Hi there.

For over three years I’ve been trying to win the monthly fiction competition set by my local writing group, the Hampshire Writers’ Society. I’ve had some success, gaining a highly commended, a couple of thirds and four runners-up placings from my sixteen entries. I suppose a ~50% hit rate is pretty good when repeatedly entering an anonymous competition. But pole position has always eluded me, with the running joke amongst my fellow writers of being “always the bridesmaid, never the bride”. Hmmph.

Until today, when I was delighted to discover I’d finally won that coveted first place. ‘Discover’ being the operative word, because I was camped two hundred miles away in the Peak District as the results were announced at the Society’s June meeting. Yes, the gods aren’t that generous.

So it was up to the evening’s main speaker and also competition judge Louise Morrish (whose talk explored how she uses research as a creative engine — shaping characters, sharpening settings, and deepening emotional truths) to kindly read my winning entry to both local and streamed audiences. She of course did a better storytelling job than I could ever manage.

My winning story was a neatly-wrapped, ~320 word package I called ‘Buried Evidence’. It was inspired by this detailed brief:

‘For this challenge, research is not background, it is the engine of your story. Show us characters who are gathering data, asking dangerous questions, delving into memories, or uncovering hidden worlds. You may write in any genre, but the piece must highlight how research propels action, creates tension, or leads to transformation. Keep the narrative tight, the stakes sharp.’ (Max 300 words, +/- 10%.)

Louise also made the following kind comments when not handing me my prize certificate, no doubt printed like the others on heavyweight, cream laid paper (I will get over this, I promise):

You can find my winning entry either below or on the HWS website. Either way, I hope you enjoy the piece as much as the judge and that other, more remote, audience.

Until next time…

‘Buried Evidence’

After signing the ledger with a false name, Mara followed the librarian down the basement staircase.

With a jangle of keys, he unlocked the imposing door to Archive Room No. 1 and beckoned her in. “It’s rare for someone to ask about Flood records,” he said. “Most visitors research dead relatives.”

“I’m more interested in what survived,” she replied, the smell of mildew and burnt paper filling her nostrils.

The librarian halted by a narrow gap between the stacks. “Yes, here we are.” A smaller key unlocked cabinet H7. A shelf of oven-dried journals greeted her, relics recovered from the Flood thirty years ago; the night Mara’s mother vanished.

The librarian indicated a small desk. “Fifteen minutes. Await my return.” Their measured steps faded away.

Mara worked quickly, grabbing the first journal and photographing each page, feeding the images into her tablet. Fragments flashed before her eyes:

The sirens sounded before the water rose.

The sluice gates were ordered to be opened.

No evidence of an accident.

Her heart beat faster. The inquiry had blamed an unprecedented tide. Her mother, a city engineer, had publicly disagreed days before disappearing.

Another entry scrolled by: Elena Lessing refused to sign.

Mara’s hand froze. Her mother’s name.

Different footsteps approached, but she ignored them, scanning faster: cross-referencing dates with maps she’d stolen from municipal offices, every document another jigsaw piece. The Flood had risen street by street, yet spared wealthier neighbourhoods in a wave of deliberate, controlled destruction.

Suddenly, the lights were extinguished and a voice hissed in the darkness: “You should’ve left history buried.”

Mara backed against the cabinet, clutching her tablet. It glowed with more text: If anything happens, look beneath the Observatory.

Her mother had guessed her fate.

Hope rose within Mara despite fear tightening her throat. Finally, the evidence she sought of her mother’s untimely fate.

But the proof beneath the abandoned Observatory remained dangerous enough to kill again.

The footsteps drew closer.

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