Sheffield Short Story Competition
Life has been full-on recently. Setting up the Sheffield Writers Hub has taken every ounce of energy I’ve had outside of making sure that my two children are fed and clothed and, at least somewhat, nurtured. I’m incredibly proud of what we’ve achieved and so chuffed to be sitting here writing this blog post from the new Writers Hub HQ. But it’s not been easy. Letters to school have gone awry, basic life admin has been neglected, I haven’t been to the gym in months and my writing? My own writing has been almost completely neglected. Aside from tiny pieces that I’ve written during my own workshops, I’ve not written a thing.
So, when I was running a writing retreat on the weekend before deadline for the Sheffield Authors Short Story competition, I was determined to write something, even though I only had an hour before lunch and before returning home to normal life. I remembered that my young adult novel ‘Straight on Till Morning’ is set in Sheffield and I thought of the scene where my two main characters first see each other on Devonshire Green and I wondered if I could use that as the inspiration for a story. So I did. And I wrote 1000 words in an hour and pressed ‘submit’ and was pretty chuffed to be long-listed out of 85 entries.
I didn’t make the shortlist last night and I’m not sure I deserved to. I knew when I entered that this wasn’t my best work and that my story lacked a strong narrative arc. But I made time to write something and just the act of writing it made me feel better. And being long-listed reminded me that I am a writer too and not just a facilitator of other people’s work.
Whatever you do for a living and whatever your life circumstances, it’s hard to make time to write. But, for me it’s essential. Hopefully now the Hub is established, I’ll get to do more of it. And maybe I’ll get back to the gym. And maybe I won’t forget to go to parent’s evening again. In the meantime, here’s my long-listed story. Congratulations to the worthy winners.
Division Street
She stands at the Forum bar, tapping the counter, hoping for some attention. Not that kind of attention, not the man pressing up behind her, hand on the waist of her summer dress, the yellow one that she bought for this occasion: this coming of age, end of exams, beginning of the rest of it. She shrugs him off, rejects his offer to buy a drink. She can buy her own drink, if only someone would only notice her standing here.
She looks out across Devonshire Green. The last of the skater boys are riding the arc of the skate park, surfing silhouettes against the darkening pink sky and a young man sits on the edge, apart from the rest, blowing smoke rings into the air. His eyes catch hers for a moment. He has a soft gaze, eyes large, like a deer’s, staring out from under a grey beanie. She fights an urge to join him. She’d rather be out there, she thinks, than standing here with the smell of sweat and aftershave assaulting her nostrils and that groin pressed against her bum. She’d rather be out there with the deer-eyed boy than with Kristy and Lauren and the boys.
She can see them on the patio outside, moving in a heaving mass of summer bodies. They’ve spilled out on a tide of base beats, fizzing with energy, like someone has popped a cork on a shaken bottle. But not Lorna. She feels flat like week-old cola.
Her friends are taking notes from their wallets. Dodge has a plan to get some uppers from a guy his brother knows. Just a bit of a laugh. His dad’s given him some money to celebrate. It’s perfectly safe, he says. She’s not sure she wants to join them. She leans over the bar, reveals a bit more cleavage, finally catches the barman’s eye. What are you having?
What are you having? Craig struts up to the lads at the edge of the skate park. This is his patch and his favourite hour, this in-between zone when night and day jostle for attention. It’s prime time for someone in his profession. And it is a profession, that’s how he sees it. You have to take it seriously if you want to make it. He is going to make it. He isn’t going to be out here forever. One day he’s going to have one of those flats in West One. He glances at it now, over the heads of the kids who’ve been evicted from the hostel. It’s the one on the third floor with the deck chairs and the yucca tree. He’s going to live like a king up there.
He moves along the line, swapping packets for cash, like a doctor doing his rounds. It’s all medicine, really. He knows what people need. It’s a skill. Not just anyone could do It. And there’s Tag, the new kid, sitting on the edge of the park, smoking. He’s wearing that hat again, like he thinks he’s something special. Craig’s got his eye on him.
‘What are you having, mate?’ he asks, punching Tag on the arm, just hard enough to add a bruise to the tally of debts.
‘I’m skint man. I’ll get it to you, soon as. Still waiting for me crisis loan.’
‘No worries, mate.’ Craig rustles the packets in his pocket. ‘You can owe me. I know you’re good for it.’
He pulls out a wrap. Not the good stuff. He reserves the good stuff for people who pay. Though they all pay in the end. He makes sure of that.
Mitch is striding towards him now, across the grass. It’s a quick walk from the Sally. It’s a quick walk from everywhere. That’s why it’s a good patch. All right, mate. What are you having?
What are you having? She asks the question before she gets in the car, these days. Got to be clear, he says. She needs to know whether it’s worth it. She used to be anyone’s for a tenner but Craig sets her targets now. He won’t give her the goods if she hasn’t made enough and her guts are squirming already. She can feel a rattle coming on and the bruise on her left eye is still smarting from last night. You look a mess, he said, when they left the flat. He used to make her feel like a princess. She asks again, what are you having?
What are you having, lads? He can smell them before they get to him. He can smell the mother’s love freshly-ironed into the creases of their shirts. Fabric conditioner and soap. It makes him sick. They’re giddy, like kids at a sweet shop, their voices round and smooth like gobstoppers. The girl in the yellow dress hangs back. She’s pretty. That’s the kind of girl he wants. Curves, full and round, lips like cherries. Not like Sadie. He doesn’t want other men’s leftovers. Shoulders like coat-hangers and tits like deflated balloons. He doesn’t know why anyone pays for it with her. Not when her arms are criss-crossed with scars. This girl’s arms are smooth like butter.
He sells them some MDMA. Charges them full whack, though he knows they’re cut with powder. They won’t notice. They’re already high on the night. Living it large. He moves over to the girl in the yellow dress. What about are you, darling? What are you having?
What are you having? The woman behind the chip shop counter’s glaring at him. Tag knows he’s not got enough even for chips, but he’s starving. He’d hoped she might take pity on him but she’s got a hard stare. She’s not going to budge. He picks up his rucksack and sleeping bag, turns to go. Then his brown eyes meet hers. She’s dressed in yellow like a sunflower and smiling. She moves to the counter and looks back at Tag. ‘What are you having?’ she asks.
