STORY COMP
from behind the Pillar of Amunoun, and nods, to the left. No.
Is Xenophilen truly my son?
I stagger away from the procession road, pushing through the
crowd, half-blind with tears. I am not the only one to do this –
always there are those who have asked questions of great import,
who are unmanned by the answer they receive. Gods’ fools
some call them, and I too have looked on them in discomfort and
disdain, for asking a question to which they did not wish to know
the answer. ‘Stick to wheat and barley,’ I have heard men mutter.
‘There are things we do not need to know.’
Is Xenophilen truly my son?
I cannot stop asking the question now; it is the only thing I can
hear, above the wild beating of my heart, though I pound my ists
against my temples and tear the hair from my crown. I stumble
through the city streets, ignore the stalls selling dried meat and
igs, icons and warding pouches, cloths and gems. I never eat in
the city, but normally I would seek out a doll for my son, some
bright cloth for my wife, some token of esteem for my brother. The
merchants will not miss my few dull coins.
I plunge on, down the track to the port, seeking my boat, seeking
the path upriver, thinking I must get home, to where my brother
watches over my wife and my son. The afternoon sun is hot on my
uncovered head and sweat runs into my eyes; more than once I lose
my way and ind myself heading uphill or downriver when the
houses converge and the road turns unexpectedly. I have taken this
road many times before but today I make the wrong choices again
and again. I turn left when I should turn right, go straight on when
I should take a stairway down to the lower streets. It takes me twice
as long as it should to ind the riverside gates, open again now that
the procession has moved on.
And I start to wonder, as I begin the long journey upriver,
paddling my boat or carrying it as the vicissitudes of the way
demand, whether it was not earlier in the day that I began to
confuse left and right. Which way did the Camel-head bow? I
know I am slow and easily confused, and this was a day when I
could get lost in a city street that I have often walked before. Did
the head truly dip left, or was it right? Was the answer truly ‘No’?
Is Xenophilen my son? I tremble with doubt, and also with hunger,
for I have not eaten since before the dawn. What will they say, my
wife, my son, my brother, when I return empty-handed from the
procession? What will I say when Amaris mockingly asks, ‘What,
were you mugged? Did you lose your coins before you reached the
market?’ What will I say when they ask me, ‘What did the god say?
Should we plant wheat or barley this year, when the waters recede?’
And at that, after several days of anguish, I begin to calm myself,
as I make my way through the hollow reeds of the Spreading Bend
on the seventh day of my journey home. It is not so hard, after all, I
tell myself. I know what I must do, what I must say.
‘We shall plant wheat,’ I shall say. ‘Like last year and the year
before; we shall plant wheat in the best ield when the waters recede.’About the author Malcolm Todd is a freelance copy-editor
from Nottingham, but originally from Glasgow. He is an amateur
actor and director and has written and performed short pieces.
He has had two stories published in Scribble magazine.SECOND PRIZE £150
It’s All in the Plotting
Dora Bona
Y
es, I get it, you want to write a murder story. I know you
say you've tried before, but it sounds to me like you weren't
going about it the right way. That's what I'm trying to tell
you.
No, I wouldn’t exactly say your characterisation was bad, but
without a substantial plot, there’s no purpose for your characters.
Then we must ask the question, does the reader give a shit about
your characters? No ofence intended. I'm here to help. Well, at least,
I think that’s why I'm here. So... do you... think you could take the
cufs of? My circulation’s not great. No, no I’m not whining but I’m
already tied to the chair – it’s not like I’m going anywhere.
Thanks. So, we’ll start at the beginning and take it back to basics.
What is the human body made up of?
No, not ninety per cent water. Well, yes but that isn’t what I
meant. The human body is a sheet of skin covering intricate layers
of muscle, tissue and fat, albeit in my case a bit much of the latter,
but underneath is the all-important skeleton – the framework upon
which we’re built. And that’s what you need with a good story. A
foundation on which to develop it so you can move around freely in
your readers’ heads, inciting tension, suspense, excitement.
I know you hadn’t thought about that before. That’s why you’ve
wasted twenty-ive years doing it the wrong way.
No! No not at all. Settle down. I would never call you a loser. I’d
say you were tenaciously persistent. Dedicated. You just need a bit
of expert guidance to get you on track.
No, you’re not a bad writer. There’s no such thing as a bad writer.
Just bad writing. I believe I can help you. After all, er, you’ve gone
to quite a lot of trouble to get me here.
OK, so how much have you written over the years?
Wow, that's impressive. And how much has been published in
that time?
Oh well, that's a shame. That works out to roughly a two per
cent success rate. Not exactly proliic, are you? But we can get that
number up.
Yes, I do believe it. But more than that, you have to believe it. So
OK. Get a notepad. We’re about to construct your irst skeleton.Continued overleaf