Vintage Script SOS!

We are reopening for submissions to the summer edition of Vintage Script…but only till the end of the week!

We’ve had more quantity than quality this time, and still have some space to fill with original and well-written stories and articles with historic themes—see the Submissions page on our main website for guidelines.

The new deadline for the summer edition is 11.59pm on Friday 29 June 2012.

To increase your chances of getting published, please note these tips. We are looking for:

Originality
Definition: a unique way with words, denial of clichés and a fresh take on history.

Simplicity
A good piece of writing should resemble a sprig of cherry blossom against a clear sky: understated and striking.

Thoughtful content
The topic we get most of here at VS HQ is the First World War and the Second World War. Of course, they are both deserving subjects, but you’ve got more chance of being published if your piece is both well-written and on less familiar ground.
We love both unpublished writers and those who can contribute regularly to Vintage Script.

I’ll be letting all writers (including those who contributed before the original deadline) know during the week commencing 2 July 2012 whether or not they’ve been selected.

A Letter To My Mother

It all went off well. There was a good turn-out—the tennis people, family, neighbours, even the solicitor came. Heavy showers gave way to sunshine and a pheasant walked in front of the hearse as it made its way up to the church, not a care in the world. The churchyard was so pretty—oxeye daisies and other wildflowers I glimpsed out of the corner of my downcast eye.

A skylark was singing its heart out as we got back to the house. We’d polished the wooden floors and brought flowers in from the garden. Oh, and we had a lovely Victoria sponge—you would have enjoyed that. ‘Not too sweet,’ you would’ve said. We’d had a good tidy-up as well—moved all your boxes of paperwork. The house was so alive with all the people who came back for the do. But it echoed with your absence.

Then yesterday we took you back to your South London roots to lay you to rest. It started to rain as we got to the cemetery. It brought out the lemony scent of the roses and the clay of the dug soil.

The vicar said something about the frailty of the human body and the release of the spirit at death. You’re free now from this world and we should wish you well. But still I long to hear the creak of the floorboards in your room, your careful tread downstairs, the click of the kettle as you switched it on. This is a new beginning, though, for you and for us, and I wish you bon voyage and I’ll see you there when I’ve finished what I’ve got to do.