December 2025

First Prize

Blood Apples by Kelly Jackson, Sheffield, UK

 

Second Prize

Man of the House by Simon Ewing, Edinburgh, Scotland

 

Third Prize

When the Only Shade of Time is Grey by Laura Besley, Leciester, UK

 

Shortlist

Beans on Toast by Matt Roberts, Nottingham, UK

 

Longlist

A Coat of Many Colours by Gillian Brown, Peyriac de Mer, France

A Worse Evening by Susan Martin, Port Talbot, Wales

Beans on Toast by Matt Roberts, Nottingham, UK

Blood Apples by Kelly Jackson, Sheffield, UK

Man of the House by Simon Ewing, Edinburgh, Scotland

Taking the Biscuit by Imogen van der Bijl, Great Broughton, Cumbria, UK

The Biscuit Tin by Graham McDonald, Denmark, Australia

The Dilemma of a Reluctant PI by Philip Rushbrook, Wantage, UK

When the Only Shade of Time is Grey by Laura Besley, Leciester, UK

Wildflowers by Patricia Hartop, Solihull, UK

Wood by Julia Griffiths, Monmouth

Blood Apples by Kelly Jackson

 

Maddie stared at the blue cross on the white stick. Fear and joy collided in her stomach, and for the second time that morning, she vomited into the toilet. The shrill beep of the smoke alarm lifted her head from the bowl. She charged downstairs.

 

In the kitchen, smoke rose from the oven in soft curls and drifted across the ceiling in a tide of grey. Armed with oven gloves, she removed the coal-black oval of pastry and opened the back door. She grabbed the mop from the hall and jabbed at the flashing white disc on the ceiling. A glance at her watch made her stab harder, quicker, until it died. Maddie sighed into the silence.

Clunk.

 

The key turned in the front door of number fifty-two. She gasped, ducked into the kitchen, and shut the door. Maddie gripped the smooth steel of the sink behind her. The thud of boots along the hallway – a slow countdown against the frantic hammering of her heart. She stared at the dents in the kitchen door as it swung open.

 

Tom’s eyes met hers, then flicked to the smouldering pie on the counter. Lips pressed tight, a muscle jumped on his stubbled jaw. Arms rigid at his sides, his fingers curled into fists.

 

Maddie swallowed.

“I was sick, and the pie…” Her voice wavered. “I’ll make another. It won't take long.” He moved. She caught a whiff of beer, sweat, and cheap perfume as he collected the pie and thrust it towards her. She flinched. His chestnut eyes stayed fixed on her as he let it drop. The Pyrex dish exploded across the kitchen floor, splattering the white tiles. Maddie’s eyes lingered on the mess, every muscle clenched. She opened her mouth to utter desperate apologies, but the strike of his hand stopped her. He grabbed her hair and pulled her to the floor. Hot gravy coated her cheek as splinters of glass bit into her skin. She forced her body to go limp, to play dead. Then, in her mind, she saw the bean-sized life growing inside her, defenceless, innocent, unaware of the world it would be born into.

 

A surge jolted through her. She reached for a large shard of Pyrex. Searing pain radiated through her scalp as he dragged her to her feet.

 

Maddie whimpered as Tom held her at arm’s length. She lowered her voice to a faint whisper.

“I’m sorry.” Tom’s eyes glinted with satisfaction as he leaned in, turning his head and cupping his ear. Her voice rose, calm and deliberate. “Sorry… I didn’t do this sooner.”

 

With a quick swing of her arm, she plunged the shard of glass into the side of Tom's neck. He gurgled, gripping the wound, blood bubbling through his fingers.

“You bitch.” He dropped to his knees.

 

Maddie took a breath. “You will never get to hurt our child. Never,” she said, wiping the blood splatter from her face. Tom groaned, grasping for her leg. A deep claret circle spread around his head, like the Devil’s halo. Maddie stepped back, listening to the clock ticking and the gurgles of Tom’s final breaths. She gazed through the kitchen window at the baby apple tree by the fence, patiently waiting to be planted. Hands cradling her belly, she walked down the garden path to the shed and grabbed the shovel.

 

***

 

Six years later

 

Maddie turned the key in the door of number fifty-two. The smell of the ward clung to her scrubs: disinfectant, sweat, and suffering.

 “I’m home,” she called, dropping her bag in the hall as she walked into the kitchen.

 

Sasha, the childminder, looked up from her magazine at the table. Maddie’s eyes flicked to Jacob, sitting opposite, building Lego towers and grinning through a mouthful of something.

 “What’re you scoffing, piglet?” Maddie asked, smiling at her son.

 

Jacob pointed through the kitchen window.

 

“Apple from our garden.”

 

Maddie’s heart stalled as she saw the apple core on his plate.

 “I told you not to let him eat those apples.” Maddie snapped at Sasha. Her pale face bloomed red.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see the harm, it’s just an apple—”

 

Maddie shot her a look. “See you Monday,” she said as Sasha left with a solemn nod.

 

Maddie slid the apple core into the bin. She blinked as the flesh darkened, maggots wriggling to the surface. Her stomach dropped. She let the lid slam shut. It’s fine, everything is fine. She told herself.

