Powers & Irish Times Short Story Comp

c68zapdsm5i1ru

I thought Apres Match was a beautifully written piece of prose ( I could smell those chips). It wasn't actually a short story though and it was set 30 years ago which wasn't the criteria set by the organisers. No problem with the quality of the writing, but if the organisors are going to set criteria and boundaries they should stick to them.

PurpleBee

I liked that winning story, didn't blow me away but I really hated the way she read it out, just made me cringe.

c68zapdsm5i1ru

echo beach wrote: »

Sounds more like begrudery than being overly critical.
It wasn't my favourite and I thought it could have done without the last line (wait for the rush of people saying that was the best part!) but still feel it is a deserving winner.

Sorry you didn't pocket the cash kieslowski, but there is always next year and you can have a go at some of the other competitions listed. One of them closes on May 31st so it is time to get working.

I don't think that's fair. I also didn't think this story should have won but it's not begrudgery. There were 3 stories in the short list I had picked as possible winners but Aprez match wasn't one of them. That's not begrudgery, it's an opinion.

MOONlit

PurpleBee wrote: »

I liked that winning story, didn't blow me away but I really hated the way she read it out, just made me cringe.

Yes. perhaps thats it. I only ever heard her reading it and yes it was the cringe. She didnt want to apply her own accent to it which spoke volumes about the piece which is ok of course. But I couldnt see why. And I dont know why but that really turned me off. Must try and read it cold.

DermoLogical

I enjoyed reading Apres Match until I got to the last line, which made me cringe - completely false and unnecessary.
But listening to her read it aloud was a very different experience: I cringed at every line.
In a (hopefully) non-begruding way, I'm quite glad she won because I think I can see myself writing a piece as good as hers.

Kinski

Just listened to her reading. Bad "story", badly read.

kilrush claire

I'd just like to add my voice to say how disappointed I am with this competion. I guess almost everything I say has been said, but I still think they should know what we think.
The goalposts were moved after we entered the competition and for a newspaper like the Irish Times and a company like Powers to have such a low opinion of the contestants bothers me. I won't be entering next year anyway, I would feel I would need to attend speech classes to be able to do my or any other story justice. They have our stories and we don't know if we are longlisted yet so are we free to enter them again in another competition? I know the Bridport is still open and would like to enter my story there. They should at least say who is on the longlist. We were lead to believe that after the 26th May, we would know where we stood.
The Irish Times/Powers could have at least hired an actor to read that girls story. It was terrible to listen to and better to read. A lot of actors would have loved to have the gig and I'm sure would have done a much better job and be glad of the exposure. Shame it feels like this after all the rewriting that went into weaving Powers into the story in a tasteful way. Coke got a mention though...one company that doesn't need the piece of product placement.

MOONlit

MOONlit wrote: »

Yes. perhaps thats it. I only ever heard her reading it and yes it was the cringe. She didnt want to apply her own accent to it which spoke volumes about the piece which is ok of course. But I couldnt see why. And I dont know why but that really turned me off. Must try and read it cold.

oops I was talking about the ARENA flash winner here.

Chocolate Chip

Is it too late to post our stories here?

MOONlit

Chocolate Chip wrote: »

Is it too late to post our stories here?

I would love to read your story please.

It reminds me AGAIN of the 2 weeks it took me to write my story a la 'prescribed theme' - a difficult excercise on several levels. In fact i missed out on precious time with my young son, on holiday from his foreign based schoo-( he is very dyslexic and so goes to a dyslexia school in Uk). That sacrifice was valid, as long as I thought I had the same chance 'technically' as everyone else, of success.
Hey, I know i need to shut up about it - but I think i will sue them for damages - 2 weeks of labouring on a piece of work, which i was invited to submit by XY, to be written according to, a written set of paticular guidelines, guideline which subsequently proved to be false and misleading - €10.000 compensation!!!!
Any lawyers in the house?
I know - Shut up about it!!!

pickarooney

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tVFBK9GhS5Q

cranlleo

I thought the short story winner was a worthy winner. The writing was sharp , evocative.The last sentence? Worked for me. The author is a born writer and understood exactly what was needed. No, I'm not related but the begrudging comments are sad.

I did find the Irish Times journo talking heads a bit smug, but they wanted something that was uplifting.

I made the longlist (and longlist/shortlist 17, ahh, conspiracies....) and enjoyed the experience.

