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Source: SPM Publications | HOT OFFERS – Discounts and Giveaways

SPM Publications | HOT OFFERS – Discounts and Giveaways

Source: SPM Publications | HOT OFFERS – Discounts and Giveaways

Touched for the very first time by Paul McDonald

Touched for the very first time is a short story by Paul McDonald was the third prize winner, Sentinel Annual Short Story Competition 2015. touched-for-the-very-first-time-pm

Anthony Watts to judge Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (May 2017)

Anthony Watts

Anthony Watts

We are pleased to announce that Anthony Watts will judge the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (May 2017). The competition which is open to all poets living in any part of the world will open on 6th March and close on the 31st of May.

Watts has been writing ‘seriously’ for over 40 years and has had poems published in magazines and anthologies in addition to four published collections: Strange Gold (KQBX Press, 1991), The Talking Horses of Dreams (Iron Press, 1999), Steart Point (John Garland, 2009) and The Shell Gatherer (Oversteps, 2011).   He has won prizes in poetry competitions and his poems have been broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and Somerset Sound.  Rural Somerset has been his home for most of his life and he has no plans to leave it.  His main interests in life are poetry, music, thinking and messing about outdoors.

ENTER COMPETITION HERE

Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (February 2017)

Closing date: 28-Feb-2017

Judge: Mandy Pannett author of All the Invisibles

Details: For original, previously unpublished poems in English language, on any subject, in any style, up to 50 lines long.  Poets of all nationalities living in any part of the world are eligible to enter.

Prizes:  £200 (first prize), £100 (second prize), £50 (third prize), £20 x (high commendation) and £10 x 3 (commendation).

First publication:  All winning and commended poems will be published in Sentinel Literary Quarterly magazine (online)

Results: will be announced on 15-April-2017

Entry Fees:  £4/1, £7/2, £9/3, £11/4, £12/5, £16/7, £22/10

Send cheques/postal orders (GB£ only) in favour of SENTINEL POETRY MOVEMENT to:

Unit 136, 113-115 George Lane, London E18 1AB, United Kingdom

Contact: Enter online or download Entry Form for Postal Entry at http://sentinelquarterly.com/competitions/poetry

Getting Started by Chris Heyward

Getting Started by Chris Heyward was highly commended in the Sentinel Annual Short Story Competition 2015 judged by Alex Keegan.

READ THE STORY HERE

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Bean Counter by Dianne Bown-Wilson

Bean Counter by Dianne Bown-Wilson was commended in the Sentinel Annual Short Story Competition 2015 judged by Alex Keegan.

A leopard never changes his spots, my mother used to say with a resigned pursing of her lips. But since ‘that night’ she doesn’t any more.
She used to say it about Dad who was, is, a typical accountant: steady, pragmatic, controlled. Whether that was his nature and he chose his profession to fit, or whether his work reigned in what was once a more effervescent disposition, I can’t decide.
“Oh, he’s always been like that,” Mum says. But then, thirty-five years on, perhaps today’s torpid reality has driven out all memory of any recklessness that might have punctuated his younger life. After all, she must have thought him exciting once upon a time.
Anyway, to understand what happened you need to know a little of how things were. A few years back my father’s advertising agency, established some twenty years earlier with his best friend Brian and until then, unswervingly successful, was about to go under. The reason for this change in fortunes was simple: Brian, the creative, the yang to Dad’s yin, had been diagnosed with cancer. Read the full story.

Grapefruit Moon by Colin Watts

Grapefruit Moon, a short story by Colin Watts was commended in the Sentinel Annual Short Story Competition 2015 judged by Alex Keegan.

Read Grapefruit Moon

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Two poems by Noel Williams

Overgrown

Windfall phrases flutter on the path, dry whisperings,
litter scratching at my boots. As if someone
doesn’t want me hacking through these brambles
to that neglected shed. Someone is me.
But I’m not listening.
Time to cut this to the root.

In it those toys that Oxfam should’ve had –
the microscope with slides of spider-legs
and eye-bright copper sulphate, a bible scribbled through,
bruised Swoppets and the yellow saxophone
with scarlet keys still creased in cellophane
as if a toy-shop window bent and buckled round it.

You knew I’d kept them. But never said. As if
your silent threnody could scour guilt from these things
heaped up and hidden. Forget this pushchair with rust-soiled wheels
once a chariot. Imagine this typewriter
stuffed with your hundred spidered drafts
holds nothing but pages yearning to be trees.

You wished, I know, to become tongueless as oak.
Instead of words we might have a treehouse.
But what’s the point of knowing? I know this billhook,
for example, was your aunt’s, borrowed to slice
the first thick swathe of nettles from this yard
to clear it for that red pedal car. So what?

I know now this Lone Ranger Colt falls from its holster
if you sprint on the road. I’d planned to stitch it.
I know that if I’d cleared all this and dumped it when I should,
we’d have new tools, oiled and gleaming,
mounds of fecund peat, a dozen rows of seedlings,
fingering the trickling sunlight, if I’d unwebbed the window as you asked.
It feels like rain.

Return to Kabul, 1990

Under the carcass of a T72, the greybeard
elbows professional orphans,
spreads a Quran against a pillow of stone.
We face the same way.

We filter rice and cumin with our fingers,
chew kidney beans folded in spinach.
Stained by firelight we laugh about the carpet,
the lost washing machine, the hours
we’d prayed at that fizzing TV.
Who now crouches by its flattery?
Is it kicked in and sightless, like Mazar-al-Sharif?

Yesterday we counted a blackened mile of buses
lining the pits. My father wouldn’t come back to his cell.
He gave me the hasp of its hacksawed lock, talisman
against its sixty thousand silences.

Between the crazed walls and the minarets
pale pigeons glide like angels.
In the Ziaranth glazed by autumn sky,
a woman in a white burqua kisses the caliph’s tomb.
Those lights rising over the broken stone
are not the beams of any helicopter.

‘Overgrown’ and ‘Return to Kabul, 1990’ by Noel Williams were highly commended and second prize winner respectively in the Sentinel Annual Poetry Competition 2015 judged by Afam Akeh.