Poems Hoarded and Boarded
Chris Andrews
Lucy Aykroyd
Ruth Bean
Lilian Cameron
Carol Ann
Susan Cunningham
Anne Forbes
Phyllis Goodall
Margaret Grant
Haseley Hinton
Haworth Hodgkinson
Annie Lamb
Anne Rogers
Maureen Ross
Linda Smith
Fiona Wilson
2011
2010
2009
2008
2007
2005
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Haseley Hinton
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I was born in England. My mother was English, my father Italian. I have lived in
Scotland for nineteen years and have come to love its people and landscapes dearly.
I enjoy watching science fiction films and television so much that I started trying
to write my own scifi/fantasy stories a few years ago. I am just finishing off a
second novel based on an imaginary planet populated by humanoid beings and by imaginary
black birds with red beaks that I have called seacrows. I haven't reached the end
of the story yet, so I think it might end up being a trilogy.
I am also trying to improve my short story writing and the writers' group is great
for getting constructive feedback in a very positive atmosphere. The writing exercises
that we do are good for broadening the scope of my efforts, as they encourage me
to attempt some pieces that aren't scifi orientated.
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Shadow of the Seacrow (extract)
Haseley Hinton
‘It is time,’ Wyn said behind them suddenly. Calim was getting tetchy with hunger.
Maina nursed him for the final time, not attempting to dry the tears that streamed
down her face as she watched him suckle.
They walked down to the Morthern gate. Kesh's horse was tethered and waiting. Wyn
skillfully bound Calim in a sling to keep him safe against his father's chest while
Kesh rode. He set off carefully down the path to Morth. As soon as he was out of
sight, Maina ran back through the building, and up the stairs to the North Tower.
It was the old look out tower that had been staffed with military guards in the
old days, but was now only used occasionally to look out for expected visitors.
After a while, Maina could see a horse and rider moving out into the lower hills
that surrounded the Sacred Mountain. Every now and then, she lost sight of him behind
a hill or promontory, but she watched him for a long time, until he was a black
speck smaller than a gnat, and indistinguishable from the green of the landscape
in the failing light.
A knock came at the door, and Wyn's voice told her it was time for the evening meal.
‘I am not hungry,’ Maina said.
‘Can I not bring you something?’
‘Just my book of sacred texts, please. It is on the table next to my bed.’
Wyn duly returned with the book that her own father had given Maina long ago. She
knocked and handed it over. Maina thanked her, closed the door, and slid the bolt
across.
Wyn went to eat with the others, but then returned with a lighted candle, some bread
and cheese in a cloth, and a flagon of water. Maina took the candle and the flagon
but not the food, and bolted the door once more. Wyn sat on the cold stone steps
outside the room and waited.
After a while, she heard mutterings like an incantation. Maina was reading aloud
from the book of texts. Wyn dozed, with her head resting on her arms folded on the
top step. She heard her friend praying aloud to Veyer to protect her son, then to
Tarn to protect the heathen Kesh and guide him in the care of her son. Then more
muttering of texts. Wyn fell into a deeper slumber for a while. She was woken by
shouts and banging. Maina seemed to be hammering on the walls with her fists.
Wyn called, but her friend did not pay her any heed. She tried the door, but the
bolt was still in place.
‘Kesh of Khoulan, bring my baby back to me!’ Maina was shouting. ‘Bring me back
my child, you heathen, or by the tides of Goran, I will crush and you and your house
forever. By Tarn's heaven, I will search you out, I will find my child, I will bring
him home where he belongs. Curse your festering nation, your people are toads slithering
in the slime of hell! Their bodies will burst forth with the puss of lethal pestilence.
You are cursed, all cursed, till you bring me back my child.’
The raving went on into the night, and Wyn could sleep no more. Later Maina screamed
out against their own gods for failing her. The blasphemy was harder for Wyn to
hear than the cursing of the Mortherners. Amid this railing there was a thump and
a fluttering sound, and a catching of the breath.
Maina sank to her knees, as she saw what she had done. Her precious book, gift of
the beloved Bradmutt, and all she had for a memory of her kindly nurse-father, lay
in pieces on the floor. She reached to collect the scattered leaves, and the ravings
turned to sobs.
When the light of dawn blanched night from the room, she drew herself upright and
drew back the bolt on the door. She saw Wyn sitting on the steps, pale and with
hollow eyes, and she realised she had not been as alone as she had thought. She
felt shame at having given voice to the awful curses that Wyn must have heard, but
she also felt touched by her devoted friendship. She stumbled towards her, and they
embraced for a moment.
‘We must prepare ourselves,’ said Maina as she straightened and smoothed down her
gown, pretending that the ravings of the night were all forgotten.
‘Zoradetra awaits,’ said Wyn.
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