Chocolate Chip

Here is my story so:


Celebrating what truly matters

“Do it, for me” she pleaded, forcing the wad of papers into his pocket.
Tony’s jaw clenched. “Fine Claire. I’ll do it. If it shuts you up” he whispered, slamming the door hard behind him.

She was worse today.

He thought back to the little dance they did on the bathroom floor, laughing as she waved her wand in the air, “pregnant!” Months passed and as his wife’s bump grew, so did the knot in his stomach. Now the deadline was just 5 weeks away.

His pace quickened. Morning was breaking and he did not want to be seen.

Rounding the corner he broke into a run. Feet thumping the concrete, his cheeks reddened thinking of the leaflets in his pocket.

“Handyman. All jobs welcome. Your neighbour, Tony.”

Seven months without work. Claire thought so little of him now. On and on he ran for almost an hour, trying to pound the humiliation into the ground. Eventually he had to stop, bending over, clutching his sides and gasping for breath.
When his heartbeat settled, he straightened himself up and began the long walk home. His shoulders were visibly lighter by the time he got there, his head felt clearer now and he knew exactly what to do.
He gingerly pushed open the door he had almost de-hinged just three hours earlier.
“Claire. I’m really sor”

“Help! TONY! HELP!”

Thundering up the stairs, he knew something was wrong. Heart jolting as he followed the red trail to the bathroom, he found Claire crouched in a pool of watery blood, yelping in pain.

Lifting her carefully, he carried her to their bed and dialled 999. He helped remove her wet pyjama bottoms while relaying their address.

Then squeezing her hand reassuringly, he switched the phone to loudspeaker.

“Is this her first child?” asked the voice
“no, it’s her husband.....”

“Aaaagggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!” Claire screamed and threw herself violently back onto the pillows. Tony’s eyes widened as he watched a slimy black head emerge.

“Help me, God help me” roared Claire, as the phone barked orders at Tony.

“I can see the baby’s head!”
A huge gush followed and with mighty force, the shoulders and body squelched into Tony’s arms. He obediently followed instructions, scooping mucous from the tiny mouth.
Claire was deathly pale.
The silence was broken by a small gurgling noise as Tony worked on the baby. Minutes later the room was filled with noise as paramedics arrived.

Later as Tony held his son, his eyes danced with excitement.
Claire patted his shoulder “You’ll need a baby Powers after that” she laughed

“Its amazing Claire. I now realise what I’m meant to be”

“a daddy?” she asked
“a midwife” he said

Kinski

cranlleo wrote: »

I thought the short story winner was a worthy winner. The writing was sharp , evocative.The last sentence? Worked for me. The author is a born writer and understood exactly what was needed.

She may have understood what was "needed" by the judges, but if she considers this good story-telling then she doesn't understand the needs of readers.

In conventional narrative, stories are said to be driven by conflict. Typically, this sort of very short story revolves around some emotional, psychological, or intellectual conflict within the main character or between her and a secondary character. In a very short narrative time frame, in a very short text, the protagonist's character will be established, and by the end, despite not very much ostensibly happening, she will change in some subtle, interior way - she may come to some realisation about herself, her relationship, her path in life...whatever.

The winning-author clearly knows all this, but she failed to put it into practice. Instead she wastes the few words available to her on the deliciousness of chips (in other words, on hyperbole), played out in the context of an absolutely conflict-free representation of a father-son relationship.

One couldn't say anything specific about the personalities of the characters in that story, because they don't have personalities. The reader does not "know" them at all. I would say that it reads like an ad, but that would be to give advertisers too little credit - even they would never opt for something so unabashedly twee when selling chips ("Daddy or chips?" "Chips.")

All of this is why the last line does not work. It's just there because she knows the character needs to have some kind of realisation, so she tacks it on at the end, even though it doesn't flow from what she's written. It's a cack-handed attempt to provide some narrative closure to a non-story.

I'm not even personally very fond of this kind of story-telling, but to see such an incompetent example win a prize, and for those criticising it to be dismissed as "begrudgers", is galling.

MOONlit

Chocolate Chip wrote: »

Here is my story so:


Celebrating what truly matters

“Do it, for me” she pleaded, forcing the wad of papers into his pocket.
Tony’s jaw clenched. “Fine Claire. I’ll do it. If it shuts you up” he whispered, slamming the door hard behind him.

She was worse today.

