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-- raising money to support the rehabilitation of our wounded home page prize details -- how to enter faq about us contact us events -- links   --   -- welcome to ! raises money via writing prizes, events and donation to help wounded servicemen and women. every penny is important, and every penny we raise goes to where it should, because the organisers, (the three grannies) absorb all expenses. our principal fundraising plank continues to be writing prizes and we consider our aim is to encourage aspiring writers as well as raising money. the georgina hawtrey-woore award read more… the grannies who founded and run are delighted that so many independent authors entered our various categories for this year's georgina hawtrey-woore award for independent authors. the subjects were exciting, the standard higher than ever. the judging for the 2018 award is complete and results can be viewed here . plans are already afoot for the next award, which will open as usual on 11th november 2018 and news of this will be on the website in due course. thank you all for your support. we have just this week been able to help with respite care, with the purchase of a specially adapted bike. week by week the work of continues, helped by all of you. fiction , non-fiction , fiction for young adults , & picture books for children . prizes for 1 st and 2 nd place winners for each of the 4 categories are: a review and a day in the life feature published in frost magazine the entry fee is £12.50 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- the 2018 competition is now closed - judging is underway. open for entries 11 th november 2017 entries close 6 th march 2018 winners will be announced here on 6 th june 2018. -- we do hope that you will continue to support us as you have been doing. as you know the grannies are all volunteers and, we repeat, every penny raised goes to the cause. also, as you may know, the average age of those with life changing injuries is 25 which means that they have long lives to live and they deserve the best. we can all help them to achieve their full potential, and lead confident and independent lives and it is the least we can do. -- news our litfest 2018 will be held on april 21 st 2018. (click for details) . last year's litfest was a huge success, with guest speaker, frederick forsyth leading the charge. tickets are limited so best to book early. -- 2018 competition results (click to view) the 2019 georgina hawtrey-book award for independent authors will be launched on november 11 th 2018. the ‘grannies’ will be slogging along hadrian's wall on a sponsored fundraising walk at some stage - gulp. it is a long way but we'll love every blister, every moment, every laugh - ho hum... readers, writers and all things in between... enjoy learning more about the acting world and behind the scenes of the books you love to read, or long to write: poetry, fiction and non-fiction. this event has unfortunately had to be cancelled due to unforeseen events. to find out more and book tickets, click here -- we do hope that you will continue to support us as you have been doing. as you know the grannies are all volunteers and, we repeat, every penny raised goes to the cause. also, as you may know, the average age of those with life changing injuries is 25 which means that they have long lives to live and they deserve the best. we can all help them to achieve their full potential, and lead confident and independent lives and it is the least we can do.   -- for news, reports from our events, chat and writing tips visit our blog...   -- patrons : header text x -- copyright © 2018 | all rights reserved georgina hawtrey-woore georgina hawtrey-woore was a senior editor at arrow, an imprint of penguin random house, but not just any editor. she was an expert, and an author's dream. she was our founder, margaret graham's editor, one who not only knew her stuff but knew authors too. she reached out, she empathised, she advised with the lightest of hands, and was invariably right. she was also a great supporter of . georgina died, too young, in 2017. she is missed every day by her authors and colleagues, family and friends, and since she was determined that her authors should fulfil their potential, the three grannies who run felt it only right that this wonderful woman should be remembered. the georgina hawtrey-woore award will offer independent authors four categories: fiction, non-fiction, fiction for young adults and picture books for children. litfest content short story workshop booking content short story workshop content short story workshop booking content fiction, memoir or poetry award 2015 winners content goes here... winners biog content goes here... fiction, memoir or poetry award 2015 winners content goes here... independant author award 2015 winners content goes here... independant author award 2015 winners content goes here... winners biog content goes here... winners biog content goes here... winners heading entry winning text here... judges’ comments comments winners heading biog text here... thank you deciding to make a donation to support our gallant wounded. donations are managed by virgin money giving, but at the moment the facility is still being set up. sorry! please, please, try again in a few days. thank you for wishing to support us. leopold by kaori crawford in leopold's room, the maps were clouds. china, manchuria, the sahara. he put pins in the places where he wanted to go. from his window, the street was a crocodile, dragon-scaled. on the corner, the lamps spread a light like cheese across the flagstones. father was a baker. he wore braces and his hands were red. mother smelled of sugar and her coiled, dark blonde hair was a pastry. lovely mother. when he went to schul , she would put a pastry in his satchel, and the children said he smelled of pastries. this was before he went to mixed school, where the children said other things. one day the sky caught fire. the flagstones shone with glass. his parents said he had to go away. they took him to the station and smiled. they put a bear in his suitcase, and pastries. on the journey, he ate the pastries. they were dry. he had to wear a lot of clothes, so he was too hot. he would remember the station but not their faces. he was taken to another station and he waited for people to arrive. he sat and looked at his pale, fat knees. it was a long wait. later, when they took him to his new room, he sat on the new bed and looked out the window. the clouds were like maps. he sat and waited for the war to be over. there was no sudden realization, even when the war had ended, that he would not be going back. rather a day by day awareness that the more time passed, the less likely it was that his parents would appear. there was no record of their deaths; they had faded into the fog that had spread over europe. he went to school, got a job. the years passed. during which he never left his new country; never saw it as anything other than a station between trains. his life was orderly, methodical. when he was sixty-two, he went on a trip with some colleagues. he stood in the ruins of an ancient city, where buildings were carved into cliffs, and breathed in the rose dust, so old and adrift from another world. a vendor, from whom he bought a section of snake, looked at his socks with sandals and buttoned-up shirt and said: ‘home - is far away?’ ‘always,’ said leopold. copyright © 2014 kaori crawford | all rights reserved leopold is a nugget. kaori's opening line evokes an imaginary journey longed for by this young boy - in leopold's room, the maps were clouds. china, manchuria, the sahara. we are led into leopold's world; his yearning for travel, his family, the scent of pastries. in time leopold's real journey begins, a solitary one that is forced upon him. it ends at a station, a place of sanctuary. ‘ he sat and looked at his pale, fat knees. ’ he has a new room. he sees maps in the clouds. he waits for the war to end, so he can return to his home and family. in other words, so that he can complete his journey. but of course, his journey never ends, because there is no longer a home, no longer a family. he is always at a station, always somewhere far from home. leopold is the story of every refugee, one whose home is unobtainable. leopold is written with clarity and delicacy. it is controlled, understated, full of evocative and empathetic images, and reaches out to all those who are on a physical or emotional journey. moving and thought provoking; bravo. kaori crawford - biography kaori crawford grew up mostly in new zealand and japan. as a child, she enjoyed reading about hobbits and greek mythology, and as an adult enjoys reading about dwarves and magic. she has worked as a proof-reader and english teacher, and currently lives in exeter. ‘i am very happy to be associated with , as i believe strongly in the regenerative powers of creative activity.’ the train now leaving... ( clapham revisited) by rosa johnson there was no obligation to go, yet i was there, on the eight thirty five from the town, and my hair still wet from the shower, like the early-washed bodies smelled sweet; a man from the night shift smelt rank, dead on his feet, on the train with the rest of us, not even the best of us knew, what was in store, the uproar, the chaos, the mess, the tears, the distress, and the noise in my ears and the heat. next to me on the seat was a girl, mouthing goodbyes, as the train left the station on time; o those sighs, sweet smiles, chubby knees, sleekly swathed in the neatly pressed skirt, smart, chic city coat on, pretty miss, little flirt! in the train with the rest of us, not even the best of us knew, what was to come, the hum-drum, the bowler, the tweeds, the blood and the beads round the neck of the girl. his torn shirt as he lay at the side of the track, crossword complete, umbrella smashed, gashed, ashes the grass; and the heat. bright shoes, handsome face, crushed and crumpled just like the wrecked train, wracked with pain and unseeing, one hand open wide, blasted out like the rest