STORGY: 2014 Short Story Prize Anthology

By Chris Arp, H C Child, Curtis Dickerson and 11 more

The 2014 STORGY Short Story Competition Anthology celebrates the continued resurgence of the short story genre and showcases some of the most talented up-and-coming authors from across the world. This outstanding collection features all fourteen finalists and competitions winners, as judged by critically-acclaimed author David James Poissant. These wonderfully diverse short stories will move, amuse, unsettle, and entertain, combining to create the most eclectic collection available online.
Stories by competition winner Rowena Macdonald; runners-up Karina Evans and Juliet Hill; and finalists: H C Child, Curtis Dickerson, Aleksei Drakos, Lucy Durneen, Sarah Evans, Rab Ferguson, Dyane Forde, Thomas Stewart, Scott Palmer, Chris Arp, and Jacqueline Horrix. This edition also contains author forewords, interviews, and exclusive artwork by STORGY illustrator Harlot Von Charlotte.

• Language: English
• Publisher: STORGY Books
• Release date: Sep 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781999890780

Book preview

2014 SHORT STORY COMPETITION ANTHOLOGY

2014 SHORT STORY COMPETITION ANTHOLOGY

Chris Arp H C Child Curtis Dickerson Aleksei Drakos Lucy Durneen Karina Evans Sarah Evans Rab Ferguson Dyane Forde Juliet Hill Jacqueline Horrix Rowena Macdonald Scott Palmer Thomas Stewart

STORGY Books

Copyright © 2014 by STORGY®

All rights reserved

---

STORGY.COM

First Published in Great Britain in 2014

by STORGY Books

---

Copyright © STORGY Ltd 2014

---

STORGY

LONDON

---

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

---

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express permission of the publisher.

---

Published by STORGY Ltd

London, United Kingdom, 2017

---

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

---

Cover design by Rob Pearce

Contents

Foreword

WINNER OF THE 2014 STORGY SHORT STORY COMPETITION

Rowena Macdonald

2ND PLACE WINNER OF THE 2014 STORGY SHORT STORY COMPETITION

Karina Evans

3RD PLACE WINNER OF THE 2014 SHORT STORY COMPETITION

Juliet Hill

Doppelginger

Afterword

H C Child

Noli Me Tangere

Afterword

Lucy Durneen

Nor’easter

Afterword

Dyane Forde

The Failures Of Love

Afterword

Sarah Evans

Acknowledge My Sacrifices

Afterword

Curtis Dickerson

Between Universes

Aleksei Drakos

Cremations

Afterword

Thomas Stewart

Ricia

Afterword

Rab Ferguson

The Salesman Rings Twice

Scott Palmer

The Talk

Afterword

Chris Arp

Yesterday Once More

Afterword

Jacqueline Horrix

Interview with Rowena Macdonald

Interview with Karina Evans

Interview with Juliet Hill

Judge Profile

Interview With David James Poissant

Illustrator

Acknowledgments

EXIT EARTH

SHALLOW CREEK

STORGY MAGAZINE

Foreword

STORGY was founded in 2013 by Tomek Dzido and Anthony Self following a discussion concerning a shared desire to communicate with fellow writers and encourage creative collaboration. The principle philosophy of STORGY was its aspiration to inspire artistic alliance and encourage inter-disciplinary studies of the short story genre. With a team of committed writers, STORGY established itself as a new platform on which writers could publish and promote their work.

In 2013 STORGY continued to publish new fiction from its team of resident writers, in addition to promoting the work of seasoned and debut authors. Showcased stories continued to attract new readers and writers and in the winter of 2013, STORGY proudly announced its first ever Short Story Competition. 2014 witnessed a sizeable increase in short story submissions and publication enquiries and with its extended team of resident writers, guest writers, illustrators, photographers, artists, and an ever expanding readership, 2015 has seen STORGY firmly establish itself as a leading online publisher of contemporary fiction.

