Short Story Competition 3.5 (Hostage) - VOTE HERE!

pickarooney

WARNING: Contains some scenes of a graphic nature

This week we ran a flashfiction competition where we asked contestants to write 500 or so words in 60 minutes on a theme to be announced just before the clock started ticking.

That theme was:
Five people are being held hostage. One escapes.

For logistical reasons, we ran it over the course of a day, (Thursday, June 10th) with staggered starting times, each contestant being given the story out line at an appointed time.

For more details on the competition, see the discussion in this thread.

In all, eleven people braved the ticking clock and the crashing server and each and every one of them managed to submit a piece within the hour.

You will have a little longer to read the stories, to vote and to give us your opinions on them. Please give the authors as much feedback, positive or negative but above all constructive, as you can.

Stories will be posted anonymously and the winner revealed after voting closes, at around 9.15 a.m. on Tuesday 15th June. You may vote for as many stories as you like, all we ask is that you give a reason for your vote in the form of a post on this thread.

Voting is public, and votes without a post in the thread will be ignored.

The order of the stories is, as usual, randomly generated.

Best of luck to all involved and thanks in advance to those who take the time to read and rate the entries.

pickarooney

VERSION 11

The bombs were falling again.

Aziz looked up at the clouds. He had heard the sound of the planes before the ground began to shake. It had been the same for as long as he could remember. Afterwards, their men would come through the town, guns raised.

“Hey you, come back here!”

He froze and lifted his hands above his head. He did not want to die, not from a bullet.

The man rushed forward, grabbed him and pulled him back inside. He prodded Aziz with the barrel of the rifle.

“You want to die?” he asked. “You run again, you die.”

They walked down the steps into the basement. There was a prison there, for Aziz and his four friends, and the lights were out.

“Hello Aziz,” said Masud, sitting on a bench in the dark. “Tough break. You’d have made it if Sayid hadn’t spotted you.”

The other three laughed, but as they did, the ground shook. A shower of dust fell from the roof.

“They’re getting close, Omar,” Sayid said.

He walked to the stairs and looked up into the light.

Omar was the other guard. He sat in the corner, his eyes staring at something invisible a thousand miles away. “We stay here. The Americans will never find this place,” he replied. He spoke without inflection or accent, as if reciting the words from memory.

Sayid bit his lip and looked at his.

“Insha'Allah.”

Suddenly, a section of the roof collapsed. Stone and tiles crashed down from above, crushing Omar beneath. Sayid dropped his rifle and ran forwards.

“Omar! Allah, no!”

He dropped down and began lifting rubble as fast as he good. “Help me!” he cried, looking back. “We have to...”

But they were gone. “Ibn himar!” he cursed.

He stood and ran up the stairs, roaring. “Come back, damn you!”

The ground shook again, the explosions louder, but he could hear them just ahead. When he reached the top of the stairs, Sayid saw one had tripped on an embroidered rug. The others had fled.

He rushed forward and grabbed him by the neck again.

“Let me go, you dog!” Aziz cried.

Sayid tightened his grip. He stumbled as another bomb exploded. He dragged Aziz into the archway. Outside, the sky was black, but he could see the four running through the marketplace.

“Come back!” he cried, “Get inside!”

But he was too late.

The children stopped and turned, their faces unafraid.

Then, another bomb fell from the sky. It knocked Sayid and Aziz from their feet. He did not even need to look up to know that he had failed. They were dead, and only this boy remained.

Sayid struggled to his feet, and looked down at Aziz. The boy looked at the crater outside, but his focus was a thousand miles away.

“Are you all right, Aziz?” he asked.

“Yes,” the boy replied, “I will be fine,” but he spoke without inflection or accent, as if reciting the words from memory.

pickarooney

VERSION 11

Oh sh*t oh sh*t oh sh*t...

The wind whipped at Chad and nearly pulled him over the edge. Despite the wind and the subzero December evening, his hands were clammy. His arms were stretched parallel to the ledge, and his palms were pressed hard against the wall for support. No doubt if anything happened, the salty palmprints would be the only evidence of his time on the ledge. He braved a glance down towards the street, and felt sick. Since the wind could rob him of his life at any moment, he expected a wave of memories, a wave of regrets. Instead, he was trying to remember what happened to a body when it hit the sidewalk after a 78 storey fall. The only TV show or movie he could relate this moment to was Die Hard. Hans Gruber falling in slow motion from the perspective of John McClane. You never saw Hans' body though. Damn you Bruce Willis. Why didn't they show the body?

Another gust of wind snapped Chad out of his movie memories.

Why didn't I just stay in the bloody room? Harry, Ger, Tina and ... that accounts guy. They're still in the board room. Still alive? Dunno. I just went for a bloody slash when I heard the machine guns. I got piss on my Armani shoes too. The whole damn floor was locked down and that burly bastard with the red balaclava was blocking the lift and access to the stairwell. I hid in my office and thought I'd be safe, but then I heard them kicking in doors. They were going from room to room looking for something. Someone. Me? Christ.

My only escape was the bloody window. I mean who puts a working window on the 78th floor?

And now, here I am.

Another whip of wind.

Chad's ears were numb from the cold. How the hell do I get ... Bzzzz Bzzzz Bzzzzzz. MY PHONE! He slowly drew his left arm to his side, pulled the phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. Unknown Number. He hit the green button and put the phone to his ear.

"Mr. Black. We know you're still on this floor and we are going to find you." A mexican accent. "Present yourself to us and your friends will live. You have 10 seconds."

Chad didn't know what to say, or what to do. He listened to the voice count down from 10 to 0. The gunshot nearly made him drop the phone.

"The woman is dead."
Tina.
"The bald guy is next."
Harry. Sh*t.

The man started counting again.

Chad cleared his throat.
"What do you want?"
The count stopped.
"You know what I want, Mr. Black. Your firm has lost me and my friends our jobs - our livelihoods."

The cell tower network. Project cancelled last month due to funds drying up. It was my call to cancel it. They're here for me.

"What am I supposed to do? There was no money!"
"Don't care. You're going to pay."

Chad swallowed.

"But Mr. Black, you want to know a secret? The best thing about being phone engineers is ...."

The voice changed location.

"... the ability to track nearby signals."

Chad looked in the direction of the voice to see a gun pointed in his direction.

The man pulled the trigger and shot Chad in the leg.

Please God no.

