Body Burning, Sex Workers, Mercy Killing And Motherly Feelings

These were some of the tantalising subjects of stories chosen as finalists in our ‘Wild Atlantic Writing Awards’ (WAWA) on the theme of ‘endings.’

And remember, you can still enter our present competition on the theme of ‘Power’ - winners receive 500 euro in cash, or 1,000 euro off any of our writing retreats in 2026 and the finalists in each category a generous discount to one of our writing retreats this year. 

Albert Tucher and ‘The Most Beautiful Sight On Earth’

Fictional suburban sex worker, Diana Andrews, is the person who has inspired 72-year-old Albert Tucher to write more than 100 stories over the last twenty years with her as the main character.

A librarian for forty years in New York and Westfield, New Jersey until retirement six years ago, Albert was a worthy finalist in the flash fiction category of WAWA on the theme of ‘endings’ with his riveting, all-dialogue, fast-moving story ‘The Most Beautiful Sight On Earth.’

“By now, it’s as if Diana is a real person feeding me ideas,” said Albert, describing the genesis of his story. “In this case I pictured her sitting alone at a bar. Of course, a man is going to approach her, and my task was to raise the stakes about what happened next.”

He admits the single most difficult challenge in facing him in writing his story was “keeping it under five hundred words.” As for selecting his story title, “I knew it immediately, but that doesn’t always happen. I have several stories for which I never found a title I really liked. (though I’m not telling which ones :).”

Albert loves writing dialogue, considering it his greatest strength, but his biggest weakness is visual description. “I only recently learned the term ‘aphantasia,’ which applies to someone who is unable to form mental pictures. The term describes me. I keep coming back to Diana in part because her natural habitat is hotel rooms and bars, which don’t require much description.”

Noir crime fiction is Albert’s favorite literary genre and the three books he has enjoyed most have been ‘Seven Ways To Get Rid of Harry,’ by Jen Conley, ‘Good Looking Ugly,’ by Rob D. Smith and ‘Neighborhood of Dead Ends’ by Stanton McCaffery.

The Most Beautiful Sight On Earth

by Albert Tucher

“Get you another one of those?”

With her hand on her beer, Diana froze. Maybe playing dead would make this man move on.

But he kept smiling and pointing at the last two inches in her glass. She turned her head toward him. A modest application of her look of death had sent many a man scurrying back in line, but this one stood his ground.

Habit made her evaluate him—forties, a little thickness around the waist.

Client material. Too bad for him she was off duty. This hotel had her favorite bar, and she saved it for when she wanted a drink on her own time.

“Thanks,” she said, “but I’m due someplace.”

“Okay, you’re waiting, and I’m waiting. It’s better with company.”

She tilted her glass.

“One’s my limit, I’m afraid.”

“So let me get you one, and you can just admire it. I think a glass of beer is the most beautiful sight on earth. White and gold. Nice and clean. Not like some things.”

He had a point. Her hesitation gave him an opening to flag the bartender down.

“Two more of those,” said her new friend. 

He climbed onto the stool to her left. The bartender brought the beers and swept bills off the bar. 

“I’ve done a fair amount of waiting in this place. For my wife. We met here. We came back sometimes to recapture the magic.”

From the sound of him, it wasn’t working this time.

“You’re married,” she said.

If she had been on the clock, she wouldn’t have commented. Married men paid her bills. 

“Not for much longer,” he said

She said nothing. That was T.M.I., but she had opened the door, as the lawyers said.

“Matter of fact, I’m waiting for her now. She just doesn’t know it. She’s upstairs in two-fifteen. With a friend of mine.”

He paused.

“I’m going to kill them.”

Diana slid off the barstool and landed with her toes pointing toward the lobby and the exit. This wasn’t her fight. 

So why weren’t her feet moving?

“Let’s go,” she said instead.

That was often how she made a decision. She listened to what came out of her mouth and took it from there.

“Go? Where?”

“Two-fifteen isn’t the only room in this place.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“Three hundred an hour, plus the room.”

“You’re a pro? I can’t catch a break today.”

“I’d say meeting me is the best break you’ve had in a long time.”

“I’ve never paid for it in my life.”

“It comes with my advice. That’s a bargain at three hundred. I’ll even give you a hint up front.”