We would like to take this opportunity to thank our resident writers for their continued commitment and invaluable contribution. We would also like to thank all our featured authors and illustrators who helped to keep the dream alive. Finally, we extend our thanks to everyone who entered the competition, without whom this book would not exist. Special thanks to guest judge Mr David James Poissant for his endless encouragement and support, and thank you to all our readers who continue to make STORGY possible.

With this first publication from STORGY BOOKS, we are proud to present the winners of our 2014 STORGY Short Story Competition. Within this book you will find all fourteen finalist short stories, in addition to author interviews, afterwords, and original artwork by our resident illustrator; Harlot Von Charlotte.

For more details and submission guidelines visit:

---

STORGY

Full Page Image

WINNER OF THE 2014 STORGY SHORT STORY COMPETITION

LIVE MEAT AND FREEDOM By Rowena Macdonald

The idea came to her when she was in the water: she could just carry on swimming. It was only a mile to the mainland. Once there she could nick some clothes from a washing line and hitch all the way to Dad’s cottage and that’d be it: she’d have escaped.

There were various problems:

1. She might not make it.

2. She would have no money.

3. What if she got picked up by a murderer or a weirdo?

4. Dad would make her go back.

5. Dad wouldn’t make her go back but he’d make her go to a new school.

---

Swimming on, cushioned in the bubble of heat that had formed around her, she came up with some solutions:

1. She was the best swimmer in her class: she could easily swim to the mainland.

2. She could put some money in a plastic carrying thing around her neck, like surfers wore.

3. She could buy a train ticket with her birthday money and avoid murderers and weirdos.

4. She would plead with Dad not to make her go back, tell him how much she hated it at John’s, how much she hated school. If none of this worked, she would lie on the floor and refuse to move.

5. She would persuade Dad to teach her at home. He didn’t believe in school anyway. He once told her that school was a glorified crèche, an idea developed by adults because they couldn’t be bothered to deal with their children. It was the most thrilling thing she’d ever heard; like he’d broken a law that every other adult in the world obeyed.

---

She turned and was shocked by how far she’d already swum. Above the shore was the steep panorama of the town, at the top of which stood John’s house, the house where she and Mum now lived, the house with a lawn like a golf course and a balcony where John could stand and look down on everything.

The heat bubble had burst but she didn’t want to go back. Floating nearby was a white rowing boat with the name Lady in Red painted in red letters. She thrashed towards it, hauled herself over the side and lay shivering on the deck. Boarding someone else’s boat was probably illegal but she needed a place to think. The owner shouldn’t mind. She wasn’t going to steal it. As Dad had told her many times, rules are there to be broken.

The sun, bouncing off the white interior, warmed and dried her. The rocking of the boat was so restful she thought she might fall asleep. Sleeping in strange places was one of her favourite things. Before Mum and Dad split up, before she and Mum moved into John’s, she sometimes slept in the tree-house Dad had built. Last time they spoke he’d bought a camper van, an orange and white one. She couldn’t wait to sleep in it.

The idea of swimming to the mainland seemed silly the more she thought about it. Rowing there in the Lady in Red would make more sense although that really would be stealing.

---

A figure on the beach was watching. She lay down again. Everyone was always watching. Always waiting to tell her off or laugh at her. She had always done something wrong and, even if she hadn’t, she was wrong in herself. The only person she felt right with was Dad. She hadn’t seen him in ages. It wasn’t fair. Dad didn’t do email and he wasn’t good on the phone so they mainly communicated by postcards: the Needles, St Catherine’s Lighthouse and the yachts at Cowes from her. Lulworth Cove, Old Harry and the chalk man on the hillside with the big willy from him. John thought the chalk man postcard inappropriate. She overheard him say this to Mum, who said, It doesn’t mean anything, John, it’s just Andy’s sense of humour. Anyway, it’s a beautiful piece of ancient art; it’s actually quite educational for her.

