First Place:

The Battle of Mynydd Hyddgen

By Stephen Kingston

The spring squabbles with rocks and pebbles; chattering, cold and clear. Tumbling down ancient stones of Hyddgen’s barren hill.

From heather’s shawl, I see them come, outnumbering us three to one. But this land’s ours and fights for us; summer grass dressed marsh inhales them. 

Hooves snap, a clatter and cry. Anglo-Flemish soldiers bow to the mire, tripping, shouting, cursing. Arrows sing as steel rings. Our voices rise like thunder. From flanking hills, the trap is sprung, rising from behind them. 

Sunset bronzes covenant quartz, the land drinks English blood. Glyndŵr’s cause lies bright before. We’re coming as a flood.

Second Place:

The Watchmaker’s Wife

By Deborah Sale-Butler

His Sophie died at 12:02. He felt her go. The guard reached for his pocket watch and he thought he heard her say, Look at his wrist, Abe.

“Your wristwatch is broken. A loose spring. I could use parts from mine to repair yours.”

Word spread among the guards. They brought him things to fix and slipped him tools—coal and a match to bend metal, and sulphur to weld jewels into place.

With coal, sulphur and salt from urine, the loose spring became the perfect trigger for his bomb.

Her final words were, One of us should live.

Third Place:

Making Time for the One You Love

By Martin Barker

Charles had never crafted cogs from human teeth before. It was outrageously difficult, but immensely satisfying. He used her cleverly disguised femur for the pendulum. The springs were just standard springs, but he’d fashioned her hair into hands and numbers.

The café was next to his horologist’s shop. Like clockwork, she came every morning for coffee and croissants. He watched her delicate movements. Fell in love. In his imagination, she loved him back.

“I’d rather be dead,” she’d said, when he’d finally plucked up courage to ask her out.

Now she was, and the clock’s gentle ticking soothed his rage.

Fourth Place:

Second Date

By Anna Gebbie

I dreamed of spring getaways to sunnier climes, with gazpacho and gelato, and a glass of fizz to go to your head.

I dreamed of summer picnics in the park, with prawn cocktail and Pimm’s in our private plaid paradise.

I dreamed of autumn outings for coffee and cake, cackling and kicking up the leaves on the way to the café.

I dreamed of winter evenings in, with fondue and feet up by the fire, fingertips tracing our names on the frosty glass.

But when you refused to split that stupid spring roll, I knew it could never be.