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Unread 08-26-2010, 01:27 AM
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John Whitworth John Whitworth is offline
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Default Competition: Day of Doom

Competition No. 2661: The Day of Doom
Lucy Vickery
Saturday, 28th August 2010
Lucy Vickery presents the latest competition
In Competition No. 2661 you were invited to submit a short story entitled ‘The Day of Doom’. As Google will tell you in a trice, the title is that of an epic poem about Judgment Day by the 17-century New England minister Michael Wigglesworth. Puritans lapped up its florid account of a wrathful God meting out punishment to the sinning hordes and the first edition — 1,800 copies — sold within a year, which was remarkable at the time. So, not the most uplifting subject matter, but it obviously continues to compel, producing a large entry full of originality and spark. On especially strong form were John Whitworth, Nigel Harding, Nick Hubbard, Margaret J. Howell, Adrian Fry and W.J. Webster, who were all unlucky losers.
The winners get £25 each; Basil Ransome-Davies storms home with the bonus fiver.

As an advertising copywriter Rufus had taken little interest in eschatology. It seemed inimical to the values of his profession, both far-off and negative. As an unemployed casualty of financial meltdown, he felt differently. His world was now needy and precarious, letting in spirituality through the cracks. He feared being called to account for his paid advocacy of smoking and unhealthy foods. Net-surfing, he discovered a poem, ‘The Day of Doom’, by a 17th-century puritan divine, Michael Wrigglesworth. Milton it wasn’t, but it deepened his anxiety. He grew obsessive. His nights were guiltily troubled by fantasies of the Inferno, as Wrigglesworth’s had been by adolescent wet dreams. It was a strained, woeful time. But when a partial economic recovery offered him work again, lifting the cloud of Calvinist gloom, Rufus found that he had a novel approach, and a daring new slogan, for selling life assurance.
Basil Ransome-Davies

Armed only with a stub of pencil, the dog-eared boy began to scribble his latest sci-fi fantasy epic, The Day of Doom. The teacher did not turn up to supervise his detention, but he did not care. He moved his fingers carelessly, almost gleefully across the exercise paper, blotting out all extraneous noise as he conjured up a cast of aliens and spectral figures, each intent on an interesting and mutual pattern of destruction. He did not hear the sound of the teenager who arrived in mid-afternoon, who had taken six items from his father’s armoury, nor the gasps of the class from which he had been excluded, nor the bursts of bullets, nor see the teacher cowering beneath the desk, nor hear the squealing of the other children, as, one by one, they died. He had completed fifteen pages when the authorities came, as it were, to his rescue.
Bill Greenwell

Burt sat on the porch and rocked, gazing out at the ocean, sparkling blue in the early morning sunlight. He heard the newscaster: ‘At a press conference, the President had this to say about what scientists have called the worst crisis ever facing the planet. ‘We need to refudiate those tree-huggers, ya know,’ came her perky voice, ‘with their pesky doomsday scare tactics. Besides, we’ve got the situation under control, youbetcha!’ The newscaster again: ‘Meanwhile, it looks like another scorcher, with temperatures already pushing 100 in downtown Kansas City.’ Burt switched off the radio. He sat on the porch and rocked, watching the tide come in.
Marion Shore

‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘I’m too old? My shoes are uncool? You just don’t like my face?’
‘Nothing to do with that,’ he said offhandedly. ‘Just step back, would you?’
‘Then what?’
‘Matter of faith and works and you don’t make the cut. Now would you mind? There are people waiting to get in.’
‘Well, that’s my point. I’m one of them.’
No reply. He wasn’t getting it. He had this huge, macho bunch of keys and a shedload of attitude. ‘Talk to the hand,’ I said. ‘Is that it?’
‘Look it up in Revelation.’ He was on the verge of losing it. ‘I don’t have time for this.’
‘An anti-Semite, eh?’
‘Well, you’re not Jewish anyway. Look. I’ll spell it out. You’re not going in because you don’t meet the conditions. Sorry, but I don’t make the rules.’
Then he told me where I could go.
G.M. Davis

William was cross. He was their king now but the crazy English understood nary a word he said. ‘A dome, a dome,’ he screamed in futile desperation, ‘a beautiful Norman building with a curved roof.’ He tried to persuade his Bayeux women to sew one into their tapestry but they continued to embroider bloody battle scenes. The silly English peasants brought all their possessions and their scribes dutifully listed them in William’s big book. Clearly they were convinced they had to propitiate him with geese and chickens. ‘Doomsday Book’, they muttered, bowing and scraping as they scribbled with their quills. William was all the more incensed. ‘Doom indeed!’ he raged. ‘It will be the day of doom for all of you ignorant foreigners if I don’t get my dome, though I see that I shall have to resign myself. There will be another millennium before one of you blockheads understands!’
Shirley Curran

Wrongly condemned, Cecelia sank to her knees and bowed her head to the block. At the foot of the scaffold the murderous mob was baying for blood. With moments to live, her life flashed before her: a life of devotion and selfless service, unsullied by sin and deserving of nothing but praise. Yet fate had dealt her a bitter blow, her doom was sealed, the axe was raised and ready to fall on the stroke of noon. The cries of the crowd were suddenly hushed. No one dared breathe. Everyone waited. The hour glass was all but drained. Her time had come. Nothing could save her now, or could it? Miracles happen when least expected. Was something about to happen now?
‘This won’t do for a competition,’ thought Fred as he scanned the computer screen. ‘It’s almost 12 — time for a break!’ And with that he pressed ‘delete’.
Alan Millard

No. 2664: In two minds
You are invited to submit a dialogue, in verse or prose (150 words/16 lines maximum), between two parts of yourself at odds with each other. Entries should be submitted, by email where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 8 September.
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Unread 08-26-2010, 03:14 PM
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Jayne Osborn Jayne Osborn is offline
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Congratulations, Bazza, Bill and Marion...and John for an HM.
The Sphere must have the best collection of poets anywhere!
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