Chad fell forward, silently, towards the pavement below. F**k you, Bruce Willis.

pickarooney

VERSION 11

Dairy Madness

‘Christ, he’s gone mental altogether.’ Joe drawled lazily from his recumbent position on the milking parlour floor. ‘I didn’t think he had it in him.’
Joe Brennan was trussed up like a Christmas turkey and lay against the cream tiled wall with his fellow hostages. His dog, Shep the 10th was lying against him, happily panting, his tail thumping against Garry O’Brien’s face who was irritatedly moving his shoulder to get the mutt off, his hands tied behind his back.
‘’Tis all your fault anyway, Joe Brennan, taunting him with that ‘Best Quality Milk 2010’ trophy, and you knew damn well he was mad for it.’ Garry could see his milk lorry through the open doors of the parlour- he was already late for his milk route and his boss was a bad tempered bastard who didn’t take things like being taken hostage as an excuse. Being dead was the only excuse that might work to his certain knowledge. Still, at least this morning he’d had Gloria Murphy, the milk quality inspector, with him- she’d get around the boss with her big brown eyes just like she always did.
‘I knew I shouldn’t have worn my good trousers this morning, and cow dung just does not wash out, no matter what.’ Gloria complained bitterly, shifting her generous derriere sideways to try to inspect the damage. Both Joe and Garrys’ eyes involuntarily followed her curvy behind admiringly. The third man in the group, Paddy Whelan, would have leered too but for the fact he was contentedly snoring in the corner, his head resting fortunately on a soft rolled up hose pipe.
‘Did you try that new Vanish? On the t.v. they say it’s great altogether- I saw this wan spraying the stuff on grass stains and the like…’ Joe attempted before being interrupted angrily.
‘God almighty- Vanish! What the hell are you on about? Here we are, held hostage at gun point- and you’re going on about bloody Vanish. If I wasn’t tied up, I’d kill you myself.’ Garry burst out in frustration, heaving his body sideways and finally moving Shep on top of Joe’s torso. He managed a snort of laughter as Shep, delighted at his new position, started licking his masters face happily.
‘Are you laughing at me, you townie fecker?’ Michael Whelan growled, re-entering the parlour after chasing Joe’s buddy, James Harmon across a particularly boggy field unsuccessfully, his shotgun in hand. Jimmy Harmon was a wirey devil, he thought disgruntedly, escaping like that. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he had some pedigree animals in-calf in the field he would have shot him in the behind, he consoled himself. Still, no point in losing an animal over that eejit.
‘I’m no townie- I’m next door to you, but one!’ Garry was stung at the injustice of the accusation. ‘Paddy, Paddy, wake up you and tell your son I’m no townie.’
‘Huh, eh cup of tea’d be nice.’ Paddy struggled to sit up, still half asleep, forgetting his tied wrists.
Michael bent over his father pulling him into a more comfortable position. Joe and Garry looked meaningfully at Gloria who glared back at them crossly, but then shrugged her shoulders in resignation.
‘Mickey, my arms hurt. Could you please…?’ She smiled coyly at the blushing 6ft Michael Whelan. He could never resist her once the first edge of temper had worn off him.
Having pulled his father up, he moved over to gingerly untie Glorias’ wrists.
‘Ah, feck, sorry Gloria. I dunno what came over me.’ Michael hung his head, embarrassed at his actions.
‘Same thing that came over you two months ago, and at Christmas.’ Garry wasn’t letting it go.
‘And Lent last year. Though God knows, I’d hardly blame you- thirty three days without a pint was good going.’ Joe said good naturedly, now the heat was off the situation.
‘Come on, we’ll have a cup of tea in the house. Paddy rubbed his hands together in anticipation. ‘I’ve a packet of chocolate biscuits and coconut creams too. Michael, ‘tis time for you to stop the diet when you get to this point, some biscuits won’t kill you.’
‘A woman’s got to have something to hold on to.’ Gloria agreed, smiling up at Michael, her arm curving around his back. Thrilled, Michael started up towards the house, holding on to Gloria like glue.
‘Hey, what about us?’ Garry yelled after the pair, but they were oblivious, as they gingerly stepped around the cowpats.
‘Come on you two before they eat all the biscuits.’ Paddy said resignedly as he bent to untie the pair.

pickarooney

VERSION 11

The Romantic Gesture

“Please. Just let us go.”
“Shut Up. Just, Shut Up! Let me think.”
This is a mess. What was I thinking? Stupid. How did this ever seem like a good idea? Of course she wouldn’t listen to me. Of course she’d leave. What was I gonna do? Shoot her? She knew I wouldn’t. And now... Look at me. Holding 4 people at gunpoint and the building surrounded by guards... I’m going to prison. F**k! What’s wrong with me? Why did I do this? All I wanted to do was talk to her. Make her here me out. Tell her that I love her and that I always have and that the affair meant nothing.
“Please. Don’t shoot us.”
“I’m not going to hurt anyone, just let me think.”
It’s not like I didn’t try other ways to talk to her, but would she listen? Of course not. She had always been to stubborn for that. It was once one of the qualities that I loved about her, but now it just drove me insane. No, that’s not true... I still love her stubborn side. Even if it drives me to stupid lengths. This seemed like a fantastic idea when Kevin suggested it. Clearly he was joking, but a great idea nonetheless. I thought it would be a great romantic gesture – that it would prove to her how much I still loved her. The ultimate romantic gesture. I didn’t think it would turn out like this! It’s not even a real gun, for f**k sake. Of course no one else realises that and surely they’ll still send me down for this fake gun or not.
Showing up to her office was probably not the best part of the plan. Maybe if I had headed to her apartment it would’ve easier to talk to her and I wouldn’t be left with four bloody hostages. I didn’t think she’d walk out before I got a chance to explain. Fake gun or not, she knew I wouldn’t hurt her. I had a whole speech planned in my head. Barely got a word out. ‘Holding me hostage. Seriously? You thought this would win me back. You’re f**king crazy Declan. I’m not gonna put up with this. Shoot me if you want.’ And she just walked out.
Focus Dec. You can worry about Laura later. What about the guards? And these four? What are you gonna do. Maybe if I just explain to them why I did it, they might go easy on me and let me go. Just a lovesick idiot they’ll say. I can deal with that. Surely Laura will back me up – no matter what I’ve done, she won’t let me go to prison. Well other choice do I have? Shoot them with invisible bullets and hope for the best. No it’s now or never.
“Get up. Leave. I wasn’t going to hurt any of you. It’s not even a real gun.”
I’d let them go out first – that was probably best.
“You’d better walk out with me. Or else they’ll storm in here and ask questions later. I understand why you did it. I’ll help explain. Come on.”
The warmth of her skin is comforting as she takes my hand and she’s smiling. It’s going to be alright.
“Thank you Karen.”
Time to face the music...