of us, not even the best of us knew, which way we'd go. who could know? tiers of rent metal, bent wheels, and the calls; frightened passengers still trapped inside. voices seared through the gloom, shackles unseen held them tight, till the rescuers came on the scene; heaven's light blue flashed, sirens shrilled. god-proof carriage stood high on its end, contorted, obscene. i didn't know if i'd died; i, deceased like the rest of 'em? not even the best of 'em knew, who was alive, who'd survive. who was departing this life, and who'd care, still the wheels slowly spinning... aware of her fate, looking skyward she prayed; fear distorting her pleas; and the heat, pretty shoes... little feet... in the dirt. copyright © 2014 rosa johnson | all rights reserved rosa johnson has written a long poem which has echoes of vernon scannell's walking wounded. it has a similar resonance, evocative images, and the theme of ordinary people caught up in an obscenity. written in the first person, there is a regular rhyme in the first verse, and second, but this alters to become a varied pattern, which mirrors the shock of the accident. there is always the rhythm of the language which inexorably moves us forward, working in time to the beat of wheels on the track. it is a rhythm that slows with the last three lines – much as the train's wheels, suspended above the track would have slowed. memorable. it left us bereft. rosa johnson - biography to date i have written three son et lumiéres, one passion play, several community plays, a pantomime, numerous short stories and articles, though i like to write poetry most of all. i have completed one novel about a talking dog and one teen novel. three others remain unfinished. i've also written festival pieces for children who attended a drama academy run by two friends. several of my pieces are still being used 20 years on. i live with my husband in semi rural green belt on hampshire south coast. i worked in agriculture teaching animal husbandry and dairying. we share our home with an english pointer bitch. soldier robin's journey by john riley who killed soldier robin? i, said the tribesman, with my ied and rifle. i killed soldier robin. who'll carry the candle? i, said the cameraman, i will light the awful scene. i will show it to the world. who saw him die? i, said his corporal, with my bloodshot eyes. i saw him die. who will be the mourners chief? we, said the women, mothers, sisters, wives and sweethearts. we'll weep all the tears to shed. who caught his blood? i, said the medic, with my gauze and bandage. i caught his blood. who'll carry the coffin? we, said the politicians, we who sent him to that place. let his coffin weigh us down. who will make his shroud? i, said the colour sergeant, with my thread and canvas. i will close him in. who'll bear the pall? i, said the editor, i who cried for action. i will bear the pall. who will dig his grave? none here, said they in voices clear, send him home to lie in tranquil ground. who will sing a psalm? i, said the chorister, i will sing the requiem. i, the young and innocent. who will be the parson? i, said the padre, i will use my well thumbed book. for the battlefield farewell. who will toll the bell? we, said the young and unborn, we will toll the bell. we will ring the history down. who will be the clerk? i, said the journalist, i'll record the incident. i will write it down. all the people of the land fell a-sighing and a-sobbing when the bells tolled aloud for the death of soldier robin. copyright © 2014 john riley | all rights reserved this is an old children's rhyme brought up to date. as a child i thought who killed cock robin was a strange story. there is this regular rhythm, which is cocky, and strides along. but the words and emotions totally belie this. it is a story of the doing of death, the witnessing of it. john has kept true to this but brought it up to date. it is in keeping with the theme of a journey, it is emotional, it bears witness, it is a sober reflection of all that goes on in our soldiers’ world today. it stayed with the judges. john riley - biography i'm 77 years old and have lived in shrewsbury for the last 11 years. i am a member of the local u3a creative writing group. i did national service from 1958 to 1960 and volunteered to go to aden, where i was for 16 months, and oman, where i spent 5 months. neither area was a real active service station but i was fired on in aden and i did drive many miles over omani tracks that were all potentially mined. this very minor experience of what it was like to come under fire has stayed with me. several members of the battalion i served in had been young men in the 1939-1945 conflict. thinking of them living through much more intense and far longer real war situations was a reminder to me of what our young soldiers go through. if what i and others have written for this competition helps other people to think about the physical and emotional experiences of our servicemen then i will feel very thankful.

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