Exciting news! We are happy to announce the winner of our Halloween Writing Competition, judged by lecturers here at the University. See the winners and read the entries below.
Short Story Winner:
Michael and his story Crimson Nights
Josephine watched, licking her lips, as Macduff carried Macbeth’s bloodied head onto the stage as the performance drew to its inevitably violent conclusion. She stared at the prop head, the thick globules of red paint smothering Macbeth’s severed neck: God, going to the theatre made her feel thirsty. Trying to distract herself from her cravings, she scanned the New Royal Pavilion Theatre with her grey—as sharp as flint—eyes; nearly one thousand people were crammed into the floor seats and the opera boxes that glittered with gold, all of them were clothed in their evening finery: pink hoop skirts, peacock feathers and extravagantly tall top hats fluttered and flapped as the audience gasped and gaped at the horror of the final scene. Josephine hated every single one of them, they were all vampires, gathering in this sole bastion of the middle and upper-classes in London’s East End with their expensive plumage, while children starved to death in the streets just outside in tattered rags. At least when she bled someone dry, she wasn’t ignorant of the fact that she was doing it.
Talking about being bled dry, her suitor for the night was sitting to her right and desperately trying to pull off one of her spectral silk gloves so he could kiss her hand, as a perfect gentleman was supposed to do.
‘Oh do stop, Valentine (his name was Valentine, so it was a real shame he wasn’t very romantic), we’re getting to the best bit of the show and you’ll only tear it.’
‘But you’re skin is so ravishing, it is pale white like a moonlit sea that I just want to dive into,’ Valentine was finally able to remove the glove and place a slobbery kiss on her delicate fingers.
‘You say the most silly things, darling. Now please pay attention to the performance. People are staring at us...’
Lord Valentine Farthingdale’s slender and spotty face stared up at Josephine, not at her eyes of course, but at the enormous diamond pendant that rested within her bosom (tactically emphasised by her exquisitely cut jet-black evening gown). Ever since she had heard of Lord Farthingdale’s extensive gambling debts, she could never be sure whether he was more interested in her or her money.
Saliva spluttered out of Valentine’s mouth as he bent down on one knee and began to propose to her; however, rather than concentrating on this most romantic of moments, all she could think about was the fact his breathe smelt distinctively of halibut. Luckily, for Josephine, the audience were too busy applauding the cast’s final bows to notice her predicament. This man clearly did not know how to take a hint.
‘I’m sorry Valentine, but I think I’m just too old for you.’
‘Hang on, you look the same age as me?’
Josephine thought it was best not to tell him it was her three-hundredth birthday next Tuesday—there was a reason why her skin was so pale. Turning her cold grey gaze upon him, she glared at his ruddy complexion which made him look far older than his miniscule age of twenty-three; it was then that she noticed his neck, it was by far his most attractive feature. The skin appeared so smooth, so soft, almost like satin. She had begun licking her lips again and imagining puncture marks in his flesh.
Distracting her from her reverie, Josephine realised that Valentine was saying something:
‘I promise to die for you, my love.’
‘Could you repeat that, darling?’
‘I will die for you, my heart.’
Just to be one hundred percent certain Josephine couldn’t help asking one last time:
‘Are you sure, dear?’
‘I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life.’
‘Oh good,’ Josephine bared her fangs and bit deep into Valentine’s neck, at first he offered some resistance, but she swiftly drained him of his life blood. She hadn’t had a feast like this for decades.
Once she had sated her thirst, Josephine brought out a mirror from her pink handbag, Valentine’s blood was all over her mouth and chin, so she began wiping it off with a crimson handkerchief; fortunately, the blood matched the colour of her lipstick so at least she wouldn’t have to redo that. Her suitor’s body was still slumped against the auditorium seat, with a look of shock on its acne-infested face: what did he expect after taking her out on a date on All Hallows’ Eve? Seriously?
Poetry Winner:
Vahiste and her poem ‘You think you know monsters’
What am I scared of?
Fear.
I am deathly afraid of being afraid
The gut churning, throat-drying feeling
Of my heart speeding up
so fast that the world disappears from around me
Halloween.
The night of fear;
and death
I draw the curtains and board the windows
Even triple lock the doors
But I can still hear them through it all
'Trick or Treat,' they cry, sweet and innocent
It sounds like children. It's not.
It's the ghouls, the monsters
Who set them free?
