maiden offering . short story by Mavis Foreman . she supported the dying hero &apos;s head in her lap . have no fear , we shall meet again he murmured . Belinda smiled through her tears for she too believed that true love reaches beyond the grave . the end . I wrote with a flourish , the tears coursing down my cheeks as I looked up triumphantly into my dressing table mirror . I am fifteen and have just completed my first real story . I have written it all sitting like this before my mirror apeing every expression of my hero and heroine , sharing their every joy and weeping at their many sorrows . it is such a sad story I can not stop crying , so it must be good . a story has to be sad and very mature and frank to succeed these days and I feel that mine is quite fearless . in a way the heroine is myself and the hero , Ben , is the boy I am rather keen about although he does n&apos;t take much notice of me . of course he is quite a bit older , nearly twenty I believe . my story has two thousand and one words . I know because I have counted every word - two thousand and one ! now I must dry my eyes and go and tell someone about it . I am so excited I just can not stop crying . it is reaction after all my effort . it is now two days since I finished death at sundown and I am not quite so happy about it although I still believe in it and in myself . but everyone has pulled it to pieces and I feel the heart has gone out of it . I think I shall do what Grandpa advised &amp;hellip; . when I first broke the news to the family they were all very thrilled and Mother said I must read it to them as soon as we &apos;d finished supper . my young brother , Billy , was rather fed up as he did not want to miss his serial on the radio and Father did not seem all that keen either . Mother , I could tell , was really interested and so was Grandpa . he did not say much but he kept looking at me and nodding his head . during the meal Billy kept trying to find out what it was about . is it rip-roaring ? he said . you &apos;ll have to wait and see . it will spoil it if I tell you . my Father looked at me then . I did n&apos;t know you were a writer , Julia he said . Grandpa chortled . takes after me - stories by the dozen once and a book . really , Grandpa , I breathed . how many words ? oh , fifty or sixty thousand , I can n&apos;t remember . golly ! I said . how many has yours ? said Billy . two thousand and one . everyone looked impressed and Mother said proudly , Julia &apos;s going to be clever . I had a letter published once myself in some woman &apos;s magazine , I forget which one . a household hint it was , something to do with pegs . pegs ! said Grandpa . did you say pegs ? yes , pegs said my Mother crossly . it was quite a good washday hint . I can n&apos;t remember just what now , it was a long time ago . I got ten and sixpence for it though . it was the time we were trying to get enough together to send you to that good school , she added reminiscently to me . how much will Julia get for hers ? Billy said . they pay quite a bit for a really good story , Grandpa cut in . Billy looked interested . enough to buy a record player ? hm . it would have to be pretty good to get that much , Grandpa said . by this time they were all intrigued . even Father seemed quite keen to hear it . so , after supper , we all settled round the fire while I read the tale out to them with much dramatic feeling and , once again , there were tears in my eyes when I came to the sad ending , but this time I managed to keep them from tumbling down my cheeks . there was quite a moment &apos;s silence when I finished and I took it that all their hearts were too full to speak . then they all said together , yes , it &apos;s good , very good , and Grandpa added , a stout effort . only Billy remained quiet and when I looked at him pointedly he said . it &apos;s a bit like that silly film we saw last week with that smashing cowboy one . you are too young to appreciate it , I said haughtily . it is written for grown ups , not boys of nine and a half . they seem to spend a lot of time making passionate love , Billy said . Mother coughed . yes , I thought perhaps that was rather &amp;hellip; she tailed off lamely . oh , but Mother I flared , everything has to be like that now or it does n&apos;t have a chance - risqu&amp;eacute; , they call it . Father grunted . I should have thought they would have caught their deaths of cold lying about in the snow like that he said . oh , but it was n&apos;t snowing then . but it was the day he was killed . you said something about his red blood on the white snow . oh , yes , I said , but that was another day . I was beginning to feel cross now and slightly disheartened . there was a further silence ; then Father said , I &apos;m afraid there are several bits regarding the army that just would not happen - Grandpa cut in quickly , that does n&apos;t matter in a story . one does n&apos;t expect one hundred per cent accuracy . if it &apos;s a good tale you can get away with that . in one bit you said she was a beautiful maiden of twenty and then later you say she has a squint , Billy said . I glared at him furiously . I said no such thing . well , cross-eyed is the same . I said wide-eyed . all innocent maidens are wide-eyed . she did n&apos;t really behave like an innocent maiden , said my Mother mildly . suddenly , I had had enough and with a gulp I jumped up and ran from the room , my story clasped to my breast . the tears came angrily to my eyes