“Okay, what?”

“You ever done prison time?”

“No.”

“Don’t. That’s my advice.”

She watched him prepare to take his defeat and move on. Beer helped round things off, and so did she.

For her hourly rate.

“Okay,” he said. “Three hundred.”

“Plus the room?”

“Plus the room.”

Lynne Rawson and ‘There Is To Be No Pretending’

Living in Adelaide, Australia, Lynne Rawson, 61, a charity worker, was chosen as a finalist in the creative nonfiction category of our ‘Wild Atlantic Writing Awards; (WAWA) on the theme of ‘Endings’ with her poignant story focusing on a mother’s feelings in ‘There Is To Be No Pretending.’

A mother of six children now adults  - Abbey, Holly, Angus, Bridie, Sophie and Lachlan - and two border terriers (Maudie and Dougal), Lynne has been married to her husband, Bruce, for over 37 years.

For over 10 years Lynne has been a volunteer with Friends of Nepal Adelaide Inc., an Australian Registered Charity working in Kathmandu and surrounding areas, which supports educational programs for disadvantaged students and also illiterate women working in the brick kilns. The charity also sponsors eye clinics and other projects as needed. 

“Having this in my life has helped fill a void as our children became more independent,” she said.

Her poignant, universal story about a mother’s complex feelings about children ‘leaving the nest’ emerged a few weeks before her daughter Sophie’s wedding. “We were at our coastal shack getting everything ready for the upcoming ‘casual beach’ wedding,’” she recalled. “Our four daughters were doing a practice run of hair and makeup. All of a sudden a strong feeling came over me – our first child to marry. I felt a huge sense of loss and change whilst watching them together.”

In terms of choosing her title, that all important passport that helps tempt readers into a story, she said, “My first thought was ‘The Wedding’ but I knew straight away that wasn’t enough. I read through my story knowing that something would jump out at me and it did. I re-read the line ‘There is to be no pretending’ and I knew this was the core of how I felt.”

Lynne learned about our ‘Wild Atlantic Writing Awards’ and ‘Ireland Writing Retreat’ when they popped up on her mobile phone and she immediately sent the information on to her daughter, Abbey, “one of the writers in our family.” 

“Abbey encouraged me to write something – so I did,” she said. “My dream is now to attend one of the writing retreats in the future.”

Learning she had been chosen as a finalist left her elated. “Abbey came into our room, jumped on my bed, saying “I have good news.” I couldn’t believe it because this was the first time I had entered a writing competition. I think it really hit me a day or so after. Thankfully, Abbey put up a post on social media because I didn’t want to brag but… I am so proud to be a finalist.”

Asked what she considers her single writing strength and weakness, she said,  “I don’t think I’ve written enough to really offer an opinion. I guess if I write from my heart, or about something I know well, hopefully it will come across as honest. My weakness is definitely that I have not written anywhere near enough.”

In terms of books and writing genres she likes, she said, “I absolutely love well-researched historical fiction and the top three books I’ve enjoyed have been ‘The Red Tent’ by Anita Diamant, ‘Caleb’s Crossing’ by Geraldine Brooks and ‘The Book of Longings’ by Sophie Monk Kidd.

There Is to Be No Pretending

by Lynne Rawson

Wednesday, 19th of February 2025 

7.05am 

My daughter sits on a stool by the marbled kitchen table surrounded by make-up, hair spray and nail vanish - unfamiliar items for this girl of mine. 

A mug of almond latte has been abandoned. 

This is it, I think to myself. 

I listen to the chatter of five young women, the jokes that I don’t find particularly funny, the nervous laughter, the sisterly bond that I am not part of. 

The smooth, unblemished, golden skin. 

The half-smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

The girls hover as they arrange the soft waves trailing down her back.

She is perfect.I stand to the side and for once I don’t try to join in their lively conversation. Today I hold my lips together, scared that I will break the spell. 

That I will spoil something so beautiful. 

That I will destroy a moment that will never come again.I watch and wait, breathe in and out, in and out. 

Lips scrunched together to stop the trembling. 

Eyes widen - holding back the moisture that promises to spill. 

Breathe in and out, in and out. 

