GALLEY BEGGAR PRESS SHORT STORY PRIZE 2025/26
EVIE QUET
‘Pulp’
THE GIRL DISLIKES A PARTICULAR FONT. She complains about it.
Her father won't read a short story she likes. It was published in one of those online magazines for new writers. Maisie recommended it. Maisie always knows about the new things that just came out. They are always edgy, and cool, and in.
He says it's because it's probably sad. Everything the girl reads is sad.
He wants a story where love and justice prevail.
He is not wrong; it's a horrible story. There is some gore. Just some. Not so much that it's unreadable. A little bit of unhinged murder is fine, the girl complains. She says it is female rage. That it is cool. That it is about taking back control after being oppressed for so long.
Her father asks her if she has ever been or felt oppressed.
The girl would roll her eyes, except her dad is genuinely worried that the girl has suffered an instance when she was marginalised. She can’t think of one, but there have been a lot of little things; they build up, the girl explains.
Her mother says everyone has gone through a lot of little things; she is not special. The girl wants to say that this conversation is one of those little things.
The mother likes Korean dramas as well as those Asian horror and action films where heads roll and there is so much blood on the screen, the girl wonders how the actors can perform through it. Has any of them ever tripped on that stuff? Does it taste funny?
The mum knows she can’t watch those things with her husband, so she waits until he is out on business trips to binge them with her daughter.
They are deciding what to watch as a family at the end of the day. Mealtimes are an unplugged moment for them to connect and talk about their day, but they always watch something together after supper.
They put on a family sitcom at the dad’s insistence, or something light, he says — something where love and justice prevail.
He falls asleep while Gloria is on the screen cooking and saying something lighthearted to one of the other characters.
The girl finishes the episode sharing an expensive Japanese whisky with her mum. They laugh at all the right parts.
*
The conversation stays with the girl well past its expiration date.
It circles around in her head. Something about female rage. Something about violence being unfounded.
Is there ever a justification for violence? The girl asks herself. The answer is obviously no. Right?
She thinks about it when she visits Tom in his car after class. He can’t afford a hotel, and it is usually over quickly. He tells her to just do it here. It will be exciting, he says. She gets on top. Her body responds but her mind doesn’t. He finishes, she doesn’t.
He tells her she is so beautiful. She doesn’t feel very beautiful at the moment. She says thank you. He says he always has such a great time with her. She lies and says she does too.
He gives her a lift home. The first thing she does is shower.
Her mum asks her to help with dinner. The girl chops onions while she drinks a glass of wine and accidentally cuts herself.
Before she gets up to wash her hands, she takes a moment to look at the cut. The skin swells up and cries red on the vegetable. To her surprise, the pulp drinks in the blood and taints a small area of the dish pink. The cut keeps bleeding and the stain spreads on her hand and on her food.
It stings, but she thinks it looks pretty.
Her mum notices. She stands her up and walks her to the sink to wash up. After the wound is clean the mum puts a plaster on it and kisses it better.
The mum nags about how the onions are ruined. There is a little bit of venom behind it. Not so much that it is immeasurable, but enough to annoy the girl.
She throws away the ruined onions, saying goodbye to the only piece of art she managed to create that day.
When the dad gets home he tenderly kisses her cheek and tells her he loves her very much. They talk about what they did that day. He says the traffic on the A2 was a nightmare. Apparently there was an accident on the road. The girl mentions she cut herself; she doesn’t mention Tom.
Later that night they watch a live-action fairy-tale movie. The girl sips on her wine. Love and justice prevail in the end.
*
Maisie takes her out to an art exhibit. A former student from their university is showing some photographs. The room is crowded with the usual people that go to these things. She recognises most of them and knows half of them by name.
The girl thinks this is one of those excursions that are exciting at first, but get boring after the third time. She has been on this exact night out countless times.
It took her a while to realise that the point of them is not to look at art, to feel something, to congratulate the struggling artist on their accomplishments. No. The point is to have a quick look around and then rub elbows.
The girl thinks this is exhausting. She gets a beer from the bar and drinks it too quickly. She gets another one. A guy she knows called Mark offers to pay. She politely refuses.
The girl cuts from her group and has a look around at the photos. She is not a fan, they don’t inspire anything in her.
They are not bad; there is nothing bad or wrong about them. The girl thinks there is nothing good or right about them either. She thinks about the pink pulp from a few days ago; she rubs her finger. The skin hasn’t healed quite yet, and it still burns a bit if she touches it. She touches it some more and drinks her drink.
On her way to the bar, she finds herself stuck in a conversation between three guys from her course. They talk about thephotographs; one gives an analysis of how they are a commentary on immigration. Another one explains that the photos relate to Islamophobia and the treatment of Muslims around Europe.