Year upon year, the same night
The night my little angel died
Dressed in white with her wings and halo upon her head
Each year I hear the ghouls call out her name
I hear their footsteps outside
The monsters creeping through the night
Their voices get louder
And louder still
I can feel them consuming me
Help.
I miss you my darling,
they took you away from me
The monsters.
Not the ones that lurk outside,
but the ones that hide within me.
Short Story Runner Up:
Lily and her story ‘Rotting Beauty’
It is a natural ability for humans to tell stories. It is something that separates us from other animals. It is unique and compelling, and fairytales will always be timeless classics. Fairytales are interesting though, mind you, as we have so many different versions of the same story.. and yet it is always the most comfortable one that everyone knows and loves. I’ll presume we all know the story of ‘Sleeping Beauty’. A magical kingdom in which a most perfect baby girl is cursed at birth to die - only the curse will at the worst send her to sleep, because of a magical fairy. The plot continues and the beautiful girl grows up, eventually being saved by her heroic prince and all is well again. I suppose it is understandable why the same version is retold again and again, for what a comfortable happiness it is. If only the real world were like this, where our worries and fears could be banished with a kiss. Of course this could never be, not in our world and not in the next, and nor was it so simple in Aurora’s world either.
Yes, the fair Aurora, in truth, was not as fair as we think her to be. What sort of fairytale would it be to tell your children at night if it had a not-so-happy ending? Perhaps it is best to leave loving parents telling their young a sweet story for blissful sleep, yet for you, dear reader, I urge you to read on. Allow me to shed light on a sleep that was not so blissful after all.
Apart from the fairies and dragons and castle surrounded by enchanted thorns, this tale was for the most part fairly accurate. A king and queen in Renaissance France had been trying for a child, eventually succeeding, giving birth to a baby girl. There were festivities all around, and most were invited. ‘Maleficent’ was not so much an ‘evil fairy’, but a witch, shunned from society and feared for practicing dark magic. What the tale fails to mention is the twisted history between the king, the queen and Maleficent herself. Maleficent and the king, Stefan, had known each other more personally, more intimately than we are led to believe, and were once lovers, walking in forests and sharing little parts of themselves. Alas, Stefan was betrothed to the princess Leah, and eventually King Stefan left maleficent behind, marrying Queen Leah and residing in the castle. Years had passed and maleficent grew bitter and hateful, leaning more so into the dark arts and practicing magic. The pair had not spoken since Stefan had left years before, that was, until Maleficent received a letter. It requested that maleficent come to the castle, and visit the king and queen, that there were important matters to be addressed, and that her services were required. Though resentful of King Stefan, maleficent was curious, and did as the letter said.
She arrived at the castle walls and was ushered in by a small number of wary guards. They walked through various halls and up various staircases, leading to what seemed to be the private west wing of the grand structure. There he was. All these years had not done him well. Stefan now hunched, and his curiously serious face had now turned stern and cold, with hard, rigid wrinkles set in his forehead. The bags under his eyes created pale craters. He’d gained a little weight, perhaps due to the surplus amounts of fine foods available to him as King. The queen was nowhere to be seen. The guards had shut the doors behind them, and stood in front of them. The atmosphere was uneasy, and not a word had been spoken. Both maleficent and Stefan stared at each other for what seemed a long time, until eventually he spoke.
“Maleficent”, he spoke, uncomfortably.
“Stefan”, maleficent replied.
“It’s King Stefan now, actually, uh”, he shifted, clearing his throat.
“what did you ask me here for?” She asked, still staring at him, starting to feel anxious about what was happening.
“the news, actually, that the letter addresses.. Queen Leah and I, we’re.. we’ve been trying for a child, for um, for quite some time you see-”
“I don’t understand what you need from me”.
The air felt thicker, and maleficent shifted slightly, growing impatient. She took a step towards Stefan, and as she did so the guards imposed, raising their weapons towards her head. King Stefan lifted a hand, and the weapons were lowered, the guards returning to their original positions.
“My, really, with all the security?” Maleficent scoffed.
“you know you can’t be trusted, you have a certain reputation”, he said.
“you knew me better than my reputation”
“the past is the past. The queen and I are trying for a child, and have so far been unsuccessful”, Stefan scorned. “we need your help, I can promise you will be generously rewarded”. Maleficent knew not of any spells or witchcraft that could impregnate a woman, let alone carry through and allow her to successfully give birth.
