May 2013

Page 2

Vaughn, without even a glimpse, tossed the PDA to Gabriela. “Only a few today but need to pick up something at Athena Industries.” He pointed to the small purple patch on her face. “You alright? Maybe you should put some ice or a frozen lamb chop on it.” Gabriela skimmed her delivery list, “I’m fine, I just auditioned for the role of a slave.” It was actually Tate, one of the more aggressive students at school. She scanned the leaden sky as the heavy droplets pounded and started her bike. “Stupid atmospheric processors… always screwing up.” Two police droids walked by. One of them tracked her momentarily. Bad weather meant potentially more accidents and therefore more police droids on patrol. Well, that was the excuse anyway. As Gabriela’s bike proved …

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So a belated announcement this week, as we waited patiently for the judges to get their votes in. I suppose you feel for them. It was a close short list, with not much to separate the submissions in terms of quality or adherence to the topic. In the end there can only be one winner though. Congratulations go to: Debb Bouch!   This is Debb’s first win at Needle In The Hay, though her submissions are often in the top three. Debb wrote another excellent and engaging story which the judges found “funny, eloquent, and just weird enough to stand out.” So thanks to all our submissions, and a big welcome to Alex and Nicolas, who made their first short lists this week. Make sure to check out our latest award, …

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A fact I learnt very early on is that people are all made of different things. Some have solid bodies of steel, others walk around in a natural gleaming skin of twenty-four carat gold. There are those made of just plain fabric, weak, brown, stuffed with chicken feathers and spluttering. Though it’s people like me, who are made of edible materials, who are put to the toughest of tests. We’re expected to look nice, slid out of the tin, the pan, onto the plate, for the inspection of all. I look in the mirror and decide I’m made of jelly. Not because I wibble or wobble – not that parts of me don’t – but because from the start, I’m slapped out onto the plate unceremoniously, laughed at, cringed at, …

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