Dad hadn’t replied to her last postcard of the donkeys at Carisbrooke Castle or to the one before that of the dinosaur at Blackgang Chine.

When’s Dad going to write to me? she had asked Mum the previous week.

I don’t know, darling.

It’s his turn. I wrote the last two postcards.

Maybe they got lost in the post.

None of the others have got lost.

He’s probably busy.

---

Too busy to write a postcard? If she had a mobile she and Dad could have texted but she wasn’t allowed one until she was twelve, even though everyone else in her class had one. Another reason she was considered wrong.

---

How was your last day, sweetheart?

Rubbish.

When her mother’s back was turned she squeezed the last of the sea from her hair onto the kitchen floor.

Never mind, six weeks hols now.

Can I go and stay with Dad?

I don’t know about that, Katie. Dad’s a bit busy.

Doing what?

Work and stuff.

He’s not usually busy.

Well, he is at the moment.

---

She looked up Worth Matravers, where Dad lived, on Googlemaps. It was about ten centimetres from the island, only a finger step beyond Swanage. On clear days you could see Swanage from the Needles. If only she could rope-slide across. She’d been on a rope-slide at Robin Hill Country Park. It had been amazing. As close as you could get to being a bird, bar paragliding.

Really the ferry was the best plan. But the men on the ticket gate might stop her, ask why she was travelling alone. Same with the train; that part of the journey would be longer than the ferry; even more chance of being noticed and questioned.

If only there weren’t any weirdos or murderers she could have hitched. Hitching was great. Three years ago, she and Dad had hitched all the way from Niton to Newport, where Dad’s car, which had broken down, was being fixed. They had stood with their thumbs out at the edge of the village. Within twenty minutes a gold Rolls Royce had glided up and the man driving had told them to hop in. The car had been amazing: cream padded leather upholstery, which smelt of new shoes, shiny wooden panelling, a little table with circular hollows for your drinks; like being in a very posh living room.

That was a stroke of luck, Dad had said after the man dropped them off. Who’d have thought it? A Roller. Don’t usually get posh cars picking you up.

Why not?

Because people in posh cars are usually arseholes.

Why?

Because they’re rich.

Why are they arseholes?

Don’t use that word, darling. Only I’m allowed to use it.

But why though?

Because rich people only care about money and they’re selfish.

That man must have been rich.

Yeah, must have.

Was he an arsehole?

Sweetheart, don’t use that word.

But was he?

No, he wasn’t, he was nice. He probably picked us up ‘cos of you.

Why?

Because you made me look respectable.

What’s ‘respectable’?

You know: nice, normal, straight, trustworthy.

Why do I make you look respectable?

"Oh Katie. Why? Why? Why? Just because."

---

If she couldn’t hitch and she couldn’t take the train, she could walk. She could forage through the countryside, eating mushrooms and berries and dandelion leaves. She could sleep in hedgerows or abandoned barns. Tickle trout in streams and set traps for rabbits. How hard could it be? She had watched all of Ray Mears and Bear Grylls and Dad had taught her a lot. She knew how to drain dirty water through a sock filled with sand.

Ten centimetres, from Lymington to Worth Matravers, equalled approximately forty miles, according to her reckonings with a ruler and a calculator. How long would that take on foot?

Katie! Supper!

Coming.

The scraping of cutlery on plates. John’s squeaking jaw as he chewed. Him trying too hard to be nice: Six weeks off, eh?

Hmm.

What are you going to do?

I want to go and stay with my Dad.

…Jenny, how about Katie doing a sailing course? Paul Bristow runs courses over in Yarmouth. I could look into it, probably get a discount; Paul gets a lot of business off us.

Aren’t they for adults, these courses? said Mum.

No, all ages. Be good for her. Good to do something productive, learn something new...

I’m always learning new things at school. Can’t I go and stay with Dad?

Why wouldn’t they let her stay with Dad? It was like they couldn’t hear her. Dad could teach her to sail. He had a little boat.

