Short Story Competition Winning Entry

I recently entered a short story competition run by the Deeping Literary Festival. We were given three photos and had to choose one as our inspiration. I picked the picture below and I must say when I went to a local tunnel for inspiration I did such a good job I scared myself.

The finalist's stories were judged by the incredibly talented Claire Mackintosh.

On the 22nd June I attended a presentation at Molecey Mill where I was surprised and delighted to find out I had won!

So without further ado here is my winning entry.

The Beginning of the End

Staring into the depths of the tunnel, a pain niggles in my stomach. You know the one that happens when you’re trying to suppress how you really feel. “Do you think there’s light at the end of the tunnel?” I ask warily.

A coarse laugh escapes the throat of the man behind me. “Well, one of us is about to find out,” he replies, his voice gruff yet still carrying an edge of snark. Why do Londoners always sound snarky, I wonder?

He pushes the tip of the gun deeper into my back. “Let’s get this over with, sweetheart. Some of us have places to go and people to do.”

I take one step, then another. Two more steps were all it took to slip out of the light.

I inhale deeply, trying to calm my nerves. It doesn’t work. Instead, my mouth and nose fill with the smell of cold concrete and despair. Pulling my hands into the arms of my jacket, a loose thread tickles the back of my hand. Slowly tugging it, I begin wrapping it around two fingers, like a ball of yarn. One step, wrap. Two steps, wrap-wrap. I chant the words of my actions in my head.

I wonder how many steps it will take to get to the end of the tunnel. As I ponder this, another thought comes to mind. What if we aren’t going to the end of the tunnel? Perhaps I have less time than I think.

A question comes to me. It could go either way, but it might just make all the difference

“Do you believe in God?” I ask cautiously. Religion is a touchy subject at the best of times, and this moment is definitely not the best of times.

“He’s never done anything for me!” he replies sharply.

I ponder his response for a moment before asking, “What do you expect him to do for you?”

The man sighs and it feels as if I’ve hit a nerve. Perhaps all he needs is a little encouragement. 

“When my best friend went missing, I prayed she was still alive.”

“Was she?” he asks, curiosity slipping into his voice.

“Yes,” I answer simply. What I don’t tell him is that being alive isn’t always the best thing to be.

I leave my answer hanging in the air, waiting to see if he’ll respond. In the intensity of the

moment, sometimes people share something deeply honest about themselves. There is that sense of relief in saying the words out loud.

One step, wrap. Two steps, wrap-wrap.

My feet are barely leaving the ground now. The sound of gravel crunching echoes around us.

“I’ll make it quick.” He speaks in a whisper, each word deliberate and calm.

“Do you say that to everyone?” I ask, not thinking he’s being genuine.

“Most people,” he replies casually.

I wonder what it takes to make the most people list. Does he have some kind of code? Or is it purely an instinctive response?

“Is it true?” I ask as an idea occurs to me.

He doesn’t reply immediately. I can hear his brain ticking as he decides whether to be honest with me or not.

“Hmm, do you want it to be true? The truth isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes we are happier not knowing the truth.”

Well, that was more insightful than I was expecting and to be honest I don’t like where this line of questioning is going. Now I have a new quandary. Two questions, but which one to ask. If I play this right it might just change what is due to happen.

We are now two-thirds of the way into the tunnel and I can hear water slowly trickling down the walls. A shiver runs down my spine and it isn’t from the cold.

Does he believe in second chances, I wonder. Probably best not to ask that. It could imply I have done something that requires me having a second chance. I don’t believe that is the case. So, question number two it is.

“Do you know what I am supposed to have done?” I emphasise the word supposed.

“Is this where you profess your innocence? Tell me they made a mistake. That it was someone else. That it isn’t what I think.” he trots out this reply in a tone that infers it has been used often and he is getting bored.

“Haven’t you ever made a mistake?” I counter, my tone a little snippy, before I soften my voice. “Ever thought there was another way?”

“Yeah, of course. How about we sit down right now and have a nice little therapy session? We can put the world to rights and then both go our separate ways as if nothing has happened.” He follows his statement with a cold laugh.

One step, wrap. Two steps, wrap-wrap. I can feel the temperature drop as we are now only a couple of feet from the end of the tunnel.

I finish twisting the thread around my fingers and think to myself, ‘Well, you can’t say I didn’t try.’ Then I stop walking and whisper quietly, “Any last words?” before I spin around and deftly wrap the thread around his neck in one fluid motion.

His eyes widen when they meet mine. Not surprisingly, he looks confused. Then he sees my tattoo and he knows. An inked white widow spider looks at him, my best friend’s name is etched below it. I don’t give him time to register the look that always comes next. I’ve seen enough terror to last me a life time. I pull the thread once and it slices smoothly through his carotid artery.

As drops of ruby red blood seep into the gravel I slowly make my way back into the light. Perhaps I should have asked him if he believed in Hell? Well there’s always next time!