Thank you to all who entered the 2025 Audio Book Competition

The winning writers are listed below, linked to some of the poems or stories they entered in the ABC competition

First Prize winner (£150 + audio book publication): Ghosts of Former Patients — Neil Douglas
Second Prize winner (£75 + audio book publication) : From Lack to Love — Rachel Naylor
Third Prize winners (£35 + audio book publication): Human to Human — John Ling
Caterpillar Tracks — Kate Copeland

Highly Commended
Neil Douglas

Commended
Amy Hawes, Ben Dali, Christine Griffin, Kate Copeland,  Paul Thwaites,  Sharron Green, Wendy Webb

Alphabetical list of anthology authors

Amy Hawes, Ben Dali, Christine Griffin, John Ling, Kate Copeland, Neil Douglas, Paul Thwaites, Rachel Naylor, Sharron Green, Wendy Webb
indicates audio published — some are work in progress

Competition details and rules are here

Wendy Webb

Wendy (she/her), North Midlands, UK, prolific poet, published with Reach, Dawntreader, Quantum Leap, Crystal, Frogmore Papers, Acumen, Wildfire Words, Littoral, Lothlorien, Atlantean, Poetry Wivenhoe, Drawn to the Light (Ireland), Seagulls (Canada), Poem Alone, Poetry Breakfast, Poetry Super Highway, Masticadores Canada, Our Poetry Archive, Dreich, The Candyman’s Trumpet, Envoi, Seventh Quarry, Balestra, Leicester Literary Review, Poetry Kit, and Poetry Place (radio). Shortlisted in Writing Magazine (Free Verse 2025/03), /1st prizepantoum (2001) Love’s Floreloquence

Where Have all the Flowzers Gone?*

There’s a fly on the window
outside or in?
Too early to head for the bus stop
using my bus pass to 1962, or so.
What did I have for breakfast, no idea.
Did breakfast materialise? Were we poor?
Back at number 11, except, it’s changed.
Something’s missing.

Flew off, back where my day began
inhaling fresh air to the hum of traffic.
The beautiflorious cherry felled,
nothing except stump to remind
of neighbourly hedge debate.
Heaven of Japanese proportions
on a housing estate of gangland
like Alice’s cocooning caterpillar.
Better hookahs in Turkey, or Paris.
Heady smoke vanishes. It’s mine.
The tree’s memory. My side of the hedge.

The day’s begun, optimistic sun’s risen
before switching on early news,
dreading what places what chaos
what new inhumanity to crows or magpies.
The big front bedroom visibly split,
infiltrating the 21^st century god of bathrooms.
Not en-suite in Council house.

I want to rewind the clock
forget whose first action picked up mobile
reading texts, keeping busy and needed.
Where have all the butterflies gone?
BEWARE OF THE DOG.
Gated security forbids intrusion.
The blackberry and raspberry bushes
trashed, with the red-brick wall,
quick escape route from shops.
High fence? Security camera? Banned…

The bees drag themselves into today
for the bliss of lavender
while I wish to slam glass
and grieve a dead fly.

*Memories of 1962, Mam and Dad, fallen like blossom from a felled tree.

Heat and Steam for Images at Tea

Fretted bark of fir trees thrust skywards
to perfect sunshine blue, car park through hawthorn hedge
separating heartbreaking place of earth:
black marble, gold letters: loving wife, mum and nanna.
Bluetit, heart and flowers mark the spot of tears like rain
for the village’s favourite Italian grandma.

Plaintively at prayer: young female   dark ponytail   face down
scrunched defensive ball to the god of opened bottles
whisky unscrewed   almost empty
behind the library car park   hangover later

Comfortable carriage sink-in sofa, luggage stacked in racks,
painting those glory days of steam, fire extinguisher in doorway,
downing a pint of Old Mout. Food arrives.
Goats’ cheese and caramelised red onion, side salad, coleslaw.
No rock and roll, nor shunt and steam, Brief Encounters long gone
as trains rattle through Wymondham Station.

