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Title

1

Nóra Blascsók

Paul McNally

Maybe We Should Get Into Plants

2

Peter Gardiner

Leah Fitzpatrick

If Only For Chips

3

Leah Fitzpatrick

Nóra Blascsók

Golden Hour

4

Paul McNally

Tom McNally

Swings and Roundabouts

5

Tom McNally

Peter Gardiner

November, 2065

Warm-up - no word count, no title, prompt is: ‘tablet'

The tablet and dentures floated in a glass of water, swirling around dancing a slow waltz. Her body, lying on the marble floor was still warm, her hand clutching something tight. Her mouth open, a gummy abyss, letting out a cry. Gladys didn’t have enemies, no wealth, no secrets. She lived in a nursing home where everyone liked her, ran a book club with four other ladies and her daughter, who was an interpreter, visited her every two weeks for an afternoon and brought her Russian delicacies that she shared around afterwards with her friends.

She was a loved by the nurses. She gave them gifts and told stories about her childhood in Hungary, where her father worked as the ambassador. There was one nurse in particular who was interested in these stories. She was from Hungary herself, but has changed her name to Sylvia when she moved to the UK. When she listened to Gladys’ stories, she pretended her account of communist Hungary was all new to her, looking at her with bewildered eyes and crying out every time Gladys shared a little details of things that she thought English people would find fascinating. You might wonder, how Gladys, whose family has been linguistically gifted throughout the generations, did not recognise Sylvia’s accent. Sylvia was a master of disguise, when it came to sounding different to who she was. You would have thought she just perfected her English accent, having lived in England for the last ten years. However, Sylvia, had a more elaborate disguise. Having had an Italian friend in her previous job, Sylvia spent a lot of time listening to an Italian accent, and like a true linguist, she added it to her arsenal of linguistic disguises, finessing her intonation and gesticulation day by day.

Gladys was not

Warm-up - no wordcount, no title, prompt is: ‘tablet’

What is this?

Lain in the almost dry river bed, a broken tablet of ancient sandstone, carved with words of a long dead tongue.

Hidden by silt and stream for generations, now among the barren rock-bed there for all to see.

And if we could only read the words; we’d know. An 11th commandment:

“Don’t fuck it up”

Warm-up - no word count, no title, prompt is: 'tablet'

Sickly sweet and rich as hell, the kind that still sticks to your teeth hours later, even after brushing your teeth. The choice gift for making sure your neighbours darling cat didn’t die or from your relative who doesn’t really know you - an afterthought.

But that’s fine because something is better than nothing and it pulls you back to a time when you’d wolf it down with no thought, ignoring your parents chiding that you’ll be sick. A delicious and chalky shock to the system that reminds you why the government says you’ve got to exercise at least 60mins every day but fuck it they can’t take that tablet away.

Warm-up - no wordcount, no title, prompt is: 'tablet'

You have to bite through the tablet to take a half dose. Every morning. And there is a jolt of anxiety each time that you might have taken slightly more than half. And this will upset the balance. And then you need to squirrel the remaining chunk away back in the plastic casing, under a flap of tin foil and each time there is a thought that it might escape, get lost and loose from the foil and you’re not sure what will happen then. But it never happens.

Warm-up - no wordcount, no title, prompt is: ‘tablet'

Tablet is made in Scotland. It contains vital B-complex vitamins to maintain a high metabolic rate over a sustained period. It prevents ageing and the greying of hair.

A secret for thousands of years, the Clan leaders of the Highlands sold the recipe to their hunting pals in Westminster. They got it for cheap and then they didn’t really do much with it.

Nóra Blascsók FIRST DRAFT

100 words first draft (press ctrl/cmd + shift + c for wordcount)

Maybe, we could get into plants?

He didn’t have a choice. He had to do it. She has been driving him mad, buying new furniture every day. One day, it was chairs. They needed a new office chair, a bar stool, a chair for her clothes. The next it was, plants. She ordered them online, as the shops were closed and they started showing up on their doorstep every day. Bromeliads, cacti, snake plants. The whole flat was chairs and plants, and his video games and DVDs all ended up in cardboard boxes, along with his prized collection of boardgames. Your mum can store these, you never play them anyway.

