We swing into this latest article with the 2nd and 3rd placed winners as judged by Holly Müller from our recent Frances Copping Memorial Prize for Fiction Competition 2026.

To read the full judges comments on all the winning entries, please CLICK HERE

2^nd place – The New Walk

‘The New Walk’ is an unusual, vivid and impressionistic story with playful and inventive use of language. I enjoyed the refreshing effect of defamiliarization, the sense that the storyteller is a watcher, looking at ordinary sights, sounds and happenings through a different lens…” Holly Müller

The New Walk by Catherine Smedley

I walked at a leisurely pace along a wide pedestrian footpath, The New Walk, lined with trees and strips of grass. On a bench by the side of the path were three men, surrounded by a colourful abstract of trash. They pointed enquiringly at the viola case I happened to be carrying.

I walked at a leisurely pace along a wide pedestrian footpath, The New Walk, lined with trees and strips of grass. On a bench by the side of the path were three men, surrounded by a colourful abstract of trash. They pointed enquiringly at the viola case I happened to be carrying.

“What’s that then, a machine gun?”

With one fierce burst of ammunition fire I shot them dead. Obligingly, in unison, they slumped onto the grass in slow motion, smiling, groaning and clutching their wounds. The blood, which didn’t seep into the fresh green grass, reminded me of the vibrancy of complimentary colours and Kandinsky. A few yards on I turned back and watched them jovially dusting each other down.

The clock struck twelve and the day was half cooked. It always rises perfectly but someone impatiently opens the oven door to see and the centre feels the cold air and sinks. .

I pass streamers of children, weaving and floating, blown from straight paths, attracted like magnets to iron railings, cherry blossom and the precision of kerb stones. They popped like toy guns firing percussion caps. They are the fearless tight-rope walkers unaware of anything but their free flowing dance. They are the brightest spots in the frame that catch light by the handfuls and wont give it back.

I was much too early, so I seated myself on one of the benches encirling the Museum gardens.. I watched in front of me, a meeting well under way of a man and a woman, the latter leaning elbows against the sundial centred in the grass square. Her face was velvety and soft as if trapping light beams between the fibres. His expression was the epitomy of indifference, where no lines gave any clue as to what lay under the skin like a vertical lake undisturbed by even a breath of wind. Her mouth was red, a guerrish colour, spitting out words as missiles to catch old wounds on the raw. At one stage she seemed to imagine that she’d said something amusing. The ensuing slender smile was drawn as thinly and evenly as the arc from a pair of compasses with a finely sharpened pencil. Perhaps their conflict was not with each other but with that which separated them, related as the rim of the shadow on the sundial was to the perimeter of light. A big fat cloud obscured the sun and the scene suddenly lost its contrasts. The couple, if that is what they once had been, separated. Pistols at dawn and they had both missed their targets.

On the bench adjacent to me sat three women with technicolour nails, each rocking prams gently by nudging the wheels with their feet. They talked about the price of oven chips and the bug that was ‘doing the rounds’. Eyes firmly fixed on their mobile phones they didn’t look at each other or their offspring but kept up a running disjointed commentary on what they were seeing and texting.

The syncopated ‘pop’pop’pop’ of the mobiles sounded like a distant rifle range. But oh! the dexterity and speed of contemporary fingers!

I read my book for a while then dawdled back to the path and turned into the Museum. From the basement came the rustling of scores to settle, turned by fingers long and supple. The musicians began to tune up. The two violinists and the cellist tightened the strings on their instruments which had comfortably relaxed in the heat. The double bass player rumbled in last. The quartet were symetrically arranged behind a shallow indoor fish pond. In it a dozen goldfish of differing sizes, swam in complete oblivion to the music due to their water insulation. The water was clear and the mosaic patterned tiling on the bottom of the pool could be seen in deep blue and crimson. The scant audience impatiently shuffled their chairs from side to side. The sharp squeaking and squealing of the chair legs on the tiled floor adding the beginnings of an avant garde percussion section. The programme was very simply designed and contained only very basic information; musicians and their instruments, order of pieces and names of composers. There could now be observed a distinct air of anticipation as musicians and audience inched forward to the edge of their seats. A freestanding clock in the corner solemly donged three. What sounds would fill the space and echo, the sound of ripening apricots?, the murmur of a forest floor? an explosive overture of artillery?

The air of expectancy gradually dissolved due to the melancholy nature of the performance and five minutes into the programme a fog of depression set in. The audience once more slumped back to chair back.