He’s out the door, travelling light, changing later,
the onslaught of duty at football.
Fan’s on, gently complaining TV, windows closed against
summer onslaught.
                        Fridge, plate, glass, balls of absent pleasure:
food for a light evening, home alone.

Sharron Green

Sharron, aka @Rhymes_n_Roses on social media, writes about nature, nostalgia and modern life. With an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Surrey she has published four chapbooks and has poems in 20+ international anthologies.
Sharron co-hosts an open-mic poetry night in Guildford and is in the Booming Lovelies, a trio of poets who perform at festivals.
https://rhymesnroses.com

DIY vs DAI

This poem was written by me,
it’s simple and rhymes you can see.
I’ve yet to resort to AI
this Welsh sonnet helps explain why.

For me penning poetry’s fun,
a challenge to see what will come,
from word prompts, a photo or form,
my brain whirs and new verse is born.

If all creativity’s tech
just think of the brain cells we’ll wreck.
We’ll forfeit our skills in a flash
and perish when processors crash.

What will we all do with time won
When all that we did do is done?

I’m Easily Fed

Sponsored and suggested posts
are littering my feed.
Things they think I’ll click on, that
I’m looking for, or need.

The algorithm highlights
cats, comedy and cakes –
I find them so distracting,
one glance is all it takes.

Courses, concerts, clothes and crafts
also catch my eye,
before my search is back on track
half hours have flown by.
/
I really should ignore them,
but tailored bait tastes sweet,
and once they have entrapped me
I binge until replete.

I want to see my friends’ posts,
but time has gone to waist
and when at last I get there

I’m feeling over faced.

Paul Thwaites

Paul Thwaites has been writing poetry and prose pieces since childhood. He had a collection of work published alongside imagery by Graham Ibbeson, the sculptor, titled High Noon to Midnight and was asked to read his poem “NHS” at the unveiling of the COVID Memorial Sculpture in Barnsley.
Paul recently finished a novel The Habit and The Hood, and is seeking publication. He also enjoys writing short stories and articles.

Aldeburg Benjamin

A fog sounding bell,
Unseen from shingled shore,
Bound to mute night’s calling
Its far waved darkness tolling
Through wraithed air,
A switchback sound
Of vespers and unending prayer.

Round din makes rung muezzin’s mantra,
The slow, acknowledged chime,
Miasma of a fetid breath ~
That sings almost too sweet,
This midnight air
Of death.

And seamens’ missions tell
Ganzied in rib, of the spare,
Dutchman note over the briny,
Flying to stare at the skeined horizons
That defy their fathom.

Aeolian rigs, low lamentations,
Dawn’s warning,
Low and sturdy tone,
Strident, sour, syncopation
Aloneness hammering its blight,
Sounding strand sound,
Spectral in immanence,
Ears that reach ~
Imagination of the night.

Seahouse Mission

Fast limpet to its faith clasp,
Tide’s dislodging song,
Frees not time’s barnacle 
Or sways the iron clamp on stone,
Up the damp hill and seascaled road,
Or loose the hook’s grip,
On the cobbled shell.

It shall not slip, nor slide to sleigh,
Wind stripped to chatter in the rig,
But broach sea shingled whisperings,
Rumours creaking in the brig,
Staunch welded grey on awning sky
And glowering encroach of bay.

Keeled to sacred earth the Mission sing,
Shantied squeeze and pumped harmonium,
Jingled box and raised wheeze
Of the Sunday hymn,
Braving rains fleet volleys,
Windows thrash,
The wavering candle of the eye
Lit by watery song,
That will not dash.

For still holds fast to stay,
The muscled custom of the shell,
Buoyed against swell,
Insistent of uneasy time,
Salt of the earth come Mission now,
Raised on a bright hill,
Begat in brine.

Christine Griffin

Christine Griffin writes poetry and short fiction and is widely published both nationally and internationally. Publications this year include poetry in Writing Magazine and Poetry Super Highway and a short story in Writing Magazine. Christine is poetry runner-up in the Gloucestershire Writers’ network competition 2024.