He snapped when she started packing away Gloomhaven. As he didn’t have any sharp objects to hand, he had to resort to the nearest object. A plant pot in the bedroom window will have to do. One blow was enough. Her body fell down on the big box, he will have to clean the blood off later. He dragged her out to the local park, and left her in the bushes. As he turned around, a circle of seagulls formed around him, shrieking in unison, waiting to be fed.

Nóra, your editor is: Leah Fitzpatrick

Suggested edits:  He didn’t have a choice. He had to do it. She has been driving him mad, buying new furniture every day. One day, it was chairs.The next it was, plants. Bromeliads, cacti, a bar stool, office chairs. His video games and DVDs all ended up in cardboard boxes, along with his prized collection of boardgames. Your mum can store these, she cooed, you never play them anyway.

He snapped when she started packing away Gloomhaven. A plant pot would suffice, one blow would be enough.. Her body fell into the box.  He dragged her out and left her in the bushes. As he turned around, a circle of seagulls shrieked in unison, waiting to be fed.

Nóra Blascsók SECOND DRAFT

100 words second draft (press ctrl/cmd + shift + c for wordcount)

Title

Peter Gardiner  FIRST DRAFT

100 words first draft (press ctrl/cmd + shift + c for wordcount)

Working title

The workers sat and did nothing as the flesh was sundered, as the blood ran thickly down the roof and along the guttering. There was screaming and flapping for a time then stillness and quiet crunching.

Beatrice tried rapping rudely on the window but the gull only regarded her briefly, its beak shiny red, before returning to its meal.

Though for Beatrice, her time with her Tuna sandwich was over.

Peter, your editor is: Tom McNally

Suggested edits:

60 words, not at the end yet

Nature horror - going in to treatise of capitalism

Marry those together

Great structure of horror then a punchline of a mundane scene.
I reIntroduce Beatrice first, then have the horror scene, then the punchline that this is over a tuna sandwich

If the seagull stands in for suffering under capitalism, she could be on her lunchbreak, mention of her job and of labour. Something like:

Beatrice’s break was over but she was late getting back to the shopping centre. She half-ran down the street, sweating. Her cruel overseer watched from above through a black glassy eye.

…

The workers sat and did nothing as the flesh was sundered, as the blood ran thickly down the roof and along the guttering. There was screaming and flapping for a time then stillness and quiet crunching.

Beatrice screamed and fought and used all the feeble weapons she had available but the gull only regarded her briefly, its beak shiny red, before returning to its meal.

Though for Beatrice, her time with her Tuna sandwich was over.

(that’s 108 words so needs to cut a little off)

Peter Gardiner SECOND DRAFT

100 words second draft (press ctrl/cmd + shift + c for wordcount)

If only for chips

The workers sat at their desks and did nothing as the flesh was sundered, as the blood ran thickly down the roof opposite their office block and along the guttering. There was screaming and flapping for a time then stillness and quiet crunching.

It was only Beatrice who tried to help; rapping rudely on the window but the gull only regarded her briefly, its beak shiny red, before returning to its meal.

Though for Beatrice, her time with her Tuna sandwich was over, shoving the cardboard triangle aside and closing the blinds to escape the horror-show.

She’d seen it many times, a pigeon eaten alive whilst a dozen of its brethren just stood around and dumbly let it happen.

She always wondered why they never banded together and fend off the gulls. She was wondering it still when her manager called her into a side office; to discuss the voluntary redundancies.

Leah Fitzpatrick FIRST DRAFT

100 words first draft (press ctrl/cmd + shift + c for wordcount)

Golden Hour

You finally stop and pause, how many steps have you taken? Doesn’t matter, you are on the edge of the woods and you don’t feel that constriction  in your chest anymore.

You can feel the cold crisp air that sloughs off the weight of everything that has come to pass until now, the golden hour of sunlight that helps set your new self into the world.

You are not another person wondering around the grounds, you are another creature roaming through a place that can be home. You hear the sound of a family, yes, it is good to be back.

Leah Fitzpatrick your editor is:  Peter Gardiner

Suggested edits:

Wants it to be less Young Adulty.

Unclear where the story is taking place.

You finally stop and pause, how far have you come? Doesn’t matter, you are on the edge of the woods and you don’t feel that tightness in your chest anymore.

