Creative Writing Ink Short Story Competition 2025: Runners-up, Shortlist & Longlist

We are delighted to announce this year’s Creative Writing Ink competition runners-up, selected by judge Tyler Paterson.

‘Millie is Missing’

By Yvonne Birch

And here it is. The email from the Principal asking to see me. She writes it, or rather her PA ghost-writes it, as if I have a choice. It’s a masterclass in passive aggressive. ‘Please drop in’ (passive invitation to tea and cake), ‘before you leave the building’ (aggressive as all hell).

And here she is. Rigid frame, square face, hair in an immutable blonde bob: a Lego character. She points at the place I am required to sit: opposite her; on the other side of the desk; in a grey plastic chair where the naughtiest children wait to be chucked in her bucket of rejected parts. A fine red line is drawn across her plastic face where a smile should be.

She has two tones in her repertoire: the persuasive purr or the doodlebug growl. When she thanks me for coming the ominous rumbling is unsettling but I hold still. We are in blackout, my lines are learned and my recital, when it begins, will be exquisite.

She opens a hard-backed notebook at an empty page and unscrews the lid of a purple fountain pen. That’s not good. Not just a chat then.

She is apparently ‘surprised’ by recent events and would like me to explain my uncharacteristically unprofessional behaviour. Unprofessional? Seriously? Last time I was ‘invited’ here she told me that I have a gift; an extraordinary talent for crafting mathematics into a glorious tale of logic and magic. And she’s right. For more than 20 years I’ve delivered planned and practiced performances 5 days a week, 37 weeks a year.

‘Well you see Joanna…’ I have never used her first name before, she flinches and I keep my smile on the inside. Curtain up, ‘…as you know, when I took on the year 11 class in September they were a feral pack of snarling, hissing dingoes. It took three months! Three months of dedicated effort before I had every single one of them wrapped round my hand like a mobius strip.’

I mime this and add, for her information, that a mobius strip is an infinite line you can hold in your hand. I see her write Mobius on the page, she’s going to need to look it up. The ink is also purple: how ‘professional’ is that?

‘And, you know this about me Joanna, I can always see a redeeming spark, however dim, in every kid struggling through the dark tunnel of adolescence. It’s my superpower.’

I’m expecting validation, appreciation. No, I’m expecting more than that. I’m expecting grovelling gratitude given that I am the only person in this God-forsaken war zone that she can rely on to create calm out of chaos. Nothing. Not one feature on her flat plastic face reacts. That’s not good. Not good at all.

‘So, obviously, when Marion (I dismiss all the pejorative adjectives that usually prefix the word ‘Marion’) tried to foist Nathan Smith on me, I couldn’t let that happen. You don’t throw a raging hyena, exiled from his own pack, into a room of calmed beasts. And she was moving him to my class because I had a spare seat. What? What kind of strategy is that? So, yes, I invented Millie Johnson, slotted her into the middle of my class list, printed it and left it on Marion’s desk. I knew Marion wouldn’t bother checking the list. And I was right. She sent Nathan to be mismanaged elsewhere and Millie guarded the back seat for me. That’s it!’

I usually get offered a coffee at this point. When she’s seducing me into doing more with less

time and no tangible benefit. A glass pot sporadically spews out droplets of coffee that hiss

and sizzle on the hot plate. It smells stewed but I haven’t eaten or drunk anything since breakfast so I’d be up for a cup. The edge of the chair is digging into the backs of my legs. She is avoiding eye contact.  I need to aim straight for her core purpose: exam results. I sit forward and lift the curtain on Act 2.