Homer Speaks
Palimpsest of Homer and John Chrysostom:  Cambridge University Library

I chronicled it all.
Ten years of hostile, heaving seas,
hearing the tide roar against the rocks,
the howls of hapless mariners,
doomed to a watery death.
Ten years hardship on Troy’s plains
in the endless cruel winds.

I told of that final bloody struggle
on the plains of Troy.
The women, the brawls,
the anguish of those
who would never return.
Faithfully I recounted it—
Achilles, Priam, Hector, Patroclus
Illiad, Illium burning with rage.

Centuries later, they scratched me out.
Castrated me, covered me
with golden-mouthed Chrysostom.
Parchment was rare and I was old.

But let me tell you this.
Despite watermarks, fire holes
wax drippings, mouse droppings,
the old tales glow beneath the page—
the fires of Troy still burn.

Not so good today, are we?

She is tiny now, a tattered wreck
beached on a faded floral chair,
crooning tunelessly,
waiting.
Someone is shouting.
The tea trolley rattles
with mismatched mugs.

She who wore suits, matching hats, gloves,
is wearing someone else’s dress.
She, whose wardrobe shone
with gowns for all occasions,
has fluffy rabbits on her slippers.

She, who took me to Betty’s
for tea in china cups, buttered crumpets,
fancy cakes on a stand, 
mumbles over brittle ginger nuts.

Not so good today are we, dear?
The tea lady plonks a mug down,
moves on.

Stripped of her treasured garnets, gnarled fingers
pick at threads, pluck at stray hairs,
grey ghosts of the soft red curls
I loved to comb.

It’s Mary, I say, kissing her.
Mary she says.
I knew a Mary once.

Ben Dali

Ben Dali made his bones in the entertainment biz as a cruise ship game-show host, then stage hypnotist and mind reader, before naturally progressing into primary school teaching. 
After winning the chance to read his poem ‘Humdinger Words’ at Shakespeare’s Globe, this up-and-coming performance poet immersed himself in a world of comedy-cabaret poetry. 
Keep an eye out as Ben tours his first poetry show: Humdinger Words & Other Jazzy Bumph across UK festivals this year, including Brighton and Edinburgh Fringe.

Theme-a-Pitch

I’m gonna do a poem now that doubles as a quiz
I give you clues to movies. You work out what each one is
I’ll privily plot descriptions set to each film’s theme tune
Don’t worry if you find it tough, it’s hard – you’re no buffoon.
Deduce each masterpiece I share, but don’t interrupt me
At the end of every stanza, you can shout it out on ‘Three’.

1
Whipped a lion, on a train
I don’t like snakes, but eat monkey brain,
Ten years younger, than my daddy
The last movie, I’m eighty, I’m history, no one’s face melting me
And what’s my franchise?
1…2…3

Indiana Jones

Yes that’s right, you can shout out at home, I can hear you.

2
Resurrection film, they spared no expense, set in land that’s too spacious
Bad grandparenting, lawyer dies on loo, characters actually
Cretaceous
1…2…3

Jurassic Park

3
I’m-neither-avian-nor-aviatoooor,
I’ll reverse time by flying the Equator
Why I’m two thirds of a love triangle, I’m unsure
Forgave my enemy, cos of his mum’s name
Remove specs, you won’t know me, don’t look the same
1…2…3

Superman

4
I’m played by a softcore porn movie star
I’m still punching meat, but now I’ve come far
I got my shot as a marketing joke,
Though I sound like I just had a stroke
And I look it, too
I’ll power through
Always do
Montage or two
My win record’s not great
I always get my arse handed to me
On a plate
1…2…3

Rocky Balboa

5
You can’t refuuuuse this film thaaaat has it all
Though, hard to heeeear, through cotton wool
Don’t get attached, to your pets’ head
You may shoot me, but you must show me respect
Be careful when you walk through orange groves
Don’t let your wife drive cars, or she might well explode
About Part Three, the less we say
Just shows that crime doesn’t always pay
1…2…3

The Godfather

6
This tune is gold, it’s where ads are sold
Sorry but I do not mean to sound cold, but if you recognise it then you’re very old

Pearl and Dean. “Asteroid” the Pearl and Dean theme.