During the interval I noticed that attempts at conversation were being made over tea in the Egyptian section. I stirred some sugar into my cup and turned my gaze on a mummified cat in a display case. I focused however on a reflection in the glass of a man and two middle-aged women who stood behind me, exchanging polite but nervous smiles and nibbling ‘nice’ biscuits. Then the tension broke. The man became animated, swinging his head from side to side and equally directing his monologue between the two, now utterly entranced, ladies. This made it difficult for me to hear but I gathered that his excitement focused on what he called “ the phenomenon”. I could not guess at what or where this phenomenon might be but a large part of our twenty minute interval was dedicated to it. I was impressed by the fact that both women showed not a glimmer of boredom but were captivated by either the man, the subject, or both. I learnt that “the phenomenon”, formerly unknown, was much misunderstood. Apparently a keen observer may see the phenomenon exhibited by a prism, and if they cared to move their heads backwards , while half closing the eyes, the phenomenon will appear reversed. The same phenomenon is also exhibited at sunset, making a sharp indentation in the horizon.

As we resumed our seats someone inquired into my apparent fascination with mummified cats. I described the reflective properties of glass. During the second half of of the concert I made several attempts to master the art of origami with the help of my programme. I folded a half decent frog and a deformed crane. The bass player had set the tone and was fractionally behind the beat in his playing. He brought the last piece to a climax with a booming hand grenade of sound. We all clapped politely and minimally at the end. I made my way to the exit via the aquarium where a large pike fish kissed me through the glass. The Museum was both a house of curiosity of the dead and an unhappy prison for living things.

Outside, the wind was beginning to blow cooler air and the world rippled like the surface on a bowl of soup and a thin skin of sleep began to form. It was beginning to be apparent that the day was not a day at all but merely the shadow of the day before. I reached the bottom of the New Walk. Eyes intent on the horizon I searched for an indentation.

3^rd place – Cully’s Collar

“A story from a dog’s perspective, which succeeds in capturing the world of the family black lab on Christmas Eve, including an adventure to see off some poachers. What I liked about ‘Cully’s Collar’ was its focus on the dog’s world view, which led to some interesting ways of seeing and magical descriptions, for instance of the night sky: “tiny dots of silver lights high above and the huge pale plate hanging above the black mass of the wood”.” Holly Müller

Cully’s Collar by Hilary Alcock

My family are doing strange things this evening. I watch from my outof-the-way dog bed. This afternoon they brought in a tree – not an ordinary one but a prickly all over green one. Now they’ve put it in the living room and She and Little She have hung lots of shiny things on the branches and He has put strings of coloured lights round it. There is cooking happening now which is most odd as they have eaten their late meal. Now Little She is wrapping paper round different things; why tie up stripy pyjamas in paper and put red ribbon round them?

Pyjamas go in the washing machine. Very strange!

I hope I have my night walk as usual; but they all seem very busy-and somehow, excited. I will lie on the kitchen floor and get in the way to remind them that I mustn’t be forgotten.

Big He, my master, is Alec; he takes me out last thing at night before my long sleep. He has a light on the front of his head hat which shines his way through the dark. He has got a new collar for me with little red lights on it which flash, so that he can see me. He says I’m invisible in the dark being a black Labrador.

At last he puts on his hat and coat and fastens on my flashing collar and opens the outside door.

“Won’t be long,” he calls up the stairs to She.

“Watch out for Father Christmas!” She calls back.

Who is Father Christmas? I wonder as I run down the path and wait for Alec to open the metal gate. I go out into the lane. It is cold. All is still. All is quiet. All is dark, except for the tiny dots of silver lights high above and the huge pale plate hanging above the black mass of the wood. On one side of the lane is a field of thick leafy things. On the other are rows and rows of apple trees-bitter fruit- with grass walks between and the woods beyond. I run. It is good to stretch and sniff and be free and go.

Alec walks up the lane following me with my lead in his gloved hand and his light shining out. There is a gap in the hedge further up which leads into the apple rows; my normal route.

But something stops me. There is a smell. I listen. And a faint noise, which is not a breeze amongst the twiggy trees, comes from the distance ahead. It is the sound of an animal in distress. I put my nose to the ground but there is no scent. Then I run -hard- and dive through the hedge at the next gap. The nasty smell of petrol is very strong and I follow it.  Well down a grassy walk between two rows of trees is a farm vehicle, parked and dark.  The animal sound carries to me again and I run on towards it. A quick look back tells me Alec’s light is coming, bobbing through the bare branches.  I hear scraping and tugging and urgent moaning. I run on owards it.