pickarooney

VERSION 11

Sharpening

They say that blindness sharpens your other senses, but it’s hours since they put the sack over my head and I still can’t tell which voice belongs to the fat one and which to the spitter and which to the one with lice in his beard. I shift my weight against Marcel’s back. We managed to exchange a few words in broken French and broken English before we were noticed and something heavy and hard and metal hit my ear. It’s ringing now, throbbing, pounding, and there’s a slow wet trickle down my neck. There’s a gentle fishhook tease around it if I turn my head, so I’ve stopped turning my head. They hit Marcel too. It doesn’t sound like it does in movies, when you hit someone. It sounds like a knife cutting meat.
Some voices, not far off, and then a grinding noise and dry laughter.
Oh, if anything, let Paul be all right. If they kill me, let them let him go. It’s my damn fault we got bundled into that damn truck and taken to this damn place.

Something changes. The three who’ve been with us are no longer so raucous. Their tones are respectful, humble. The acrid smoke reaches my nostrils and pulls my mind together. It’s the tall man. The one who bleats about Western decadence but smokes thousand-dollar cigars. I feel Marcel shift behind me. He knows it too.
Then that grinding sound again.
There is something more demanding in the tall man’s voice. Something that makes him sound in charge. Maybe the abruptness or the confidence he speaks with. Only when he finishes do the others speak. Only when he finishes does the grinding start again. Only when he finishes does my ear begin to throb and pound.
No-one speaks now. The grinding sound carries on. It is a metallic, mechanical sound, but raw, something dark and frightening. The sound of stone and steel. There is some shuffling, something snaking across the ground. Someone moans from some way off, and a moment later I smell burning flesh. My head swims, and the throbbing in my ear grows more intense and I can no longer support the weight of this sack and let my head droop.
Something touches my chin and lifts, up, up. Then a cry is pulled from my lungs as the fishhook sack is yanked away and the wound on my ear opens again. I take the chance to see. The tall man looks down at me from a distance. Two more hostages are arranged the same way as Marcel and me, one with a large circular burn on the back of his hand. Paul’s bulky frame lies slumped against the wall. Then I see the fat man, with a maniac grin, sitting hunched over the turning stone, holding a sword to it so that red sparks fly. A small video camera faces a blank wall, over polystyrene carpet. From here, there is only one escape.

pickarooney

VERSION 11

Tick tock,tick tock. The minute hand slowly making it's way to twenty past the hour. That's when he said he would be back. All was quiet as they contemplated all that had happened. The saying 'what a difference a day makes' had never been so true.

June was a biophysicist. She had gotten up that morning as usual. Kissed her husband goodbye,drove to work.She hadn't even made it past the car park. A dark blue van had been parked alongside her. She paid no attention,it was just a van. That is until the men in black had burst out of the back doors and grabbed her. It was so sudden she had no time to scream,although the hand over her mouth would have made it difficult anyway. She was shoved roughly onto a seat,her mouth was taped and a hood shoved over her head so she couldn't see. All was silent in the vehicle, she could feel the heat from the leg of whoever sat beside her,the hum of the motor and the gentle rocking as they drove along. After a while,perhaps an hour they stopped. Someone grabbed her arm and dragged her into a building. The door clanged,suggesting it was metal. June deserately filed these things away in her mind,trying to work out why she had been taken,where and by whom? After going down a lift she was put into a room,her hood was taken off and the tape removed from her mouth. Blinking at the light and mouth smarting from the tape,june looked at the man standing before her. He would have been an ordinary man,ordinary except for the lurid red scars crisscrossed on his face. He stood looking at her with...pity? Compassion? "I'm sorry" he said and quickly left the room,locking the door behind him. June looked around the room. There were five chairs placed around a table. A small kitchenette was against one wall and a cubicle in the corner contained a toilet and sink. So they had thought of everything. She sat down on a chair and waited.
Alice was a housewife. Husband,two kids and a dog. She woke early that morning and quickly got ready for a jog. It was her time,before everyone else woke up and her day began in earnest. Pounding the pavement, finding her rhythm,Alice didn't notice the van parked ahead on the corner, her mind was on parents associations,lunches and p.e. kits. She didn't notice til the men were in front of her.

Peter was a drug dealer. He didn't plan on becoming one. It's not like it was offered in career guidance class. But he had been lured in by the prospect of making money and now he was rolling in it. He was waiting in an alley behind a local fast food restaurant for a drop off. He cursed as he waited,rubbing his hands together for warmth. Normally he would have sent one of his flunkies along but this was a big deal involving quite a bit of cash and he wanted to be there for it himself. Of course he wasn't alone. He had an associate at either side of the alley,watching out for the guards and the gang he was meeting. What he or his friends didn't expect was the back door of the restaurant opening and two men pulling him inside. They pulled him through the cafe to the front door,which lay ajar,broken glass everywhere. The blue van waited outside.

John was a gardener. After ten years as a stockbroker in new york he had snapped and came home with prematurely grey hair and with a blocked artery. It took six months of his mothers care to bring him back to near what he had been before and then three years of sharons love to change him to the man he was now. They lived in a small cottage near the sea and Sharon was six months pregnant with their first child. Thanks to the money he had made in new york they were mortgage free and he had been able to set up his own business after doing a horticulture course. Life was good. John whistled as he walked down the road. He didn't see the blue van but it's occupants saw him.

Mark was a college lecturer. He taught english literature to packed auditoriums. Students blushed when he passed and a good few of the people in his lectures didn't even take his class. He had spent the night before with a very appreciative blonde student. A plus for sure he grinned to himself. He did notice the blue van. But who cares about a van? As he approached the doors began to slide open.

So here they were,together in the tiny room. They had tried to work out a connection between them and failed. None of their mobiles worked,not even the emergency call. It was when june had made a coffee that the plan had been formed. When Mark had been dropped off to the room,he had said he would be back at twenty past the hour. After Alice had arrived he had come holding a gun,obviously the odds had started to go slightly against him and he was cautious. He was not careful enough though. When he came in the door John had flung boiling water at his face. The man had screamed,grabbing his face. His friends in black had come running in but they all rushed at the door and john made it out. Running through the corridor he came to a room labelled 'life stories'. There was a flash of blue light coming from under the door. Looking back John could hear a commotion but he wasn't being followed,yet. Turning the handle he opened the door. There was a bang.