Meta Meet, Man

A Saturday night in November 2024. My friends and I had hired a party mansion to celebrate a mate’s 40^th. It’s 2:30 in the morning and I’m experiencing something brand new for the first time in my life. Mandy – that’s my friend’s wife – says she’s hired a man to deliver us meat for lunch the next day and I immediately came up with a brand new ambition in life and wrote this poem to commemorate the occasion.

I want to meet a meat man.
I want to tell you that I met a meat man.
Have you ever met a meat man?
Do you want to meat a meat man?
I wanna meat a meat man.
Meeting a meat man, that would be neat, man.
So I went to meat a meat man but the meat man that I meant to meet turned out to be a beautiful woman.
Thus I never met a meat man.
But.
If you want to meet a meaty woman, this is how you meet her.
Wowee, we’re marrying in…
3…
2…
1 meter.
And that is how I met her.
And that is mega meta.
Meta meet, man.

Amy Hawes

Amy Hawes is a primary school teacher in North London, originally from Durham. She began writing poetry at 14 through a personal blog, and this anthology marks her first publication beyond that space. Amy studied English Literature and Language and remains an avid reader. She loves sharing stories and poetry with her class, encouraging creativity and self-expression. For Amy, poetry is a way to reflect, process, and connect through words.

Barbie

Am I just a novelty toy?
A figurine on the shelf,
For the dormant boy
Between the Lego and
the pictures of a past self

Spread my plastic limbs
Manipulate my body 
Act out all your whims 
You have others for 
The more wholesome things

If you’re holding back
Then that’s all this is
I’m a play thing, a whore 
Wouldn’t be very Barbie of me
To beg you for any more 

The Bad Man

My friends refer to you as the bad man
I try to forget you all I can
But you are engraved
in the way I handle things,
the making of the guard I bring
I see you as a mould, a scourge
they take hold, haven’t you heard
I spray, I scrub and I wish you gone
But you were all I knew for oh so long

I am a pretty thing, a work of art
A wholesome being with an open heart
I’m building up the love within
Being seen as worthy
is worth practicing

You are not the maker of me,
I am made of many things
Care, wonder and such sweetness that
Optimism is something I never lack
So I lunge into this next lust
With that same open heart and unfounded trust
One day the leap will reap rewards
And I’ll be glad that to you I did not fall

John Ling — Human to human

John Ling is a mediator for neighbour disputes and for SEND cases, (children with special needs). He has published six books, two of poetry, two short stories, and two Social Stories for SEND children.

We will be angry   (for the people of Palestine) 

Take my land, give it a new name.
let me have a small part. Call it a “territory”. 
In my territory let new people come,
people from all over, let them find my water,
build their houses near it, siphon it off,
let me have a little bit, and I will be angry.

Let them make roads between their settlements
that we cannot use, so we cannot get to work
without your permission, without documents.
Make us queue for hours, and we will be angry.
Build your high walls around our villages
so you cannot see us, but keep watch on us.
look down from the hills, plant your cameras and lights.
You will not stop the graffiti, for we will be angry.

Burn our olive groves, spray them with sewage.
Attack our women at night. Cut off our power supplies.
Deny us cement and bricks. Blockade our shipping.
Make us pay tolls. Keep us in poverty,
Then if we protest spray us with tear gas,
imprison our leaders. call them terrorists,
refuse to talk with them. Talk about talks you
know you will never have. Talk about self defence.
Talk all the usual crap of those who have power.

And for each little stone we throw in our anger
you may throw back a hundred boulders.
Say you are sorry for civilians you have killed.
Say it cannot be helped, we brought it on ourselves.
Say you have the right, you have right on your side.

And though you may kill me we will not die, for like you
we share a long memory. We will continue to be
a thorn in your flesh until one day you may remember
what it feels like to be persecuted, to be defiled,
to be trodden underfoot, to be robbed and displaced,
to lose children, siblings, parents, grandparents,
all at once, all together, who did you no wrong.
Until one day, one day, you may remember that
we and you are the same. We are born, live, and love,
we die, all equal, all one, here on what remains of
this earth that we share, that we share, with you.