‘By February half term they were actually my best group (I pause. Pauses are powerful). The pack came in smelling of dry shampoo, body odour and chewing gum but, as you know, no-one sprays or chews in my class. Alice Lahai, you know Alice, (of course she doesn’t know Alice), still came into every lesson ranting about the broken blinds, dirty windows, wobbly tables but then got straight down to work. Alfie Wright’s pens still exploded every other lesson but he wiped the ink from his mouth with tissue and water from his sports bottle: no fuss.  And every time Nathan Smith, who, by the way, is not being managed at all, ran down the corridor and banged his fist on the door, my girls tutted and carried on scratching out their big round letters with hearts over the ‘i’s. And my boys kept their heads low in the sanctuary of my classroom.  Millie kept Nathan out and I was grateful to her for that; we all were. This class will all meet their target grades. Which is, frankly, a modern miracle. ‘

She reminds me that we are also supposed to teach integrity. Did she just question my integrity? Seriously! I remind her that we are required, by law, to teach mathematics despite the Financial Times insisting we teach ‘curiosity not careerism’ and the BBC demanding more cooking and sewing lessons – but only for the boys- and Morning Radio requiring us to teach more about England’s medieval past whilst also delivering lessons in fake news and Latin.

I’ve been ad-libbing but it has served a purpose: a comedic interlude to remind myself that the expectations of this job are ridiculous, this interview is ridiculous and I just need to say what she wants to hear and go home.

She brushes casually at a black fly hovering above a cluster of little pink roses on her summer blouse. It buzzes away, disappointed and angry, towards the window. The sound is drowned by the hormonally enhanced volume of teenage boys kicking off. They come into sight: one in a headlock, both with wild eyes and adrenaline-fuelled fury. Our glorious leader stands, walks towards the window and with the same fly-flicking gesture shoos them away. Obviously, this has no effect whatsoever so she closes the blinds on them and returns to her executive swivel chair.

I have to intervene. It’s a fleeting dilemma but the partially strangled child is the highest priority here. I start for the door. She asks me at what point I realised that my deception had got out of hand. Deception? Did she just call me deceitful? Seriously!  I hear adult voices, the noise outside quietens, altercation over, onlookers dispersed, so I sit back down. She suggests that writing a report on a fictional child was a step too far and wonders what possessed me. Not just deceitful then, actually inhabited by demons.

‘Call me crazy if you like, Joanna, but I like writing progress reports. I get set up in my fleecy onesie, at my little kitchen table with room for one, and do the job properly. I’d recorded Ash Lahiri’s scores on the laptop and was about to write positive things about his work, lovely young man, but the form was headed with Millie’s name. How did that happen? (I don’t expect an answer but pause long enough to let the unspoken word ‘Marion’ float above our heads where it mingles with the acrid combination of stale coffee and Chanel Number 5). I wrote Millie Johnson on a piece of paper and a non-existent child turned up on the school data system. That shouldn’t be possible, surely? Anyway, the report was a thought experiment, nothing sad, or bad or mad. I gave Millie mid-grades, wrote words like ‘engaged’, ‘delightful’, ‘focused,’ and a ‘pleasure to have in my class. And it wasn’t even a lie. Millie was a pleasure, given that Nathan was the alternative.’

I smile: she does not.

I look past her. I don’t like that painting, hanging too high on the wall. It hasn’t always been there, she brought it with her. It’s the one with Frida Kahlo’s pet monkey sitting on her right shoulder with its long arm draped over the left. The red ribbon threaded through Frida’s hair wraps itself in loose concentric circles around her neck like a slashed throat. It’s a little disconcerting: it doesn’t fit with the hollow, rigid Lego lady. She breaks the silence to express surprise that Millie could sit at ‘the back’ given that school policy requires the desks be arranged in a horseshoe. What has that got to do with anything? What other misdemeanours am I going to be charged with? Is she compiling a case against me? This is not good. Not going well at all.

‘Yes, the spare seat was next to Khaleesi, excellent student, she and Millie were two silent parallel lines in infinite proximity with no risk of intersection. I don’t want my classroom modelled on The House of Commons: adversarial sides with me refereeing from the beanwood chair. Ofsted should check out Prime Minister’s Question Time for low level disruption. And why would I want to encourage debate? There is nothing to be gained from the pooling of mathematical ignorance. They will not discover Pythagoras’ theorem by cutting and gluing bits of paper in collaboration with other gluers and stickers. It’s not a secret, it’s already been discovered. Not by Pythagoras, as it happens: it’s documented in antiquity; in the knotted ropes of the ancient Egyptians; in the clay tablets of the even more ancient Babylonians. Now there’s a story! And there’s nothing quite as effective as stirring up a bit of adolescent indignation about Pythagoras getting the undeserved credit. That’s why they remember it and that’s why I get results.’

