The following three entries, in no particular order, win a runners-up prize of a book of short stories.

Missing Person by June Sharp, West Lothian

Mid Life Crisis by Dave Clark, Chelmsford

Final Curtain by Jane Pratt, Hartlepool

 Third prize of ten pounds goes to Sally Jenkins, Sutton Coldfield for Tangled Lives

 Second prize of fifteen pounds goes to Graham Hawes, Herts for ....Never The Bride

 First prize of fifty pounds goes to Jean Kelly, Alicante, Spain.  Jean V Kelly lives on the Costa Blanca and is chairperson of the Denia Writers' Circle.  She has recently had her first novel, IN THE NAME OF JOANNA, a story of love and betrayal with a bit of the supernatural thrown in, accepted for publication by Solstice Publishing in the USA.  The novel is expected to be out by Sep 2010.

 

                                        ISLAND HEAT by Jean Kelly

 

  1898 - Bridget

  I was seventeen years old and travelling from Dublin Bay to Argentina where a seventytwo year old man awaited my hand in marriage.  The trip, on a steamship named the Northern Star was expected to take 6 weeks - which seemed far too short a time to me.  What young girl wants to marry a man more than four times her age?

  As if in answer to my prayers, nearly two thirds of the way there a storm at sea forced us to pull into Port Antonio on the island of Jamaica.  Leaving Ireland in heavy rain and strong winds the steamy heat of Jamaica was like an intoxicating balm to my spirits.

  The dread of continuing on to our final destination, my final destiny - a marriage bed shared with a decrepit old man - flew from my mind as I walked down the gangplank and stared at this wondrous place.  Port Antonio sat nestled between two harbours.  I could immediately see why the captain had said it was 'the most exquisite port on earth'; such a breathtaking sight to behold.  Behind the town were mist-shrouded mountains dropping down to the sea.  Banana trees, palms and wild orchids grew in abundance.  The town itself was made up of low, flat-roofed buildings with faded plaster and timber fronts of muted colours.

  As I set foot on the plank leading to the dock where a market had been set up selling an amazing assortment of goods I saw that nearly all of the people were negroes.  I'd never seen them before, except in books.  The women wore colourful layers of light fabric.  Many had swathes of it wrapped around their heads.  Huge earrings dangled from their ears, bangles of every description jingled about their wrists.  The men were more subdued.  Their pants were of dark colours with legs rolled up, their shirts mostly white, nearly all opened to the waist and almost everyone was in bare feet. 

  Smells from over-ripe fruit and fish were heavy in the moist air.  People called out to each other in a language I didn't understand; I soon learned it was one the slaves had made up themselves when their British masters forbade them to speak their own - patois.  People laughed loudly, without shyness, touched each other openly, danced around their baskets and stalls, their hips swaying, shoulders shaking as someone with a deep baritone voice sang a lively tune and others played makeshift instruments.

  I drew stares from every direction.  My alabaster skin, fiery red curls, a sprinkle of freckles across my nose and rosy cheeks contrasted strongly with those around me.

  My family were poor.  Not poorer than many others in Ireland, not starving, at least not yet, but our existence was very much hand to mouth.

  And this I suppose is the reason why my ailing father who had always cherished me so, sold me.