Grandfather worked down the mines. He was an electrical engineer. During the war he tried to sign up. He wanted to join the Royal Air Force more than owt. But they said no because they needed engineers at home to keep things running. Granddad was very upset. He felt bad about it. Mum says he never got over it, not really.
He rallied his BSA motorcycle. He liked going fast and getting muddy. He met Grandma in Sheffield. She was working as a nurse at a hospital for the war-wounded, doing her bit, you know.
In the 1970s, a power station was built in a village called Drax in Yorkshire. Today, it has a really tall concrete chimney 850 feet high and she is mother. Sunshine stored in black rocks from Africa and Siberia trundles into the power house. Twelve brothers, 374 feet tall and 300 feet wide, wear concrete-grey suits…
I live in the 19th century in Victorian London. The drawing room is crowded with men in top hats and coat tails. There is a thick, smoky fug. I am stifled. I want to escape. I sneak out of the back door and walk to the end of a long, thin, untidy garden. I lift my layers of skirts and scale a metal fence; the like of which I have never seen before. I jump from a height into a busy road. Every which way I turn there are motorised vehicles so I run. I run and run down the road till air fills my mourning dress and lifts my feet and I am flying. My flight is jerky and uncertain. I’m worried my petticoats will get caught beneath angry wheels. I try flying with one arm outstretched but two arms thrust forward gives me more power. Yet I cannot gain enough height to stay above the bustle.
Founded by the world-renowned BBC Aeronautics Correspondent Reg Turnill and his wife, Margaret, to celebrate the life and works of HG Wells and encourage creative writing, especially among the young, the prestigious HG Wells Short Story Competition offers generous Senior and Junior prizes and free publication of all shortlisted entries in a quality, professionally published paperback anthology.