There's a Competition here, I'm sure. I wonder why there's no such thing as crickers. Perhaps women's cricket is knickers crickers.

Back to the grind. Prose eh? Let's try a retread of this one. Does the 150 word limit include the title? Do you know, Chris?

Vladimir Nabokov's School Sex-manual

The facts of life, my chickabiddies! The birds, my own sweet birds of youth a-flutter, and the bees, my hot honeybunches, bristling, whistling, rustling, hustling all abuzz! Meaning sex, my hearties, sex and concupiscence, bold tumescence, deliquescence detumescence, ape and essence, adolescence and you, my little eager beavers, gay deceivers, true believers trembling and dissembling on the cusp. Turn to your neighbour, nymph, swain beside you, touch hands, touch hearts, be public with those private parts, for facts are dryasdust when that whereof we speak is essentially aqueous, wet Bobs and knobs, wet Babs and squabs, slipping and a-sliding you put your whole self in, you take your whole self out, how potent this cheap music truly is. Hokey-cokey, okey-dokey, everybody's doing it, spermatazoa, ova, making out and making over, worm seeks egg, wham-bam and thank you, ma'amm! Pull up your pants; next up is math.

I say Whitters (or Johnners) Harry Nabbers is Harry Gooders, if not too Harry Louchers for Lucy. Think Harry Robbers' Jilly Cooper a strong contender too.

Richard Dawkins writes a children’s story


‘Daddy, Daddy!’ cried Sarah excitedly, ‘there’s a unicorn in the garden!’
‘That is self-evidently absurd,’ said Daddy. ‘No biological mechanism exists whereby any member of the family Equidae may generate a horn from its cranium.’
‘But there is one,’ Sarah insisted, a tear welling in her eye. ‘I saw it.’
‘Can you produce any empirical evidence in support of your claim?’
‘No,’ Sarah mumbled.
‘I thought as much. So what do we say about unicorns, fairies and Father Christmas, Sarah?’
‘That they’re sinister fantasies designed to gull the credulous.’
‘I suppose one must make allowances for the fact that you’re only three,’ sighed Daddy, ‘but pull a stunt like that again and I’ll have you adopted.’
Then they both went to have tea and chocolate cake and read On The Origin of Species. Again.

That makes me laugh too.

Thanks John. I thought your Nabokov disgraceful, but I mean that as a compliment.

Why thank you kind sir.

Just to hedge my bets, I'm going to count the author's name and the "something different" he or she is trying as part of the 150 words. But I doubt that's strictly required, especially if you include the information parenthetically after your entry. I imagine the NS will do something with bold-face headlines to characterize the winning entries in some way. Those heads are composed by the editors, not the competitors. Maybe they'll just run your author's name as a headline and let the nature of the book speak for itself.

I think you are right and I have adjusted my entry accordingly. I'm going to give Joyce another run.


Joyce's Oxford University Prospectus

College windows hurrying scholars gin and tonic at the boathouse lengthening shadows down the gardens ancient buildings softly falling golden scholars autumn shadows sunshine punting down the chapels college choral gin and boathouse golden apples calling meadows haunting moonshine lengthening fellows random knowledge hung in gardens summer madhouse glinting bindings fluttering pedals whispering swallows river shallows gin and gardens hunters ardent weeping fellows drifting whispers dreaming murder winter windows shadow music sung in softly building gardens tonic choral lengthening scholars wailing willows solemn chapels winding softly ailing scholars ancient molars river music classic columns dreaming madhouse pattering shadows boathouse tonic golden money stolen kisses crumpled pillows broken bindings tangled naked sunshine children ancient passions drowning river falling cardhouse chanting scholars hunting moonman random staircase choral starshine deftly building singing candles roaring dimly scudding rainclouds hurrying figures goldenchildren weeping mirrors this year next year sometime never

Please Sir, can I do Joyce too, Sir? - can I? - can I?

Joyce writes the verse for a Hallmark Valentine

At this deleteful hour of dungflies dawning
Soulfisher courts cats’ curiosity -
A written on with dried ink scrap of paper
Which vaunts no idle dubiosity.
When Heighho Harry tripped with nozzy Nan
To dormerwindow gossip from the town
I raided the baccbuccus of my mind
And wrote it, wrote it all, wrote it all down,
O undoubtedly yes and very potably so,
With balls and bars and hoops and wriggles there:
When you and I are lufted to ourselves
Thief us the night, my love, steal we the air.
What if this be not love as others know it?
It only looks as like it as damn it.