 

“Sorry, Mummy,” Jacob said, eyes glossy with tears.

 

Maddie pulled him close.

 

“It’s OK, it’s not your fault,”  Her arms tightened around him, and she fought to steady her trembling hands.

 

***

 

Maddie pulled open the curtains in Jacob’s room. The sunlight shone on his empty bed. Her search from room to room grew more frantic. She reached the kitchen and looked out at the garden. Thank God, she thought and sprinted to the apple tree.

 “Jacob, what are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

 

Jacob sat cross-legged, his back to her, facing the tree in motionless silence.
 “Jacob?”

 

She knelt and turned him towards her. His skin felt like ice; his cheeks drained of colour, lips tinged with blue. He stared back, his eyes empty.

 “We need to get you warm,” she said, scooping him up and hurrying inside.

 

Maddie warmed his body and put him to bed. He burned with fever through the night. She stayed with him, watching him toss and turn, checking his temperature and dribbling medicine between his lips, until finally the fever broke.

 

***

 

Clutching her morning coffee, Maddie watched the for sale sign being hammered into the front garden. She had waited long enough for suspicion to fade, for roots to grow. Long enough for the police to stop calling. Lucky for her, Tom had a record and owed money to dangerous people.

 

A small, tight smile tugged at her lips as she carried a tray of food upstairs. She paused as the deep murmur of a familiar voice drifted through Jacob's door. She flung the door open, her eyes scanning the room.

 

Only Jacob. Staring through the window. She shook the thought from her head and stepped closer. Jacob’s head lifted slowly, turning towards her.

 

“I’m hungry.”

“Good,” she said with a sigh. “I brought your favourite – banana sandwich.”

Jacob’s chestnut eyes locked on hers as he took the plate… and let it fall to the floor.

 “I want pie,” he said, with a smile that made Maddie shiver. “Be careful not to burn it.”

 

***

 

Maddie stumbled to the kitchen, head spinning, hands trembling as she braced herself against the sink. Through the blur of tears, she saw the tree through the window. Its branches stirred in an absent breeze, heavy with a sudden crop of blood-red apples. The trunk twisted, knotting into two hollow eyes and a sneering mouth. 

 

“You can’t have him.” Her voice cracked, half sob, half snarl. “I won’t let you.”

 

***

 

Mr Roberts peered over the fence as Maddie swung the axe at the apple tree. It bounced off, the bark untouched.

 

Ten minutes later, he was in her garden, tugging on gloves. A good deed was its own reward, he told himself, firing up his chainsaw. He lowered the visor on his helmet and grinned.

 “Safety first!” he shouted above the roar of the engine. The chainsaw bit once, then kicked back. A heartbeat later, his left arm produced a rainbow of blood before thudding to the ground.

 

***

 

Maddie returned from the hospital, her clothes soaked in Mr Roberts’s blood. She drenched the tree in lighter fluid, struck a match, and wept as every flame died on contact.

 

That night, while tidying Jacob’s room, she found a pile of rotting apple cores beneath his bed. The smell turned her stomach, not the pungent smell of overripe fruit, but the putrid stench of rotting flesh. She bolted the back door and locked every window. Lying in the darkness, she forced her mind to quiet. The sound of Jacob, singing softly, drifted through the wall.

 “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree (With Anyone Else But Me)…”

 

Maddie’s breath caught; she covered her mouth to silence her sobs.

 

***

 

The next morning, she opened her eyes to find Jacob standing motionless by her bed. He stared down at her, his toy car in one hand, the carving knife glinting in the other.

 “Jacob?” Her voice trembled as she sat up, heart pounding. She grabbed his hand and peeled his tiny fingers from the handle. Jacob blinked, as if waking from a dream, tears welling in his eyes.

 “He wants to hurt you, Mummy,” he whispered.

 

That was the day Maddie fitted a bolt to her six-year-old’s bedroom door, the only way she could sleep. He wasn’t a prisoner in his own home. She was.

The agent called. The house had been sold for less than its worth, the price you pay for a quick sale. Maddie couldn’t get packed and into the removal van fast enough.

 

She turned her back on the kitchen floor she had scrubbed with bleach, on the apple tree’s outstretched arms creaking in the wind. As long as that tree stood, her secret was safe, black roots twisting around bones. One last time, she caught the whiff of smoke in the hall and heard the thud of his boots. As she locked the front door, a glimmer of hope warmed her chest.

 

***

 

One hundred and sixty miles later, the removal van pulled into their new driveway. The air felt lighter here. Maddie smiled, took a deep breath, and began unpacking. She gazed out at the garden, a green carpet of lawn framed by flower beds. Not a single tree. She smiled as she watched Jacob play. This was it, she thought, a fresh start.

 

Jacob crouched at the edge of the lawn with his toy spade. He dug a small hole, dropped something in – a half-eaten apple – and covered it with soil. He turned to join his mother in their new home.

 

A sudden wind stirred through the garden, the soil trembled, and a green shoot appeared from the darkness.

 

 

Man of the House by Simon Ewing

Story to be added shortly.

When the Only Shade of Time is Grey by Laura Besley

Story to be added shortly.