Now there is fear in the air and I pick up the scent of deer. I reach the snared animal and stop. It is pulling with all its strength,making the branches on each side bend and clap together. I cannot understand why it does not run. And then I realise – it is caught ,y wires round its neck.

Suddenly an invisible voice shatters the dark.

“My god! What’s that? Steve come away. There’s a thing with red eyes come through the trees. Steve – come away!”

There are two men running. Should I bark for Alec? But he is behind me. I don’t think he sees as well as I do in the darkness. There is a flash – no two flashes from the black thing he always carries in his pocket. He calls me to him and to sit. He speaks into the black thing.

“Sorry to disturb you so late on Christmas Eve, Jim. It is Alec. I am in your cider orchard 3B. Caught poachers red handed although they have now escaped in a pick-up but I got the registration number. There is a deer caught in a snare here. Need some wire cutters. No- my dog found them-just in time, I think.”

The sound of an engine starting up and tyres spinning on wet grass comes through the darkness from the direction of the parked vehicle.

Alec shines his head light down the grassy walk between the apple trees. The deer is still now but heaving with breathing. It is suffering.

Alec’s black thing rings and he speaks to Jim, directing him to where we are. Soon the pick-up’s bright lights swing round and come towards us blinding me. But hey show the deer; it is a magnificent stag, standing head erect and quivering. It has a huge gash across its neck where a strand of wire cuts into it. Blood drips down its smooth brown skin. Jim stops the pick-up and switches off the engine but keeps the lights shining. He talks to Alec for a bit, then pats me on my head and takes out a long handled tool from the back of the pick-up. Slowly he walks towards the trapped animal and begins to cut branches from the leafless trees. I watch. He reaches the branch where the wire is attached. The stag stands still, seeming to know that this human will help him and not hurt him. I have to sit right back from him because deer don’t like dogs like me. Jim snips the wire but there is another which I have not noticed, and he cuts that too. The stag quivers, feeling the wires loosen, and moves very slightly. Suddenly he is off charging down the darkness, leaving the wires dangling; his hooves throwing up bits of grass and mud.

Jim walks back to Alec and claps him on the shoulder thanking him.

“Good dog you have there, Jim. Wouldn’t sell him, I suppose? I could do with a good poacher hunter!”

“Never,” replies my master, “Happy Christmas, Jim.”

The farmer pats my head and climbs into his vehicle. “You wont forget to send the registration number to the police, will you?”

“I wont,” Alec assures him and calls to me as Jim drives away.

Together we walk up to the hedge, push through the gap and head down the lane for home. The tiny dots still shine up above us but the big pale plate has disappeared. I feel the cold now.

All is quiet at home and Alec takes off my flashing collar.

“Your collar worked a treat, Cully. Those poachers thought you were a monster!” He goes to the fridge. Nice eating things are kept in there! This is looking hopeful. He opens the door. Very hopeful. I am given two fat cooked sausages – what a treat! Two gulps! My dog bed looks inviting and I flop down in it. I hear She call out from somewhere upstairs,

“Did you meet Father Christmas? You’ve been ages!” “Not Father Christmas – just one of his reindeer!”  chuckles Alec switching off the lights. It is long sleep time and I am tired.

Poetry Workshop Reminder

Please book your place via email to HWC Chair, Corinne Harris on : corinneonwye@thehaywriters

Hay Writers’ Circle Archives – by ECvW

On a recent visit to see the wonderful Lynn Trowbridge, I was handed a number of historical Hay Writers’ Circle publications. As many of you know, Lynn, one time member and Chairperson of HWC for over 17 years was keen, like the chairs before her, for all writers to have their work in print. The magazines were sold locally raising much needed funds for the group back then, spending the proceeds on professional workshops to improve writing skills and techniques.

Early editors of HWC publications include Bill Mortimer, Moira Henderson and of course, Lynn, with Barbara Erskine providing the foreword for the anthology , A Handful of Hay : Rural Renderings by the Hay and District Writers’ Circle back in 1988.

As we excitedly make our way towards HWC 50th anniversary in 2029, it’s grounding to see such early innovations from our talented predecessors. I am humbled to read these works and delighted that technology is able to scan and preserve these written records for years to come.

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