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 (Bellingham, USA)

Words of Advice

“Do you want to view the cremation?” the funeral director asked me.
“ I didn’t know you could do that,” I replied, “you mean you actually get to see…?”
“ Oh no, of course not. There is a room with a window through which you can view the casket on the conveyor belt.”
“ That won’t be necessary, please just phone me when its time to pick her up,” I reached for my coat. He held a clipboard out to me.
“ Then if you’ll just sign here.”
“ Wait, can I ask that you please cut off a piece of her hair for me?” It had been hectic in the hospital and I had forgotten.
“ Certainly. We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Chase.”
“ Thank you,” I signed the clipboard and left.
I walked down the crushed gravel path and through the cemetery to get back to my car. The gravestones were neat and well kept and for a moment I wished that I had listened to my sister and purchased a plot. During the first days of her illness, after we had found out that she was indeed terminal, I sat with my mother and asked her what she wanted to have happen. She was thoughtful for a moment then simply said “Surprise me.” My sister had been horrified, although not really surprised; it was exactly what we would expect mother to say.
As I drove back to my office I thought about mother, how she had written every chance she got but seldom submitted any manuscripts. It had been her major in college and she was really quite good, although she couldn’t seem to see it for herself. I hadn’t realized how good until I accidentally found one of her manuscripts-a story about the Donner Pass party-when I was in my early twenties. The work was macabre, to say the least, however intriguing. She had often used me as a guinea pig for her stories, reading the grisly pieces to me at bedtime to see what effect they would have on the sleeping patterns of a little boy. I remembered waking up terrified that a character from one of her stories was standing over my bed. I had called her into my room only to have her say “Could very well be something’s standing over your bed, turn on the light and write about it.”
It certainly had an effect on me, but now as an adult, and after several years with a therapist, I could forgive her for it. I also had to admit that even though she had caused the sleep trauma, I had turned out to be a very good writer as a result of her tutorage. I wrote for several magazines and was nearly finished with my second novel.
Back in the office, I reached for my coffee and glanced at her picture. It was a faded black and white in a simple wooden frame. A picture of her in college, holding several books in her arms. She was smiling, something for which I would always remember her fondly. Mother had a beautifully mysterious smile. Except for insisting on reading bedtime stories with questionable content, she was an excellent mother. She would often write for several hours, then slam shut the top of her typewriter and say “That’s it, I can’t take it anymore. We’re going to the park,” and off we would go for the rest of the day.
The picture had been found by my sister a couple of years ago in a trunk in her attic, right where you’d expect to find something like that. I took it from the shelf and dusted it off, smiled back at her and set it on the desktop next to my computer. I looked at the blank screen and thought about how difficult the last months had been. I had deadlines to meet for the magazine, and nothing to give them. It had become increasingly harder to conceive articles. Since I couldn’t think of anything to write, I closed up the office and went home.
I tried to watch a little T.V., but my deadline and lack of an article weighed on my mind. I tried to read, but that wasn’t working either. When I tried to take a hot shower I knew it was going to be one of my insomnia nights. On these nights I struggled, unable to find a comfortable spot in the bed, constantly turning my pillow to the cold side. It would be a night during which I would lay awake for hours, straining my eyes across the dark room, trying to see into the shadows for an idea. It was on these nights that I missed her most. I missed not being able to call her, to have a conversation that would ultimately lead to an idea for a new story, a new book, or a new article.
I hadn’t been able to call her in months. The morphine drip kept her groggy most of the time and she slept more and more during our visits. I tore up draft after draft, then finally gave up and read them aloud at her bedside. Sometimes she would respond, smile at a funny part or wince at mistake in grammar, but mostly she lay there listening, looking up at the ceiling or out the window with that mysterious smile on her face.
I toweled off and went to bed. I lay on my stomach with my left leg hanging out from the covers, but not over the edge of the bed. Never over the edge of the bed. Likewise I kept both arms securely under the covers as well, a residual effect from my mothers long ago bedtime stories. Thirty-five years old and I still couldn’t sleep with my arm behind my head for fear of something grabbing my hand and jerking me to god knows where.
The digital clock on my bedside table read 9:30. It was still early enough to get back up and go down to the corner for a late dinner. Instead I closed my eyes and turned my head to the wall.
I don’t know how long I lay there before I felt something on my leg. A little breeze, then it felt like nails dragging softly across my calf. In one movement I yanked my leg under the covers, gasped and sat upright, memories of mothers fictitious bogeymen chasing through my mind. The room was dark, quiet. There were no beady red eyes, no white filmy silhouette floating across the room. There was nothing there. Still I listened, my heart thumping in my chest.
Slowly I began to calm down. Thinking it could have been my cat, which must have bolted when I jerked my leg, I settled back into bed. A few minutes passed. I closed my eyes against the pillow and once again tried to sleep.
This time the pressure was on my forehead, the distinct sensation of someone brushing my bangs back. This time I screamed, ready to throw the offending cat across the room. Again I sat upright in bed and strained into the darkness.
There was nothing, but the room had taken on an icy chill. Frigid, still air enveloped me as I swung my legs over the side of the bed and onto the cold hardwood floor. It’s September, I remember thinking as I reached for the light switch, but it shouldn’t be this cold in here.
Illuminating the room gave up nothing as to what had caused the sensation on my forehead. I sat on the edge of the bed like a stone, waiting and watching. I was paralyzed with fear; unable to move or think rationally, when I heard tapping from behind the closet door.
“ I am a grown man and my mother is dead,” I whispered. The tapping became louder, accompanied by the hollow sound of a child giggling. There was a movement near the floor as pudgy fingers slid out from beneath the door and wiggled at me. I shrieked and threw the first thing I could grab-my wallet-at the crack in the door. The wallet smacked against the fingers and they pulled back inside. A second later one finger emerged from under the door and wagged at me, as if I had been a very bad boy. Terrified, I instinctively called out “Mother!”
In the silence that followed I heard a whisper in my ear.
“ There could very well be something in your closet, get up and write about it.”