The girl wants to say something but can’t find the words. There is a blurry photo of a woman and her baby, the woman is covering her face. The girl looks for the right thing to say, something about being angry. Something about permission.
Mark gets involved in the chat. She hasn’t said anything yet, quietly spectating like she does every night.
Mark whispers something controversial. He says the artist was chosen for the exhibition because she is a brown woman, something about her being English, something about her whole family being English, for generations now. He says the gallery is milking her status as a minority.
Another bloke says that minorities also have a voice; she shouldn’t be silenced because she is brown. Mark says they shouldn’t showcase her work only because she is brown.
The girl can’t hear the rest of the conversation. She is laughing. She is laughing and laughing and laughing, and she can’t stop.
She is laughing the same way she laughs when Gloria or Jay say something funny on the TV. She doesn’t know what she is laughing at, she just knows she can’t stop.
Everyone else in the group is laughing now. Do any of them know why?
Later that night Mark takes her home. It takes longer than she thought it would. They share a glass of wine and then he insists on performing cunnilingus. The girl doesn’t like that. It makes her feel too exposed. He does it anyway. She pretends to like it.
Once they start, he takes ages. He tells her to spend the night. The girl gets an Uber home.
It’s relatively early for a Friday night. Her parents are still awake. She cozies up on the massive sofa next to her dad. He kisses her temple. He smells like soap and whiskey. He asks her if she had a nice evening. She says she did. They watch something silly before bed. Love and justice prevail.
*
The girl takes her Canon into town to take pictures. It has been a while since she took an afternoon for herself to just take photos. She doesn’t particularly like it, but the weather is so nice, and the camera was such an expensive gift that it feels like a waste not to.
Kensington Gardens is lovely at this time of year. She doesn’t care much for pictures of nature, but she gives it a go.
She lasts about half an hour before she opens the bottle of Bucky she got at the off-licence. It’s thick and sweet going down, but by the third sip she is used to the taste. She takes more pictures. After an hour, she thinks they are her best work. She knows they are not. She’ll change her mind when she sees them again tomorrow with a fresh pair of eyes.
A juggler comes up to her and asks her for a lighter. She gives him one. He sits down next to her and strikes up a conversation. The girl sips and gives one-word answers. After twenty minutes the juggler calls her a bitch and leaves. He spits on the grass as he walks away.
The cut from a few weeks ago hasn’t healed yet; she hasn’t let it. She picks on the scab compulsively, so it will remain open. The girl bleeds on her camera. A drop falls on her white top.
She puts her finger in her mouth to soothe the sting.
The girl finishes her bottle and walks to the closest bus stop. It doesn’t matter which one. She gets on the first half-empty double-decker she sees and pays for her fare. She takes photos of the city from the front top seat. They are blurry.
A woman a few years older than her and her geriatric dog sit next to her. They strike up a conversation on how to best look after pets. The girl says she has none.
This stranger’s explanation of the best brands of dog food is the most interesting thing she has heard all day. The bus’s cadence lulls her to complacency. She could spend the entire day just like this.
The woman asks the girl where she is going. The girl says she is going nowhere. She is going nowhere.
That wakes her up from her awoken nap, and she hastily leaves the bus.
She is still in town. The girl contacts a friend and goes to her uni accommodation. They make small talk at first. Eventually, the friend talks about something new they learned at uni, but she tries to pass it off as something she has known all along. She talks about the theory of performance, about how everyday social interactions are performative; we present ourselves in certain ways depending on the context and who is around us. They then both agree that all human behaviour can be read as performative.
After sharing a roach, the friend tells the girl that Mark has been cancelled. Apparently he started a rumour about the girl’s body hair. The friend says that slut-shaming and body-shaming are just wrong and that Mark is a misogynist.
The girl laughs. She laughs for a long while. A little tear falls from her eye from all that laughing. The friend is in stitches also.
It must be the cannabis, the girl thinks. The ash from the roach burns a small hole in her jeans.
She takes an hour to sober up before going home.
Her dad is away in Edinburgh for the night. The mum opens a bottle of expensive Malbec she got as a present. Was it a Christmas present? A birthday present?
The mum notices the girl’s finger. The way only mothers notice small things like that. She asks the girl about it. The girl shrugs it off. The mum puts a bandage on it and gives it a little kiss.
They sit in quiet companionship, drinking fancy wine and watching something with lots of gore. The drink is dark and heavy. It stains her lip the same colour as the pulp. Tonight there is no justice, there is no love. There are a lot of dead Koreans.
