Ryedale Book Festival short story and poetry winners

Winner, Ryedale Book Festival short story competiton

A Short Walk by the River
Peter Caunt, Harrogate

HE turned over the metal dish in his hand. The slots in the sides showed that it had been used to collect cigarette ash. The date was clearly embossed on the underside, ‘Made on Earth 2050’. He threw it back into the pile. If they were going to fake these artefacts, the least they could do was to read their history. Ashless cigarettes were introduced in 2040.

“I’ve got plenty of other genuine items.”

He waved his hand to attempt to dismiss the approach.

“A fax machine used by William Shakespeare to send his new plays off to his agent.”

He tried to walk away, but found a hand gripping his arm.

“Genuine blueprints of the pyramids from ancient Egypt.”

He prised the twisted fingers from his arm and moved on to the next stall. He paused to look at his hand then wiped it on his sleeve. The next stall offered much of the same, including the same fake ashtray. It had been over a year since he had last found a genuine Earth artefact. His collection was now quite extensive, but all of them were either badly damaged or incomplete. He needed a well preserved item before he could begin the reconstruction.

He walked round and scanned the other stalls from a distance, avoiding the beckoning fingers of the stallholders as much as he could.

Then he spotted a passing official and grabbed his attention. “I hear there’s an auction today.”

“The main hall.” The official looked at his watch, “Started 10 minutes ago. You’re late.”

He broke into a sprint. The last few items from Earth he had managed to accumulate had come from auctions, but it was getting harder as the items became scarcer and the competition became more aggressive. He cursed the failure of his ship’s main drive at the last stop. It had taken five hours and a few well placed bribes to get the replacement parts. And even then the engines overheated as he had tried to make up the time.

He burst into the hall as he heard the auctioneer calling out “Are there any more bids for this fascinating item from the market town of Knaresborough, back on old Earth?”

The item was being held aloft and paraded round the hall. He recognised the street sign from the ‘Gallons Steps’. It was sealed in plastic. He’d heard his grandmother talking about when her own great-grandmother had been to Earth, the year of the demolition. She had visited a great many places, but remembered walking down those very steps to get to the river running through the town. The artefact was exactly as she had described and just what he needed to fulfil his grandmother’s last wish.

He waved frantically, but without having had time to be registered as a valid dealer, his gesticulations were ignored.

The hammer fell. “Sold to Mr Simulare.”

He stared across the room.

“So Mr Jones, yet again I have beaten you to one of the few remaining treasures left in this galaxy.”

“Simulare, I should have known.”

He moved forward but felt strong hands on both shoulders.

“Let’s not cause any bother, Mr Jones. I bid for this fair and square. Too bad you didn’t arrive in time to register for the auction.”

He shrugged off the hands on his shoulders and shouted over to the approaching official, “Hey, I would check Simulare’s credit rating before you hand that over.”

The official stopped then looked towards the auction desk.

He smiled, “You sabotaged my ship, Simulare, so I hacked into the central bank computer. I suspect you’ll find your account has been suspended.”

Simulare looked round to see security guards approaching then grabbed the artefact from the protesting official. He nodded to his heavies who threw a punch at Jones’s jaw then made a hasty exit.

“I’ll see you again soon, Mr Jones.”

Jones wiped the blood from his lip and smiled. Simulare wouldn’t get far, but the last thing he needed was to have the police tie up the street sign as evidence for months. He jumped to his feet and strolled down the corridor. Auction houses were some of the best guarded places in the galaxy. The end of the war in the outer rim had released a plethora of cheap muscle onto the job market. The auction houses were the only industry with enough spare cash to hire, so they could have their pick.

But even the best was hardly the brightest.

Jones turned the corner to find Simulare pinned against a wall and his two heavies in a crumpled heap on the floor. He stopped and took a look at the lead security guard. Soldiers’ ranks had carried through into civilian life and were displayed on their uniforms. This. one was a captain. Jones reached for his best, fake Id.

“Well done captain.” Jones waved his credentials quickly in front of the man.

He carefully picked up the street sign and checked it for damage.

“I’ll take this back to the auction for safekeeping.”

