Speccie Short Story by 30th January
 

Blast! Short Story again. Ah well! Over to you prose Johnnies.

No. 2783: short story

You are invited to submit a short story with the title ‘Death of a Ladies’ Man’ (150 words maximum). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 30 January.

My mother is a remarkable woman, but she can be infuriatingly scatter-brained. So I was suprised the other day when, with unwonted perspicacity, she asked me if something was troubling me.

“The fact is, Mother, I’m being chased by three women, and I can’t seem to get rid of them.”

“Ah, if only your Father were alive ...”

“You know perfectly well it’s your own fault that he isn’t.”

She brushed my remark aside, and said: “Do I know them?”

“I shouldn’t think so, Mother.”

“Well, tell me their names anyway - perhaps I could have a word with their parents.”

“I don’t know their first names, but their family name is Eumenides.”

My mother sighed. “All these ladies will be the death of you, Orestes.”

I laughed. She has always been inclined to exaggerate. Yet if this harassment continues, I think I may well go mad.

(Classical scholars will immediately detect the major flaw in this piece.)

Gotcha!

My mother killed my dad
And so I killed my mum
I think I may go mad
My mother killed my dad
I wasn't really bad
But I was pretty dumb
My mother killed my dad
And so I killed my mum

Three ladies vowed to get me
They always get their man
They'd never even met me
But still they vowed to get me
It really quite upset me
I ran and ran and ran
Three ladies vowed to get me
They always get their man

Aaaargh!

So to speak. Now THIS is what I call plagiarism.

Yep. And it looks as if you spotted the flaw.

And that makes me a classical scholar. A radish may know no Greek but I do.

Harry owned a hairdressing shop, and always decided to “do” the prettiest girls himself. Afterwards, he would offer to “do” them free of charge next time in the comfort of their own homes. Naturally, many girls accepted, although they soon discovered that Harry’s offer had nothing to do with hairdressing.

Most of them lived on an estate of up-market bungalows, so in an emergency, Harry could rapidly escape by grabbing his clothes, jumping out of the bedroom window, and disappearing into the surrounding woodland.

His latest conquest was a ravishing girl who had a garden flat in a nearby mansion block. On his final visit, they heard a key turn in the lock. “Oh God! It’s my husband!” Harry instantly seized his clothes and leapt out of the window. But the poor fellow had quite forgotten that the “garden” was a roof-garden, and the flat was on the tenth floor.

Bad Dad!
 

Weighed down by doubt, he can’t attack.
He must unpack
the heavy metaphors that hurt
his heart,
replacing arrows, slings, and swords
with words
that will outwit his uncle’s wards,
trap the louse—his mother’s dear
defiler of her husband’s ear:
He must unpack his heart with words.

Ralph