Dad could teach me to sail.

He’s too busy to teach you to sail, said Mum.

You always say he’s too busy.

This course’ll be great, said John. There’ll be loads of other kids. Much more fun than being at your Dad’s.

How stupid John was. A load of unknown kids: nightmare.

---

Next day she waited until Mum was out before ringing Dad’s landline from the hall phone. The phone rang for ages. Eventually she hung up. She tried his mobile.

The person you are calling is not available. Please hang up and try later.

She tried later.

The person you are calling is not available. Please hang up and try later.

Why wasn’t Dad available? Was it because he thought she was Mum? She tried disguising the number by ringing from the phone box down the road. It smelt of pee and ash. Pash? Peesh? Again the posh electronic woman answered.

She tried Dad’s home number once more.

Hello? A not-so-posh real woman.

Who’s this? Can I speak to my Dad?

Is this Katie?

Yes. Who are you? Can I speak to Dad…Please.

Your Dad’s not here at the moment.

Where is he?

He’s…at work.

Who are you?

I’m Ellie, I’m a friend of your Dad’s.

"Can you tell him Katie rang? It’s really important. Really."

I will.

Promise?

I promise.

---

Dad didn't ring that evening. Or the next day. Or the next.

---

Who's Ellie? she asked Mum.

Who?

Ellie: she’s a friend of Dad’s.

Oh. Ellie. Yes.

Who is she?

Just a friend.

A girlfriend?

Yes, darling. A girlfriend.

I want to ring Dad.

Darling, no.

Why?

Because…

What?

He won’t be there.

How do you know?

Katie ran to the hall phone. As she was dialing Mum snatched the receiver.

No, Katie. I said no.

Why? I want to speak to Dad. It’s not fair. Why can’t I speak to him?

Dad isn’t there at the moment. He’s gone away.

Where is he? When’s he coming back?

He’s working…In France.

France! Whereabouts in France?

I don’t know exactly but he’s going to be away for a while…

---

The man in the booth at the ferry terminal barely raised a flicker of interest when she bought a one-way ticket to Wareham, the nearest station to Worth Matravers. She sat for most of the ferry journey in the disabled cubicle of the ladies’, on top of the toilet lid with her feet drawn up so no one looking under the door could see her.

Mum’s vagueness had given her away. No way was Dad in France. Why would he be there? Dad was definitely still in Dorset. But why lie? Because of Ellie? He’d had girlfriends before. She’d got used to the idea that he and Mum were never going to get back together.

---

Hiding in the train toilet didn’t work. There were too many people queuing for it.

At Brockenhurst a lady boarded with two daughters, roundabout her age. They were on their way to Weymouth.

Are you travelling on your own, darling?

My dad’s meeting me at Wareham.

The lady made a face like someone had done a bad fart. She’d never let her daughters travel alone. Already the woman disapproved of Dad. Mum, John, Grandpa, her teachers, her classmates’ parents, this lady: everybody disapproved of him.

Do you want to come and sit with us?

An order rather than a question. The daughters looked at her as if a bogey was hanging from her nose.

This is Jessie and this is Maddie. What’s your name, darling?

Chloë.

What a pretty name.

No it wasn’t. It was the name of her worst enemy but she smiled and pretended to agree.

Jessie kept her eyes fixed on her Game Boy, Maddie on her Harry Potter. At Bournemouth the mother got out three bags of crisps, a packet of Mr Kipling’s French Fancies and a tupperware box containing white bread ham sandwiches, Dairylea triangles and Penguin bars.

Would you like something to eat, Chloë?

No, thank you.

Are you sure?

Everything looked so deliciously unhealthy and completely different to the kind of packed lunch Mum would have prepared that she was sure she did want something to eat but Jessie and Maddie’s blue eyes were skewering her with matching cold glares.

Do you have any lunch with you, Chloë?

No, but it’s all right, I’m not hungry.

