Thanks to our Guest Judge:

Literary Agent Fiona Smith with Beyond Words Literary Agency

WOW was honored to have guest judge literary agent Fiona Smith choose this season’s top winners. Thank you, Fiona, for sharing your time and efforts to make these contestants’ dreams come true!

Fiona’s bio:

Fiona lives in NSW, Australia, with her two teenagers, two dogs (editing assistants) and two horses.

On top of running Beyond Words Literary Agency and representing a string of successful authors, Fiona is also a writing coach, manuscript editor, keynote speaker and published author. Her autobiography, My Wild Ride, was published by Allen & Unwin in 2013. She also has a Ba Arts/ Ba Education with an English Literature major.

Prior to creating BWLA, Fiona had a successful career in Sales and Marketing at a national level. This experience, coupled with her love for and knowledge of the publishing journey, enables her to place your novel with the right publisher.

Her editing skills are also based on transforming your manuscript into a page turning sensation, that publishers and readers will love.

Contact Fiona at www.beyondwordsagency.com and subscribe to the newsletter to receive bi-monthly updates on publishing deals and news.

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We want to thank each and every one of you for sharing your wonderful stories with our guest judges this season. We know it takes a lot to hit the send button! While we’d love to give every contestant a prize, just for your writing efforts, that wouldn’t be much of a competition. One of the hardest things we do after a contest ends is to confirm that someone didn’t place in the winners’ circle. But, believe it when we say that every one of you is a true winner for participating.

To recap our current process, we have a roundtable of 12+ judges who blindly score equally formatted submissions based on: Subject, Content, Technical, and Overall Impression (Style). That’s the first step of the process. If a contestant scores well on the first round, they receive an e-mail notification that she passed the initial judging phase. The second round judging averages out scores and narrows down the top entries. From this point, our guest judge helps to determine the First, Second, and Third Place Winners, followed by the Runners Up.

As with any contest, judging so many talented writers is not a simple process. With blind judging, all contestants start from the same point, no matter the skill level, experience, or writing credentials. It’s the writer’s story and voice that shines through, along with the originality, powerful and clear writing, and the writer’s heart.

We’ve enjoyed reading your stories, each and every one of them. Thank you for sharing your work with us. We hope that you continue writing and submitting so we can watch you grow as writers and storytellers, because each season is a rebirth of opportunity.

Kelli’s Bio:

 

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North

By Kelli Short Borges

 

They are lost. Bea has suspected it for hours. Her heavy boots crunch through the thin layer of ice that has settled over the once powdery snow. Overnight, an unexpected freeze has coated the vast wilderness south of Missoula, its beauty in juxtaposition to the uneasy twist Bea now feels in her gut.

“We’re going in circles.” She glances at Jacob, a sour taste at the back of her throat. Despite the cold, a thin sheen of sweat coats her forehead. Pushing her dark bangs back, she blanches, then takes a small sip of water.

“Relax. We’re fine.” Jacob replies, his tone glacial. A warning. “The lodge isn’t far from here.” Bea, lips pressed together, trails him, her small tracks mirroring his larger ones. She’s too cold to argue.

The ice beneath them cracks and crunches as they move, the blood orange reflection of sunset now splintered beneath their boots. A bitter wind shrieks through the ghost-like branches of surrounding pines, bites at slivers of exposed skin. Bea wraps her arms around her chest, rubs her hands together to stave off the chill. She can barely feel her fingers now, and wonders how long it will take frostbite to set in. She feels the composure she has struggled to maintain begin to break like the icy shards beneath their feet.

“Jacob. We’re lost. We...”

“We’re fine, Bea. Why do you always doubt me?” He stops, leans toward her, chest thrust forward, brow furrowed, face so close she feels the cold burn of his exhale on her skin. Instinctively, she shrinks, draws into herself. Tears prick the corners of her eyes, but she quickly wipes them away. Keeps moving. Follows Jacob, as she always has.

But now, as they round the next bend, there’s finally proof. They’ve only gone in circles. The hare lies dying in the snow, its small body curled under a pine tree. Even in the twilight, with the ink of night washing over them, Bea sees its eyes have dimmed. It hasn’t moved from where they saw it hours ago. When it looked like it might have a chance.

“Is there something we can do?” she whispers.

“Only put it out of its misery.” Jacob reaches into his backpack, pulls out the gun that’s never far from reach.

“Jacob, no...”

“Bea. We have to. It’s suffering.” She covers her ears, turns away. The gunshot echoes off the mountains, finally replaced by the high-pitched scream of the wind.

Bea’s hands tremble as she reaches down, feels the once flat hollow of her abdomen. She cups it, then drops her hand and turns back to Jacob. Blood has sprayed across the snow, crimson replacing white. The hare’s eyes are now dull, lifeless.

“It didn’t hurt. It never knew.” Jacob looks away. Won’t meet Bea’s eyes.

The metallic smell of blood is overwhelming. Bea retches, the acid in her throat burning as she heaves. She pictures Jacob, hunched over their kitchen table after a hunt, the slice of the knife through sinew and flesh. Pictures sterile waiting rooms, the doctor’s cold hand on her thigh, the sickly-sweet ginger ale she will be given afterward. Feels the phantom weight of regret, the unbearable ache of loss.

It starts to snow, a white flurry quickly covering their jackets, their hats, their boots. The hare. Finally, all is coated in a milky haze. Everything but the blood, still warm and wet. It leeches out from beneath. Stains each new layer of white.

“Jacob, I think I know the way from here. I can lead us back.” Bea reaches for Jacob’s hand. He pulls away, laughs.

