The Twenty-Twenty Club

 

Christmas

Flash Fiction Competition

2022

Joint Winners: 

'Noelle' by Beck Collett 

'Christmas Lights' by Sue Davnall

WInner of best story-title: 

'The Clavering Optiscope' by Ron Hardwick

Commended:

‘One Hundred Words For Qanuks’ by Beck Collett

‘Toby’ by Beck Collett

‘Home for Christmas’ by Sue Davnall

‘Dear Luke’ by Antonia Dunn

‘The Clavering Optiscope’ by Ron Hardwick

‘She’ll Adore Him’ by DHL Hewa [Devi]

‘Christmas Present’ by Colin Johnson

‘Christmas Eve’ by Ruth Loten

WINNING STORIEs:

Noelle

by Beck Collett

  

‘Now, Joanna,’ Maureen (her boss at the elderly complex) had said, ‘some – but not all – of our guests like their flat to be trimmed up for Christmas. It is not for you to judge, only to listen and do. If they want an olive-green bauble covered in cobwebs to be hung on a wonky tree, then so be it. If their pride and joy is a bald doll with a torn doily for a dress, and bent tin-foil wings, you tell them it’s beautiful and stick it on top of their tree. Got it? Good. Number eleven first.’

 

Number eleven: Doula’s flat. Doula was like a riddle Jo couldn’t crack. The idea she wanted her flat festooned contrasted wonderfully with the always dark, and sometimes horrifying, stories she told Jo.

            ‘That one round the back, girl, where I don’t have to look at it.’ Doula had managed to make decorating the tree an ordeal, berating her every time she picked up a threadbare bauble or battered cracker. Now, only the angel remained.

‘Handle her with care,’ Doula said, in a gentle voice, ‘she’s special.’

Indeed, she was. Her tin-foil wings bent, paper-doily dress (held on with yellowing tape) torn, and on top of a tangle of yellow hair clung a shining halo.

Jo lifted the angel up for a closer look, and gasped. ‘Oh, it’s a tiny bangle! How lovely. Whose was it?’

Doula stared, entranced, at the little angel, as Jo placed her carefully atop the wonky tree. ‘Was Noelle’s,’ she replied, and reached up and touched the angel. ‘She was due on Christmas. Born still Jan third. Never got the chance to wear it, so the angel does. Like she’s still here. Just life,’ she said to Jo, who was busy blinking back tears, ‘just life.’

 

 

 Christmas Lights

by Sue Davnall

Night had fallen in the quiet Cardiff street. Rain bounced fiercely off the glistening pavements; it hadn’t let up all day. In the small bay windows giving on to the pavement lights began to come on, casting their gleam across the puddles. It was like the TVs in the Radio Rentals window of Luke’s long-distant childhood: each stone-framed aperture showed a different picture. In number ten, for instance, there was an oversized Christmas tree draped in tinsel, piles of jazzily wrapped presents stacked beneath, a couple of billowy sofas swamped with cushions, a cacophony of colour. Next door at number twelve was a much smaller tree and many candles of all shapes and sizes – thick church candles, spindly taper candles, a seven-branched candelabrum, a myriad tealights in dainty holders, all in muted green and silver. Number fourteen – that was where the Singhs lived. Christmas wasn’t their thing but they weren’t going to miss out on the fun: through their window Luke saw low couches with throws of gorgeous hue, golden platters on the tables laden with delicious-looking sweets, and a pile of presents waiting to be unwrapped.

              Across the road, one window glowed more dimly than its neighbours. There was no tree, no pile of presents - just a threadbare carpet, a stained and sagging sofa, dirty cups and plates on the floor. Luke had seen the children in the street sometimes, under-dressed and under-fed.

              He pulled from his bag two small parcels, clumsily wrapped in brown paper and string. Placing them carefully on the doorstep out of the rain he rang the bell then walked briskly away before heading for his usual corner under the railway arch for the night.

 

 

 

The Clavering Optiscope

by Ron Hardwick

 

The boy stood, thin jacket flapping in the bitter cold, looking in the antique shop window. Sleet eddied about his tousled hair, but he didn’t care.

‘What a telescope,’ he muttered. ‘Wish I had fifteen quid.’

An elderly gentleman in an old-fashioned frock coat and derby hat stood by him.

‘Interested in telescopes, are you, sonny?’

‘Oh yes, mister. They open up the sky for you. I’d love to see the moon and the planets through one.’

‘Perhaps you’ll be lucky this Christmas?’

‘No, mister. There’s just Ma and me. We ain’t got much. ‘Spect I'll get an apple and an orange, as usual.’

‘Pity. What’s your name, sonny?’

‘Jimmy Black.’

‘And where do you live?’

‘20 Dinning Street.’

‘You don’t want that telescope, Jimmy. It’s not worth a pound, let alone fifteen.’

‘How do you know?’

‘My name is Hugo Clavering. I used to build them. I invented the Clavering Optiscope. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?’

‘Sorry, mister, I ain’t.’

‘Never mind. Goodbye, Jimmy, and Merry Christmas.’

 

Christmas morning arrived.

‘Parcel for you, Jimmy. Left on the step. Must be a food parcel from one o’ they charities.’

‘Thanks, Ma.’ Jimmy tore at the parcel. In it was a long wooden box. He opened it and squealed with delight.

‘Oh, Ma, it’s a Clavering Optiscope.’

‘Can’t eat a telescope,’ observed Ma.

‘Oh, it’s so lovely, Ma. Brass. Built by hand. I must go out and test it. I’ll look at the moon. I’ll see the Man in the Moon’s face. I wonder if he’ll be smiling.’

Jimmy lived next to the cemetery. He walked through it as dawn broke. He extended the telescope and focused it on the gravestones. One inscription leapt out at him:

Hugo Clavering, telescope-maker, passed away on Christmas Day, 1920. Sorely missed.