Arp / Stewart / Hill STORGY

2014 Short Story Prize Anthology
1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-1-9998907-8-0
Verlag: STORGY Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 171 Seiten

Reihe: Volume

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.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Arp, Chris

Stewart, Thomas

Hill, Juliet

Horrix, Jacqueline

Macdonald, Rowena

Palmer, Scott

C Child, H.

Dickerson, Curtis

Drakos, Aleksei

Durneen, Lucy

Evans, Karina

Evans, Sarah

Ferguson, Rab

Forde, Dyane

Leseproben

WINNER OF THE 2014 STORGY SHORT STORY COMPETITION
LIVE MEAT AND FREEDOM By Rowena Macdonald
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...