Nothing will stop today 

Nor should it.

I close my eyes and listen to the music that’s been playing in the background, a song that one of my daughters will have chosen especially for today. It is a ritual that moves me to happiness and yet it grips my heart, twisting it so that I must hold my breath. 

Breathe deeply. 

Clench and release my toes. 

Ground myself. 

Breathe. 

She catches my eye. A question forms in her sea blue eyes. 

‘Are you ok?’ she silently asks. 

Breathe in and out. 

I smile with my lips but I know that I must use my eyes because this one knows me, she knows me so well, there is to be no pretending. I smile with eyes crinkling and force myself to pretend that everything is perfect. 

She is perfect.

Thoughts swirl, my beautiful, beloved daughter.

The little girl who cried when I combed her knotted curls, who loved the same story over and over, who would hold my hand, give a gentle squeeze, who would tell me she loved me 

forever and ever 

and ever.Her soulmate, the love of her life, the man who will stand by her side. 

He will give her his heart. He is her everything.

And he loves her as I do.

Breathe.

Sarah Das Gupta and ‘Drying The Clothes Of The Poor’

Amazingly, Sarah Das Gupta, now aged 84, is in only her fourth year of creative writing, yet her evocative story about burning of the dead, ‘Drying The Clothes Of The Poor,’ was chosen as a finalist in the creative nonfiction category of WAWA on the theme of ‘Endings.’

Born in the village of Warlingham on the Kent/Surrey border in south-east England, Sarah, a grandmother and former English teacher including stints in such countries as India and Tanzania, now lives in Saffron Walden, close to Cambridge. Her husband died over fifteen years ago and she has two daughters, the elder in Paris, the younger in Essex, both qualified lawyers but one working now as an author, the other, a teacher of English. 

Having been a teacher for well over half a century, and still in touch with some students from 50 years ago, Sarah taught in Kolkata in India where where she married a Bengali journalist and where her daughters were born. 

After learning about WAWA through the literary ‘Duotrope’ platform, Sarah was surprised to be a finalist in the ‘Wild Atlantic Writing Awards.’ “Although I’ve always been a confident person, I feel I should have started writing many years earlier,” she said. “I also wondered if anyone else would be interested in the cremation of my father-in-law at the burning ghats on the banks of the river Hooghly. Even though fifty years have passed, that night is still with me.”

On her approach to her story about her experience seeing human bodies burned in the traditional Indian riverside ritual, she said, “The theme of ‘endings’ appealed to me, perhaps because at my age, many, though not all, the events you write about are in the past. The death and cremation of my father-in-law seemed to be about the ultimate end. Yet that evening, in the darkness at the burning ghats, has not really ended. I have probably thought about it on average once a week for the last fifty years. I thought writing about it would exorcise it in some way. It didn’t. It was easy to write about. It was impossible to write about. Easy, because I knew it so well, it ran like a film in front of my eyes. Difficult, because I couldn’t resolve what it actually meant. What happened to Baba, if anything? What happened to us? What was the right thing to feel?” 

On choosing her title, she said, “I did think of calling the piece, ‘The Burning Ghats’ and also ‘The Dead,’ the last story In Joyce’s ‘Dubliners.’ In the end, the only action which made sense was that of the poor drying their clothes, unemotionally involved, sensibly making use of the heat. My husband told me afterwards two of them had been arguing about a woman.”

Speaking about her writing strengths and weaknesses, Sarah feels her greatest asset is her photographic memory. “I can remember, for example, the pattern of the ducks’ webbed feet in the mud round the old sinks my father filled with water for them. Of course, I can’t remember at the moment whether I took the medicine prescribed for me this morning. I think the chances are, I didn’t. My greatest weakness is impatience. I hate revising and reviewing what I’ve written.”

As for her favorite books and literary genres. “As an English teacher, I’ve read so many books with so many different students in terms of age and cultural background, but I don’t like ‘genre’ writing,” she said. “It can so often be predictable, a sort of writing by numbers. I think popular music, TV programmes, especially series and computer games all encourage ‘genre.’It doesn’t demand thinking or originality, God forbid. Having said that, I prefer novels which engage with society with a degree of wit, irony, but in the end pathos. I love nineteenth century novels and specially those of Thomas Hardy. So, my first choice book would be Hardy’s ‘The Mayor of Casterbridge’. Over the centuries, Ireland has produced more than its fair share of great poets, dramatists and novelists, so I would choose James Joyce’s ‘Dubliners.’ For me, ‘The Dead’ is the greatest of all short stories. Third would be Jane Austen’s ‘Emma,’ a truly great comic novel.”