Radicalise me

Tell me the life I am leading is not exciting enough,
is leading me astray. Tell me to ignore those who say
do not get involved, it will lead to trouble.
Tell me that a life of pleasure seeking is not good.

Radicalise me.
Take me to a different country where I can learn new skills.
Like setting aside prejudices learnt from parents and friends,
like talking to people I do not know, from a different tribe,
with different skin, seeing how they live, and listening to them.

Radicalise me.
Tell me that women are equal to men, are worth educating,
often more intelligent than men. That virgins are no more
valuable than mature women, that they are beautiful for a reason,
not to be hidden away, that sex is part of loving, and not oppression.

Radicalise me.
Teach me to think for myself. Tell me that all religions are
of equal value, or of none, and it is ok not to believe in any.
That people invent their own gods, that it is ok to make fun of them.
That a god is not great who tells me to bomb, to demolish, to displace.

Radicalise me.
Tell me that politics is not about profit, or land, or oil, or the arms trade,
but about people. That people have the right to justice, to safety,
to a roof over their head, to have work, enough to live on, to be heard,
to protest, to say what they like, or to do nothing, to dance, to drink,
to laugh, and that old people are not to be discarded.

Radicalise me.
Teach me new skills, like empathy, gentleness, patience.  Let me take risks.
Teach me not to hate, but to love, have self- respect, respect for others,
that power is not from above, but from within.
Tell me that I already have the power.
Let me hear its quiet voice, amid all the noise.

Let me use it.

The many uses of stones

I killed my first man with a stone.
The size of a coconut it was.
Surprising how soft was his skull,
this hard-headed brother of mine.
I took his woman to my hearth.

The next was the champion of his tribe,
a thick headed giant of a man.
But I took him out with my sling.
A stone in the eye brought him down.
His head on a stake we displayed.

I learnt how to smash city walls
with boulders that flew through the air.
What use was the feeble bow and arrow
when your house is demolished at a stroke,
the bowman’s head rolling down the street?

I learnt how to fly like a bird,
and how to make exploding stones
that killed indiscriminately well.
Our enemies looked up to the sky
in fear as we bombed them to hell.
And then came the best stone of all.
I only had to use it twice.
We lost count of how many died,
and some went on dying for years.
They never let me use it again.

Now the strongest tribes all want my stones.
They don’t have to fight any more.
Just owning them is more than enough.
They think that my stones keep them safe.
But I miss the joy of crushing a skull.

Reception Desk

Hello.
I won’t say welcome,
because you’re not.
No courtesies here.
You will be surprised.
Not what you expected.
What you were told,
it was not the truth.
None of them told the truth,
not Imams, priests, rabbis
Jehadis, prophets, saints.
And where are they now?
Where are they now?
How could they know?

But, like all the others,
you believed them.
Ah- innocence of youth!
You knew poverty, pain.
abuse, mistrust and hatred.
Oh, and boredom too.
Nothing so boring as
righteousness, obedience,
respectability, and no sex.

So you heard rumours,
rumours of action,
excitement, guns,
cars, and free women,
what every lad wants.
Like those ridiculous movies,
those visceral Utube shorts,
the masks, the beheadings,
the blaming, shaming,
the mystery, the mastery.

So here you are,
quicker than you’d expected.
I hope you got enough sex,
‘cos there ain’t no virgins here.
But you no longer have a penis.
Did you see what happened
to your body? No?
Doesn’t matter.

Here’s what’s on offer.
For the first thousand years
you listen to a continuous loop
of the five hundred best rants
of the Ayatollah Khomeini.
The second thousand,
 a selection of sermons
by Billy Graham.
After that, an eternity
of silence. Just sign here
will you? Thank you.
Goodbye.

Human to human

Story me your life, and I will story mine.
Story me tender. Story me tough.
Tell me who you were, where you came from,
who you think you are, who you want to be,
I will know you better by your telling.
as you will yourself by the retelling.

Your story and mine will consist of stories
we were told by others about ourselves that
we came to believe. We remembered them.
We will believe stories heard over and over
about our family, our tribe, our country,
lives of the great, and even, just maybe,
of the little people, whose stories get lost
as the big ones get bigger in the telling.
And though historians find inconvenient facts,
we prefer the stories, for stories bear more truth.