Martin Entwhistle,esteemed author of the 'Marcus Stone' thrillers sat writing at his desk. 'John,35,a gardener was the next victim of the Docklands Killer'.

pickarooney

VERSION 11

Shotgun

The counter-terrorist team of five moved as one, the product of hours of practice. They knew the place well; all the choke-points and ways through the Italian streets and marketplace. It was a house on the north-west side that the hostages were being kept.

The area was quiet. No one popped up to attack them. Unimpeded they turned corners and climbed steps until they were on the other side of a square just outside the building. One soldier took a peek around a corner.

“One on the balcony,” he said into his microphone.

“Okay. Bravo takes him out. Charlie throws a stun grenade. We move quickly.”

The team radioed their acknowledgement.

“Three. Two. One.”

Bravo ducked out from the corner and aimed at the sniper. He killed the terrorist with one bullet. Gamma moved out behind him and threw the stun grenade.

There was a muffled bang and they rushed out into the square. One terrorist had been blinded by the grenade and was firing at a wall. Delta killed him with his shotgun.

They waked into the now-unguarded house. It was dark inside but they didn’t use their flashlights. They moved up the stairs to where they knew the hostages were being kept.

Bravo stuck his head up to the next level and was hit by a stream of bullets from a sub-machine gun. Everyone dove down while Charlie switched to a stun grenade and pitched it up onto the floor above them.

The grenade went off and immediately Delta took his chance. He spotted the now blind and deaf terrorist and fired his shotgun.

It didn’t register with him that the terrorist was standing in among the hostages. He fired once, twice, thrice. The terrorist’s body rocked back from the force of the gun. Blood and hostages followed him, their bodies falling to the ground like ragdolls.

“Jesus!”

“FRIENDLY FIRE!”

“Sorry, sorry!”

“What are you thinking?!” Alpha was screaming at him through his microphone.

Delta muted Voice Communication while his teammates berated him for his stupidity. He unmuted it again just as Alpha was saying:

“-ver mind, never mind. Let’s just get the last hostage and get back to the Rescue Zone. Delta,” his tone sounded like a tiger bearing his fangs, “you take point.”

They proceeded out of the house with the one remaining hostage; an elderly man in blue overalls. He didn’t speak much.

For the return journey they went through the marketplace. Chickens bwarked and clucked. The second-last terrorist nearly managed to kill Delta but Echo’s quick reflexes with his rifle saved him. They didn’t meet the last terrorist as they made their way down to the Rescue Zone. The hostage walked into the area and the round was over.

“Counter-terrorists win,” popped up on Delta’s screen. He stretched his hands up above his head. We still won then he thought. No real loss. The score was 16-11 to the counter-terrorists.

“Another round of Counter-Strike anyone?” Alpha asked over the microphone.

pickarooney

VERSION 11

Mark could not believe the day that he was having. He never thought it would lead him here, to a bank, with a robber standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by six hostages.

Even though he saw the events unfold right before his eyes, his brain was still trying to process what had just happened, and what would happen. What would the man in the middle of the room do next? What would happen to the hostages? His trail of thought was broken by the sound of a loudspeaker outside. The police.

"Look, nobody is going to harm you, okay? Nobody is going to get mad at you. This was just an unfortunate set of circumstances, but we can put it behind us. Just let the hostages go, and then we'll talk some more, okay?"

"Never!", the bank robber out the window from behind a column. "If I let them go then there's nothing stopping you just barging in here and shooting me! You bunch of pigs! You know what I want, now get it!"

Hearing the conversation unfold, Mark knew that he was going to be trapped in the bank for a very long time. All he wanted to do was escape, to get out of this stuffy room with the money he came to get a loan of, to pay for a new mortgage. But now, he found himself embroiled in this dangerous game of Call My Bluff.

As Mark sat on the cold stone floor, he surveyed the scene, and thought about his wife. Jennifer had probably heard about the robbery on the news by now, but hopefully she was blissfully unaware that he had a front-row seat to the news story of the day.

All of a sudden, one of the hostages behind the robber made a run for the door. Mark had barely seen it, he only saw it out of the corner of his eye, but it was obvious what happened. The robber ran to the door and kicked it as hard as he could, nearly knocking it off his hinges. He had fire in his eyes.

"Okay then, if anyone else tries that again I am going to shoot them in the head! And if anyone tries it and gets away, I'll shoot two other hostages in the head! Have you got that?"

Paul couldn't see the eyes of the other hostages, but he could tell that the message had gotten across. The sound of the robber's voice reverberating against the walls was enough to strike fear into the heart of any man. There weren't going to be any more escapes today.

A few minutes of silence passed before, from outside the bank, the police officer's voice again boomed through the window. "Okay. I've talked it over with my supervisors, and we're going to assume that you released that hostage as a show of compassion, so we're going to obey your wish. You can come out of the bank, get into an untrackable car, and drive away safely. We won't follow you, and we can all go home to our families safe and sound. What do you say?"

Mark would have loved to have been with his family at this very moment, but he could see the robber's eyes in the reflection of a mirror, and knew it would never happen. He could see in the robber's eyes that it was over. He had nowhere else to go.

All of a sudden the robber turned and shot of the hostages in the leg, as the gunfire echoed in the hollow room. Before he could fire another shot, a barrage of gunfire came in the windows as glass crashed to the floor like a deadly rain. The robber, hit by several of the bullets, fell to the floor.

As he landed, Mark could again see the robber's face. He was looking at him straight on. And he saw the robber's eyes close, he knew that it was all over. As Mark, the robber, took his last breath, his thoughts were of his wife Jennifer, and whether she would forgive him or not...

pickarooney

VERSION 11

Goodbye Mam

Hi Mam,

I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I had to do this. I have to do this.

This isn’t a sudden thing. I’m not just doing stupid things because that what people my age do. I need to do this. It’s for me. For me and maybe for you too. You won’t think that now though. Maybe you won’t think it for years. Maybe you never will.

Daddy will go mad. Again. He’ll never understand. Never in a million, million, billion years. How could he? He won’t get it just like he never got me – or you, not really.