He thought back to the little dance they did on the bathroom floor, laughing as she waved her wand in the air, “pregnant!” Months passed and as his wife’s bump grew, so did the knot in his stomach. Now the deadline was just 5 weeks away.

His pace quickened. Morning was breaking and he did not want to be seen.

Rounding the corner he broke into a run. Feet thumping the concrete, his cheeks reddened thinking of the leaflets in his pocket.

“Handyman. All jobs welcome. Your neighbour, Tony.”

Seven months without work. Claire thought so little of him now. On and on he ran for almost an hour, trying to pound the humiliation into the ground. Eventually he had to stop, bending over, clutching his sides and gasping for breath.
When his heartbeat settled, he straightened himself up and began the long walk home. His shoulders were visibly lighter by the time he got there, his head felt clearer now and he knew exactly what to do.
He gingerly pushed open the door he had almost de-hinged just three hours earlier.
“Claire. I’m really sor”

“Help! TONY! HELP!”

Thundering up the stairs, he knew something was wrong. Heart jolting as he followed the red trail to the bathroom, he found Claire crouched in a pool of watery blood, yelping in pain.

Lifting her carefully, he carried her to their bed and dialled 999. He helped remove her wet pyjama bottoms while relaying their address.

Then squeezing her hand reassuringly, he switched the phone to loudspeaker.

“Is this her first child?” asked the voice
“no, it’s her husband.....”

“Aaaagggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!” Claire screamed and threw herself violently back onto the pillows. Tony’s eyes widened as he watched a slimy black head emerge.

“Help me, God help me” roared Claire, as the phone barked orders at Tony.

“I can see the baby’s head!”
A huge gush followed and with mighty force, the shoulders and body squelched into Tony’s arms. He obediently followed instructions, scooping mucous from the tiny mouth.
Claire was deathly pale.
The silence was broken by a small gurgling noise as Tony worked on the baby. Minutes later the room was filled with noise as paramedics arrived.

Later as Tony held his son, his eyes danced with excitement.
Claire patted his shoulder “You’ll need a baby Powers after that” she laughed

“Its amazing Claire. I now realise what I’m meant to be”

“a daddy?” she asked
“a midwife” he said

Thank you for posting your story. I really enjoyed it and its great fun and charming. You should certainly send it on. Womens magazines will grab yoru story. And congrats on achieving that while staying firmly within the bounderies given.

Madammoiselle

http://www.scribd.com/TinaScribbles/d/95469792-Celebrating-What-Truly-Matters

kieslowski

Ah Madamoiselle, you'd have done well in that competition if you'd spotted the mistake in the first sentence! You let your thoughts wander surely?

Madammoiselle

kieslowski wrote: »

Ah Madamoiselle, you'd have done well in that competition if you'd spotted the mistake in the first sentence! You let your thoughts wander surely?

Hahaha, Oooooooooopsy!

kilrush claire

Thank you Kinski, that was well said.

Whelpling

For a short story competition with a single prize, comment is sure heated!

Anyway - I really enjoyed the winning story. It was obviously a snapshot of a memory, which is fine. Regardless of what "flash fiction 101" might tell you, there really is no prescribed ANYTHING for flash fiction. Really really.

The winner read the brief, understood it, gauged what would work best within the permitted parameters, and managed to write a really nice piece that obviously caught the judges' eyes.

Hard cheese, everyone else.

indough

$hit floats sometimes

Kinski

Whelpling wrote: »

Anyway - I really enjoyed the winning story. It was obviously a snapshot of a memory, which is fine. Regardless of what "flash fiction 101" might tell you, there really is no prescribed ANYTHING for flash fiction. Really really.

It's not Flash Fiction 101; it's Narrative 101. And while there are no strict "rules" for artistic expression, be that "flash fiction" or something else, when I can see that a writer has tried to conform to a particular generic model, and failed miserably, then it's valid to criticize them from that perspective. As it happens, I don't care for all this Story 101, creative writing programme bollocks, but I suspect this author does; and on this evidence, she sucks at it.

And I didn't enter so I don't really care, but I did listen to her reading, and she broke the one rule that applies to all art - she wasted my ****ing time.

Whelpling

Well, Kinski, I guess you can take away from this that your opinion is, as everyone else's, subjective and not gospel.

Kinski

Whelpling wrote: »

Well, Kinski, I guess you can take away from this that your opinion is, as everyone else's, subjective and not gospel.

