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Competition Showcase –
No Angel by Christine Sutton |
This section of the website showcases stories
by Writing Magazine competition runners-up.
No Angel, by Christine Sutton, Hornchurch, Essex,
was runner-up in the WM Crime Story competition.
The winning story, Deadly Routine, Janette Walkinshaw,
features in the June issue of Writing Magazine.
The judging comments are on the last
page
Posted: 16 May 2006
Previous Showcase stories: Greater
Love, Dawn Bush
Collision, Fran Tracey
The Tortoiseshell Comb,
Malcolm Welshman |
After working for 21 years as a veterinary nurse at a mixed
small/large animal practice in Romford, Essex, Christine Sutton
left to start a family. She took up writing when her son was
small, initially writing down the children's stories she made
up for him at bedtime. Eventually she started submitting them
to D C Thomson's Twinkle magazine, now sadly defunct
but an absolute boon to children's writers back then. Happily
they liked her style and took a number of stories from her.
Spurred on by these small successes Christine tried her hand
at writing short stories for adults, the first of which made
the shortlist in a Woman's Own competition and was
later published in their Summer Special. Since then her work
has appeared in dozens of publications both here and abroad,
including The Lady, Choice, Yours,
Pet Magic, Let's Talk, My Weekly,
Woman, Pet Power, Best and Chat
(all UK), Shades of Romance, Highlights for Children,
Characters and Wee Ones (USA), Woman This
Month (Bahrain) and That's Life Fast Fiction (Australia).
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No
Angel
by
Christine Sutton
The match flared briefly
as I drew deeply on my fag. Then my mouth fell open as I caught
sight of the stains in the snow and the twisted wings of the murdered
angel. Well, okay, maybe murdered is putting it a bit strong but,
hey, I’m a reporter, it’s my job to lay it on thick.
It wasn’t as if I hadn’t been tempted to put paid to
the insufferable little madam myself, she’d been so obnoxious
all night. I’d sat in the front row watching her hog the stage,
being more omnipresent than the Big Guy Himself, and my fingers
had itched to give her a good slap. Not that anyone’s supposed
to say such things these days, completely un-pc, but this was the
archetypal spoilt brat, every parental over-indulgence evident in
the rolls of fat that covered her ten-year-old frame and the ‘I’m
it’ way she conducted herself. Annabel Lee, the exotic-looking
drama teacher who’d cast her in the role of Angel, was clearly
a gal after my own heart, the irony was so delicious. I’d
told her so, too, when I cornered her backstage straight after the
play to get a line or two for the |
write-up. Her almond eyes twinkled
but she’d maintained an inscrutable silence, leaving me to
draw my own conclusions. I did.
Back in the hall, I found the child continuing to behave like the
Queen of Sheba, still in costume and strutting round giving every
other cast member her assessment of their performance. She had a
knack of bringing them down with just a word and a toss of those
Shirley Temple curls that actresses five times her age would’ve
envied.
A snide remark from her about the baby Jesus’ unfortunate
squint had sent the Virgin Mary running to her mother for comfort,
while her thoughts on the herding capabilities of the shepherds
left them bleating with shock. The Three Wise Men were ‘stoo-pid’,
the innkeeper ‘couldn’t run a tap’ and as for
the choir words just failed her.
Truly, this had been one very un-heavenly Gabriel indeed and if
she’d got her comeuppance I for one wasn’t about to
lose any zeds over it.
The nativity play over, and with it, mercifully, my work for the
night, I’d nipped to the loo before coming out here to enjoy
a much-needed smoke. That’s when I glanced down to see what
looked like a bundle of clothes lying at the bottom of the steps.
Then the collection of odd outlines formed themselves into a cohesive
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