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Think you have what it takes?

Want to get some practice?

Just need an excuse to put pen to paper?

Then enter the Secret Attic Short Story Competition!

Each month you can submit an entry that will be passed onto our judges who will pick the best and award a winner. During some months the subject matter will be a 'free for all', where you can write anything you like, other months will have a specific theme.

Previous Competition Winners

February 2005 David Willshaw

April 2005 Christine Sutton

May 2005 George L Darley

July 2005 Robyn O'Hara

August 2005 Richard Adamski

September 2005 Hannah Southgate

October 2005 Heather Parker

December 2005 Feathers by Bob Lakin

January 2006 RD Larson

February 2006 Debra Spiller

March 2006 Nethi Sette

April 2006 Joe Louis

May 2006 Kim Montgomery

Love of Literature by Raymond Hopkins, Kronoby, Finland

Missing by Debra Spiller, Kent, UK

Diary of a Ghost by Suzanne Ralphson, Leicester, UK

Shreds of Love by Irene Edwards, Angus, UK

Lip Service by Will Orr-Ewing, London, UK

Red by Gary Campbell, Mount Gambier, Australia

Leaving The City In Ruins. by Trevor Nicholl, Manchester, UK

One For The Watercooler by Simon Maltz, London, UK

My Own Personal Time Machine by David Darlington, Guernsey, Channel Islands, UK

Women and Me and My Mate Jamie by David Darlington, Guernsey, Channel Islands, UK

Collecting Footsteps by Annemaria Cooper, Glasgow, UK

The Burning Tree by Daniel Michael Manning, Bath, UK

As Still as Statues by Patrick Johnson, London, UK

The Bonestripper's Bait by Ben Schroeder, Melbourne, Australia

Apple Juice by Raymond Hopkins, Kronoby, Finland

A Matter of Energy by Asher Wismer, North Wayne, Maine, USA

Dying to be thin by Emily Clift, Atherton, UK

An implement's tale by Mike Day, Hoxne, UK

Nineteen thirty, I was brand new, and a present for a young lad called Sam Herrick. Forged steel fingers, a stout ash shank and a smooth beech handle. For a young lad, apprenticed to the head gardener at Herbrook Manor, a fine new garden fork was an excellent gift on his ninth birthday.
I spent a lot of those early years shifting great clumps of manure and compost from one place to another. Sam learnt to keep the glasshouses warm with fresh manure for the marrows and the like.
Then, a few seasons later, when his hands had grow hard calluses, and my handle had smooth patches to match, we moved on to lifting vegetables and digging in the same compost and manure into the long beds in the walled garden.
Time moves on as the sun swings by and the trees around the garden wall grow taller. One day, after Sam had been strangely absent for two whole days he came back whistling. The odd thing was that where his left hand always held me, as we lifted a load, there was a hard lump.
The gaffer came up to him and they stood talking, Sam was leaning on me, resting his back.
‘ Seeing as your a married man now, with responsibilities, I suppose we can let you have a shilling a week extra.’ The Gaffer said.
‘ Thank you sir.’ He mumbled.
To me he sounded sort of pleased and embarrassed. Still after that, we set too with extra vigor.
A few seasons later all the men could talk about was whether there would be war. Some of the youngsters, Sam included, said they could start if they liked, we would give them a black eye, just like before. They sounded excited, sensing a great adventure was about to start.
Some of the men, the older voices, said that it would be a tragedy. They in their turn sounded sad and ill at ease. Talking about places like, Passiondale and the Somme. I do not think they were nearby, no one had ever talked about them before.
Then one day Sam was saying goodbye to the Gaffer.
The Gaffer was wishing him luck. He sounded sadder than I had ever heard him.
My lad took me away from the garden, down the lane on his bike, to a little cottage .
A woman, he called he Sweet heart, met him at the gate. I could hear the tears in her voice. ‘You need to stay here and look after Harry and Me.’ she said.
‘ You know I don’t have any choice. You saw the call up papers, same as I did.' Sam said as he lent me against the garden wall, ‘I brought my old fork home, perhaps you could grow a few vegetables while I’m away, sort of add to your supplies if things get a bit short.’
‘ You won’t be gone that long; they say it will be over by Christmas.’
‘ I hope so.’ He said as they left me and walked in side.
She had slim soft hand, and the work was slow; she cried when my handle blistered her skin. If I could, I would have done it all without her. But she carried on and the blisters turned hard as we lifted first the flowerbeds and then the lawn.
I lifted six crops of potatoes with Sweet heart. She always kept me clean, never let Harry play with me and together we waited for him.
A month after the big party, when everyone seemed to be happy, Sam came home. I did not mind sitting in the shed, warm amongst the old sacks, flowerpots and mice. I knew that the seasons would turn and Sam would need me once again.
And that is how it was, one morning the door opened and his familiar hand lifted me out of disuse. We toiled every evening in Sweet hearts garden. He would catch a bus in the morning to somewhere, but when he came back we would begin.
He re-laid much of the lawn over the years; Harry had the job of pushing my fingers into the turf to aerate it, and helped Sam with the vegetable patch.
Young Harry had less and less time as he grew up, I suppose he had other places he had to dig. He still came around from time to time, and we lifted some of the heavy things for his Dad.
I heard Harry, with a voice just like his mothers, telling a little girl called Jessica to leave Granddads fork alone.
Another time, I heard Sam crying on the garden bench, whilst a crowd of people dressed in black walked all over his beautiful lawn. I think Sweet heart must have gone away. She had stopped using me years before, but now I didn’t hear her voice. Only Sam, talking to her as he worked, he seemed to.
I stayed out last night, which I never do, I have my own place in the shed. However, the sun is warm and I am in a lovely spot, here amongst the vegetables and flowers. That cheeky robin keeps using me for his perch; I do not really mind, his feet hardly tickle.