And I know this will make it extra, extra hard on Alice, Niall and wee Jamie. Ahh Mam I know it’ll make it extra hard on you too. I don’t know how many more times I can say sorry. How many more ways I can say sorry.

But I can’t take any more.

I can’t take the sympathetic looks from Jo next door, I can’t take the slagging from that O’Malley tramp from downstairs. I can’t make up any more lies about the bruises and being clumsy. I can’t take the looks from the smallies when Daddy comes home. Mam it breaks me seeing how scared they are. I can’t listen to him shouting at you, calling you those names. I can’t listen to him hurting you anymore. Or hurting the smallies. Alice is big enough now to understand and wee Jamie is too small, he can’t stay quiet. I can’t look at Daddies eyes again Mam.

I love Jason. We’re getting the boat and going away. Mam we’ll be ok. I’ll be ok. I have a few euro from working down Tescos and Jason sold his scooter. His brother shares a flat in London, in Kilburn, and he says Jason can get a job really easy over there. I can too Mam. And we’re going to get married and get a place of our own. And then you and the smallies can all come over and visit.

Mam I love you.

I know you’ll hate me but I need to do this. Hug the smallies for me. Alice can have my Glee CD. I left a fiver for Niall under my pillow, tell him to buy Match Attacks with it. Give Wee Jamie a hug. Tell them all I love them. And I’ll miss them. I’ll text you when I get some credit.

Love you

Sarah

pickarooney

VERSION 11

Emily turns the cup in full circles – handle to the left, then to the right, then left again. She rolls the heavy pottery between her palms, listening to the dregs slosh at the bottom. Little grits get stuck to the inside. She hates the stuff, but since she moved to the city she starts each day with a hot cup of coffee - growing accustomed to, rather than liking the taste. There are a lot of things someone can grow accustomed to, she thinks, bringing the cup halfway to her mouth before placing it on the counter top and looks into the strange pattern left behind. Her eyes glaze and the room appears before her as she gazes into the grits.

Five office chairs on wheels tied together, with their backs in a circle. Rough rope. Balls of fabric soaked with spittle and blood. Panic, like an elephant with its foot on her chest, threatening to crush her. Overhead, strip lighting, giving the room a blue tint. Filing cabinets along the left wall, some drawers pulled out. Documents scattered on the floor. Short, sharp flashes of pain, light, darkness and fury as she rubs the skin at her wrists away struggling for freedom. Teresa, the accounts clerk, wetting herself with fear. Daire’s head slumped on her chest, blood pouring from her ripped scalp. Godawful fear. The smell of it, coming from her pores, mingling with Teresa’s pathetic, warm-pissy stench and the metal of Daire’s blood. God only knows what’s happening to Charlie and Dympna behind her back. God only knows. Emily’s not sure she wants to. Little bubbles of fear rising now, making her lightheaded and afraid at the same time. Her eyes constantly moving around the room, looking for a weak spot. Ankles tied, hoping that ****er with his balaclava will come close enough for her to get him where it hurts when he gets back. Then she pulls and finds her ankles aren’t just tied, they’re knotted in the middle of the five chairs, tied to the losers falling apart around her or passing out. Tearing fear, razor blades of it cutting outward from her gut, trying to get to the ropes and sever them, but all in her mind. Beads of sweat gathering under her hair, at the back of her neck and on her forehead. The burn of the rope on her wrists, the burn that’s almost pleasure because it could be freedom any second now, if she could just squeeze her hand together small enough to get it through the loop again. The burn that’s also the sting of failure every second she doesn’t get free. Rocks in her stomach at the thought that the guy with the crowbar, armed and insane, could be back here at any minute and she, Emily, could be next.

Emily realises she’s not there anymore, in the room that only she escaped from. It’s a slow realisation, her psychiatrist thinks she’ll have these episodes for the foreseeable future, but he hopes that they will go away when she has “dealt with the pain”. Emily wonders how exactly you “deal with the pain” of having the man you love butcher your colleagues in a psychotic rage that nobody will ever understand. She wonders how you “make a fresh start” with the image of your best friend’s face shattered by your fiancé’s foot spraying blood all over you greeting you over coffee, walking down the street with you and cuddling you in it’s arms as you fail to fall asleep night after night. Emily wonders how, at twenty five, she could have made so many bad choices, really awful, bad choices, and still emerged from the disaster of the “incident” as the only survivor – the one who escaped. She wonders how Dermot, sweet and innocent, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly (he trapped them in a glass and set them free outside – no word of a lie) Dermot could have hidden this awful, indescribable man from her for the seven years they dated, the three they lived together, Dermot who she thought she could spend forever with. Emily picks up the coffee cup and swallows the cold, gritty coffee in one gulp, grimacing at the taste.

pickarooney

VERSION 11

Kelly’s shaking and uncontrollable sobbing was beginning to get on Gary’s nerves. He picked up one of the whiteboard markers on the front desk and flung it at her. It struck her hard on the head and she quietened down a little. Tears trickled torrent-like down her face. Her friend Sarah placed her arm around her shoulders, more to keep her from shaking than for support. She didn’t want Gary to get even angrier. Not with a loaded gun in his hand.

The two boys were standing in the corner - one with a bleeding lip and the other with his pants around his ankles. Humiliation was the name of the game, and Gary was making sure that they got the treatment they deserved. They would suffer the way he had to suffer.

“Not so cocky now, are you Andrew?” said Gary, as he paced the classroom and pressed the side of the gun towards his temple. “Where are the smart comments now?”

Andrew lowered his eyes and looked at the floor. “Look Gary, I’m sorry, okay? Just let us go. Please.”

Gary began laughing - slowly at first, then his laughter got louder and louder until it echoed around the room. The girls and Mr. Adams squirmed in their seats. The boys held their breath, fearful that any kind of movement would set Gary off.

“Let you go? LET YOU GO?” he said, smiling. “You know, I remember saying something similar in the changing rooms last week. When you had me in a headlock. And what did you do Andrew? WHAT DID YOU DO?”

He stepped closer to Andrew, holding the gun out towards him, finger on the trigger. Andrew recoiled and sank to the floor in terror, holding his hands over his head. Mr. Adams saw his chance, and in one quick movement he tackled Gary to the ground. He grabbed Gary’s hand and tried to force the gun out of it, but Gary rolled to his left and threw Mr. Adams off him. Kelly and Sarah raced towards the door, and Sarah managed to open it and step through into the hallway. Gary got to his feet and pulled the trigger quickly. The shot hit Kelly in the chest, and she crumpled onto the floor. A trickle of scarlet blood pooled from under her limp body. The two boys stopped running mid-sprint and stood perfectly still. They were too far from the door to escape in one piece. Mr. Adams got to his feet at the back of the classroom.

