Commonwealth Short Story Prize
2016The 2016 prize winner
Regional winners
We are delighted to announce this year’s Commonwealth Short Story Prize regional winners!
- Pacific 'Black Milk' Tina Makereti (New Zealand)
- Asia 'Cow and Company' Parashar Kulkarni (India)
- Canada & Europe 'Eel' Stefanie Seddon (United Kingdom)
- Caribbean 'Ethelbert and the Free Cheese' Lance Dowrich (Trinidad and Tobago)
- Africa 'The Pigeon' Faraaz Mahomed (South Africa)
Chair South African novelist and playwright Gillian Slovo, said of the winners:
‘From Faraaz Mahomed’s The Pigeon with its playful tone and unreliable narrator, Parashar Kulkarni’s Cow and Company, a witty satire that engagingly immerses the reader in its world, and Eel, a simply told and moving story of childhood by Stefanie Seddon to Lance Dowrich’s comedic Ethelbert and the Free Cheese and Tina Makereti’s Black Milk, which impressed with a lyricism that takes the reader into another world while keeping us always on earth, these were all worthy winners and show how well the short story is flourishing in the Commonwealth.’
Of this year’s shortlist, Chair of the judges, South African novelist and playwright Gillian Slovo, said:
‘As a novelist accustomed to the luxury of the long form it has been a treat to discover writers who manage to crystallise such different experiences into so few words. The stories we have chosen for the shortlist are in turn comic, touching, poetic, mysterious but always fresh and unexpected.’
An otherworldly woman is sent to Earth to try and help humans, but loses touch with her own people. Eventually despair drives her away from her purpose, but even dark times hold riches within them.
‘Cow and Company’ is about four men in search of a cow. Eventually they do find one and take her to their office. It is part of a larger project set in colonial India.
On the West Coast of 1920s New Zealand, a boy battles eels and older brothers on a quest for independence.
Ethelbert, son of Tantie Lucy, lives in Port of Spain, Trinidad and Tobago and has committed himself to his working class job in a deliberate attempt to mask his loneliness and loveless life. In a chance encounter he recognizes the power of cheese to win him love, status and a brand new life.
The story of a brief and turbulent affair, reflected through the narrator’s close relationship with a peculiar confidant..
The Shortlist
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'Black Milk' , Tina MakeretiNew Zealand
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'Charmed' , Jane DowningAustralia
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'Children of the Zocalo' , Don McLellanCanada
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'Confluence' , Nova Gordon-BellJamaica
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'Cow and Company' , Parashar KulkarniIndia
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'Dirty White Strings' , Kritika PandeyIndia
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'Eel' , Stefanie SeddonUnited Kingdom
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'Ethelbert and the Free Cheese' , Lance DowrichTrinidad and Tobago
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'Exorcism' , Lausdeus ChiegbokaNigeria
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'Girdhar’s Mansion' , Sumit RayIndia
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'Imbecile' , Craig S WhyteUK
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'Instant Karma' , Vinayak VarmaIndia
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'Kurram Valley' , Munib A KhanPakistan
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'Niroporadh Ghum (Innocent Sleep)' , Sumon RahmanBangladesh
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'Saving Obadiah' , Enyeribe IbegwamNigeria
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'Space Invaders' , Stuart SnelsonUK
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'The Driver' , Oyinkan BraithwaiteNigeria
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'The Entomologist’s Dream' , Andrew SalomonSouth Africa
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'The Pigeon' , Faraaz MahomedSouth Africa
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'This Here Land' , Miranda LubyAustralia
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'This is How We Burn' , Cat HellisenSouth Africa
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'Vestigial' , Trent LewinCanada
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'When I Came Home' , Mark WinklerSouth Africa
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'Where Mountains Weep' , Bonnie EtheringtonNew Zealand
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'A Visitation' , Jane HealeyUK
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'Aabirah' , Sophia KhanPakistan
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Black MilkTina MakeretiNew Zealand
An otherworldly woman is sent to Earth to try and help humans, but loses touch with her own people. Eventually despair drives her away from her purpose, but even dark times hold riches within them.