You can feel the cold crisp air that cuts away the past and the golden hour of sunlight that helps set your new self into the world.

You are not another person wondering over soft dirt and cold moss,  you are treading  through a place that can be home. You hear the unfamiliar cries that slowly turn into a family's nattering. Yes,  it is good to be back.

Leah Fitzpatrick SECOND DRAFT

100 words second draft (press ctrl/cmd + shift + c for wordcount)

Golden Hour

You finally stop and pause, how far have you come?  Doesn’t matter, you are on the edge of the woods and you don’t feel that tightness in your chest anymore.

You can feel the cold crisp air that cuts away the past and the golden hour of sunlight that helps set your new self into the world.

You are not another person wondering over soft dirt and cold moss,  you are treading  through a place that can be home. You hear the unfamiliar cries that slowly turn into a family's nattering. Yes,  it is good to be back.

Paul McNally FIRST DRAFT

100 words first draft (press ctrl/cmd + shift + c for wordcount)

Title

The sash is the most important part of the contest for Alastair. It is bright green and draped from the ring in the Otter’s snout, up between his eyes and down his back where it is glued on to his fur. Two Otters are in the ring and that squeal of theirs - as they fight - is circling Alistair’s temples in much the same way as the animals circle each other. He makes a point of never petting his animal as it could be construed as encouragement, but he gives the sash a light tug and the animal’s head bobs down, but his eyes don’t leave the two fighting.

Paul McNally, your editor is: Nóra Blascsók

Suggested edits:

The sash is the most important part of the contest for Alastair. It is bright green and draped from the ring in the Otter’s snout, up between his eyes and down his back where it is glued on to his fur. Two Otters are in the ring and that squeal of theirs - as they fight - is circling Alistair’s temples in much the same way as the animals circle each other. He makes a point of never petting his animal as it could be construed as encouragement, but he gives the sash a light tug and the animal’s head bobs down., but hisThe eyes, on the other hand, don’t leave the are firmly on the two fighting.

maybe add something, 'that damn squeal'

Delete: “The sash is the most important part of the contest for Alastair. It is bright green and draped from …”

maybe change 'circling round his temples' - or do you mean in a Tom and Jerry way?

PAUL MCNALLY SECOND DRAFT

100 words second draft (press ctrl/cmd + shift + c for wordcount)

Swings and roundabouts

The sash is the most important part of the contest for Alastair. It is bright green and draped from the ring in the Otter’s snout, up between his eyes and down his back where it is glued on to his fur. Two Otters are in the ring and that squeal of theirs - as they fight - is comforting to Alistair, oddly calming. He makes a point of never petting his fighter as it could be construed as encouragement, but he gives the sash a light tug and the animal’s head bobs down, but his black eyes stay fixated on the squealing.

Tom McNally first draft

100 words first draft (press ctrl/cmd + shift + c for wordcount)

November, 2065

The children were born here.

I look up at them as they circle around me, almost in a dance, as I lie on the hardpacked dirt of the O2 millennium Chris Whitty Climate Shelter.

My organs are shutting down and they’re clever kids, they know that my shoes will be available soon.

“Websites used to be fun,” I tell them.

60 words

Tom, your editor is:  Paul McNally

Suggested edits:

Very ominous and atmospheric piece.

I would start with the quote as that is an arresting quote - more than the starting line. When you say “they’re clever kids” it isn’t quite clear who “they” are? It could be the organs. Is this the children? Is that important? Is it meant to be ambiguous? I think given that you have so much more space we need a better sense of who the children are. And, the Chris Whitty, reference makes it very UK centric, but that could be totally fine, but I had to google him. There is

Tom McNally second draft

100 words second draft (press ctrl/cmd + shift + c for wordcount)

November, 2065

The children were born here. Hope, Future and Biden, all from the east side by the electrolysis tower.

I look up at them as they circle around me, lying on the hardpacked dirt of the O2 Millennium Chris Whitty Climate Shelter. My organs are shutting down. I have one last thing I need to tell.

“Children, you have to know,” I croak.

They edge closer, hungry. My shoes will be available soon. This is a rite of passage for them. I reach out a quivering hand, my head swimming with memories of an age they need to understand.

“Websites used to be fun,”