That's a cop-out response. I'm obviously aware that my opinions aren't gospel - should I preface every opinion I express with IMHO? But I think I've offered a fairly cogent case for why it's a bad piece. If you want a debate about it, fine, but please engage with that and leave out the little digs.

angaryaintjust

I agree with Kinsky 100%. This is of course my subjective opinion and to get the immediate put downs out of the way, the fact that I entered the competition and had a vested interest in the outcome does not affect my opinion as a writer. I lost, I'm over it. I just cant believe that this is what won. From a technical stand point the winning story is appalling. That has to be the most god awful use of the 2nd person I have ever seen in my life. I was amazed and dismayed to find out the author has a masters in writing. The tenses are are running around the place in a delorean and its not even a story at least 90% of it is badly sprung prose. The last line is agonisingly jarring, and makes no contextual sense to the rest of her "Story". That said, here is my own effort, have at it as you will.

Vestiges of Youth

I remember looking at the stars as a child while we shivered on the freezing earth. Talking in wonder, at how they shone. Like beautiful cold flames that would never hurt to touch. We lay there side by side in wonder. For long ages all we could talk about were the stars, and even then in quiet monotone, as if afraid to break the moment, so we whispered together and watched the heavens, wondering if they were watching us. Then the moment would fade, and we would talk louder, unafraid, of tomorrow and today, of what we'd be when we grew up, we talked with pleasure of our future. Together, we'd fall silent in celestial worship, and just lie there, cold and shivering, gazing at the stars. We lay together in the shadows thrown as they danced in the cold spring sky, and weren't we grateful, under those bright starry lights, to be loved by everyone. We lay in the heavens drifting through the cosmos, and if a voice lit up in time, the wind caught it.
I remember lying on cut grass, in the warmth of summer days, watching the clouds tumble and dance through the sky, seeing pictures spun out of air like the bridal train of the skies, soft and ephemeral. We talked like children, of the skies and other things, pressed close, appreciative of warmth and comfort. We'd talk for a while, and our eyes would close, lulled by the silent roar of the clouds, we would sleep basking in the sunlight, feeling the dappled shadows play across our eyes, as rays shimmered through the leaves like minnows, darting, playful, then your eyes would open, you'd laugh and cry out pointing to the sky, waking me, and I would laugh, because I saw it too, a gift from the heavens, a picture meant for two. How we laughed, enjoying the intimacy of those moments, a natural communion, seen in the clouds, until the wind caught it, and took it far away, maybe we were taken too, to see the world and its wonders, we drifted on the wind. We had dreams then, the wind caught them.
I remember blankets most of all, rough cotton, but still warm and soft as we lay there, under the sapphire sky, struck by that wind. We were older then, but confused by our feelings, no longer children's love, as we lay by one another. Our talk was different then, of each other and our future, jokingly of marriage as I lay on your knees and you sang. We had hopes then, the wind caught them. Then you died, but I remember how we loved, and that is what really matters.

cranlleo

There is no template, no form to good writing.

So many replies are appalled at the winner's sharp, evocative, playful use of words. It's called good writing.Evocative: look it up in a dictionary.Sharp: pointed, economical, telling.

Spare me the undergraduate analysis about tenses, interiority, the comments about how the writer reads. Painful.

Bitter : opposite to good.

pickarooney

angaryaintjust wrote: »

I agree with Kinsky 100%. This is of course my subjective opinion and to get the immediate put downs out of the way, the fact that I entered the competition and had a vested interest in the outcome does not affect my opinion as a writer. I lost, I'm over it. I just cant believe that this is what won. From a technical stand point the winning story is appalling. That has to be the most god awful use of the 2nd person I have ever seen in my life. I was amazed and dismayed to find out the author has a masters in writing. The tenses are are running around the place in a delorean and its not even a story at least 90% of it is badly sprung prose. The last line is agonisingly jarring, and makes no contextual sense to the rest of her "Story". That said, here is my own effort, have at it as you will.