We will talk, then we’ll talk, then we’ll begin to talk.
We will listen, then we’ll listen, then we’ll begin to listen.
Out of my story I will edit things
I would rather forget, as you will too.
Until some time when we decide to become
one story, we may feel safe enough
to tell the truth to each other.
Human to human. For we human beings
cannot move on until our stories
have been heard. So let us tell stories.
Let us tell stories till the light rolls home.

Kate Copeland — Caterpillar-Tracks

Kate Copeland‘s love for words led her to teaching & translating; her love for art & water to poetry … with publications sealed alright! Find her poems@ Ekphrastic Review, First Lit.Review-East, Metaworker, New Feathers, Poetry Distillery, Wildfire Words a.o. Kate was born in Rotterdam & adores her housesitter’s life.

Rachel Naylor — From Lack to Love

A journey from fear to love, through body, mind, and heart

Rachel writes from the heart of her own healing journey, from burnout and people-pleasing to reclaiming her voice and inner spark. A teacher and mum who’s navigated family mental health challenges, she helps overgivers notice patterns, shift energy, and come home to themselves. Blending science, spirituality, and Yorkshire grit, she makes the deep stuff (epigenetics, energy, nervous system healing) real and grounded. Her work is an invitation: to feel, to heal, to reconnect with the love that was always there waiting.

Bloodline

In our family DNA, there is a fear of losing things, especially the people and moments we love. Our ancestors lived through hard times: domestic workers, farmers, cleaners, nannies. Many were poor, but they had good hearts.

Your grandad told stories of sugar sandwiches and even being fed his pet rabbit; I don’t think he ever got over that. Grandma, one of five children, never quite landed on earth (she preferred the world of pixies and fairies).

What I know is this: they were good people facing hard blows.

Many of the men died young, sometimes in shocking ways — like the one who fell on a pitchfork. These experiences planted a fear that something bad was always about to happen. That fear wasn’t ours, yet it travelled down the ancestral line. Science calls it epigenetics. I call it frequency. And you get to choose your frequency.

I knew it was my job to break the chain and ignite the gifts our ancestors couldn’t fully hold.
So I went on a journey: noticing my fears, letting memories rise and go, learning to relax into the love that was always waiting.

Along the way, I stopped rejecting our lineage and began to see the beauty shining through; the same beauty I see in you.

This is my offering to you, written with love and gratitude.
Thank you for being my guiding stars.
I love you to the moon and back, again and again.
You are my world.

Through my healing, I hope your worlds open wider; though really, it was never me.
It was always you.

Burnout

Learn to grasp the good when it comes,
take it in fully, without waiting
for it to disappear again.

Highs and lows.
Instability. Exhaustion. Fast pace.

Never building on your own goals;
you take what comes and you’re over-grateful.

You give your energy and love to all,
but never build anything real.

Boundaries dissolve.
Fear of loss rules every action.

Rest is impossible. Over-meeting others’ needs.
Don’t trust unless you’re in control.

Fear that expressing your true self
will bring rejection.

Burnout.

Fear that you’re not good enough: proven.

Quick Hits

Tv Series
Social Media scrolls
Crap food
People pleasing
Material goods
Gossiping
Amazon next day delivery
Checking the phone the moment you wake
Artificial light
Caffeine
Alcohol
Over working
Porn
Snacking
Gambling
Drugs
Fake relationships

Instability on repeat
Quick hits
Instant gratification
Low effort
Low mood
The highs and the lows

Long Term Rewards

Music
Exercise
Sunshine
Nature
Organic, home made food
Gratitude
Team work
Breath work
Meditation
Sleep
Genuine connection
Love and affection
Hugs
Community
Working on long term goals
Forgiveness
Laughter
Hugs
Reading books
Essential oils
Conscious connection
Hugs

Real and restorative dopamine
Delayed gratification
Longer term rewards
Stability
Love

Voice, Vagus, Vagina

Both connected to the nervous system,
both shut down when danger is perceived.

