- This topic has 10 replies, 5 voices, and was last updated 7 months, 3 weeks ago by
.
-
Posts
-
September, start of Autumn and associated by me with new beginnings – new school or university/college; new term/school year or maybe a new job. So, the theme for September is simply ‘New Beginnings’ which you are free to interpret in any way you wish, fictional or something from your own life. An upper limit of 400 words please.
I really look forward to reading the usual excellent writing, but not so much the difficult task of choosing a winner!
Hello fellow writers. Gentle reminder of ‘New Beginnings’ challenge for September 2025! Now over half of month has passed and no entries. I do so look forward to reading your excellent writing… If you wish, the challenge could just be ‘Beginning’ or ‘The Beginning of…’ Jill x
This month I’ve gone for an essay, or at any rate not a story.
338 words
Outside my window there’s the small garden and then a field, where a tractor drags a harrow. The harrow’s arms are open and horizontal. Metal discs hang below them, making contact with the ground, and I hear the discs rattling along the soil and bouncing over flints. They leave shallow grooves and break up clumps. In the stubble left from the earlier harvest they’re making a seedbed for the next sowing. This preparation is minimum-tillage: organic matter left at the surface improves the soil while, in darkness below, the undisturbed mycelium recycles carbon and nutrients.
For the first time since spring the morning sun is low enough to shine through the window and on the computer. I close the venetian blind and the room dims. The screen’s content is mundane – a traffic report or an email about a subscription – but life funnelled through the PC becomes more salient now the summer is over. The switch to autumn is a turn towards words. As more time is spent indoors, the days shift to a compensating balance with more reading, and possibly writing too. September, I think, has the feel of a new term even if structured learning isn’t ahead. In lower natural light and the comfort of artificial lighting, any new project can have the sense that a mindful burrowing has begun.
There’s something about autumn’s lack of instant visibility. In Sanskrit and other Indian languages, cerebral letters are consonants sounded by arching the tongue backwards and putting its tip to the palate. These sounds don’t depend on teeth and lips, parts of us obvious from the outside, but are expressions from further back, coming from the mouth’s darkness and shadow.
I could be stretching the analogy here. This isn’t about the mechanisms of any language, and I don’t think occultism of any kind necessarily brings forth ideas of value or useful re-conception. Instead it’s the old human experience of meeting the turning of the year and, subconsciously or not, preparing for spring, and the chance to do better.
(Untitled, 394 words)
The book was finished, the story told. But more importantly, the truth laid bare. Every pocket dimension of past trauma exorcised. Every chapter of his life stamped adult, checked as complete. Every fragment of what it meant to be human sorted and struck through.
Now was a new time. A beginning time. Time to rejoin the great conversation between him and his fellow man. Though he was late to the party, they were all right there when he arrived. How could such kind smiles feel so far away? And why did he always feel like he hadn’t earned them, no matter what? Why did humanity feel like a performance he was never cast for?
Their host tried gently, subtly, to make him comfortable. Still he would have much preferred to weather the onslaught of his panic alone and in peace, in the comfort of his home. Already he couldn’t wait to do his time and take his leave, politely of course. At nearly fifty, he honestly couldn’t say why he bothered at all anymore.
“What are you having man?”
The quiet voice startled him, generous, courteous. His chest tightened before he could remind himself there were no foes here, only friends whose Instagram handles he had yet to follow. (His own account, a few months old, still clung to its proud dozen followers, all gained within his first few hours on the platform.)
He turned and took in the tall man of indistinct age standing before him with wise and friendly eyes, scrambling for the right response that might make him sound sociable, masculine, and worth talking to.
“Just a beer, thanks. Any would do,” he nodded, grateful.
By the time the glass was pressed into his hand by the party’s private waiter, he was drawn into three overlapping conversations at once, shoulders easing, mind engaged. His laughter rose genuine at that one man’s joke without pretense. He didn’t feel like an imposter when he told the old story of how he fell in love with heavy guitars.
“Sorry I didn’t catch your name, friend?” The man was younger by a few years, and kind. Far kinder than he had ever been to himself.
“Nathan,” he said, extending his hand, steady enough despite the tremor swimming beneath his skin. “And you?”
“Jerome.”
