Dear Readers,
I am hosting a summer writing competition.
The theme of your stories should be HEAT, in the broadest sense of the word.
You have until the 29th of August 2026 to get your stories in. The winners will be decided by the end of September.
Please post your stories on this thread.
They should be no more than seven-hundred and fifty words.
Because of the amount of reading that will have to be done, the competition is for paid subscribers only.
The winner will receive £250 cash (bank transfer, PayPal), a signed book, and a personal video message from me. Second and third place will each receive a signed book.
The top six stories will be published on my Substack, with each writer’s name and their own Substack linked, giving them exposure to my 40,000 readers.
Entrants retain copyright but grant permission for the piece to be published on this page.
This competition is open to anyone, wherever you are in the world.
Write with freedom, without inhibition.
Your loving writer,
Hanif xx
Águas de março
Fernanda has just put the coffee on when she sees them. It’s half past nine on a Sunday morning in February. Her bones are melting. She can see the two faggots through the gap on the corrugated-iron back gate.
What do you sluts want? she says.
¡Ay, Fernanda! they squeal. Do you have café for us?
She heads back into the kitchen, where they can see the moka on the hob.
Do you have any cake, Fernanda? says the green-haired one.
You think I wake up with cakes coming out of my ass? she shouts.
You’re just famous for your cakes, says the black-haired one. Have you had your first cigarette of the day?
NO, blasts Fernanda.
No wonder you’re so prickly, Fernandinha, says the one with the green flop, grinning.
Fernandinha Fernandonha, says the old woman, who truly is cranky. Pass me a lighter.
They don’t have one. Desculpe.
You invade my house like a pair of conquistadores and you can’t even give me a light. God preserve me.
She slouches to light her cigarette on a gas ring.
We need to ask you a favour, says the green-head, sounding serious.
I don’t do favours to whores, says Fernanda.
Not that kind of favour, says the dark-haired lad.
For those I charge. She’s quick as lightning.
We need to make a video, he says.
She slowly exhales her stream of smoke.
The coffee has risen.
She gets up her chair to turn the gas off.
What’s in it for me? she asks, as she places three Duralex cups on the oilcloth.
You’ll be famous! says the raven-haired one.
She nearly drops the coffee maker.
I’M ALREADY FAMOUS! she screams. How much are you making from these stupid screaming videos?
It depends on the views on each video, says the one with the green floppy hair.
I don’t give a fuck about the views, she retorts. I want a cut.
But if we start splitting the earnings, then we won’t have enough for… for…, mumbles the floppy-haired one.
For fancy knickers and getting lathered, she says.
No, no, says the black-haired one. It’s for Elsa’s gender affirmation surgery, he says, looking at the so-called Elsa, who up to recently has been known to her as Eloy.
Puta que pariu, says Fernanda, lowering her tone a notch. Are you going through with that?
Hoping to, says Elsa, looking at the oilcloth.
So will you help us? asks the other, making puppy eyes at her.
I’ll think about it, says Fernanda, pouring her own cupful.
It’s for a good cause, risks the green-haired one, whose name she now remembers is Mauro.
I know it’s for a good cause, filho da puta, says Fernanda.
So when will you know? presses Mauro.
You sluts, says Fernanda. Can’t a woman enjoy her first cup of coffee and cigarette without being cross-questioned like a criminal?
OK, OK, says Elsa. We’ve bothered you enough. You’ll let us know when you’re ready. She reaches over the table and strokes Fernanda’s hand.
Canoodling won’t work on me, mutters Fernanda as she raises her cup to her lips. Alright, I’ll do it.
You will? say the young ones in unison, clutching their non-existing pearls.
Are you deaf? I said yes! says Fernanda. If I say no, I’ll have to listen to you moan till the cock crows tomorrow.
They walk round the table and give Fernanda a hug.
You’re our queen! exclaims Mauro, giving his neighbour a wet kiss on the cheek.
You’re the queens, says Fernanda, trying to disentangle herself from the perfumed young couple.
You’re the best, Fernanda, says Elsa.
