The Shortlist is here!
The 10 shortlisted stories in the June Monthly Micro contest are now ready for voting. The Prompt was BOW, and the word limit was 150. A huge congratulations to everybody who made the shortlist with their marvellous micros.
You can read the shortlist and vote for your favourite until 23.59 GMT on Monday 24th June and the winners will be announced on the 25th.
After a Hiatus of Fifty-Three Years, Marietta Finds Purpose in Her Life Once More.
When Marietta used to play for the London Symphony Orchestra, before the upset that left her with a cracked scaphoid that never realigned because he said she was fussing over nothing and so didn’t go to the hospital to have it set; before she could no longer produce a solid staccato to play Wieniawski’s Polonaise Brillante; before stepping down from soloist to first violinist to second and then dismissed; before clicking the clasp on the case, the Roth entombed against a velvet shroud, her days had purpose.
When Marietta hears the scrape of horsehair across steel, sees her great-grand-
daughter, cobwebbed and dusty, cross-legged on the floor, the Roth’s bout on her lap,
she takes both to the conservatory.
“Let me show you.”
Cradling the violin beneath her chin, her wrist aches but Marietta draws the
bow across the strings as if never separated, and plays for a new future.
Alice Manages to Avoid the Rabbit-hole
“This is how you tie a bowline,” he says, his hand clamped on hers. “Even you can learn this.” Sickness swells in Alice’s stomach as the boat rocks. “Make a loop,” his fingers pinch hers. “This makes the rabbit hole.”
He stands too close, his breath sour against her neck. At the beginning he’d dazzled with his beauty. She’d glowed under the spotlight of his attention. He’d exuded charisma; even the boat’s name, ‘Wonderland’, seductive.
Her fingers redden under his. “The rabbit goes round the tree...” And it was fun. The thrill of being chased.
“...Then back down the hole.” He pulls the rope as if he’s done something awfully
clever. “Fetch us a beer, then you need to practice.”
Alice hesitates at the hatch. Clammy, stale air pulses from the blackness below. She steps back.
“I’m leaving,” she says, stepping onto the quayside. Flinging the rope onto the deck.
Beyond the Home of Mystery
The air was stifling behind the red velvet curtain, and my legs ached from standing motionless for so long. I could hardly breathe for fear of spoiling the deception.
I was overjoyed when my parents gave me a ticket to Maskelyne and Cooke’s celebrated magic show in London for my 10th birthday. At the Egyptian Hall, I had raised my hand when Mr Maskelyne asked for a volunteer and had stepped excitedly into the carved wooden cabinet on the stage. The soft flickering candles had lit my parents’ expectant faces in the front row, then the heavy curtain had been drawn and there was only hushed darkness.
At last, the curtain was drawn back, and I bowed to the audience, who were applauding loudly. The Hall itself was familiar, but I knew something significant had changed. Where were my parents, and why were my shaking hands so thin and wrinkled?
Entanglement
A wide-brimmed hat shades Mary’s face as she watches Susan chase a ball over the
manicured lawn. Her breath catches. She remembers the day Susan was born, the feel of her hair against her breast as she fed, before the wet nurse arrived.
‘Aunty Mary, look how fast I can go.’
The word aunty lands like a punch. Winded, it takes all her strength to summon a
smile, as she thinks how Susan’s chestnut curls, tumbling free from their cream bow, are the exact shade as her father’s – a man she will never know and Mary will never forget.
Her sister appears like a sentinel. ‘Susan, it’s time for tea.’
‘But, Mama do I have to come now?’
Mary meets her guilty gaze. Her sister looks away and, taking Susan’s hand, they
disappear inside.
Mary picks up the satin ribbon and the day, no longer sunny, is laden with regret.
Falling Star
He captured you when you had said no, had freeze-framed your attempt to rise
unbalanced from the garden step. You are dressed in your clothes for cleaning and
cooking, a scarf wrapped like a turban around your curlers, no lipstick, and wearing the apron I kept.
I understood then, as I understand now, that you had wanted to look your best, did not want to be pinned to that image of drudgery but even in this black and white, your beauty shines through.
