For Competition 3450 you were invited to submit a short story written in words of one syllable.
This challenge produced a pleasingly diverse entry, with echoes of Bulgakov, Orwell and Hemingway. It was especially tricky to whittle down a larger-than-usual post-bag to just six winners and I very much regretted not having room for Andy Simpson, Andy Myers, Peter Mullen and Mark Boullé. Other strong performers included W.J. Webster, Simon Godziek, Martin Brown, Samuel Finniear, John O’Byrne and Verity Kalcev.
The £25 John Lewis vouchers go to the submissions printed below.
‘I hear,’ said Jim to his wife, Jean, ‘Bob Lime is dead.’
A bit deaf, Jean said ‘Who?’
‘Bob Lime.’
‘What, him as had a shop at – ?’
‘No,’ Jim said, ‘that was Bob Lane.’
‘I know no Bob Lime.’ Jean stood firm.
‘You do! Tall bloke, long face, blue car. Specs.’
‘Big dog.’
‘No,’ Jim jibes, ‘that was Bob Locke had that, way back.’
‘What news of Bob Locke?’
‘None, love.’
Pause.
Jean said ‘Then is it of Bob Lane, this news?’
A sigh and Jim said ‘No. Bob Lime.’
‘So he, Bob Lane, said this Bob Lime as I do not know but you do, is dead.’
‘You knew Bob as well as I do. Did.’ Jim said.
‘Bob Locke I know. Bob Lane I know. This Bob Lime, though? No.’
‘Wore a felt hat.’
Dawn rose for Jean ‘Ah! Yes. Bob Lime! And this news?’
‘Dead.’Adrian Fry
At that time, on the lump of rock which we call Earth, there were men. One man, called Trump, had a bag filled with spells called codes, which could wreak great harm. Trump, or it might have been a bad man or a mad man who stole the spells, cast a spell to start what they called World War III. Men thought it would bring life on Earth to an end.
They were wrong. It was not the end. There was fire but when the smoke cleared there was moss. Then there were plants. Then there were birds which sang and built nests. At last there were mice which had sex, bore young and gave suck. There was life but there were no men. So there were no bad dreams, no false hopes and no sin. It was just the way God had meant it to be from the start.
Philip Roe
No one had seen Jed crawl his hump, but he still had sand, that’s for sure. Guts, a horse, and more cow sense than you could shake a stick at. Jed worked hard, loved soft, talked slow, and knew not to squat with his spurs on. There was steel in his blood, and he blazed a wild trail, like the stink of a skunk off its feed.
Jed smelt when to scrap and when to scoot, and his head was a bag of nails since Dead Eye Dick done him wrong. Jed knew the town was too small for them both. Fit to be tied, in best bib and choke strap, Jed gigged his horse and rode in to Dodge, his face like a meat axe, with the twitch of a man who had snakes in his boots.
Dick saw how the cat jumped, and this time he dug for his gun…
Richard Spencer
I knew I was the man for this game. Who else but James Bond? The strong, cold, suave spy. I don’t waste words. M gave me the brief.
‘He can talk,’ M warned. ‘Watch him. But you can take him. You’re terse, crisp, blunt, to the point. Keep it short and clean. Make sure you get the last word.’
I found our man in Prague. M was right. Like most thugs, he thought he could make me talk. Or die. He tried. Ropes, knives, sharp hats. I made a dry quip or two, as is my style. Then I broke free, stole his gun and winged him. Down he fell, all rage, a trail of blood on the floor. He shrieked. ‘I can still end you, James! All I need to say is a word of more than one syll-’
I shot him. Called M. ‘Job done,’ I said.
Janine Beacham
‘We’ve no truck with long words, here at the Star,’ said my new boss. ‘Write it short and clear, so plain folks can read it and take it in.’
It was my first day in Leeds, and my first job. I could hear the tap of words being typed, shouts down phones, the sound of spoons in cups. It smelt of hair oil, smoke and sweat. It was too hot.
‘Your name, now,’ the boss went on, ‘is too long and posh. Six sounds.’
‘I say it “Fshaw Fines.”’
‘That’s still two sounds in one word.’
‘Not if you leave out the small dash, sir. Then it counts as two words with one sound each.’
‘Don’t get smart with me, son. From now on you’ll write as Charles… Charles Smart. That will do. Now, get your bum in gear, that new road, go out and get some vox pops.’
Frank Upton
The Men from Mars came to Earth in their ships and cursed us with death. Folk died in droves each time they spoke words, or wrote them down. It took my friend, Holmes, the famed sleuth, to learn why.
‘Words of one clear sound, words made up of one strict part, are fine to say or write,” said Holmes. ‘The Queen turned to ash when she said the term for her six times ten years’ reign, while those who write news for the Times blow up when they write down words of more than one sound. Case solved.’
Thus it proved. The Men from Mars failed to rid the Earth of us. We learned to speak in words of one sound, and the press hailed Holmes as a great man. That was when he turned to me and said, ‘It was plain to see, my dear…’
He will be missed.
Paul Freeman
No. 3453: the secret is…
You are invited to describe a new, infallible personal regime that promises to make one healthy, rich and irresistible (150 words maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 3 June.
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