‘The Birdwoman came into the world while no one was watching. It was her old people who sent her, the ones who hadn’t chosen to make the transition, who stayed in their feathered forms, beaks sharp enough to make any girl do what her elders told her.
“It’s time,” they said. “They’re ready.”
But was she?
There were things the people needed to know. But first she had to make her way into their world. She watched for a long time from her perch, trying to figure the way of them.’ -
CharmedJane DowningAustralia
‘I overheard a resident say it as I walked through the recreation room. It’s been a charmed life. I walked more slowly as I looked across to the speaker, an old lady in a wheelchair. The manicurist sitting on a low stool in front of her had one of the woman’s claw-like hands in hers, stroking the bones and tendons into something a little straighter, unfurling the fingers from the palm so the nails could be cut, filed, buffed, probably painted too. The old woman’s back was as kinked from pain as her hands: it was a hunchback with a twist at the waist. But she was smiling, lopsidedly but decidedly, this woman waiting to die.’
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Children of the ZocaloDon McLellanCanada
‘A flock of doves bursting into the air heralds Emilio’s arrival in the square. Trumpets blare, and the limp flag atop the Palacio Nacional comes to life.
“Your blessings!” the people, held back by a line of policia, call out to him. “We pray for your eternal salvation!”
He doffs his cap and bows appreciatively to his imaginary subjects.
“I am unworthy!” he shouts. “Stop it!”
His reverie is abbreviated by the groaning of subterranean pipes. A few more steps and plumes of water belch from the corroded ancient fountain, the arching spray a welcome reprieve from the rising morning heat.’ -
ConfluenceNova Gordon-BellJamaica
‘Confluence.
C—o—n—f—l—u—e—n—c—e
Noun.
Union; flowing together; rivers merging; the coming together of ideas. the coming together of factors.
Confluence.
Miss Evelyn doctor give her a prescription for blood sugar and it make her forget who she is and where she was. She walk out of her house into the street in her night gown and start talk to people who nobody can see. My employer, Miss Kaylie, go for Miss Evelyn, pack her and her grip in the back of the car and bring her back from country to the house in Kingston.Miss Evelyn is Miss Kaylie grand-mother youngest sister and Miss Kaylie say she owe everything she have to Miss Evelyn. Miss Evelyn living with us now so Miss Kaylie can take care of her.’
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Cow and CompanyParashar KulkarniIndia
‘Cow and Company’ is about four men in search of a cow. Eventually they do find one and take her to their office. It is part of a larger project set in colonial India.
“Where is the cow?” asked Pestonjee, the Office Manager.
“The cow?” the Junior Officer responded.
“Yes, what else?”
“The cowwww…”
“I told you, two days ago.”
“Yes. I didn’t forget. By today eve…?”
“No, not evening. By noon, in the lobby.”
“I thought he wasn’t serious,” said the Junior Officer, returning to his desk.
“A cow?” the accountant responded.
“Yes.”
“A real cow?”
“Yes, a cow, a real cow, a living cow. Now, come with me.”
Glancing towards the main door the Junior Officer spotted the Office Assistant
sitting on his rickety stool, leisurely picking his nose. “Natwarlal, you also.” -
Dirty White StringsKritika PandeyIndia
‘Every evening when the sun slips through the skies of New Delhi, I unbutton Lily’s dress. I slide it down her breasts with one hand and grab her neck with the other. I don’t pay attention to the men in the courtyard. Some of them breathe clouds of fire; others walk around on stilts. Neither do I mind the little children with their mouths full of puffed rice. They cheer on the fire-breathers and the stilt-walkers. They will grow up to be like their fathers, who have grown up to be like theirs. I just sit on the front steps with Lily’s umbrella dress at my feet.’
