Firstly, thank you to all those who entry me little competition. The solitary prize really doesn't justify the standard of the entries. I will tell you that picking a winner gave me a headache but I may just have come to a conclusion that will puzzle some of you.
Two excellent stories stood out from the others, well written, tidy, grammar all present and correct - two complete packages you might say. So why didn't I choose one of them?
As I looked through them all I realised that another two stories were vying for my attention and appealing to my sense of interpretation. These two had taken the picture and made it their own and because I couldn't decide between these two I have decided to send a book to each.
Canterbury Soul and Mutley the Dog,
you shook me tree. Please email me an address.
Thank you all again. All the writing was excellent. If you would like a personal critique of your story please email me.
Btw, I have received a late entry from Mavis Crapthrottle for the competition. Because I am a fair-minded Minx I have decided to post it here as a future warning to all late comers.
Mavis is a numpty who should know better! Here is her story.
Sunday, bloody Sunday There is a war of a different kind. This one doesn’t get reported on national television. No government is involved, no religion threatened, no rioting in the streets and there is no real loss of life.
There is a war of a different kind. This one doesn’t get reported on national television. No government is involved, no religion threatened, no rioting in the streets and there is no real loss of life.
I cup my hands around the hot mug and watch the explosions lighting the night sky with a mild interest. The voices on the street below are soaked with alcohol allowing the argument to drift through the open window. He had been looking at another woman apparently, and she is determined to let the whole street know. He is still pleading his innocence, promising undying love and total adoration of her ‘great tits’ as her shrill voice frogmarch's him into the distance. They may survive their war - if she is strong enough, that is.
I close the curtains on the birthday fireworks. It is nice to know that someone is celebrating a victory of some sort as I turn to the war zone in my own bedroom.
He has buttoned his pyjamas all the way to the top and has that look in his eye reserved for road rabbits. I know what he’s thinking.
It’s Sunday. So what will it be? Sex, or cocoa?
I haven't decided yet.
Thankfully Mavis Crapthrottle has no blog.