again as I slammed my bedroom door . why could n&apos;t they have left it alone , saying they liked it and then pulling it to pieces . now , it would not seem right to me . maybe I should alter it to fit in with their criticisms . then Grandpa came in . he did not knock as he usually does , just walked straight in . he went to the window and stared out not looking at me and not saying a word . I gazed at his dear old back in the shabby , tweed suit and the funny little bald patch peeping from around the white tufts , a bit like a poached egg I thought irrelevantly , and said sadly , I &apos;m going to alter it the way they suggested . Grandpa flew round then his old face shining and red . you do no such thing , he said . it would n&apos;t be your story any more . leave it be child . it &apos;s your very own creation . it &apos;s fair enough . you &apos;ll do better , but it &apos;s fair enough for a start . you may use my typewriter to type it out if you like . my heart was too full for words . this was indeed an honour ! so I typed my story on Grandpa &apos;s typewriter . it is a very old typewriter and some of the keys are rather crooked . I can only type very slowly as I am quite a beginner so it took me a long time . I am afraid there were a few mistakes but I altered them all in red ink and Grandpa says it does n&apos;t matter how badly a story is typed ; if it has real merit it will sell . it was a wonderful moment when I pushed the paper clip into the pages and folded it into a foolscap envelope . I put another in with my name and address on it just in case . but , oh , I am sure it will be published . it &apos;s just got to be &amp;hellip; . for several days I have been walking on air imagining my story printed in the magazine - death at sundown . by Julia Lane . then this morning I heard the plump of the letters on the mat and somehow I knew immediately that this was my moment . I raced out into the hall but , quick as I was , Grandpa was before me . he was straightening up and there was a long , foolscap envelope in his hand . I could see my own writing on it . shall we go to your room ? Grandpa said very quietly . I followed him with an aching heart ; all the life seemed to have drained out of me . Grandpa sat down slowly on the bed . I &apos;m afraid it &apos;s a return , he said . I bit my lip miserably and nodded . you must n&apos;t mind too much , Grandpa said . even the most famous writers started like this , some have years and years of frustration before they make the grade . some never do , he added under his breath . shall I open it ? I nodded dumbly and he slit the envelope . yes , there it was , my beautiful story and the paper clip had gone . I threw myself on to the pillows beside Grandpa and sobbed my heart out . he let me cry for a little then tugged me upright and handed me his handkerchief . blow , he commanded . I did so and felt better . you must n&apos;t let this beat you , he said . try again , write something better . one day you will go to the door and there will be a little envelope with a publisher &apos;s name on it ; in that moment , you will feel it was all worth while . and look , he opened up my story , your very first rejection slip . I took it from him and read , the editor thanks you for submitting the enclosed MS but regrets he is unable to use it . he thanked me , I said in wonder , that was nice . Grandpa nodded thoughtfully . keep it , he said . one day you may be able to laugh at it . up the Elephant . short story by Roy Boardman . after tea Mum and Dad gave me the look they always gave me after our first meal when I returned to London at the end of the college term . they knew I was going out for the evening . action and conversation followed the usual pattern . I yawned , surveyed the cramped room - the littered table , two armchairs , old football pools and bills stuffed behind the alarm clock , the dominating television screen - and said , oh , well , I &apos;d better go and let everyone know I &apos;m back . where you goin&apos; , son ? asked Mum . up the Elephant , I think . you look after yourself , son , said Dad lighting one of his hand-rolled cigarettes and leaning back in his chair , his striped braces straining over his striped shirt . you know what the Elephant and Castle &apos;s like . mind you do n&apos;t get up to nothing . I might go and see Pete . Pete was the nice young man Mum approved of . we had been contemporaries at the local secondary school until I had gone to college , he into local government , he &apos;s a nice young man , said Mum hoping to begin a conversation . but I had my jacket on and my hand was on the doorknob . well , see you later . nice of you to &apos;ave dropped in , said Dad with terrible sarcasm . come again sometime . I heard the knob of the telly click as I went down the stairs , and when I reached the front door a blast of music hit me in the back . it was twilight . the street was deserted and there were few lights in the windows of the two regular lines of houses that enclosed me . it was telly time for everyone . a few knife-edges of light slit the shrouded sky . I stood on the doorstep a while watching it , trying to decide where to go . a visit to Pete certainly did n&apos;t attract me , the conversation would die too quickly . but I wanted to talk to someone . every time I returned from college I felt the need to meet people I used to know , to see the life I had known , to re-evaluate and see if I could feel some of the old desires . 