“Good to meet you.” Nathan’s smile was genuine. “Next one’s on me.”
Sorry Jill, Returned from ten days away to a refusing-to-charge laptop, and, three days from going away for another week, I’ll not be posting anything for this month’s comp’ Looks like you’ve got some good response so I’ll aim to read ASAP.
The Artist of Wexton
A gust of icy wind blew across the beach, and I turned to one side and pulled my coat tighter. Doing so, I saw that something was wrong, but I wasn’t quite sure what. An elderly woman stood about fifty yards to the west looking out to sea. There was something almost mournful about her, and, against my usual inclination I trudged in her direction. On the point of wishing her a good morning, I realised what I had seen but not taken in.
Carnage.
Let me explain. Since I have walked along this beach, which may be forty years, the gravel bank rising from the sandy beach to the coast path has had a stretch from just beyond the Starfish café running for around five hundred yards known as “The Art of Wexton”.
What is it? I should say, what was it? Simple. Stones arranged in circles. Also, in squares and diamonds. Colours matched and contrasted. Driftwood standing tall in jubilant statues. Patterned vistas competing with the finest Opus Signinum mosaics of ancient Rome growing about living plants as though they had cooperated. The delicate purple and pink of Erigeron glaucus peeping out from fabulous pebble constructions that cunningly play with the eye and the designs of nature.
If this was the Art of Wexton, then the mysterious creator was The Artist.
The art had been destroyed. The work of a lifetime was kicked, torn, thrown, tossed aside. Plants were uprooted. In their place were bottles, cans, chip wrappers, maybe a dozen disposable barbecues strewn from end to end. The stink of booze and stupidity replaced the brilliance that had never been acknowledged but all would miss.
So, instead of “Good Morning” I said, ‘You’re her, the Artist of Wexton.’
She looked at me and smiled the kindest smile. ‘I was,’ she said.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘Nothing has happened. The tide came in a little more, that’s all.’
‘What will you do?’ I couldn’t imagine her life without the beach.
‘Oh, goodness,’ she replied. ‘I’m so busy. I’m supervising children creating a mural in the park from Monday. It’s a new start for me.’
The salt air stung my eyes. The tang of seaweed was the scent of alarm.
‘But what about here?’
Again, that smile. ‘White stones are always white. The sea always has shells. Why not make a new start yourself?’
399 words without title
1st October 2025 and results time. Thank you Libby, Knicks and Athelstone for your beautifully written and atmospheric entries, such a pleasure to read. All worthy winners which immersed me in the diverse scenarios completely. It has been hard to choose one winner to take over the baton and set us a challenge for this new month.
Libby, as a writer living on the edge of The Fens, your first paragraph really resonated with me and I loved the scientific details and your later incorporation of cultural issues (Sanskrit/India). So true, too, about the ‘switch to Autumn is a turn towards words’, as is your last sentence. A clever and interesting essay.
Knicks, you took me into a quite different world which was intriguing from the offset and continued on to be a perfect portrayal of the character’s feelings and of the situation he was in. You covered Imposter Syndrome, writing, music and celebrity so well. I was pleased that the ending promised a happier and improved existence for him once he had experienced the unexpected kindness.
Athelstone, I could almost feel that icy wind! A third well written, atmospheric piece where I became immersed in the fictional Wexton and the glimpse into the lives of the two likeable characters. The Artist, so pragmatic and wise who was obviously still living life to the fullest, helping others produce art. The Walker, so sympathetic and yet, in the end, I sensed, very willing to take The Artist’s advice and make his own new start.
Well done all of you. As I said the choice was difficult, but I am going to hand the baton over to Libby, as I hope all we fellow writers will be turning to words more and more as we begin Autumn and have our own new beginnings, whilst looking forward to Spring!
Congratulations, Libby. I wonder what writing challenge for October you are going to create for us? Jill x
Thank you, Jill! That was a lovely surprise when I switched on this morning. Such brilliant writing from Knicks and Ath, everything so vivid and pleasurable to read.
I’m late with the congratulations – life has been frantic for a few days! Thanks so much for the prompt, @jillsted. A thoughtful piece from @libby is a more-than-worthy winner. And well done to @knickylaurelle for a splendidly acute story.
- You must be logged in to reply to this topic.