Vestiges of Youth

I remember looking at the stars as a child while we shivered on the freezing earth. Talking in wonder, at how they shone. Like beautiful cold flames that would never hurt to touch. We lay there side by side in wonder. For long ages all we could talk about were the stars, and even then in quiet monotone, as if afraid to break the moment, so we whispered together and watched the heavens, wondering if they were watching us. Then the moment would fade, and we would talk louder, unafraid, of tomorrow and today, of what we'd be when we grew up, we talked with pleasure of our future. Together, we'd fall silent in celestial worship, and just lie there, cold and shivering, gazing at the stars. We lay together in the shadows thrown as they danced in the cold spring sky, and weren't we grateful, under those bright starry lights, to be loved by everyone. We lay in the heavens drifting through the cosmos, and if a voice lit up in time, the wind caught it.
I remember lying on cut grass, in the warmth of summer days, watching the clouds tumble and dance through the sky, seeing pictures spun out of air like the bridal train of the skies, soft and ephemeral. We talked like children, of the skies and other things, pressed close, appreciative of warmth and comfort. We'd talk for a while, and our eyes would close, lulled by the silent roar of the clouds, we would sleep basking in the sunlight, feeling the dappled shadows play across our eyes, as rays shimmered through the leaves like minnows, darting, playful, then your eyes would open, you'd laugh and cry out pointing to the sky, waking me, and I would laugh, because I saw it too, a gift from the heavens, a picture meant for two. How we laughed, enjoying the intimacy of those moments, a natural communion, seen in the clouds, until the wind caught it, and took it far away, maybe we were taken too, to see the world and its wonders, we drifted on the wind. We had dreams then, the wind caught them.
I remember blankets most of all, rough cotton, but still warm and soft as we lay there, under the sapphire sky, struck by that wind. We were older then, but confused by our feelings, no longer children's love, as we lay by one another. Our talk was different then, of each other and our future, jokingly of marriage as I lay on your knees and you sang. We had hopes then, the wind caught them. Then you died, but I remember how we loved, and that is what really matters.

There's no story there, just the same line re-written over and over, like a skipping Coldplay CD.

angaryaintjust

cranlleo wrote: »

There is no template, no form to good writing.

So many replies are appalled at the winner's sharp, evocative, playful use of words. It's called good writing.Evocative: look it up in a dictionary.Sharp: pointed, economical, telling.

Spare me the undergraduate analysis about tenses, interiority, the comments about how the writer reads. Painful.

Bitter : opposite to good.

Yeah, posting definitions to words most of us learn as children doesnt actually make you look smarter or validate your position in the slightest, especially when you do it wrong. That is not the definition of evocative, do you need a dictionary. Also defining bitter just suggests you cant even read properly as most of us have stated it's not bitterness but professional opinion. Good writing? You must be joking, I suppose you think Pierre Brasseau is the most talented artist of his generation.
Evocative: to create, stimulate, or evoke a particularly powerful emotional response.
Bitter: Sharp, acrd. The opposite of sweet.
Difficult or distasteful to accept, admit, or bear:
Proceeding from or exhibiting strong animosity:
Resulting from or expressive of severe grief, anguish, or disappointment:
Marked by resentment or cynicism:

MOONlit

So the Datsun was 1981....... 31 years ago subtracted..... by 15 years (by virtue of the rusting bumper!) Its still set over 15 years ago - and thats like - at least 15 years ago! This is how I saw it until I checked the exact wording of the competition guidlines

I copied and pasted the para below:-

''The story doesn’t have to hark back to the past – we’d prefer stories about the here and now, exploring what truly matters to us in 2012. Remember to stick to the word count. “In a good short story, every word has its place, nothing is wasted and there is no room for unnecessary diversions,” says best-selling author Sheila O’Flanagan, who calls the short story a “quick fix of creativity”.


Ok. On a second reading ,after the event, i do see the ambiguity in the first sentance. what does PREFER mean in the context? Not what i thought it meant last April.
I see it now as a kinda cute hoor of a sentance
Is it - like we wouldnt mind now a story from 1981 or whatever but like it id be better now like if the story was like in the present maybe -.
What kind of gombeen ****e is that?

Excuse my coarse words - but yep, i see now that they just flung those words there in a mindless way and eejits like me actually heeded them as if they were the truth.

Now, I dont believe the competition was judged or stories read in any competent way at all. They shouldnt get away with that - those highly paid professionals.
I promise its my last complaint about that competition+ judges as I have resolved it now to an extent for myself.

Kinski

pickarooney wrote: »

There's no story there, just the same line re-written over and over, like a skipping Coldplay CD.

But isn't that any CD skipping? Coldplay ones repeat the same line over and over even when playing correctly...