice washes through me with the gentle inexorability of the tide.  ‘I am the flood caressing the mud and distributing life. I am the oysters dreaming quiet dreams on the sea bed, the crabs scuttling in the murky dark, the terns gliding on air currents above the water’s surface. I am the salt air, the crumbling shore, the stubborn salt-bush.’

 

I shake my head. ‘This is ridiculous.’ I’m going to end up on local radio as the victim of Prank of the Week. But I don’t turn and walk away like I should; have I become glued to the spot, trapped by the sucking mud? I experimentally shift my heel, just in case.

 

‘I have known you since you were born,’ the voice continues. ‘I have watched you fish and sail and paddle and throw stones and grow up. And now you are running away.’

 

‘I’m not running away! I’m just… in a bit of a hurry. We’ll be late if we don’t leave soon.’

 

‘I do not mean that. I sense in you an intention to flee, to leave behind all you know without thought of return.’

 

My face grows hot. Whoever—whatever—this is, I don’t have to listen. Tension vibrates though my legs at a point just below movement. What am I waiting for?

 

Aware I’m either in the presence of a supernatural force or having a daft conversation with the mud, I draw a deep breath. ‘It’s not…’ Swallow, try again. ‘I’m not fleeing. We’ve been planning this for ages—there are tons of jobs down in London right now, and we’ve found a decent place to rent that won’t break the bank. Em’s already got work lined up, and I have five interviews next week. And when we’re not working, there’s so much to do—sports, concerts, shows, exhibitions. You know… adult things?’ Well, that was lame.

 

My suspicion rises. ‘Are you trying to stop me from leaving?’ I force fake defiance into my tone as I address this unfathomable entity.

 

A sigh, the breath of sea breeze through elder branches, ruffles my hair. ‘Son, you misunderstand what life is, if you believe that of me.’

 

I can’t help laughing. ‘Son? I’m thirty-two.’

 

The sigh slides into the mournful call of a curlew. ‘I am far older, and you are all my sons and daughters. It is against my nature to prevent any of you from going where your path takes you; life must move on, must change and evolve in its myriad of tiny and momentous ways.’

 

‘Really. Because I could have sworn you don’t want me to go.’ Perhaps I should be more cautious, but this conversation is drawing me in, making me bolder.

 

‘I do not wish you to run from here without clarity of what you are running towards; that is how life becomes dry and diminished, its roots torn from the ground without finding new soils and springs to nourish them.’

 

I scuff the toe of my trainer through the shreds of seaweed deposited on the side of the track. ‘Well, that’s good then… but, well, don’t you lose us when we go somewhere else?’ I don’t know why I need the answer, but it feels important.

 

‘Oh, my son, my son.’ Is the voice in my head now? ‘The seas and rivers and land are all joined, and nobody is ever truly lost to me. You may go on to dwell beside new waters, but there will still be a connection. You will always take part of me with you, and part of you will always remain here. You will be welcomed when you return.’

 

I nod at the sense, the rightness in this, despite the weird way the message has been delivered. ‘Look, ah, thank you for that. But I do need to go, so—goodbye. For now.’ And, feeling more than a little foolish, I wave at the muddy river before making my way to the familiar solidity of the sea wall. My steps are lighter now, a weight eased though I wasn’t aware of it on my shoulders.

 

The tide can carry me out, and back again.

Shoes in the Wardrobe by Tony Oswick

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The door of the wardrobe is ajar, just as Eric had left it. Shirts and trousers hang neatly from the rails, numerous pairs of socks cling together in balls on the top shelf, while the dark brown shoes, size 7, sit side by side on the wardrobe floor. Sunshine from the bedroom window casts a chink of light on the open wardrobe.

​

The right shoe looks sideways to the left shoe, winks through his eye-hole and, careful not to scuff his precious brown leather, nudges the wardrobe door open a few centimetres more. As he pushes, the hinges of the wardrobe let out an imperceptible squeak and the door swings casually open. The right shoe blinks as the light streams in.

