Write-In 2019: 'Thurso' by Sarah Mosedale

She wasn’t born there. No, she was an incomer, arriving at eighteen months, oldest child of parents moved to the far north for a better job than he could ever have imagined. A million quid to think up research projects in a nuclear reactor? For a working class bloke from Blackpool with a third class degree who’d really rather be playing jazz? A reactor prudently situated in a sparsely populated area, not that the locals considered this prudent, well they wouldn’t, would they. It might be fewer lives at risk but it was their lives. Anyway it never blew up though there was some unpleasant business involving the casual disposal of radioactive waste. None of which was his fault.

For her there was a lot about living there that was good. It was normal to roam free aged five, shouting back to your mum that you’d be home for tea. The sea was freezing so even after fifteen years you didn’t need double figures to count how often you’d been in. But there’s nothing to beat sitting staring out across the Pentland Firth as a teenager. Angst - don’t tell me, or any other Thurso kiddie, about angst.

Kiddie, that just means person. Like wifie means woman, there’s no diminutive, or any relationship to a mannie, implied. You meet some fucking tough wifies in Thurso. It’s the gale force winds that does it. If you can stand on your own two feet in Thurso you can stand on your own two feet anywhere. You meet some totally crushed wifies in Thurso too. I suppose you do anywhere really.

She left of course. She was desperate to get out by the time she was eighteen; she was lucky to have an escape route. She was an incomer.

Write-In 2019: 'A Mirror of her Psyche' by Mileva Anastasiadou

Each time she woke up, she felt nostalgic for the house of her dreams. That house was never a conscious choice. It seemed though, as if it had been there expecting her. Whenever in doubt or in discomfort, she remembered the forgotten rooms. From time to time, she even discovered new rooms, although after waking up, she usually realized that she had been there before, that they were part of the forgotten kingdom.

Once she permanently moved in, she spent most of her time in the basement. She felt like experiencing childhood again. Every once in a while, she went up to the ground floor and sat on the porch for some fresh air. The attic caught her eye every now and then, but it took some time before she decided to visit.

It proved a difficult task, though. Either the stairs were too steep, or the barriers were insuperable. There stood a guard who did not let her go upstairs. The guard was never talkative and didn’t even notice her attempts to seduce him.

She became frustrated little by little, as all her efforts proved fruitless; her beautiful dresses, her sophisticated makeup, her pretentious walk, did not work. She even used tears, a weapon she knew her husband in real life could never resist, yet the guard stood upright, seemingly impervious to the show she had carefully prepared.



Many attempts later, the stairs did not seem that steep any more and the obstacles vanished.

Opening the door of the attic, she found herself in her old house, the one she shared with her husband for many years.

I’m back, she thought in excitement, feeling for the first time in years, that this house might fit her as well, and that reality did not seem so unbearable any more.

Write-In 2019: 'The Carousel' by K.R. Garcia

Wind brushes past my ear and ruffles my hair. It’s a cold and gentle embrace that my heart can only welcome with feeble jitters.

The floor beneath me is raised up on zigzagged planks of wood, its pink paint wearing off. I remember when the paint was fresh—when I tripped and fell at its base and broke my tooth. The scratch in the paint hasn’t been covered up, but it’s harder to find. Now, where I used to wear little green shoes, their well-loved white ribbons tied into neat bows, are sandals, worn whitish-brown, hugging much larger feet. They’re too small, but I can’t bear to admit it.

They say you grow out of things, but I keep trying to fit.

My imagination has always been more vivid than reality. That’s why the dusty toys on my dresser bring tears to my eyes. Why this carousel was put out of commission years ago but I can still hear the song it played. I close my eyes and hum the tinny melody, rocking my head from left to right.

Time has been kind to the carousel horse I sit on. His cobalt and lace coat is vibrant in the flickering light. The glint in his eyes is so stubborn, he must think he could run a thousand miles. He doesn’t know how fragile he is. How fragile everything is.

Sometimes, when I’m sad, I go to the carousel. Like when they ripped the white ribbon off one of my little green shoes. Like when I learned we were moving houses. Like now.

Today, they told me. They told me my stories aren't real. That it's time to grow up, to find a place in the real world.

But if I forget my childhood, I'll forget myself.

Write-In 2019: 'Brunch' by Voima Oy

Outside, looking in, I see them. Friends from work I used to know. That was another life ago.

They're sitting together, brunch on Sunday. Not a care in the world. But I can see the anxiety in the corners of their eyes. They're talking about vacations and getting away—New Mexico, the Cascades, Kyoto. They complain how much their knees hurt, how they almost lost their luggage on the plane.

I remember this place, clean and uncluttered, carefully chosen vintage chairs. I sometimes think I could get a job here, why not. It would be a simple life, taking orders, cleaning tables. I could get a little place nearby, open the windows,  aromas of Greek cooking down the street in the evening.

But then I remember, my reflection in the glass. That was another life. Before the plague. This is what I look like now. I don't do brunch anymore.