“Stop this now, Gary,” Mr. Adams said, walking slowly towards him. “You’ve made a bad decision, but stop now before it gets any worse. Please Gary.”

Gary looked from the boys to his teacher, dancing from foot to foot nervously. He gestured with his gun, and the boys moved over to stand beside Mr. Adams.

“You made me do this!” shouted Gary, pointing towards Kelly’s body on the ground. She wasn’t moving. She hadn’t moved since she dropped to the floor. “This is YOUR FAULT!”

“I’ll tell them I did it,” offered Andrew. “I can say I was the one that did it. They don’t have to know you shot her. Just put down the gun.”

Gary considered the idea for a moment, before shaking his head as if to empty the thought from his mind. “You’re just saying that. You’re a liar! A filthy, pathetic liar!”

The other boy Steve, pants now pulled back up, broke away from the group and ran towards the door. Gary fired the gun once again, and sent him careering over a desk and onto the floor. Gary looked from Steve’s bloodstained uniform to the increasing pool of blood seeping from under Kelly’s body. A flash of lights illuminated the window. The police. Gary rubbed the gun against his temple once again, this time twisting it so that the barrel pointing directly at his head. His eyes became blurry and he wobbled with dizziness. He pulled the trigger quickly, and light turned to darkness.

angelll

VERSION 10

I picked 2,3 & 9. They were the ones that stood out for me...but it was a very close one. All the entries were brilliant.

The Mad Hatter

VERSION 11

I voted for versions 1, 9 and 10.

Version 1: On my first read I wasn't very fond of this, but a second run-through fixed my judgement. It's affecting and powerful, and a good worms-eye-view of the American bombing of the middle-east.

Version 9: I have a funny feeling that this one will win, and it's probably my favourite. It's beautiful, sad, precise and a wonderful twist on the theme.

Version 10: This one digs deep into the psychology of the escapee, and goes to a very dark place.

pickarooney

VERSION 11

I picked entries 5, 9 and 10. For an hour's scribbling, I would expect someone to come up with maybe one or two usable lines but some of these were incredibly complete - idea, execution, plot, formatting, characters, spelling... seriously well done.

version 1
I got confused the first couple of times when the focus switched from Aziz to Omar and couldn't make out what Masud was doing. Nice sense of frantic action.

version 2
Nicely written but stretched credibility too much for me. I couldn't picture someone staging this kind of an operation because a project was cancelled and jobs lost.

version 3
I got very confused reading this. Too much was crammed in and too many characters partially developed in the short space. Some good lines in it and a well-worked sense of all-round animosity.

version 4
I don't understand what the romantic gesture in question was supposed to be. The main character doesn't seem to be quite insane enough for this plan to be a good idea from his point of view and one of the other characters understands it as well.

version 5
I loved the way this was described mostly without visual clues. There was a real sense of tension about it and it just worked very well.

version 6
Far too much backstory and not enough action in this. Might have worked as part of a much longer piece but ultimately for the twist to work there needs to be more build-up.

version 7
Decent idea, but the end was given away three or four times during the piece and then beaten home at the end. You need to leave more to the reader to figure out.

version 8
I initially 'misread' this as Mark being the bad guy, then realised he wasn't, then he was... I kind of spoiled it on myself! With a bit of tweaking this could be a nice twister, but you have to avoid spelling it out in the last line. If you feel you have to hit the reader in the face with the reveal, then you've either not written the rest of it well enough or you're treating the reader like an idiot. It's the latter in this case.

version 9
This was simply beautiful and my favourite of the bunch. Great use of the hostage situation in a non-literal way and the emotion is laid on just thick enough that it doesn't fall into soppy, manipulative territory.

version 10
Very well written piece. The segue from present to past to present is smooth and the description of the hostage scene just detailed enough to make it work without bogging the reader down in detail or character history. Odd parallel with version 4.

version 11
Quite a strong piece but there was only ever going to be one outcome, which is, I suppose, a fair reflection of the reality of these cases.

ToasterSparks

I voted for 9 and 10.

Version 9: Brilliant take on the theme and I loved it. It'll surely win the competition.

Version 10: Very dark and interesting take on the aftermath of a hostage situation. I liked this a lot too.

(Sorry for super-fast and super-short reply!)

Oryx

VERSION 10

All of the stories are a really good read, Ive got to say that first. Its amazing at the quality produced in just 60mins. Some of these were better than the longer voat stories!
Im voting for the ones that stood out on first reading. The second time I went through them, I just thought they were all so good, so Im going with my initial 'flash' instinct, given the theme of the competition.

My votes are 2, 3, 5, 9.

Ive given feedback on them all, you guys went to the effort, so I should as well.

Version 1
I got a little lost in this story, nothing was really explained. The names made it feel like typical middle eastern hostage taking, but the story was a random series of events to me, it didnt quite tie up into a narrative.

Version 2.
The story began with a link to Die Hard, and falling, and wound up neatly using the same theme. That was what made this story stand out for me. A few of the ideas felt a little weak (phone technicians wiping out a floor full of staff for this guy? Why not just take a pot shot at him outside?) But the writing was clever and worked for me, particularly the strong last sentence.

Version 3.
A little hard to follow in parts, but I loved the laid back 'oirishness' of it all. Brilliant crazy comedy as the characters shrug off being held at gunpoint as a normal reaction to the gunman's tough diet.

Version 4.
Well told, but let down by the ending. Someone takes his hand and walks out with him after being held by a fake gun? I dont buy the stockholm syndrome here.

Version 5.
This follows what I would think is the typical working of the theme. A kind of 'Hostel' scenario. While what was there worked well, it lacked menace for me, I really only felt chilled by the last line.

Version 6.
I loved the set up to the story. People being picked off randomly. I think its something that could be worked into a longer story, and be really good. But in this short set up, the ending really irritated, to me it was a cheap way of finishing up quickly, making it into a fiction within a fiction. I also got confused by the room the hostages were in, and what they did to attempt escape.

Version 7.
Just not my kind of story, unfortunately. And the gamer ending was another cheap twist, which always irritates, with me. If youre gonna twist it, dont throw it away!