There is a bandage around your wrist. It has been tied with a bow, and I wonder how that could be, who did that for you and I remember how you used to listen to the radio, how you’d sing along in your gentle voice – Catch a Falling Star.
In Another World, My Daughter Remembers My Birthday
In another world, I plaited my daughter’s hair and finished the braid with a pink bow.
She yelped, pulled it off, ‘Ugh, Mum!’ I laughed, teasing my little emo. She reached
for a black bow and handed it to me; I duly tied it.
In another world, my daughter baked scones that didn’t rise. We slathered jam and
cream on the biscuit-dry discs and scoffed them as if they were our last meal.
In another world, I told my daughter she did her best, average grades are still
passes. I took her out for pizza, told her she had all the time in the world to choose
her path.
In another world, I didn’t make my daughter wear pink, or make her throw away burnt
scones, didn’t take away privileges for bad grades.
In another world, I don’t cry as another birthday passes without a text, a card, a call.
Magic Hands
You’re teaching your daughter to tie her shoelaces. She watches you pass the loops over and under, her concentration furious, as though she's trying to detect a magician’s sleight of hand. She still believes your fingers cast spells; they can heal a hurt, soothe a fever, whisk away tears and dirt. Now her own fingers copy yours, looping laces into sloppy nooses, pulling tight.
“I done it mummy,” she says.
You tell her they’re perfect bows, even though they’re not double knotted and they will
loosen and slip undone. But then she will return to you, trailing laces like nylon umbilical cords. You won’t yet show her how to tie them twice. Soon you will have to. Soon she won’t return to you. Soon the miniature nooses will tighten enough to kill her need for you. Soon your fingers will become mundane.
But for now, your hands still conjure love.
The Archer’s Daughter
They were out in some bleak stubble-field in the Midlands again, watching the hard men course hares, when someone first suggested to Claire’s father that he shoot an apple off her head.
His own dogs long since sold, he’d been hovering with his bow, nursing his hangover
with little pulls from his thermos, telling unfunny jokes, trying to get up interest in side bets on some trick shot or other, when the apple was offered with a knowing smile.
A psychologist, had Claire been inclined to visit one, might have said her complicated
history with men was largely inevitable.
When she went to buy a bow of her own (“For hunting”) the salesman asked what size
game she was taking.
“Oh, I’d say 14 stone.”
Now, as the sun sinks behind the treetops, she hears her little terrier-crosses baying, her ex-husband crashing through the undergrowth.
Nocking an arrow, she follows
The Cockney Foundling
Cheapside, London, 20 years ago:
The girl clutched the bundle to her chest, blood still clinging to her inner thighs. As
she hurried down the street, 3am, a ghostly hour, mizzle glistened under streetlamps, lay cobweb-film in her hair. She reached the church steps, tucked Baby in the little porch.
Cheapside, London, present day:
The bride clutches the bouquet to her chest. She grips her dad’s arm, always a real
father to her. Sun catches her tiara sparkles, sprinkling rainbows. Up the church steps and down the aisle of St Mary-le-Bow, to her happy beginning.
A small figure creeps in, sits at the back, remembers the shame, Uncle’s unwanted
attentions. Watches the service with brimming eyes, but remains steadfast, silent. As
the Bow bells ring out, she tries to slip away, but the bride catches her eye, the chimes drowning out any words that could be said.
Shell Scrying
She sits on the beach under a moon as round and white as a rolled-back eye. A door
opens, releasing a blast of jazz and a man in a tuxedo. He crumps down and rakes the sand. He stops. Holds something up. Must be a shell for he tips it to his ear.
His breathing slows. He drops the shell and skiffs into the water. Music swings on. Garden lights wink. Bowtie floats free. Screams slash the air. Feet charge in – froth, churn, yells, what the hells – snatches about an illness terrible and terminal. They drag him to shore and pump his heart.
She sighs. If only they’d heard his clench of breath, an intake of resolve before he submerged.
In the morning she’ll return and pick up a shell, pick up lots of shells, till she finds the
one. And she’ll tip it to her ear and listen.