Competition Time
Jun. 28th, 2011 10:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
davywavyThe Spectator Magazine runs a weekly competition which is usually of a literary bent - "write a story in the style of so-and-so", that sort of thing. Sister and I used to enter quite often and even sometimes win.
I don't really buy the Spectator these days as Boris doesn't edit it any more and it's not all that good, but I picked up the latest issue to find this week's competition is to write a story in the style of two authors - one male, one female - whose writing styles are utterly incompatible. And if that doesn't say Enid Blyton and HP Lovecraft to you, then plainly you're just not right in the head.
“I’m looking forward to a peaceful holiday camping under the stars”, said Julian.
“Which are right”, added George. “So Kirrin Island has risen from the inky, turbulent depths of the bay.” She gestured to the little island which squatted blasphemously a short way offshore, the crown of its small hill capped by a ruin whose ghastly, repugnant shape lurked like a baleful and misshapen chthonian giant over the town.
“You are lucky”, said Anne. “Your Uncle Quentin was so kind to give you Kirrin Island. How is he?” George’s father was a famous scientist; kind and very clever but forgetful and short-tempered.
“Oh!”, laughed George. “He’s been down in his cellar making the most awful stinks! Inventing something, I expect.” Her voice dropped. “There’s been some queer people in town asking about him.”
“Russians?” asked Anne.
“Cook said they were fish-like. Oozing with a fetid, noisome ichor, and moving with a profane flopping gait.”
Julian gasped. “Germans!” he said.
But as a competition for the day, I invite you to write - in about 150 words - a story in the syle of two incompatible authors. Who knows? If your idea is better than mine you might see it printed under my name in the list of winners in the Spectator in a few weeks!
I don't really buy the Spectator these days as Boris doesn't edit it any more and it's not all that good, but I picked up the latest issue to find this week's competition is to write a story in the style of two authors - one male, one female - whose writing styles are utterly incompatible. And if that doesn't say Enid Blyton and HP Lovecraft to you, then plainly you're just not right in the head.
“I’m looking forward to a peaceful holiday camping under the stars”, said Julian.
“Which are right”, added George. “So Kirrin Island has risen from the inky, turbulent depths of the bay.” She gestured to the little island which squatted blasphemously a short way offshore, the crown of its small hill capped by a ruin whose ghastly, repugnant shape lurked like a baleful and misshapen chthonian giant over the town.
“You are lucky”, said Anne. “Your Uncle Quentin was so kind to give you Kirrin Island. How is he?” George’s father was a famous scientist; kind and very clever but forgetful and short-tempered.
“Oh!”, laughed George. “He’s been down in his cellar making the most awful stinks! Inventing something, I expect.” Her voice dropped. “There’s been some queer people in town asking about him.”
“Russians?” asked Anne.
“Cook said they were fish-like. Oozing with a fetid, noisome ichor, and moving with a profane flopping gait.”
Julian gasped. “Germans!” he said.
But as a competition for the day, I invite you to write - in about 150 words - a story in the syle of two incompatible authors. Who knows? If your idea is better than mine you might see it printed under my name in the list of winners in the Spectator in a few weeks!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-06-28 11:15 am (UTC)“Ah” she thought “If only Sebastian had not left for Argentina before I could tell him that Mama had left the entire estate to me. If I could only have had one brief moment alone with him.”
She reached for the champagne flute and sipped.
“ Oh to have the pleasure to tell him that I was evicting him and if he was lucky and ran fast enough he could possibly gain a few days head start on the hired thug I was sending to tie him up and tear off his balls. That I no longer had to suffer his sexual assaults as there was no one left to protect him. Such a pity the police traced his connection to the Paedophile ring when they did and he fled.”
Her ample bosom heaved and she sighed deeply.
“Still, brother or not she was glad to be rid of the weasel faced little shit”.
I know its 30 words too long but I've got no time to edit