Drying The Clothes Of The Poor

by Sarah Das Gupta

By the time we arrived at the burning ghats, the moon had risen. It shone through the trees beside the Hooghly, casting a bright light and creating contrasting pools of darkness on the fast-running water. 

It seemed strange to see shadowy figures washing their clothes in a nearby tank while rickshaw wallahs still plied their trade along the banks of the river. I felt that odd sense of disorientation you experience when you come out of a cinema into the usual clamour of the streets. 

The Doms had lifted the body onto the pyre. I had never seen a corpse before, except on my first day in Kolkata. We had been walking along the street when I felt a gentle prodding in the back. I turned to see the yellowing toenails and feet of a dead man being carried towards the river. I later came to appreciate the city in which life and death coexist without melodrama.

The fire was soon burning fiercely. You could see the outline of his body, glowing in the heart of the flames. He had been a successful lawyer in Dacca before Partition. Like so many, Hindus and Moslems, he had never recovered from that terrible uprooting and turmoil. 

The Doms seemed restless as they stacked more wood on the fire. I asked Krishna if they were worried about payment. ‘No, they’re worried about you. Women never usually attend the burning ghats and you’re a foreigner too. I think it’s all right. They see you as a crazy English woman which makes it ok!’

We watched as Krishna’s father became part of the fire. There was a ball of intensity at the heart of the flames, a fusion between the human and the elemental. I looked at the stretcher where the outline of the man was still visible, only a shadow in the surrounding darkness. At the heart of the pyre there was a red power, an intensity which had lifted him into a different existence. Krishna felt this too. The trees, the grass were touched with the light of the fire. For a moment the river, the trees and flames became one.

Light began to creep across the river. The fire had died down. Its redness had transferred to the rising sun now like an eye opening, its lashes, pink rays of light, reflected on the incoming tide. As the only son, the Doms handed Krishna a cane to crack open the skull, releasing his father’s spirit. By now only bones and smouldering embers remained. Krishna stood for a few moments looking intently into the flickering flames. There was a dull sound as he struck the skull. 

Just at that moment, groups of the homeless walked up to the dying fire. They held up their clothes to dry them. Wisps of mist or evaporation rose into the morning air.

 ‘That’s the soul departing. Not from an empty ritual but from a last act of love, drying the clothes of the poor,’ my husband whispered. 

Kathryn Riley and ‘Home Help’

A retired university professor in Louisiana, Tennessee, Minnesota and Illinois, who was also a department chair, Kathryn Riley was delighted to be named a finalist in the flash fiction category of WAWA ‘endings’ competition with tingling, end-of-life story, ‘Home Help.’

A native of Baltimore, Maryland, she and her husband, Frank Parker, have lived in seven states, as well as Canada and England, before moving to a suburb in Atlanta, Georgia in 2021. They don’t have children but Kathryn says, “we’ve had many cats and horses during our years together.” 

During her long career, Kathryn published much research and textbooks focusing mainly on English linguistics and technical communication and since retiring she has explored new creative ventures. “After a successful ‘mini-career’ as a paper artist, I turned more recently to creative writing,” she explained.

Kathryn learned about WAWA on social media. “The “Endings” theme immediately resonated with me because I’d recently written a story about a woman caring for her dying husband in home hospice,” she said.

As for the inspiration for her WAWA story, “Both my husband and I are, fortunately, in good health, but it’s hard to live in the U.S. and ignore the uncertainty and expense of healthcare, especially for seniors. I wanted to capture the end-of-life dilemmas that many face for themselves or a loved one.”

Like many writers in our WAWA competition, ‘word count’ was the biggest challenge that faced her. “Flash fiction means distilling sensory details down to the essential few, while still advancing a plot,” she said. “Also, I wanted to make my character, Lena, a sympathetic person, but also hint that she resents her situation, which exhausts and overwhelms her.”