The guards looked at their captain, who frowned.

“And these three,” Jones pointed at Simulare and the prone heavies, “take them down to the cells.”

The captain’s brow refused to unfurrow.

Jones continued, “But no hurry with that, you can take your time.”

The guards glanced at the captain who aimed a heavy blow into Simulare’s stomach.

“You heard what the man said, we can take our time.”

Jones turned and walked slowly back towards the auction rooms, wondering if perhaps Simulare deserved this sort of attention. Then he recalled an incident two years earlier when Simulare had left him to die on a desert moon and quickened his pace.

For a split second Jones thought about returning to the auction room and offering to buy the street sign, but quickly dismissed it. The officials were always open to a suitable bribe, but the auction system took its profits seriously and any hint of bad credit was enforced by freezing all items and people involved. Sometimes literally ...

He took a side corridor. He probably had 10 minutes before the guards got bored and reported in. That should give him enough time. Five minutes to the docks, a couple of minutes to get launch permission. The space lanes would be clear until the auction finished. Sure they would realise what had happened and be able to trace him from the landing records, but where he was going it would take a couple of weeks for them to find him. A couple of weeks was all he needed now.

Five days later he arrived at the reconstruction site. Everything had been assembled waiting for his final decision. Now that he had the street sign all other options were off. If it was as complete as it looked, he could centre construction around it.

He took it down to the clean lab and carefully removed the plastic coating. He’d never seen such a good specimen. It looked in perfect condition, but it was only under a full temporal analysis that he could be sure.

Any piece of matter carried an image of any other piece of matter nearby, this had been known for centuries. But it was only since the invention of the temporal analyser that the fields could be mapped. Anything that had remained undisturbed for a long time absorbed the temporal field of the matter around it. Jones held his breath as results began to appear.

This one alone could give him what he needed. A full, solid reconstruction for 100 metres and, beyond that, he could impose a thin mist to mask the lack of detail. Anything further away could be simulated from library photographs. The rest of the artefacts he could offload for cash to fund the rest of his expenses.

Now he needed to make the final arrangements.

“Cryogenic Archiving, how may I help you?”

“I’m client number 83527-64326-alpha.”

He waited while his voiceprint was processed. “Mr Jones, what can I do for you?”

“I’d like the storage item to be delivered to the location I’m transmitting to you, and an on-site reanimation performed.”

“Mr Jones, doing an on-site defrosting and animation is a difficult and dangerous process.”

Jones sighed. “Ok, just how difficult?”

“Two thousand credits.”

His stock of artefacts should fetch over six at auction, but he needed the cash quickly.

“OK, I’ll have it in a couple of days.”

“Of course you are aware that we offer no guarantees of the viability of the reanimation.”

Jones heard the clicking of keys.

“Hmm, in this case we would not advise ...”

“Just get on with it. When do you expect to be able to deliver?”

“The location you have given is well off the space lanes, this could take some time.”

“Look, I need it in five days. Would another 1,000 credits help.”

“Always a pleasure doing business with you Mr Jones.”

Three thousand was going to be a problem at short notice. He knew of only one man likely to be able to raise that amount in a couple of days, and they had not parted on the best of terms.

He took a deep breath and dialled.

“Well well, Mr Jones.”

“Simulare, how are things?”

“Hmm, are you ready to return that street sign to me? You know I’ll find you sooner or later.”

No matter what he thought of their personal interaction, Simulare was a hard-nosed businessman who couldn’t resist a bargain.

“Not that, but I’m interested in selling everything else.”

There was a pause on the end of the line.

Jones took a breath. “I’ll even include the arms for the Venus de Milo that you failed to get two years ago.”

“Hmm.”

“I know you’ve got the rest of it. Should make for a valuable combination.”

Five minutes later they had agreed a price.

Jones smiled, “OK, s3,000, but I’m cutting my own throat. The usual terms for the transaction. We use the same sealed bonded transport supplier for the artefacts and cash.”

“Are you saying you don’t trust me, Mr Jones?”

“Of course I trust you. Just as much as you trust me.”

Jones put down the phone and cut off the laughter booming out from the handset.

