Ongoing competitions
Are you interested in entering the Short Story Competition?
Her Magazine - Short Story Competition
the winning submission will be published in an issue of Her Magazine.
Entries need to have a maximum of 1200 words and will be selected based on their interest and professional standard.
See below for this month's winning entry.
Entries are to be emailed to
Her Magazine: hermag@strettonpublishing.co.nz
Terms and Conditions:
Entries to have a maximum of 1200 words, submitted in double spacing including a short biography of the writer. Entries close 20th of each month. Each entry must be the author’s original work and must not have been published before. The winner each month will be notified prior to publication which will be at the editor's discretion.
Her Magazine retains first publication rights for all winning entries for a period of six months. Entries from the previous month cannot be resubmitted for following months’ competitions – ie. entries can only be submitted once. Each entry should be accompanied by a short biography of the writer. Each entry must be original and must be submitted by the author. The judges’ decision will be final and no correspondence will be entered into. Submission of each entry constitutes acceptance by the submittor of the competition’s terms and conditions of entry.
Winning Entry from August 2010 Issue:
The walk home
She stepped off the bus in King’s Avenue on a cold, winter night. Wind gusts pulled at her coat and threw her hair across her face. Good grief, it’s freezing!
Hurrying along the footpath, jostling with other commuters she feels the currents of warm air coming out from the brightly lit shops. She’s reminded of the warm currents that come and go as she swims in the cool ocean in summer. Far from it now she mutters. Muttering out loud only because she’s sure no one else can hear her in the gale.
As she turns off into Arthur Street, she feels the unwanted beginnings of her nightly anxiety. People gradually peel off leaving Arthur Street almost empty. Her apprehension builds as the distance between street lights grows. Calm down, drama queen, you’re quite safe.
She was violently attacked several years ago and now, whenever alone and in the dark, she involuntarily imagines another horrifying attack. She can’t help hearing a sombre newsreader describing her terrible fate and sees the crime scene in her mind. Her imagination won’t be quelled despite her efforts to think of pleasant things.
Above the wind, she hears footsteps from across the road and lifts her head to check them out. A large man is walking with the collar of his ski jacket turned halfway up his face. His footsteps syncopate with hers. Just him and her in the street now, she feels wary of him and scolds herself for it. She turns into her street, it’s long and dark and many of the streetlights don’t work. She feels growing unease and thinks, as she does every night, of contacting the Council about fixing the lights.
Her heartbeat gets faster as she hurries along the darkened street. She hates feeling vulnerable and tells herself she’s being irrational. It’s only a 16-minute walk from the bus stop to her front door – she’s timed it. In the daylight, it would never occur to her to feel scared.
A sudden clatter beside her makes her jump. She turns to looks at the tumble of litter rattling along the gutter and sees that the man in the ski jacket has also turned down the street. He’s about a hundred metres behind her. She picks up her pace as she sees a flash of him grabbing her throat and throwing her to the ground. Stop it. He’s not dangerous. He’s just walking home, like you.
She listens to his footsteps. They were in time with hers before but now she’s sure they’re faster. He’s catching her up. She feels a prickle of fear that brings a sudden cold sweat to her back and forehead. The houses in the street are set back in their sections and with the howling wind she doubts if anyone inside would hear her if she screamed.
Heart racing, her breathing fast, she feels in her pockets for her key ring. She moves a key between each finger in her clenched fist and imagines a deep gauge down the man’s face. Oh god, his footsteps are louder, he must only be a few paces behind her now. Should she run? Or will that prompt him to make his attack?
Her house is only two minutes away now. She plans to sprint when she gets through the garden gate. If she slams the gate closed the latch should slow him down a bit. She changes the position of her keys so that she’s holding the front door key firmly, ready to turn in the lock.
The police told her last time that it was the thrill of the fright, the desire to overpower, which compelled many attackers to act. Can he sense her fear? She feels sick. Now at her house, she slams the gate behind her with a loud clang.
Sprinting to the door, she’s sure the echo of her steps are his. She anticipates him grabbing her and ducks as she shoves her key in the lock. Falling forward she tumbles onto the cold hall lino, frantically kicks the door shut and rams the bolt across. Scrabbling to her knees she listens at full alert.
Nothing. She strains to hear above the pounding in her ears. Terrified, she looks through the frosted panel at the side of the door. There he is, only now just walking past her house. Under the street light, she notices that he is wearing an iPod and is patting out the beat on his thigh. He seems oblivious to the world around him and, going by the half smile above his collar, the music must be reminding him of something nice.
By K J Yule
She is an avid reader but has never written anything before. Having seen the Short Story Competition in a recent copy of "Her Magazine", she decided to give it a go. She is 41 years old and lives in Tauranga with her husband.