She sighs. How irritating is that! It is not an acceptable response to my theatrical tour de force. Where is the validation? Where is the respect? How does she have the temerity to sigh at one of a handful of people in this place who delivers, on the ground, where it matters? She drops stuttering, disconnected words into the space between us: ‘exercise book’, ‘concerned,’ ‘inconceivable,’ ‘judgement’ …and is starting to look very uncomfortable for an impact-resistant android, so I interrupt.

‘As I’m sure you know Joanna, Marion asked for a book sample, to check that we are all marking in school-policy-green and the list of requested books included Millie’s. So yes, I made one up.  Yes, I created an entire term of neat, graded exercises. I knew that Millie would underline her headings and dates in purple. It’s her favourite colour. And yes, I marked Millie’s work in obligatory green.’

Her pen is scratching rapidly across the page. She has started writing down every single thing

I say. I suspect, too late, that I should have been keeping my own notes.

A timorous tap on the door intrudes into the interrogation cell. She ignores it. That’s not good. She enjoys an interruption, a chance to show the minion of the moment where the real business happens. I look behind me, through the little rectangle of glass in the solid door, but the person of negligible importance has already scuttled away.

‘Millie saved us all. Millie did what was needed: she did not break Alfie’s nose or set Khaleesi’s hair on fire. Maths results will improve … again… you’re welcome.’

I note a slight animation in her right eyebrow. I am not supposed to know why Nathan The Arsonist was excluded from his last school. How does she not know that such things are common knowledge – instantly? There is no trickle down, no whisper chain, it’s a telepathic transfer from one institution to another.’

She announces that she has something to tell me in confidence. She leans in: I do not.

It seems that Millie was entered onto the school database by overwriting a student with a similar name. Millie’s absence from all lessons but mine raised an alarm which led to an investigation which led to the discovery that Mia Johnson – classified as ‘at risk’ – was actually missing. Missing from school, missing from home, untraceable. In light of all this, she advises me that The Governors’ Safeguarding Panel would like to interview me on Monday, after school.

That’s not good. Heads will have to roll. But mine will not be amongst them.

I take an A4 pad of squared paper from my bag and tear off a sheet. I search slowly through my pencil case and find a green gel pen. In large capital letters I write the words, I QUIT, across the middle of the page and sign my name at the bottom. I fold it, sift through my pencil case again, take out my little stapler and punch it into the sheet. I reach over and put it beside her notebook, pretended nonchalance betrayed by shaking fingers.

It occurs to me as I withdraw my hand that I may have just played into hers. We both stare at it.

And here it is: the final Act. The closing speech.

‘Joanna, every day you demand that I climb to the top of Escher’s staircase, you know the one, it simultaneously ascends and descends in an infinite labyrinth. If it were possible to get to the top, the Governors might try to throw me off, make the problem go away, but you see, the staircase is an impossible reality. I, and all the other hooded labourers out there, just keep climbing: up and up, down and up, round and round, but never to the top. I do not have authority to edit the database. I have nothing to say to the Governors. This is not a matter for the myrmidons on the stairs.’

A floral diffuser breathes in and puffs out a waft of essential rose oil. We both turn to watch the particles intermingle with the air and disappear. She has a grand design, they all do, but this Lego house needs a firm foundation and, more than anything, its master builders. She thanks me for dropping in and pushes the stapled sheet back to my side of the table.

I pick up the paper and put it back in my bag. Rising to leave, I deliver the final line of my performance, the one I had prepared.

‘I will be in my classroom tomorrow at 8:00, as always, and Millie will be at the back.’

The chinless face turns towards the closed blinds. A heavy cloud of resignation rises slowly from her body, gathers momentum from Frida’s suffering and blows me out of the room.