Again, the fart face. The woman pressed a sandwich into her hand. It was cut glamorously into a triangle. The bread was so soft it stuck to the roof of her mouth and the ham tasted wonderfully like salty plastic. A lurid pink French Fancy was placed in front of her on a square of kitchen towel. Kitchen towel equalled money. Mum started buying kitchen towel when they moved into John’s. Before that they only ever had toilet paper. Last term she had a really bad cold and, having forgotten Mum now also stocked up on tissues, when she pulled a ribbon of loo roll from her pocket Chloë and everyone wet themselves laughing. Do you need the toilet, Katie? Have you pooed yourself?

Where’s your Mummy, Chloë?

Southampton.

She put you on the train?

Yes.

And your Daddy’s meeting you at Wareham?

Mm-mmm.

What does your Daddy do in Wareham?

He works for Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. In Axminster.

This wasn’t exactly a lie. Dad had worked for Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall for a while but now he didn’t. He and that curly-haired four-eyed ponce had fallen out. She wasn’t quite sure why. Dad said it was because Hugh expected everyone to work for peanuts: If he pays peanuts, he’s going to get monkeys. And I’m not a monkey. But there was more it than this. Eavesdropping on Mum and John, she’d heard how Dad could never hold down a job, how he had no respect for authority, how he always blew every chance he had.

Face it, Jenny, he’s a loser. A feckless loser.

She wondered what feckless meant. What was a feck? Dad apparently had less fecks than you were supposed to. This sounded rude. But John didn’t use swearwords. Not like Dad. John wasn’t a loser. He’d been given a lot of money by his dad and used it to set up a boat-building firm in Cowes, from which he had got lots more money, which had helped him get Mum. He was obviously feckmore.

I’m so tired of being poor, Mum said when they moved into his big house. Now we can have everything we want.

But Katie didn’t want the things that John gave her: new clothes, new toys, a new bike, a new computer, a new posh school where she was the new girl and the other kids hated her because she was a pikey and a chav.

Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall! How interesting. What does he do for Hugh? The woman was acting like she knew Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall personally.

He does mushroom forays and catch and cook.

Catch and cook what?

Fish.

Gosh.

And mushrooms. He helps people forage for mushrooms and he shows how to cook them.

Have you met Hugh yourself?

Yes.

What’s he like?

He’s got curly hair and glasses.

The woman laughed. She nudged Maddie. Chloë has met Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall.

Maddie looked unimpressed.

He’s a famous chef. He’s on telly. A bit like Jamie Oliver.

Maddie still looked unimpressed. Have you met Jamie Oliver?

No.

I’ve met JK Rowling. She signed my book.

She revealed the big looping signature. Dear Maddie, Lovely to meet you, Love JK Ro……… The last part of the surname disintegrated into a squiggle and a half kiss.

Maddie’s mother turned back. But your Mummy didn’t give you a packed lunch?

Dad’s going to cook me a fish when I get to Wareham. Probably some mushrooms too.

---

At last the train arrived at Wareham.

Say hello to Hugh from me, called the lady as she waved goodbye.

---

The print-out showed a chunk of Dorset with Worth Matravers at the bottom. This would be the journeyish part of the journey. She decided she was good at escaping. It was in her blood. Dad had run away from boarding school in Edinburgh two months before his A levels. One day I realised I’d had enough. I’d had ten years of authoritarian hierarchical bullshit and I couldn’t take it anymore. I packed a small bag, pretended I was going into the town, got on a train and went to the Isle of Wight instead. I wanted to get as far away from Scotland as possible.

She wasn’t sure what authoritarian or hierarchical meant but if Dad thought these things were bullshit they probably were.

---

An hour along the A351 she sat and ate her sausage roll. Sitting down made her realise how tired her legs were. She hauled herself up. A hawk floated over the road, as if the wind was half-solid like the sea.

Once, a man had brought a peregrine falcon into school. The bird had sat haughtily on his big leather glove. Like a queen allowing courtiers to pay their respects, she