“i cannot enchant a woman to become with child, even if I could there is no reason I should help you. You call yourself a king? Does a king abando-”
“enough!” Stefan exclaimed. “forget it, it was so long ago now. I am King, and I require your services to produce an heir to the throne” he shook his finger at her, tense in the face, eyebrows furrowed into an unruly black beast upon his brow. Maleficent now knew that something was not quite right, as Stefan stood before her, tense and agitated, and the guards shifted now and again, gripping their weapons tightly. They still stood, blocking the door through which she had entered. She looked around. There were no other doors in the room. There were two large stained glass windows, but this was meaningless given the fact that they were so high up in the west tower. There was no furniture around the room, but in the middle against the back wall, a bed. She looked back at the king, trying to read his face. He was hiding something. There was something that he was not telling her, something that she couldn’t quite decipher.
“Stefan what is this..?” Maleficent urged. He stood there, silent, with his head still held high but unable to make eye contact. He clenched his fists, and took a sharp breath. “guards”, stefan nodded, and before she was able to react, there were three guards restricting her by the arms, another two keeping their distance with staffs raised. They started dragging her forcefully toward the bed, and she began to pull and resist them, attempting to break herself free. She began breathing heavily, shouting at the guards and King Stefan.
“you will adhere to our needs for nine months, then once we have our heir, you may go. You will be fed enough and sleep in this room”.
I’ll leave the rest of the details up to your imagination, as I don’t believe the imagination has to travel far to understand what happened. Surely enough, King Stefan’s plan had worked. The witch Maleficent was then forced to cater for the king and queen’s needs for the next nine months. She was kept in that same room for the duration, and only let out for exercise, for which she was restrained and escorted around the palace grounds at night, so as to not be seen. She was fed and hydrated enough, more than likely because she had to be. She had no personal possessions with her, and spent most of her time staring out the window or crying herself to sleep. Nine months had passed, and one night, painful screaming could be heard through the entire west wing. The next morning there was music and cheer, and Queen Leah rocked the newborn baby in her arms.
It appears that one minor detail was left out, that being that Aurora is indeed Maleficent’s daughter. The fairest young princess of them all is in fact the damned bastard child of a filthy king and a hated witch. The events described for the next sixteen years in our familiar fairytale then proceed, with little alteration. Maleficent is far from the castle, in her own dark and stale kingdom, filled with hatred and fuelled by hurt. She continues to search for the girl, with no luck, day by day growing more powerful and more full of rage. That is, until one day, the well-known fateful event happens, and the fair Aurora is sent into a slumber, lying in the bed in which she was conceived. Until now, the suspected end for our beautiful princess would be to be awoken with a gentle kiss by her gallant prince. It is unfortunate that things were not so pretty. Phillip did race to the castle, sprinting past all the lifeless bodies slumped on chairs and collapsed on the floor. Yet in truth, he was not the first to arrive to his princess’s rescue, for her mother was sat there, waiting at her bedside.
Perhaps our unsuspecting Phillip did deserve a less gruesome death than the one he was handed. Try as he might to defeat maleficent, what is a sword against the kingdom’s most feared and powerful witch? As he thrusted his sword toward her heart, she merely twisted her hand, and the sword now faced him. He struggled and tried with all his might to resist, and yet by his own hand his sword forcefully sliced through his eyeball, blood spewing across the cobbled floor. As his limp body slumped forward, his head tilted toward the floor and continued to fall. The sword his the floor first and with a series of cracks coming from the dead skull, pushed through the other side of his head.
Maleficent was ready to take her child, to take back what was hers and to hurt the king back for all that he had done to her. That is, she was. What she did not realise was that she had murdered the prince who was to save Aurora’s life.
True love’s kiss.
Aurora’s skin started to change before the witch’s eyes. She began to rot and mutate, first turning paler and paler, the red, purple, green. Her hair turned grey and dried up, her eyelids fizzled away and her eyeballs were exposed. Suddenly she sat up, letting out a deathly piercing scream, reaching out in front of her. She looked at maleficent and tried to grasp out, and grab her, yet just before she could she was reduced to a pile of clothes and bones, and a little tiara on the floor. Perhaps this is the reason we prefer the pretty tale, the happy ending, for what sort of fairytale is this, but a vile account of horrific events, to a mother who was hurt, and an innocent child that became the very object of her hate?
Poetry Runner Up:
Fey and his poem ‘The Slow Drip’
Blood drips.
Head trips.
Eye cries.
Mind dies.
Thoughts fade.
Hair greyed.
Bullet- no. Penny drops.
They said death would be peaceful.