 

‘The Last Apple’

By Sharon Hier

The old horse had no name anymore.
There had been names once. In a child’s voice, breathless and sure, he’d been called Comet. Before that, Old Star. Before that, in the dark years of the war, he had no name at all, only a number branded onto his flank, 2817.
Now he was just the old gelding in the field next to the church. He stood alone, hips sharp beneath his moth-eaten winter coat, and watched the village pass him by. They’d built new houses behind the hedge, where the orchard used to be. Children cycled past and didn’t wave. But he waited each evening by the broken stone wall, staring toward the lane, as if someone might return.
The old man came at dusk. He was slow now. His boots dragged more than they lifted. One shoulder sagged lower than the other from a bullet long healed but never forgotten. His name was Stanley, though only the church still called him that, in the tattered baptism books stacked behind the pulpit.
Stanley brought apples when he had them, carrots when he didn’t. Mostly, he just brought himself. And in the quiet between them, things passed that didn’t need saying. “You’re still watching,” Stanley said one evening, stroking the horse’s velvet nose. “You and I both, eh?”
The gelding leaned into his hand. The skin was thin now, sun-creased and liver-spotted. But the smell of the man was still the same. Mud. Smoke. Soap.
“There was a time,” Stanley whispered, “when you wouldn’t stand still for a damn second. Remember that?” His voice caught, like a nail snagging cloth. “You dragged me straight through a hedge when the shell dropped. Don’t pretend you don’t recall.”
The horse blinked. Deep inside, something old stirred. A flicker of thunder, iron, fire and then faded again like breath on a mirror.
The next day, Stanley didn’t come. Nor the next. The horse waited anyway.
On the fourth day, the vicar arrived. He wasn’t from the village, not really too young, too modern, with clean cuffs and an uncertain smile. He opened the gate and stepped into the field, careful as if the grass might break. “Hello, old boy.”
The horse turned, slow and expectant.
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.” The vicar knelt, not caring that his trousers darkened with damp. “Stanley passed last night. Peacefully. His daughter said he was smiling. Said he whispered a name before he went.”
The horse took a step closer.
“He said, ‘Comet.”
And at that, the gelding, the nameless, war-branded, grey-whiskered remnant of a forgotten cavalry remembered. He remembered the young man who’d pulled him from the wreckage of a trench, who’d fed him from his own hands, who’d sung to him under a gas-thick sky. He remembered the thunder of hooves and the scream of artillery, the mud, the terror. And through it all, the young man. His young man. Stanley.
He let out a sound, low and ragged, not quite a whinny more like the falling away of a breath that had waited too long to be released.
The vicar stood. “He’s gone, lad. I’m sorry.”
The horse turned, walked to the wall, and waited.

It was cold by the time they buried Stanley, frost silvering the yew trees like mourning lace. A dozen people stood huddled beneath the church porch. The daughter. The grandchildren. The old butcher from the next village. No more than that.
And across the field, still as stone, stood the horse.
The daughter saw him. She stepped forward, her voice catching. “He’s still watching.”
The vicar nodded.
She frowned. “What do we do with him now?”
“He’s lived this long. Perhaps he’ll decide.”
That night, she came to the field with a blanket and a pail of oats, unsure why. She stayed for a while, sitting on the cold stone wall, listening to the stillness. She remembered the way her father’s face softened when he spoke of the war, not because of nostalgia, but because of one creature who had made it bearable.
“He saved me,” he’d said once. “Not just in the war. After it, too. He carried the pieces of me that came home broken.”
She didn’t understand it then. Now, maybe she did.
Later, at home, she found an old tin under Stanley’s bed. Inside were photos, yellowed, curling. One showed a young man standing beside a young black horse. Both looked straight at the lens, ears forward, chin up, brave. In the corner, written in pencil, just one word, Comet.