Both are beauty.
Creation.
Messengers.
Expression.

Breath, voice, jaw, pelvic floor, vagina —
all sensitive to fear, stress, and anxiety.

Tighten, and rigidity takes hold.
Sounds shift. Expression freezes.

Voice and sexual expression need safety, respect, relaxation.
Self-exploration before shared exploration.

Two leading portals,
connected to your authentic self.
You decide what enters, what exits.

Both carry creative life force.

Aliveness is connection.
Vitality.

Honour them.
Listen.
Breathe.
Express.

The Flood

After all the changes, knocks, heartbreaks and
losses, I’m here. Alive. And more so.
Fog lifted.
A rush of love flooding through my heart.
Right back to how I felt at the start.

Grateful. Alive.
Reconnected to life.
At peace.

Memories of all those I’ve known and loved washing
through me.
Reaching out.
Reconnecting.
Wondering if they’re at peace.

We change. We grow. We lose ourselves, until
we turn back time and gather all the pieces we
left behind.

And this time, as the flood dries up, we come back
WHOLE.

Neil Douglas — Ghosts of former patients

Neil worked as a GP and Community Paediatrician in London’s East End. He graduated with an MA in Creative and Life Writing from Goldsmiths College in 2024. He has appeared in magazines and anthologies in the UK, North America and Hong Kong and has previously been shortlisted in competitions by Frosted Fire. This is his first collection to be published.

   

Competition Details

   

The judges were Dr Katherine Parsons, Marilyn Timms, Howard Timms

All entries were checked for anonymity, then read by Dr Katherine Parsons, who produced a long list of potential prizewinners. Next, Wildfire’s publishing team of Marilyn and Howard Timms joined Katherine to read the long-listed entries and listen to a sample audio supplied with each. The three judges then voted for first, second, and third prize winners plus Highly Commended (shortlisted) entries.

Competition rules and entry

Writers entered 6 or more creative writing works — poems and/or flash fiction. One or more had to be audio — a recording of the writer reading a work.
The writer made the recording at home or contacted Wildfire Words to book a private online recording session. Further details of either are at this link: Recording your words.

Opened 10 June 2025
Closing date: 30 November 2025

Each prize-winning audio book will be published in 2026.

• The contest is open to writers worldwide except volunteers for Wildfire Words/Frosted Fire.
• All entries must be entirely the entrant’s own writing in English. The book as a whole must be unpublished, but any individual works may have been published singly — without any other work of the author’s being published in the same issue or website.
• Each book title entered should be submitted as a single Word or PDF file containing at least 6 works, each either a poem or prose story. Prize winners will be invited to submit more items to make a book with a maximum of 20 items.
• Each work should be no more than 300 words or 60 lines including stanza breaks.
• An audio of at least one work, read by the author, must be submitted either with the text, or afterwards by the closing date. Details of making or sending audio are at: Recording your Words
• You may submit up to three books, completing a separate entry form for each. Your second and third entries will be at half the entrance fee for your first title.
• Each entry must have a title which appears at the beginning and must also be the name of the file containing the entry, whether text or audio. The title should connect, in some way, most of the works.
• To maintain anonymous judging, there must be no identifying marks anywhere. Your entry must not contain any work that might be recognized by any of the judges through workshops, mentoring, or public readings. We will match your book title to your email address after anonymous judging is complete.
• Simultaneous submissions are accepted, but an entry must be withdrawn in the event of it winning a prize or publication elsewhere. Entry fees are not refundable once an entry has been received.
• Work will not be returned, so please keep a copy.
• We are unable to give feedback on individual entries or on the results of the competition — the judges’ decisions are final.
• Results will be emailed by 31 January 2026 to all who entered and also published on this website and social media.
• The entry fee for your first entry is £9. Payment can be made by credit or debit card or by PayPal account. PLEASE NOTE if you are entering your second or later entry, the entry fee is £4.50. And if you have entered another Wildfire Words competition this year, the first entry fee is £4.50.
• Entries must be paid for, and your text and audio files uploaded, by the closing time of 11.59 pm on 30 November 2025.