Competition
Tessa Castro
In competition No 210 you were asked for a story called ‘The Secret’ told in no more than fifty words. There was, as in life, a fair amount of affairs and concealed parentage. Then there were secrets that were known all along, secret recipes and secret legacies, and one quite common secret these days (‘He voted for Trump’). Commiserations to the secret proxime accesserunt, and congratulations to all those printed below, each of whom wins £12.50, with the bonus prize of a Chambers Biographical Dictionary, stuffed with secret lives, going to Charles LeedhamGreen for his miniature courtroom drama.
Prosecutor. Your husbands three have all died young. You must burn: a witch. Judge. It is proved. She must burn. Accused. If I tell how, ere I kill once more, may I live? Judge. An you speak sooth. Accused. ’Tis thus. At which she died. Charles Leedham-green
Nathan told Sharon to sit down. ‘I know what you and Henry are up to,’ he said. How was it possible? They’d been so careful. ‘It was only sex,’ she said. ‘It meant nothing.’ Then she saw it. A text from Henry: ‘N thinx we’re planning srprs prty.’ Robert Schechter
A covert alcoholic, I had my secret stashes around the house. If Madeleine suspected, she never said. She supported me in her calm, patient way, always dreamily content. Only her unexpected death from a heroin overdose told me why. I’d kept an open secret, she a real one. Basil Ransome-davies
I have a secret. Once perhaps I drowned my sister, stole my mother’s jewellery, ran a brothel, bedded a king, bore a child. Maybe I robbed a bank, shot a man, joined a gang, ruled as a pirate queen. It’s MY secret and I shall never reveal what I did. Rosemary Clemo
After his mother’s funeral, he found a brief note – ‘To Elsie’ – and thirty quid in cash, in the tightly zipped pocket of her purse. He bought himself a jacket with the money, and threw away the treasured note from her divorced husband, his drunken father, her first and only lover. Bill Holloway
When I was six I took my Airedale for a walk. He hated cats and chased one onto a stone gatepost, jumped up and dragged it off. After a ferocious battle he ate most of it. Our neighbour came looking for her cat, but I said I hadn’t seen it. Paul Elmhirst
Years ago, I bought a Lowry print. It’s still here. When some see it, I sense they’re making covert adjustments to their opinions as to the owner’s taste! But then they couldn’t know that behind the print, I’d stumbled on the hidden captivating original painting. Private viewings? Print appreciators only! Ted Lane
After thirty years it don’t take much. She just went too far. It’s worked out well. Windy night to cover the noise. Autumn leaves for a bonfire. Usual smell from the meat factory. I’ll take the saw to the tip later. Can say she went back to Poland. Nobody’ll care. Dave Skinner
Competition No 212 When Ronald Knox was four he said that at night he would lie awake and think of the past. A poem please, from any point of view, called ‘Awake’. Maximum sixteen lines. Entries, by post (The Oldie, Moray House, 23/31 Great Titchfield Street, London W1W 7PA) or email (comps@ theoldie.co.uk – don’t forget to include your postal address), to ‘Competition No 212’ by Friday 3rd February.