*
Her grandmother passed away. It was expected, they all knew it would be any day now. Her father is polite, welcoming people into the funeral. Her dress feels soft but a bit constrictive; she can’t wait to take it off so she can breathe. The three of them shake hands and accept people’s condolences.
No tears.
Just choked up throats.
The girl saw her father cry earlier in the week. She hugged him, and he apologised for being silly.
The girl loved her grandma. They used to go to the zoo when she was little. The smell of hay and animals always takes her back to fond memories with her.
Maisie is here to keep her company — that is nice of her friend, the girl thinks. In the back, she scrolls through her phone. The girl also doesn’t know what to do with herself.
An acquaintance of her dad’s from work walks up to them and shakes her dad’s hand. The man offers to help in any wayhe can; he says he is here for anything his family might need in this time of grief. The girl thinks that is a lovely thing tosay. The man kisses the mother on both her cheeks. He says her name with a heavy voice; that gesture alone carries comfort. The mother thanks him.
The man walks up to her. He acts surprised when he sees her. He introduces himself as Alistair; he asks her if she remembers him. She doesn’t. He tells her the last time he saw her she was this big; he puts his hand at knee-height to signify how small she was.
The girl lets go of a sigh that could be a small laugh. Unlike her parents, she doesn’t get a kiss or a handshake, she gets ahug. He is so big, and it’s so warm and comforting in his arms. He smells like clean soap and aftershave. The girl wishes she could spend the rest of the day in this hug, she’s been needing one so badly. The man reads her like a book and prolongs the hug for as long as she needs it.
No tears. No tears.
The man lets go. There is someone else next to the girl to offer their condolences. She graciously accepts them.
The evening progresses in an air of mourning. The girl is bored, she picks on her scab with her teeth. It breaks again, it stings. She lets it.
Maisie brings her some wine. They drink together and talk about the exhibition they are going to go to the following week. The girl has a look around at the people talking and gawking at the grieving family and thinks that this is not so different to those bloody exhibitions they are always going to.
The girl's dad excuses himself for a moment. The girl knows he needs to cry. She does too. Maisie says she has to go.They hug goodbye. The girl’s mother is talking to someone the girl doesn’t recognise. What are they talking about? Sheoverhears the words trip, Mallorca, and cancelled. So not the dead grandmother then. The girl thinks it’s good her mother keeps herself busy.
The girl spots Alistair in the crowd. She walks up to him. He asks her if she is okay. She says she is not. He takes her to aprivate room. Alistair is about to ask her if she wants him to bring her mum. Before he can finish the sentence, the girl tries to kiss him. Alistair moves out of the way at the last moment. He freezes. For a second, she thinks he might kiss her back.
Alistair tells the girl that doing that is not okay, but he understands she is grieving. The girl asks him to please give her one of his big comforting hugs; she says she really needs one. He complies, and right here in Alistair’s arms, nothing can touch her. She almost lets go. Almost. No tears.
This is what safety feels like, the girl thinks.
She is overwhelmed with gratitude. She wants to say thank you. And she says thank you the only way she can think of.
She lets go of the encompassing hug; she gets on her knees and says thank you. This time, Alistair lets her.
*
The girl has been sad since the funeral. It has been a few weeks but she can’t shake it. It's a nagging feeling rooted in her sternum. It weighs her down when all she wants to feel is numbness.
The mum takes her to get their nails done to cheer her up. It is something they used to do when the girl was little.
The salon smells like chemicals and glue. The girl doesn’t mind the smell, but she can’t imagine how people work in a place like this every day. The girl tells her mother how horrible it would be to breathe in nail and acrylic shavings all day; the mother agrees.
The nail technician holds the girl’s hands in her own. She then says something to her colleague in a foreign language. The other woman comes over to have a closer look. The new woman explains in broken English that they can’t do her nails because of her injury. The girl says the cut is on the back of her finger, not the front. The girl’s mother joins the discussion. The girl hides her hand. The mother takes the girl’s side and escalates the situation.
Both women are refused service. They go to a different salon.
An hour later, her nails look pink and shiny and pretty. On the back, the girl’s finger festers and swells with pus.
The mother takes the girl out for fancy cocktails. They have two rounds before the mother starts asking questions about boys. The girl says there is nothing to tell. The mother says the girl is being boring. They have another round. The girl is beginning to feel the nothingness she was looking for.
The ice slowly melts. The girl wonders if her parents still have sex. She doesn’t ask. She wonders then if her mum is happy; marriage looks like a lot of little concessions one after the other. She has never seen them fight. There are no fights, just a lot of little arguments. The girl wants to know if her mum ever gets angry. Angry at her dad for not watching Korean dramas with her, angry at her for bleeding on the onions, angry at her grandma for ruining the trip to Mallorca, angry at the nail technician for refusing her service.