Version 8.
This twist I didnt see coming, very clever. A neat well told story. Unfortunately I was suffering hostage fatigue by this point and maybe this story would stand out more if read in isolation.

Version 9.
I loved how this writer broken away from the stereotype of hostage taking, and made it a story of a family held hostage by an abusive father. It was delicately written,honest and believeable, with small convincing details of family life, and real regret.

Version 10.
Very well told, the descriptions of Emilys flashbacks are very convincing. The jump from the first to the second paragraph felt to jarring for me, though, I felt unsettled about what was going on (shes drinking coffee and her hands are tied) until the last paragraph sorted it out. Some lovely phrases used in this story.

Version 11.
A convincing columbine massacre type story, well put together, with some good moments. I particularly liked the last few sentences where the mc ends it all, that really paints a picture of the final moment.

pickarooney

VERSION 11

I have to hold my hand up and say I only fully understood version 1 on the FOURTH read

It would still have just missed out on a vote though - I just think kids of that age would have the cop on to know to stay away from planes dropping bombs and that if the Omar and Sayid were the kind of guys who really cared about these kids that the children would know that and not need to be threatened with guns.

fona

VERSION 4

First off... I gotta say well done to everyone. All 11 stories are complete(baring some more editing perhaps) and far more detailed and well thought out than I thought would be possible in an hour constraint. Not sure I could even have come up with a whole idea in an hour never mind write a piece on it. So again, well done to everyone.

Also, oddly, I found I liked all the stories in some way. In the three previous contests I didn't like half the stories in their content or tone but I liked all of these. Some just stood out more for me than others.

So I voted for 1 and 3, Honorable mentions to 7 and 9

Story 1
I voted for this one because I liked the twist in the tail which though I had a vague idea of it coming, I hadn't figured it out exactly. On rereading though it makes sense and fits the "hostages" laughing about Aziz's recapture. Thought the piece captured very well the numbing effect of war - that bombings and being held at gunpoint become somehow common place. Also the linking of the bland voice of Omar to the bland voice of Aziz at the end - nice touch

Story 2
I found the piece well written but too unbelievable. That such serious hostageness would develop from a canceled cell phone tower contract - the hostage taker on the phone seemed more proper cold terrorist than a psychotic likely to go on a rampage for not getting a job. And something (I can't put my finger on it at the minute) about the thoughts and actions of Chad didn't sit right with me.

Story 3
I enjoyed this one for its daftness really. The images made me smile. It got a bit confusing with all the people mixing up on me. Took a reread to get it straight. Some more spacing might help with this. I found myself grinning more on the second and third read and so this one gets my vote for that reason.

Story 4
I thought the reality sinking in on the hostage taker was very well written but the premise that the guy decided to take his ex hostage to get her to forgive him was just too far off the reservation for me. He seemed otherwise a reasonably sensible guy. And that he knew at least one of the other hostages(Karen)..it just didn't feel right to me.

Story 5
I enjoyed the detailing of what could be seen/heard - it harked on realism of what a person could focus on in that circumstance. The grinding sound was a nice tension builder. However, I never got a feeling of anxiety or fear from the piece. I think it might be because the whole piece is about what is seen/heard/physically felt and not the emotions that should go with it. Feeling fear, pissing themselves, heart in throat.... even a statement of the absence of these would have probably have swung me in favour of voting for this.

Story 6
It feels like a good setup for a slightly longer short story. For me there is just too much missing around the captures, how the people were selected because it doesn't appear arbitrary, how and why the writer has the crack team etc.It got confusing at the end eg "When Mark had been dropped off to the room,he had said he would be back at twenty past the hour" I had to reread this a few times to link "he" to the kidnapper.

Story 7
I enjoyed this story(not just cause I like videogames I swear ) and up til the end I figured it was going to be a commentary on American military definitions of acceptable collateral damage which would have made it a more heavy hitting piece and would have probably gotten my vote. As it is I enjoyed the lighter take on the story.

Story 8
The point of view had to be hidden I realise(Mark/The robber etc) but I found it a little confusing. I think this story would be much stronger if it had more time for editing as the premise was good for a switcheroo at the end.

Story 9
A touching take on the premise, but not too OTT(usually I find these sort of story settings pukeenducing). I thought it captured the need to escape very well but the language clashed for me at times with the fact that it was a written letter and not spoken. ("Ahh Mam..." for example) Also, if the father is such a bad guy I don't believe him being called Daddy, which for me has always been one of the more endearing terms for father, especially if its being used by someone over the age of 5.

Story 10
An interesting idea but just didn't do it for me. More spacing in the paragraphs could have helped the flow a little perhaps as I found the paragraphs as they are very dense and heavy which took away from the urgency for me.

Story 11
I enjoyed this story but it harked too closely to the many tv/film versions before. Nothing original here for me.

Wantobe

VERSION 11

I voted for 5, 6, 9 and 10.

I thought 5 had great imagery- the story became very visual and chilling. Well written.

I liked 6 even though I'm still not sure what happened in the end. But I like character based writing and the set up was enough for me to be interested in reading more. I was drawn by the characters- let down by the end but still liked it enough to vote for it.

9- What can I say that hasn't already been said? Well, I wouldn't like to read it too often because it was too real ( and I'm a desperate softy when it comes to children). But the detail and the simplicity...

10- Again very visual and some of the lines were great- I liked the imagery like ' bubbles of fear rising' and other little nuggets, just really well written.

Also Starring LeVar Burton

VERSION 10

I voted for 3, 9 and 11...

9 was by far the best because it was completely different from all the others.
I enjoyed the humour in 3...
and 11 was powerful and well written...

kerash

VERSION 11

I voted for 5 and 10

I loved the stark realism of 5. The author set the scene very well not getting caught up in character descriptions while successfully conveying a state of damnation, darkness and fear to the reader.

Number 10 hooked me from the first paragraph. Love the flash-back idea, well done to the author for coming up with that in such a short time.


Congrats to everyone who entered I imagine it's not easy:)

looksee

VERSION 10

Firstly, all the stories were brilliant, given the timescale. There was some really good writing, and some great ideas. So any comments will take that as said. Also hostage stories would not be my ideal reading material, so after about half way I was finding it difficult to stay with the plots, and some needed two or three readings to understand them.

Story 1 seemed to be two stories merged together. There were the hostages, then there were the children, and it was difficult to establish which personas we were supposed to be reading about. Well written, good characters, it needed a bit more time to sort it out.