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He steps down on to the fleshy pile of carpet and wallows in its luxuriousness, his brown leather sheen now shimmering in the full light of the day.

 

“Come on down, Leftie. The price is right!” he calls to the left shoe, which is still sitting motionless in the wardrobe. He chuckles at his joke.

 

“Is it safe?” whispers Leftie, ignoring his partner’s pathetic attempt at humour. Hesitating at the door, he looks one way and then the other. “Is anyone coming, Rightie?”

 

“Of course not, they’ve both gone out,” replies Rightie. “Look, he’s made sure the bedroom door’s open. Time to be on our way.”

Leftie nervously steps out of the wardrobe.

 

“Careful now, mind your laces,” says Rightie, “you don’t want to trip over yourself, do you?”

 

“Trip myself up? Of course I won’t,” pooh-poohs Leftie. “Aren’t I the one always telling you to watch out where you’re going?”

 

Together, they saunter towards the bedroom door and Rightie peeks a toe-cap outside. He glances towards the landing. “The coast’s clear, come on, this way,” he says and he heads for the stairs.

 

But Leftie holds back. “I don’t like this. It’s dangerous down those stairs by ourselves. Do we have to, Rightie? Why can’t we just go to the bathroom and back instead?”

 

“Why not? I’ll tell you why not. Because it’s not part of the plan. Didn’t you listen to what he said? Anyway, what is it with you? Where’s your sense of adventure?” Ignoring Leftie’s protestations, Rightie continues on his way.   

 

“Come back, wait for me,” shouts Leftie. “Don’t leave me. You know we always go everywhere together. I get lonely without you.”

 

But Rightie isn’t listening. He stands on the top step of the stairs, looks down and starts his descent. But as he does so, he stumbles and - sin-of-all-sins - he treads on his own untied shoe-lace and unceremoniously trips toecap-over-heel, down to the bottom of the stairs where he lands with a thud against the hall-stand. And there he lies, mute and immobile, his scuffed sole facing the ceiling, as helpless as an overturned crab. 

 

Leftie stares down. This isn’t part of the plan. But it’s a long way to hop all by himself down to the bottom of the stairs. What is he to do? Without Rightie, it’s almost impossible. But at least he’ll try. Rightie’s accusations about lack of adventure have stung him into action.

 

“I’ll show him,” he mutters to himself, dropping gently on to the first step of the stair, determined to get to the bottom.

 

But then he hears a noise. A key is rattling in the front door. Leftie freezes. The master and mistress are back.  

 

“What’s this shoe doing here, Eric?” It’s the mistress, booming like a tannoy on full volume and pointing at the brown shoe lying upside down at the foot of the stairs. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times to put your shoes away and not leave them lying around the house.”

 

Eric stares at the shoe. “But, but, but …” he stutters.

 

“Don’t you ‘but-but-but’ me, Eric Stepney. We’ve been married long enough for you to know the rules by now. You are, without doubt, the most indolent and untidy man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. If only I’d listened to my mother. Why I ever married you, I don’t know.” She glares at Eric and then something catches her eye at the top of the stairs. “And look, there’s the other one. If I hadn’t seen them, I might’ve tripped over them and done myself an nasty injury. For heaven’s sake, Eric, pick them up this instant and put them back in your wardrobe. I tell you, you’ll be the death of me.”

 

Without so much as a ‘Yes, my dearest’, Eric bends down, picks up the right shoe lying by the hall-stand, climbs the stairs and retrieves the left shoe lying at the top. Holding one in each hand, he takes them into the bedroom.

 

He opens the wardrobe door, bends down and replaces the shoes side-by-side in the bottom, just as he’d left them.

 

“I’ll give you a good polish tomorrow boys,” he says, patting each shoe in turn. “You deserve it. It was a good effort. Don’t worry. She’ll fall over you one of these days and break her neck. Let’s try it again tomorrow. Okay?”

 

And he blows them a kiss as he gently closes the wardrobe door.

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