http://www.writers-online.co.uk^33Runner-up in the Speculative fiction competition was Ana de Andrada, Twickenham, whose story is published on
http://www.writers-online.co.uk. Also shortlisted were: Kate Alton, Bristol; Dominic Bell, Hull; Mariann Evans, Alloa, Clackmannanshire;
Julian Leto, Durham; Amanda Marples, Rotherham, South Yorkshire; Terry Martin, Fosdyke, Lancashire; SF Ratcliffe, Cape Town,
South Africa; Mansfield Schad, Braco, Perth and Kinross; Diane M Smith, Ewhurst, Surrey.MARCH 2020Read the judge’s
analysis at:
http://writ.rs/
wmmar20EXPERT
analysisyears; the crow-necked receptionist:
ten; the wheelchair-bound old man
outside in the car park: eighteen
months. The old man’s son was
helping him into a taxi. He tucked
two thick woolly blankets around his
father and held the oxygen tank. The
driver was getting ready to lift him
into the front seat.
I remembered the son speaking
calmly to his father, ‘Okay Dad, we’re
going to lift you now. 3, 2, 1, lift.’
The old man struggled. ‘Don’t you
dare let this oaf lift me,’ he yelled.
After a kick to the knee, the driver
fell back and dropped the old man
onto the floor. The son dropped the
oxygen tank in his attempt to catch
his father. The crash of the tank
echoed across the hospital parking
lot, and the son received a smack to
the head.
‘Stupid, good for nothing boy. I’m
glad your mother isn’t around to see
what a disappointment you turned
out to be.’
I’m not trying to excuse what I
did next. I know it was wrong. But
that hateful skeleton had eighteen
months of life ahead of him; Sophie
had seven days. Dormant muscle
memory guided me. I walked
towards the scene in front of me,
knelt down and touched the old
man’s arm. Energy coursed into me.
It felt like cold water flowing in
circular motions over my skin. He
fell quiet, and I wordlessly helped
him into his chair. Then I walked
away with his eighteen months.
* * * * *
According to the old man’s
obituary he slipped away peacefully
that evening, although I would have
known regardless of seeing it in print.
I didn’t regret it. How could I when
Sophie wakes up every morning,
eats her cereal and goes about her
day? She’s studying medicine. Think
how many people she’s going to save
because I saved her. I objectively did
the right thing. Although, she could
become a telemarketer and still make
the world a better place just for being
in it. Some people can’t help butspread light into the world.
But she’s only got six months left. I
have to save her again. I’m still a little
vague on the fine-print, but I think I
need to touch these people to take their
lives. I couldn’t access the kidnapper,
but after several days of sleuthing I
discovered his wife (yes, still married)
lived two hours from me. They couldn’t
get enough evidence to put her away.
She insisted she’s a victim too. I didn’t
believe her. Seven innocent girls locked
up in a basement for years – friends
and families ruined by the knowledge
of what he did to their loved ones- and she helped. But first, I had to
make sure.
I turned off the ignition and
slumped below the steering wheel. I
didn’t own a car, but Dr Macali was
kind enough to let me borrow his
after I threatened to tell Tasha she
wasn’t the only ‘special connection’
he’d made that term. My front-
runner came into view. She pushed
her trolley across the supermarket
parking lot, and I saw her face for
the first time. Her real face, not the
cautious smile for the newspaper
articles, the face that betrayed who
she was when she was alone. The
woman’s worn eyelids made her eyes
look like they were trying to escape
her face; her entire body repulsed by
the black soul it belonged to. In that
moment any doubt I had regarding
her guilt dissipated. I knew the
truth, just like I knew she had 65
years to live. How would that be
fair if I let her live to 98, but I let
Sophie die at 23? That would make
me the monster.
I jumped out of the car and tiptoed
across the car-park. She picked up
a shopping bag and stretched across
the boot to shove it into the corner.
I took a tin of cat food that was
precariously balanced on the trolley’s
rim, then dropped it. The clang of
the tin on the pavement made her
jump and turn around. She relaxed
when she saw me. I was just a young
woman after all. Why would she be
frightened of me?
‘Excuse me, I think you dropped
this,’ I said. I picked it up, took
another step, and pressed it into
her palm, cupping my hand
around hers as I did so. It was
still new to me, this power, so I
wasn’t sure whether it would be
as quick as the first time. After
all, I was taking 65 years instead
of eighteen months. But it only
took a few seconds longer. One touch
and it was done.
* * * * *
The front room teemed with
balloons and streamers. We had
moved the television upstairs to
make space for the extra chairs: an
assortment of our kitchen bar stools,
plastic garden chairs and fold-up
camping seats. Sophie did most of
the work, and now she was making
the finishing touches to the cake.
Tasha’s favourite – carrot cake with
buttercream frosting. Sophie’s face
was one of concentration as she iced
on ‘Happy birthday, Tasha’. Tasha’s
whole family were coming down for
the afternoon, then we’d take her out
for the evening. We wanted to make
it special. She had been feeling down
since I told her about Dr Macali’s
other girlfriends.
I had been thinking about what
Tasha said, ‘I’m so angry I could kill
him.’ She said it in anger, of course.
But how would she feel if she knew
his life could save her mother’s? I
sensed it the moment she walked in
the door: three months left. She was
only 45. They talked on the phone
every day. I could always tell when
Tasha was calling home, because they
were always laughing.
I said I would never do it again.
After all, this ability only came to me
when Sophie was about to die, so I
figured it was meant to save only her.
It made sense that some divine power
was using me to save a good soul.
But there had to be a reason why
the power remained; a reason why I
knew the death date of everybody I
met. It was finally making sense. Like
I said, some people spread light into
the world – it was my duty to change
the bulbs.SHORT STORY COMPETITION WINNER
Siphons