You know how to pay lip service.
You really are the best, though, Fernandinha, says Mauro.
Children of the devil, says Fernanda. So do I have to make a cake for this bloody video?
Oh no, it’s too much work for you, retorts the young man. We can’t exploit you. We want to get a juicy one.
Filho do cão, says Fernanda. Drink your coffee and get out of my house. You’d better bring me a good cake. I won’t be recorded with any old thing. Vamos lá, imundas. Vênga.
The queens drink up, give Fernanda a kiss on each cheek, and shimmy down the roofed terrace.
See you soon, rainha, say the young ones from the other side of the gate.
Get lost, sluts! shouts Fernanda out of the kitchen door. She sits back down and drains her coffee cup and wonders whether it will ever rain again.
SFO to MXN
May in San Francisco is nearly the same as every other month. Grey; the color of the cold ocean waters echoing the misty fog descending downward from the sky. The sound of the foghorns can be heard all around the city. Low, lonely, and mournful as a grieving lover, crying through the afternoon, night, and into the morning.
Grey-brown raccoons and coyotes have been coming closer and closer to the humans over the years, searching amongst the driveways for trashcans of rotting leftovers. Grey pigeons hobble on feet mangled and caught in wires and strings. Grey-white seagulls search for scraps of the sourdough bread tourists drop on the grey sidewalks. Those poor tourists, thinks the lone woman. They always come in shorts, tank tops, and smiles. They always end up standing separately, shivering in expensive sweatshirts that shout San Francisco! The cold and grey creeps between people, no matter how short a time they spend in the cool grey city by the bay.
At one end of the city, a lone black-clothed surfer carries his board to the water. He pauses at the edge of the water. Few come this way, preferring the gentler waves and warmer waters of a few miles south. No matter, he loves the challenge, the way this makes him feel to do harder things.
At the other, a young man clothed in black, grey, and dull denim dreams of a bright future of fame and a fortune made from what they’re calling artificial intelligence. He walks alone, head down, imagining himself on the covers of a magazine, with a model on his arm, a few billion in stock sitting in an account somewhere. Thousands like him, head down but in the clouds, little thought of how their aspirations for those billions will affect the rest of humanity.
Waiting for her rideshare is the lone woman. She has spent her whole life on this square of seven-by-seven miles. Her years-old jacket has faded to the nothing color of the sky of the city she always thought of her own. At the airport, she stares out of the window. All the memories of childhood, teenage years, and adulthood were here. She lifts her phone and takes a photograph. The sky and the tarmac are the same color. She will show this to people later, to show how cool and cold her country was.
Hours later, she arrives in a different city. The door of the little apartment she chose is a bright scarlet red.
May in Mexico City is a hot, sun-filled month. The skies are bright blue. The type of plants that her country’s people try desperately to nurture in little pots grow in hot profusion here, huge monsteras climbing up even larger trees and up the sides of green, blue, and red walls.
Yellow mangoes are sliced and sold by the cupful, speckled red with hot sauce and chili powder. Towering stacks of red-spiced and layered meat on tall spits roast over charcoal, the sight and smell beckoning in hungry customers when sudden thunderstorms drench the city.
Silence does not exist there. There is the sound of the man selling tamales, the clanging bell of the trash collectors, the one who will buy your old washing machine, sofa…the whistle of the man selling baked sweet potatoes. A man plays a horn, a woman plays an accordion, hoping you will put some cash into the bowl sitting in front of them. The grandmother-like woman selling her bright red fruits smiles and hugs her, slips in a few extra cherries and plums.
Every child is called mi amor. Every dog and puppy is cooed over as they walk down the street. Lovers canoodle on sidewalks and inside coffeeshops. Men carry their toddlers in their arms, while women of her country complain of feeling trapped and alone, sole caregivers for their children. Here, the old African, Asian, and Latin sentiment comes to life: ‘it takes a village to raise a child.’
Now, she finally understands how it feels to feel warmth. To feel heat in your belly and on your skin. To be surrounded by sunlight, color, and care.