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EelStefanie SeddonUnited Kingdom
On the West Coast of 1920s New Zealand, a boy battles eels and older brothers on a quest for independence.
Never try to pull your fingers out of an eel’s mouth, not a live one or a dead one. Not if you want to have any skin left to carry him home with, and especially not if it’s a twenty-pound silver-belly. It was Ted who saw him off with the slasher, and it took all of us to drag him home through the bush, but I swear it was me, and me alone, who got him caught that day. We’d gone down to the bridge to cut manuka for our eeling poles. I’d begged to tag along and Mother said I could if Ted watched out for me.
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Ethelbert and the Free CheeseLance DowrichTrinidad and Tobago
Ethelbert, son of Tantie Lucy, lives in Port of Spain, Trinidad and Tobago and has committed himself to his working class job in a deliberate attempt to mask his loneliness and loveless life. In a chance encounter he recognizes the power of cheese to win him love, status and a brand new life.
‘Ethelbert G Sandiford was the happiest man alive. The second son of Tantie Lucy was now in management. Ethelbert had just come out of the Managing Director’s office where it was announced that he was promoted to Assistant to the Packaging Foreman.
“Sixteen years,” thought Ethelbert to himself. “All ah them who used to laugh, cyah laugh now”, he said aloud to no one in particular.
Ethelbert was an employee of the Sunshine Caribbean Cheese Company, known across the country as the Cheese Factory. He had started out in the freezer and had shown real mettle in outlasting most men who had been recruited with him. -
ExorcismLausdeus ChiegbokaNigeria
‘Bimpe was the most notable member of the church, mostly for her “colour-blocking” styles than for her protuberant belly. She would wear at least two sharply contrasting bright colours in her blouses and skirts, for example neon green and bright pink or lemon green and orange at the same time. The colours announced her arrival and registered her presence. She always loved the front row. I knew her for her queer style of prayer. She seemed to always be the one most possessed by the Holy Ghost. She had a frightening style of speaking in tongues, muttering and repeating incongruous syllables with “trickesai-truckesai-abasimombobrabra-nyongo” recurring frequently.’
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Girdhar’s MansionSumit RayIndia
‘Everybody knew how to ruffle Girdhar’s feathers, even when meeting him for the first time. You might mention how it had rained too little or too much, or that the cost of seeds was going up but the price of the harvest had hardly moved. If not farming, you might bring up how the buses that thundered down the highway now blared all kinds of inane music and made it worse when one of them stopped to let a dozen grotesque city-types relieve themselves. One never had to look for long to find a way to make Girdhar scowl and mumble about a world gone to tatters.’
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ImbecileCraig S WhyteUK
‘Trudging through darkness, the freezing fog. At any moment Ruari MacAskill’s life might be ended, but that’s not what’s bothering him, no, it’s these damn boots.
He should count himself lucky, he knows. If he hadn’t pulled them from the dead man someone else would have. But he had been the first to cast off his dilapidated brogues with their loose, flapping soles and poke his frozen foot into the leather cast of a dead man’s calf. The boot was still lukewarm. The fellow was not long dead and his legs were whole – it was his midriff that was missing – and his face’s only blemish was a tiny razor nick.’ -
Instant KarmaVinayak VarmaIndia
‘And then there was this nun who lived in a creaky little hut on the summit of a holy mountain deep in the Sahyadris. The tall old mountain was narrow at the base, bulbous on top and ringed by thick forests and a couple of large, round foothills. The nun on top sat in the lotus position and rocked back and forth all day, chanting mantras and flailing about in spiritual ecstasy until she and the sun were both spent. She smoked a bong afterwards and slept as soundly as the infernal nightly creaking would allow.
The roof of the nun’s hut was poorly thatched, its earthen floor was uneven, and its bamboo walls were creased with neat Nurembergian rows of red, black and white ants.’