Four days later the Cryogenic Archiving shipment arrived. Jones watched as the crate was unloaded and dismantled. The technician held out the release form, “Sign this before we can proceed.”

Jones glanced at the usual disclaimer clause, shrugged and put his signature on the bottom.

“You realise that there are no guarantees of viability here.”

Jones nodded, “So how long will she have?”

“Quarter of an hour probably. At most half an hour.”

“OK, just get on with it.”

She held on to his arm and slowly walked along the path. At the bottom of the Gallons Steps, they paused.

“It’s just as great-grandma described.”

Jones smiled.

She glanced around, “Is it real?”

Jones paused for a second, “It’s as real as the original was.”

They took a short walk by the river then sat on a bench and stared at the viaduct.

Jones had thought of including an image of a vehicle traversing it, but had not been able to find an appropriate image in the archives.

She turned her face to the sun, closed her eyes and bathed in the warm rays.

“It’s good to feel warm again. Thank you. Thank you so much. I know you promised me a visit to old Earth, but I never dreamed.”

Jones glanced at his watch.

“How long do I have?”

“What do you mean grandma?”

“I remember what happened. I remember the accident. I remember how bad it was.”

Jones took a deep breath. “We don’t have long.”

She leaned on his shoulder. “That’s OK. It’s been wonderful to see old Earth. I think I’d like to stay here. Just sit here by the river, in the warmth. Just sit here. Until the end.”

Jones took a deep breath, “That’s OK. I’ll stay with you as long as you want.

 

Poetry competition winners

Winner – Adult Poetry

Homecoming
by Joanna Ezekiel, York

I’ll want my navy frock that sweeps the knee,
vermilion lipstick, brogues; today, you wait
in dishwater civvies, whistle, scuff gravel
at a comer baked with salt and rubble
where, underfoot, streets are thin gravy:
blood, energy, khaki have streaked into the sea.
When I read your telegram, I remembered
how caramel bubbles, then hardens.
Bittersoft edges bum my fingers.
Now I plunge through daylight’s
sifted sugars, towards you: rinse out
the unwound clock, cobwebs,
simmering next-door-neighbours,
chicken bones that boil too soon.

 

Winner – Young Poetry

Freckles
by Jasmine Simms, Halifax

Freckles I kissed you outside Somerfield’s.
We were in our trainers;
unbalanced romantics from nest estate;
the fallen leaves;
the kids from down the canal way
that kept their wellies outside the front door
and let them fill for the local cats to drink from.
The late marks,
with the Mum who didn’t brush her hair.
The brothers who weren’t brothers.
And your greying frown,
all scared of the sun,
was infamous.
We were the war that got
bigger than its cavalry;
couldn’t fit into our ASBOs,
or the laugh,
or most of our clothes anymore ..
We were liars, sinners and cigarette lighters,
sat in the ash-tray making sandcastles.
We got wasted
and I kissed you outside Somerfie1d’s,
but couldn’t take the freckles from your failing face.

 

Winner – Adult Ryedale Prize

The Diver
by Jo Hardy, Malton

If I must fall, let me not drop, but dive:
through this pale oblivion let me scythe
as though we would climb the high cliffs once more
and gasping, dive again, then strike for shore.
Let me look on this, if I must close my eyes.
Let the ocean’s cold explosive kiss rise
to bless my sun-warmed skin with watery spires,
into my last breath let his water pour.
If I must fall, let me not drop, but dive.
My final act; this leap of faith denies
the historian’s myth that you and I
are fading figures on opposite shores.
Through time, I stay what I am to the core.
In this place, this one last thing will abide.
If I must fall, let me not drop, but dive.

 

Winner – Young Ryedale Prize

The Galaxy
by Jack James Thomas, St Mary’s School, Malton

The Galaxy

I looked up to the sky
Gazing at the stars.
I want to be an astronaut
The first man on Mars.
If an asteroid ever landed on earth,
With an alien inside,
I would go right up to him and ask for a ride.
I’d eat some moon cheese
And take some home.
If I didn’t my parents would just moan.
This is the galaxy,
it’s great is it not?
I suppose when I’m older
I’ll go there a lot.