Write-In 2019: 'I remember you' by Lia James

I remember you.

I used to remember you in vivid color. Bright, tangible, living clips of memory. Your embrace. Your laugh. Your love.

But memory fades.

I remember you now in one monochrome moment. Sat together reading in the library. The curl of your hair. Your smile. Still, your love.

Write-In 2019: 'Plat du Jour' by Grace Palmer

The sisters visited St Florence library shortly after they’d arrived in France. Books in their mother’s tongue delighted them. Their eyes slid over their language, their words. When tummies rumbled they skipped through empty aisles. The door to the outside was shut. The librarian had closed for lunch.

Write-In 2019: 'Better Places' by Sarah Mosedale

My big sister reads proper grown-up books to me. Short stories because we are busy. When I grow up I’m going to be a writer. I’m going to write people away to better places. Then when they come back to their real lives they will feel less sad.

Write-In 2019: Brevity by Sue Massey

Shall I read you a story?

No!

It’s only a short one.

I don’t want to listen to you reading a story.

I think you’ll like it.

What’s it about?

Well, if I told you that, there wouldn’t be a reason for me read it to you.

Good!

Write-In 2019: 'Every Daughter is Rapunzel' by Jo Withers

I brushed your hair each evening, plaited it every morning.

We navigated worlds together, from wizard’s frosted kingdoms to dragon’s flame-scorched thrones.

I read in whispers now, remembering times you listened, snuggled safely in my lap.

You’re the princess in the tower now, forever looking outward, forever leaving me behind.

Write-In 2019: 'Ashes to Ashes' by Amy Barnes

The cigarette singed her fingers.

She dropped it to avoid the pain.

And then drew her self portrait on the sidewalk.

The bottom of her shoe created face lines, shoulder, hair.

She drew her mother’s ghost.

In the mother-back-breaking crack.

And then watched her fade away. Ashes in the wind.

Write-In 2019: 'Our Favourite Nights' by Emm R. Coll

Those were always my favourite nights. Mum reading to me whichever book had tickled her fancy. I’d force a laugh, knowing she loved the sound. She’d still tell me to settle down, though. I knew she read for the both of us. Those nights were her favourite.