‘Home Help’ was the only title she considered saying, “It describes the people who come into Lena and Karl’s home, and alludes to Lena’s inability to resolve Karl’s situation by herself.”

Kathryn was delighted at being named a finalist, for which she - like all finalists - received a discount for one of our writing retreats, “It’s great to get positive feedback—a good incentive to keep working on what’s usually a solitary activity. I’m also curious to read others' responses to the theme. “

Analysing her writing strengths and weaknesses, Kathryn said, “I can write quickly. Also, the ‘publish or perish’ academic environment got me used to editing my work and handling rejection. My weakness is that I sometimes focus too much on line editing rather than the larger structure.”

On books and genres, she said, “My favorite ‘desert island’ books would definitely be British mysteries, like those by Ruth Rendell and Dick Francis. I also like a good light romance—think Georgette Heyer and Mary Balogh. Lately I’ve enjoyed the ‘Furrowed Middlebrow’ series of mid-20th-century women’s novels.”

She described naming her three top books as “a tough one,” adding, “Those I’ve read multiple times are ‘The Remains of the Day’ by Kazuo Ishiguro, ‘An Unsuitable Job for a Woman’ by P. D. James and ‘The French Lieutenant’s Woman’ by John Fowles.

Home Help

by Kathryn Riley

Hospice, Lena imagined, would guide Karl painlessly into whatever came next, drug-cocooned in an adjustable bed, watching his favorite reruns. In his rare lucid moments, he would play Words With Friends. Only simple words. THEY. CATS. FARM.

But the closest hospice was full. So home hospice it was.

The home help agency’s website featured a fragile but calm woman swaddled in bedclothes. Her room was pastel and clean, shot through a hazy filter.

Reality was turning out to be quite different.

Already this week, Lena had done three loads of laundry: sheets and bed pads needing the hottest temperature, leaving barely enough warm water for her own bath.

The audio monitor in Karl’s sickroom transmitted nonstop moaning to Lena’s receiver. She spent her waking hours responding to especially frantic cries, struggling to give Karl his Ensure or another haloperidol. 

Their savings funded a steady stream of home help who changed bedding, administered suppositories for Karl’s morphine-induced constipation, and cleaned up the byproducts. Karl could no longer walk to the bathroom. That meant adult diapers. Wet wipes. And more bedding changes.

Luis, Jahkai, Kalel, Irene—rarely the same aide or daily nurse twice. Some wore scrubs, others street clothes, others a strange amalgam of the two.

Today’s nurse arrived early. Finally, one close to Lena’s platonic idea: a mature woman in a white uniform and cap. Old-school. She extended her hand. “I’m Agnes.”

“Lena. Won’t you come in? Karl’s room is through here.”

“Thank you. If you’ll wait out here, I’ll check his chart and medications.”

Lena retreated to the kitchen. Through the monitor, she heard Agnes’ soothing voice, Karl’s murmured response, their words not quite clear. 

Agnes emerged fifteen minutes later. “I’ve administered his morphine. His dosage was quite a bit lower than needed, given twelve days off dialysis.” She gently squeezed Lena’s hand. “I know this is hard for you both, but it won’t be much longer.”

Lena nodded, her throat constricting. “Thank you. I just want him to be comfortable.”

After Agnes left, Lena found Karl resting quietly for the first time in days, almost like the pictures on the website. Maybe she could finally take a nap.

The doorbell woke her an hour later. 

Lena recognized Nurse Maya from several days ago. “Hi—I’m here to check Mr. Karl’s medications.”

“There must be some mix-up,” said Lena. “Nurse Agnes already came.”

“I don’t recognize that name, but let me call the agency.”

Maya looked puzzled as she finished the call. “They had an Agnes, but she retired years ago. They’re not even sure she’s still alive.”

Lena followed her into Karl’s room. Maya put on her stethoscope and leaned over Karl, then straightened up and slowly shook her head. 

“I’m afraid he’s gone,” Maya said. “If it’s any comfort, it must have been quite peaceful, since you didn’t hear him through the monitor.”

Maya straightened Karl’s bedding, handing Lena his iPad. The screen woke up to Words With Friends: PAIN. STOP. REST.