Story 2 I couldn't really cope with, the plot was too outlandish for my taste, all that drama over a contract? Highly unlikely.

Story 3 Was funny, like a bit of a humourous novel, you really needed to have met the characters before to appreciate what was happening. Good conversation and readable.

Story 4 The beginnings of a plot there, but it was condensed to fit the space and lost some of it's strength, the ending didn't quite work.

Story 5 A surprisingly visual piece, given the sack over the head. It was easy to watch the story, again though the story was a bit bigger than the space available.

Story 6 Sorry, I didn't follow the ending of this. The characters were very well drawn and introduced, but I'm not sure what happened then.

Story 7 was doing well until it turned out to be a gamer plot.

Story 8 - I could not work out who was who of the Mark(s?) And who was Paul, was he the hostage that escaped? Again a very readable style, but I could not sort out the ending.

Story 9 Easily my favourite. Very readable, touching, real. A complete story with very human language. I thought the use of the word 'Daddy' was brilliant, it gave a sense of the whole structure of the family, and added creepiness and a sense of innocence. A clever twist on the hostage idea.

Story 10 A powerful story with an interesting twist, but I became bemused by trying to sort out how one person could tie up so many people in such a complicated way and at the same time control everyone.

Story 11 A very good story, chilling in view of the number of times it has happened, needed a little more time to tighten it up, but I liked this one.

It would feel a little less patronising to comment on all these stories if I had written one myself, but Thursday was one day when there was not a clear hour to commit to. Love to give it a go though next time.

Antilles

VERSION 11

As would be expected, most of the stories had problems with grammar, spelling an word repetition, so I won't comment on that.

I'm voting for 10, 9 and 6.

10: I loved this one. It was very well written, and really draws you in by being written in the present tense. Very interesting insight into the mind of the survivor.

9: Good idea, very well written. Is smallies a common phrase or was it just made up for this?

6: I like the splitting up of the narrative, describing the characters in each paragraph, and though the ending was weak, I got the feeling it could have been stronger if given more time to write.

Blush_01

VERSION 6

Antilles wrote: »

As would be expected, most of the stories had problems with grammar, spelling an word repetition, so I won't comment on that.

I'm voting for 10, 9 and 6.

10: I loved this one. It was very well written, and really draws you in by being written in the present tense. Very interesting insight into the mind of the survivor.

9: Good idea, very well written. Is smallies a common phrase or was it just made up for this?

6: I like the splitting up of the narrative, describing the characters in each paragraph, and though the ending was weak, I got the feeling it could have been stronger if given more time to write.

My friend from Kilkenny would always call small children smallies. I got the feeling that #9 was very much a Northern Irish piece though - don't ask me why!

I'm going to re-read the pieces and vote, but I'm very impressed so far!

--amadeus--

VERSION 11

Version 10 for me, took the basic idea of a hostage situation but took it out of the comfort zone, showed a good sense of character with some nice writing & descriptive touches.

Antilles

VERSION 11

Antilles wrote: »

As would be expected, most of the stories had problems with grammar, spelling an word repetition

Muphry's Law!

Blush_01

VERSION 6

As I said in the other thread, the standard is so impressive I had to go back and take another look at the entries, rather than just glancing over them as I did initially. Wow, you guys are good!

I'm not going to comment on all the entries individually because it'd be glaringly obvious which one was mine, but I want to mention some of them! Voting for #2, #3 & #5.

2: I thought this was quite clever. Chad seems suitably Big Man while being spineless to be a middle-management goon, given the responsibility without any real idea of the significance of his actions - the big stuff seems small and vice versa. Good depiction of the hijackers as hijackers, but they appeared too much like professional killers to me to be believable as disgruntled former employees. Nice detail - Armani shoes, not knowing the name of the guy from accounts etc.

3: I loved this. It was amusing, comical, a little nonsensical, and utterly good fun. Very well thought out, nice details and very impressive for only 60 minutes!

4: I didn't really get it. If Laura was the girlfriend was Karen the girl he had an affair with? Why did Karen give him support when he decided not to fake kill everyone? He's almost too lucid to be crazy and not lucid enough to realise a fake gun is just silly. I think a little back story on Karen would clarify things a bit.

5: I liked this a lot. I wondered what the relationship between the narrator and the other hostages was. I assume Paul is dead - is Paul the narrator's sibling/best friend/lover? I wanted more of the back story - there's the bones of a great short story there. The violence is graphic but not gratuitous and the detail is excellent.

6: This reminded me of the Jude story with the guy on the plane writing about the guy on the plane writing about the guy on the plane... I didn't know where things were going. The hostages were seemingly unconnected - and never got connected. Interesting, in a perplexing way.

9: I quite liked this, it seemed very honest with realistic detail. As I said earlier I thought it had a bit of a Northern tone, although if that was the case the smallies would probably have been called wee'ns.

Mr E

VERSION 11

A really high standard this week. I went for 9, 10 and 11. I always thought it would be a disadvantage to be one of the last stories, so its ironic that the last 3 are my favourites.

9 was genius, my favourite of the bunch. A very clever idea (I wish I'd thought of it).

10 was well written, some terrific descriptive prose.

11 was just a great story. A bad situation that snowballed out of control to its inevitable conclusion.

DonnieScribbles

VERSION 11

Hello

I've been following all the competitions since they started and the quality this time round is very high, possibly higher than anything prior! It's pretty interesting that it would be that way, I guess there's no time to doubt the quality of your work and edit it into oblivion in this type of scenario. Well done to all the writers, some very impressive work.

I voted for 5, 6, 7, 9, and 10.

Version 5 is very well written, the tension and fear is palpable. The use of the senses or lack thereof is very effective.

I thought the idea for Version 6 was pretty interesting. It read very visually, if that makes sense. It did seem like a beginning though, rather than a whole piece. It seemed to me like the 'hook' at the start of a TV show pilot, or a long trailer for a feature film. Would be something I'd like to read more of.

Great twist in Version 7!

Version 9 is a great take on the hostage theme, it took a second to dawn on me. It stands out for it's simplicity and realism.

Version 10 is a heavy read. A great portrayal of fear and despair.

Well done again and sorry for not voting/posting in the previous competition threads. I was considering entering some of them too! Maybe next time

cobsie

VERSION 10

I voted for 1 & 9 - and I think 9 was the outstanding piece. It was a really original interpretation of the theme and so well written, very simple and poignant. It managed to deliver a real emotional punch - in 500ish words!