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Kurram ValleyMunib A KhanPakistan
‘We are gathered in the dry September heat far from the cold mountainside. We are waiting for the jirga to finish conferring. My brothers rest under a banyan tree; Zaman Noori and his kin face them, the two parties within point-blank range, between them a train of furrow-browed, feverish faces. Seven days have passed since Zaman Noori’s son was killed and his ancient face has absorbed the loss—he exhibits no specific gestures of mourning, only the general air of outrage that he’s always carried like it was his patrimony: the quiet contempt of someone still resentful over a generations-old offense.’
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Niroporadh Ghum (Innocent Sleep)Sumon RahmanBangladesh
Translated by Arunava Sinha
‘- Is that you, Rashed?
– How are you, Ma?
In the dim light of the evening, neither of these questions created an agonising need to reply. I reached behind me to shut the gate, while Ma started walking ahead of me along the corridor. It was long, the paint flaking off the walls. The first door on the left was mine, the next, Shahed’s. On the right the first room was the kitchen, followed by the dining room. The corridor led to my parents’ room. This was how it was, wasn’t it? The room would be lit up brightly earlier, but they were dark now. Only the door to Ma’s room was open. I followed her.
– They released me today. The RAB officer said, go home, Rashed saab. We are sorry, you’re not the man we were looking for. Then they admitted me to a hospital. I got my release after three days.’
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Saving ObadiahEnyeribe IbegwamNigeria
‘Obadiah Anyaso’s wife of two years died from an illness that shocked him, his family and friends, neighbours and parishioners: in fact all of his townspeople. Her death had been the kind where she had been seen earlier in the day, buying smoked fish and cocoyam for her evening soup, only for wails to be heard just after evening meals that Obadiah Anyaso’s wife had died. In the space of a year and six months after her death, Obadiah continued to mourn her. His beard and hair, grown as a rite for the one year mourning period, became unkempt like old toothbrush bristles.’
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Space InvadersStuart SnelsonUK
‘She shopped ethically, fried free-range eggs in a cramped flat. Before she found her bijou home, she had endured the ritual humiliations of the property search, had joined the desperate wrestling over square footage, engaged with over-exuberant estate agents in their pseudo-bar lairs, focused on commutability, the underground network’s delineations treated as different time-zones. And this was just to rent. She read with dismay, the escalating forecasts of deposit accumulation: five years, ten years, twenty years. Ownership would not happen in her lifetime.’
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The DriverOyinkan BraithwaiteNigeria
‘She is as they described her – a goddess with long powerful legs, skin the colour of corn and lips that would make sucking on an agbalumo look pornographic. She stands out – she is a head above most of the tired and grumbling travelers waiting for their luggage to be released by the willful conveyer belt. She scans the room, looking for – him. He remembers to raise the cardboard that has her name painted with thick black marker. Her mother had written it, convinced that he wouldn’t be able to write Aderisi correctly, revealing the flaws in the Nigerian public school system.’
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The Entomologist’s DreamAndrew SalomonSouth Africa
‘Yasmin Ingabire.
Forty two.
Anywhere? You are sure about that, Sergeant Migambi? Very well, I think the appropriate place to start would be at the boxing gym in Kicukiro District. This was almost a year ago.
You know the sound a padded glove makes when it hits against someone’s ribs? It’s a kind of flat smack. I heard that sound all the time in the boxing gym. When I could hear a smack, a pause and then one or two more smacks in quick succession I’d know the boxers were in a clinch. I couldn’t see the ring or much else from where I sat, but I’d been going there long enough to be able to form a picture in my head of what was happening.’ -
The PigeonFaraaz MahomedSouth Africa
The story of a brief and turbulent affair, reflected through the narrator’s close relationship with a peculiar confidant..
