Members Writing Contest – closes mid-May 2022
Cash Prizes Awarded: $100, $50, $50
- Email your entries to email@example.com
- The contest is for members only. Become a member
- all entries, max 500 words (poems max 20 lines)
- Max 2 submissions
- Email subject header: March Writing Contest
- Closes 16th May. Awards announced end May
Write a piece inspired by one of the quotes or images on this page
I have this strange feeling that I’m not myself anymore. It’s hard to put into words, but I guess it’s like I was fast asleep, and someone came, disassembled me, and hurriedly put me back together again. That sort of feeling.
― Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart
I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that I don’t know the answer.
I have been feeling very clearheaded lately and what I want to write about today is the sea. It contains so many colors. Silver at dawn, green at noon, dark blue in the evening. Sometimes it looks almost red. Or it will turn the color of old coins. Right now the shadows of clouds are dragging across it, and patches of sunlight are touching down everywhere. White strings of gulls drag over it like beads.
― Anthony Doerr, All the Light We Cannot See
I thought grief would feel like sadness, like missing a person, adjusting to an absence. It feels less like an absence and more as though the shape of everything has changed.
Because it changed, I don’t know where I fit. I cannot adjust to normality because it has gone. Its home has been emptied of furniture and I cannot go back there again.
Then the pandemic happened.
And I am no longer alone in my grief.
— Chloe Warren, Goodness,
Grieve Volume 8
They say nothing lasts forever but they’re just scared it will last longer than they can love it.
— Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
It was a sign of growing up when the dark made no more difference to you than the day.
— Roddy Doyle, Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha
Rain is its own season:
keeping its counsel,
withholding or giving
as if by whim –
months of nothing
then a dramatic plenitude
of damp and cold, of life.
The simple fact of rain:
scourge or blessing;
timely, or lethally late
A transparent enigma;
sower of resurrection’s joy.
– Diane Fahey, Rain is its Own Season,
Newcastle Poetry Prize 2014