“Please, Jacob.”

“You think you know the way, huh? When have you ever known the way, Bea? We’d only get more lost.”

Bea considers him, standing there. What she will leave behind.

“And if I go?”

“You won’t.” But there’s a question in his eyes, the smallest hesitation. Just as quickly it vanishes, is replaced by the sharp glint of certainty. It’s all she needs.

She turns, looks up into the black. Finds the northern star. Her footsteps quickly vanish as she heads into the night.

 

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What Kelli Won:

• $400.00 Cash Prize
• $25 Amazon Gift Card
• Publication of winning story on WOW-WomenOnWriting.com website
• Interview on WOW!’s blog The Muffin

Tess’s Bio:

Tess P. has worked throughout London, crossing careers from law to television with creativity, curiosity and playfulness at her core. ‘Secret Whispers’, an unplanned collection of contemporary poetry was published in 2021. ‘Secret Portraits’ is her second work, a dark treasury of shorts and poems that will be in print early 2024 with all paperback profits going to a UK cancer charity. She is hoping to send her debut novel out into the world very soon.

Tess writes intuitively, driven by her heart. Her penchant for photography, eye for aesthetics and appreciation of life, imbue her every piece.

You can find her most days engaging in light chat on Twitter/X @Tess_2020

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An Unexpected Muse

By Tess P.

 

Leonardo was having a bothersome day. His oils were a little on the light side and he wondered if that new boy, Michelangelo, had sneaked in, stolen a few favourites, and fast-footed it over to the other side of Firenze. He raked his hand through dishevelled hair. He would deal with him later. Right now, he had more pressing issues; specifically, the young lady sitting in his studio. She was not right. She was not what he had ordered. She would simply not suffice.

His thoughts travelled back to his most perfect portrait so far. Leo (close acquaintances only) had been pleased with his ‘Lady with Ermine’. Naturally, he’d heard the insidious gossip circling the piazzas. ‘The piece is too small’, ‘That weasel’s not real’, ‘He used the Duke’s mistress? Shame on him.’ But what should he care of ignorant comments? He’d like to see those critics paint anything even remotely as exquisite. Capturing that femme fatale on a panel of walnut wood was no easy task, but Cecilia Gallerani had been the most sublime subject. His frazzled mind returned to the present. This female before him was causing a Vesuvius of monumental proportions and explosion was imminent. The reason? Most obviously, she was too young. He had requested a woman, but given instead this ragazza, no more than sixteen. She would not do. No! No! No!

The artist paced the flagstones, tutting whenever he paused to brazenly frown at the pale creature. Her hair was wrapped up high in blue fabric with golden ribbons hanging down the back of her neck. A collared garment hid her delicate shoulders. Leo did not approve. Furthermore, the girl persisted in looking towards her left, revealing a pearl-like earing from her lobe.

‘I simply cannot work with this.’ He open-palmed his distaste. His moustache quivered in disgust.

Leonardo strode towards her, jabbed his brush along the outline of her petite frame and openly sneered from top to toe. The girl held his stare, etched defiance upon her porcelain skin.

‘You do not have eyebrows,’ he taunted. ‘What can I possibly do with that face, that earing and no brows? TELL ME!’

She said nothing, seemingly unshaken by his temperamental outburst.

‘You are not even Italian!’ he screamed.

Leonardo hung his head in shaking hands and wept uncontrollably. He was prone to an excess of drama, but art was art. It was his life, his passion, his beating heart’s discourse.

‘He is a Da Vinci! A genius. He has no need to apologise.’

(Leo had a penchant for third person, especially when feeling somewhat sensitive).

He continued striding, muttering savage syllables, staccato pauses punctuating violent and most tragic sobs. All the while, the girl watched and waited.

Silently, she shifted in her seat, turned to face him and laid her right hand over her left.

Leonardo caught his breath. Pupils dilated and veins widened as blood coursed, pumping fierce allegro beats. His spine vibrated, as if tripping the tango after swigging a bottle of fine Veneto grapes. What sorcery is this?

‘Do not move a muscle,’ he whispered.

He tip-toed to his table and switched woods. The sudden inspirational image in his mind necessitated his vision to be painted on poplar. Trembling, he picked up his palette and began feverously mixing the sparse oils, shooting furtive glances at the girl as he did so.

‘There is a dress behind that screen. Put it on, remove that head covering and take that thing off your ear.’ His words tumbled like chords played out of tempo.

‘Return to the chair and clasp your hands once again. Understood?’

She nodded and stepped away. Her compliance soothing against his fractured agitation.

‘Leonardo cannot paint a girl with a pearl earing! He is so much more,’ he mouthed to the tiny aperture of a window. The sky spilled forth a vermillion sun touched with tinges of sienna and sadness. Sunset brought out the melancholy in him.

He slammed the shutters as the girl slipped back to her seat, hands arranged as instructed.

She did not move, so still was her repose. Her eyes met his, and in that instance, Leonardo saw the woman she had become, and finally he understood. The quiet beauty of wisdom and experience emanated from her being, diffusing the sombre room with luminosity and motes of magic.

The smallest of smiles broke from her mouth. An enigmatic wisp of something so innocent, and yet so knowing.

Leonardo gasped.

‘La Gioconda,’ he breathed.

 

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What Tess Won:

• $300.00 Cash Prize
• $25 Amazon Gift Card
• Publication of winning story on WOW-WomenOnWriting.com website
• Interview on WOW!’s blog The Muffin

Anaïs’s Bio:

RUNNERS UP (In no particular order):