Each morning, for about four months now, I am woken by the same foul, fat pigeon. I am certain that he’s the same one, even though I have no means to prove it. In truth, I have no way to be sure he is a he either. It used to occur to me that maybe he had left something at the window, or inside and was hoping that being here to retrieve it would allow him some release. On most Saturdays, I leave the window open. It makes me feel kind, because I am easing his spirit into the next phase or something of that nature.
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This Here LandMiranda LubyAustralia
‘The sound woke him. Too vulnerable to be a howling dingo, it was more like the solemn cry of an owl. Or, he thought, a ghost haunting the trees. If he’d been familiar with grief’s melody, if he’d known how much someone sobbing, someone in pain, could sound like wild dogs and nocturnal birds, he would have slid out of bed and gone to see what was wrong. But he was too young to know that. So, as he lay beneath the tangled web of shadows cast by ancient red gums, the rhythmic hymn of his mother’s heartbreak soothed him and sent him back to sleep.’
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This is How We BurnCat HellisenSouth Africa
‘CALL DOCTOR LOVEGOOD NOW. HEALER TRADITIONAL MEDICINE.
The ink was blue, fading across the flyer into what might have once been red but was now the pink of discarded Valentine’s cards. A rainbow wave of disquiet and superstition. An A5 job lot – 5000 flyers for seven hundred grimy South African rands. Lindela scanned the rest of the flyer, though it was nothing new. Just a distraction. Like the lulling rattle of the wheels against the track. A measure for passing time.’ -
VestigialTrent LewinCanada
‘“Jenny, got bad news. I’m coming over.”
With that, he hangs up. I sit at the window to watch the street. When he shows up, he strings a chain around his bike and attaches it to a lamp-post, but doesn’t bother locking it. He never does. I’ve not heard anyone clomp on the stairs as heavily as he does – it’s as though he wants the whole building to know that he’s here. I usually tell him that his laughter does that all by itself, that the whole street knows when he’s over.By the time he knocks on the door, someone is checking out his bike. I rap on the window until I get their attention. They move on. I open the door.’
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When I Came HomeMark WinklerSouth Africa
‘When I came home there were strange people in my house, and they gathered tight at the front door to block my entry.
“How did you get in?” I asked.
A young woman raised her index finger and before my eyes the tip of it took the shape of a key.
“Go away,” she said. “You’ve lived in this house for long enough.”
The house had been my father’s, and his father’s before. Was she using the plural, I wondered? And if so how could she know these things?
I asked if I might collect some of my belongings.
“No,” the woman said. “You’ve had the benefit of them for long enough.” And she closed the door.’ -
Where Mountains WeepBonnie EtheringtonNew Zealand
‘When my poppa would hit me, with the back of his hand against my face, I used to imagine my neck as one of those steel ropes that support whole bridges above angry water. The wind makes those steel ropes move but they never break. This made me feel stronger than Poppa and feeling stronger than him made me laugh. Laughing made him hit me harder. At those times my name changed from Lara to Bitch. Bitch wouldn’t stop laughing, not even with tears all the way to my collar. Other people can’t win when you’re laughing. So Bitch always won.’
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A VisitationJane HealeyUK
‘He is like parsley, he is everywhere. Nosing around the backdoor of my kitchens and tripping on my heels at the market by the plum stand and the fish stall. Him and his tiny nose, his bad palate, that annoying heavy breathing looping around every corner. I buy a crate of wine – he buys two of the same. I introduce truffle meatballs – he introduces “truffle-infused rounds of pork.” Just so. Confit of duck, strozzapreti with lovage pesto, onion and beef stew. From the day he set up his restaurant two months ago he has mimicked every one of my recipes.’
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AabirahSophia KhanPakistan
‘Aabirah had been dead for almost eighteen hours. She floated above the grave and wondered at the white bundle that had so recently been her. She’d spent the first hour of her death unnoticed under the lychee tree. The gardener, late as always, had discovered her at noon, at which time she had been transferred to an examination room at Shifa International Hospital by her frantic mother and resigned father. Her death had been an accident, though her mother, in her hysteria, had attributed it to a bud-dua on
the part of her sister-in-law.’