Winter held the village tightly. The days shortened. The wind came down from the hills in howls. The horse did not leave the stone wall. In the night, villagers heard him call, long, low sounds that echoed through the trees like a horn blown too late.
Then, one morning, he was gone. Not dead. Gone. The gate still latched. No hoofprints in the snow. Just an empty field, and beside the wall, an apple frozen but untouched.
They say the old horse walks the road between Hereford and the hills. That travellers have seen him in the fog, steady and shining with frost, walking west as the sun rises.
Some say he’s looking for Stanley. Others say he found him.
There’s a story that crops up now and then, told in pubs between pints. Of a field in France where no grass ever grows, and sometimes, if the wind is still, you can hear hooves. Just hooves, pacing a line, waiting.
And beside them a soldier, young and tall, humming under his breath, one hand resting on a great horse’s mane. They wait together. Not for war. But for memory. For the remembering of what it meant to carry each other through fire.

To love. To return.

Shortlisted

Ghost in the Post by Lisa Towell
The Sea Beneath Things by Kyle Collins
Hayfever by Emily Black
Moira’s Legacy by Ewart Hutton
Spiders by David Sosnowski
He Had it Coming (But Not Like That) by Vicky Ellaway-Barnard
Our Thing by Juliet Poules
The Bull by India Herbing
The Beach by Scott Blockley
In the Dark by Deborah Fowlis
American Dream by James Skivington
What can Lust Drive Ya To? by Stephen Paul Lynch
The Acacia Tree by Christopher Brookes
Like Poles by Georgia Allen-Ruthven

Longlisted

Asana by Barry Kitterman
The Book of Misdemeanours by Kate Anderson
Unless You Have No Choice by Gillie Easdon
No Smoke Without Fire by Kane McEvoy
Living The Zoo Life by Sean Lindsay
From Life by Nigel Praities
Emma Bunton and Geri Halliwell by Jennifer Brophy
River by Zenobie Van de Perre
Gone Fishing by Adam Pemberton
Fade by Geraldine Comiskey
Anatomy of Revenge by Rebecca Hurst
Dandelion Clock by Jane Breen
Beach Days by Lewis Mc Cahill
Psychic Lies by Jo Gibson
Birdfeeder by Heather Preston
Heritage by Emma Collins
The Box by Terry Kerins
Long Live Millie West by Laura Ash
Gabriel Tobius Finch by Carl Hufton-Straw
Car Park Life by Nick Gilbert
The Station by Denise Tsik
Olivia Colman’s Left Eye by Stuart Rathe
Through The Window by Noelene Maguire
The Rose Tree and the Imaginary Firearm by Nash Colundalur
Who Walks Beside by Susannah Sutton
Parallel by Fynn Moran
Red Ryder’s Rides by Allston James
Let Loose! by Hashem AlHamar
Epilogue by Jasmina Tal
Big Pebble Project by Paul McMichael
Truth or Dare by Paul McMichael
Maps for Many Rooms by Benjamin Foxcroft
Deeper than it Looks by Seán McNicholl
The Next One Hundred Hot Dogs by Trevor Heft
Dawn by Linnhe Harrison
The Harbour by Marie Devine
Up to No Good by Alexandra O’Sullivan
Past Lives by Kay McLoughlin
Pieces of Us by Becca Webster
Tea Time by Mariana Ortigao
Moira by Katy Finnegan
Woodhaven by Rachel Davison
On Hawthorn Crag by Roy Whittle
Charon’s Obol/Coins for the Dead by Zachary Seager
The Gravediggers by Adrain Wakeling
A Phone Call in June by Casey Murphy
Tipping Point by Gillian Brown
Say Hello & Wave Goodbye by Carolin Gale
World Not Wanted Here by Samuel Prince
The Dress by Isabelle Duphy
Roaming by Emma Oldham
Would You Believe It by Lucy Bignall
A Story Out of the Night by Stephen Lorriman
School Photo by Gavin Eynon
The Burning by Elizabeth Gorman-Tysoe
The Swimmer by Donna Ferguson
A Penis with a Pulse by Aideen Henry
Born to Burn by Matt Hollingsworth
Home by Ryan Wiles
Missing Person by Brian Keating
The Mantis by Marah Herreid
The Runner by DP Warne

Thank you to everyone who took part in our Short Story Competition this year!