ON National Flash-Fiction Day, May 16, we published the winners of a competition New Writing North ran with The Journal.
The call was for bite-sized chunks of fiction and the response proved there is a lot of creative talent in the North East.
Today you can read the winning entries and the two runner-up entries below.
Winner and runner-up in the 18s and over category were, respectively, Kay Wilson for The Chocolatier and Cassandra Parkin for Doorstep.
Winner and runner-up in the under 18s category were, respectively, Laurie Atkinson for Bang! and Callum Gilroy for The Silver Seagull.
The judge was Newcastle writer Angela Readman, winner of a national flash fiction competition.
Congratulations to all. And if mini-fiction is your thing, scrutinise the Culture pages next week for details of a unique Twitter novel-writing experiment.
The Chocolatier - By Kay Wilson
His sweat smelt of cat p*** and his feet of mouldy bacon. The flat was not much better with the sour aroma exploding out of the door when opened. But his hands, ah, his hands, they were soft and delicious. They were fragrant with scents of vanilla, cocoa from foreign lands and fresh creamy fudge from the years of chocolate making. People wanted to kiss those beautiful fingers all the time, tempted to gobble them up and sell their soul to this mysterious devil on the 13th floor.
Beautiful girls with swishy perfumed hair swept past Mrs Reubens' apartment drawn by the sweet allure of the 13th floor. Sometimes she thought she could see their scent, like ephemeral bridesmaids gliding through the stained corridors.
If she sat quietly she could make out their timid knocking. It was always two, three beats before his heavy key turned and hinges grated loudly. A nervous laugh, then another.
They never came down. Those delicate sweet-toothed maidens opened the dark door to their inner-most souls and found their rounded bellies splitting with ganache, pralines and kirsch-filled truffles. Those exquisite chocolates just dissolved on their tongues. One second of rapture, eyes closed, breathing still to savour every last thing and then they were gone.
Their expensive perfumes became fainter, falling onto the corridor's linoleum, trampled by battered leather brogues, tiny stilettos and worn nylon slippers.
A scratchy recording of Glen Miller's In the Mood began. Mrs Reubens sensed him swaying, dancing, alone again.
Doorstep - By Cassandra Parkin
When I stand on my doorstep smoking my six o'clock cigarette, I pretend I'm other people. Who I choose depends on how I'm feeling. Sometimes I'm a famous scientist studying lions. I'm outside my tent in Africa at sunset. The lions lie down near me and purr. I could stroke them if I wanted, but I never do.
If I've had a bad day I pretend I'm Samantha from school. She smoked from when we were twelve. She'd see me watching and smirk. Then I'd go away and wish I was cool like her.
Sometimes I'm starring in a very important film that will probably win an Oscar. My co-star is desperately in love with me. He says he'll leave his wife, but I tell him it's wrong to break up a family. Sometimes I pretend I live in Paris. Just that - me, smoking my cigarette, but in Paris. Maybe that one needs some work.
Yesterday I thought of a new one. I thought I might be a madwoman. She'd have wild hair and a secretive mutter, and she wouldn't care about anything. She'd look at this boring house we can't afford with its stupid grass-square garden, and she'd laugh. Then she'd take Steve's emergency jerry-can and set fire to my living-room curtains. She'd stand on the doorstep smoking her cigarette while the house turned orange and yellow, and she'd have a little smile on her face.
She frightens me, actually. I don't know where she came from.
Page 2 - BANG! by Laurie Atkinson >>