This year’s judging panel
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Gillian Slovo
ChairGillian Slovo was born in South Africa and now lives in London. Her thirteen published books include five detective novels, a family memoir, Every Secret Thing, and a thriller. Her novel, Red Dust, set around a fictional hearing of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, won the prix RFI-Témoin du monde in France and was made into a feature film. Her novel Ice Road was shortlisted for the Orange Prize. Her plays include Guantanamo – Honor Bound to Defend Freedom (co-authored with Victoria Brittain) and The Riots. Her next novel, Ted Days, will be published in March 2016. Slovo was President of English PEN from 2010 to 2013 and is a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature.
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Helon Habila
JudgeHelon Habila is an Associate Professor of Creative Writing at George Mason University, USA. He worked in Lagos as a journalist before moving to England in 2002. His novels include Waiting for an Angel (2002),Measuring Time (2007), and Oil on Water (2010). In 2006 he co-edited the British Council’s anthology, New Writing 14. He also edited the Granta Book of African Short Story (2011). Habila’s novels, poems and short stories have won many honours and awards, including the regional Commonwealth Writers Prize for Best First Novel, the Caine Prize, and the Windham-Campbell Prize. Habila has been a contributing editor for the Virginia Quarterly Review since 2004, and is a regular reviewer for the Guardian, UK.
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Pierre J. Mejlak
JudgePierre J. Mejlak is a writer from Malta, who has been living in Belgium since 2004. His latest collection of short stories, Having Said Goodnight, won the European Union Prize for Literature in 2014 and is being translated into eight languages. His work, which includes a novel, two short story collections and a number of books for children, earned him the Malta National Book Award and the Sea of Words European Short Story Contest.
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Olive Senior
JudgeOlive Senior is the prizewinning author of 15 books of fiction, poetry, non-fiction and children’s literature. She won the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for her first short-story collection, Summer Lightning. Her novel Dancing Lessons was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Book Prize, the Amazon.ca First Novel Award, was a Globe Best Book and was long listed for the IMPAC Dublin International Prize. Her latest non-fiction work, Dying to Better Themselves: West Indians and the Building of the Panama Canalhas already garnered several prizes. Senior conducts writing workshops internationally and is on the faculty of the Humber School for Writers, Toronto.
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Patrick Holland
JudgePatrick Holland is an Australian writer who grew up working cattle and horses on the western plains of Queensland. He is the international award-winning writer of the novels The Mary Smokes Boys and The Darkest Little Room, the short story collection The Source of the Sound, and a volume of travel essays,Riding the Trains in Japan. His forthcoming novel, One, charts the final days of Australia’s last bushrangers, Jim and Paddy Kenniff, who ranged the country where Holland spent his childhood. He lives and writes between Saigon, Brisbane and Beijing.
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Firdous Azim
JudgeFirdous Azim is a Professor of English at BRAC University and a member of Naripokkho, the woman’s activist group in Dhaka, Bangladesh. She has written and published widely on literature and feminist issues. Her publications include The Colonial Rise of the Novel (1993), and the edited volume Infinite Variety: Women in Society and Literature (1995). More recently she has edited special issues, South Asian Feminisms: Negotiating New Terrains for Feminist Review (March 2009) and Complex Terrrains: Islam, Culture and Women for Inter-Asia Cultural Studies (August 2011). She is currently researching Muslim women’s writing in early twentieth-century Bengal.
Frequently asked questions
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The prize is open to all Commonwealth citizens aged 18 and over – please see the full list of Commonwealth countries here.
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The regional winners receive £2,500 and the overall winner receives a total of £5,000. The winning stories are published online by Granta and in a special print collection by Paper + Ink. The shortlisted stories are published in adda, the online literary magazine of the Commonwealth Foundation.
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The story must be between 2,000 and 5,000 words.
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