Angry at all, ever.
She is lost in thought while her mum talks. The girl is holding the stem of her glass too tightly. It breaks in herhand. The cocktail flies everywhere. Sticky residue coats the table and her person. A member of staff is immediatelywith them. There is blue paper and cleaning chemicals involved. He asks if the girl hurt herself. The girl opens her hand. Bits of glass fall on her lap. Little shards are embedded in her skin. The girl apologises to the member of staff. Themother walks her to the toilet so she can help her wash her hands. The facilities smell like lavender and orange. The girl feels a bit silly having her mum wash her hands. She says so. The mother ignores her.
Her touch is gentle and soft at first. While she cleans, she notices the injury. The pulp of the girl’s flesh seeps out alongside fresh blood from the new cuts. The mother’s touch is rougher now.
The girl doesn’t have to wonder anymore if her mother ever gets angry. She is on the receiving end of that wrath now.
A lot of questions are fired towards the girl. A lot of whys and hows and for how long has she had this.
The girl pretends not to know. They walk home in silence.
Her dad is waiting up for them. He asks them how the outing went. The mum says it was fine. The girl goes to her dad and gives him a hug. A long one. He reciprocates but lets her go too soon. She wants to stay there, in that hug. It reminds her of how Alistair held her. It makes her feel like a little girl again: untouchable.
They cozy up on the sofa. The dad puts on a documentary series where a funny lady with a thick Northern accent askssilly questions to experts around Britain. The mum excuses herself for the evening.
They have a little argument. The dad wants the three of them to watch as a family. The mother relents and sits with them.
Love and justice prevail.
*
The next day the two women are waiting to be seen by a doctor. The mother insisted. The girl gets a couple of stitches and a prescription for antibiotics.
A week later she’s bitten through the stitches. The wound burns. It smells foul. The girl drinks it alongside all the new blood. She covers it up with a plaster. The mother notices.
The mother takes her to see a doctor again. It’s a different kind of doctor this time; a private practice.
The girl and the older man sit without the mother. The doctor asks about the girl’s feelings. She tells him that she doesn’treally have many. She tells him that sometimes she has them all at once. He writes something down. The girl realises she doesn’t enjoy talking about her feelings.
She doesn’t get any new stitches this time, but she does get a prescription again. It’s not for antibiotics.
The two women make a silent agreement to keep today’s consultation between them. On the way home they stop for extra virgin olive oil and a nice Chianti for dinner.
*
It’s been a month since the girl started taking the new medication. Everything feels a bit more grounded now. It’s almost as if she is in the same plane as everyone else. The other day Maisie asked her to go to an exhibition with her; the girl said no — she doesn’t have any interest in it.
She is painting again. She doesn’t love her work, she doesn’t hate it either, but she is proud of herself for doing it.
The girl has gained a lot of weight. Her clothes don’t fit her anymore, and she doesn’t recognise herself in the mirror. She can only wear three oversized sundresses that she alternates. It will get cold soon, and the girl knows she will probably have to buy new clothes for her new body. It is a source of shame. She speaks about it with her doctor.
She likes him a bit better now; she still dislikes talking about her feelings. But he doesn’t judge her much; he is a good listener.
The mother is preparing dinner. She is making something low on carbs for the girl. The mother makes a comment about the girl’s body. The girl calls her a cunt and leaves the room. A few minutes later her dad knocks on her door.He asks her to please apologise to her mother; he says that she is trying her best.
Is this the best you can do? She wants to scream it.
She wants to scream it at him and hit him.
For the first time in a long, long time, the girl cries.
Her dad tells her none of that, and come on princess, come here, it’s alright. Her dad hugs her and holds her close. The same way he did when she was little.
The girl loves her dad so very much. It hurts sometimes how much she loves him. It sits heavy on her chest. It takes root and digs into her thoracic cage, spreading through the rest of her body.
And she realises two things. First, that yes, this is the best any of them can do. And secondly, that it is not enough.
They eat together as a family. The meal is protein heavy and delicious. The girl apologises to her mum. The mum accepts graciously.
The girl tells them about her course, she is looking forward to participating in a new workshop the university is offering. Her parents ask follow-up questions. Her dad tells them he’ll be away the following night. Her mum jokes she can’t wait to watch some gory stuff whilst he is gone. The three of them laugh.
At the end of the night, her mother pours two measures of whisky, one for her and one for her husband. The girl declines a drink.
They sit around as a family and watch something nice. Love and justice prevail.