This entry was posted on
Monday, March 6th, 2006 at
11:38 am and is filed
under Rupert ‘The Evil One’ Murdoch.
The Sun – Are you next JK Rowling? (March 2, 2006): Today is World Book Day – and to celebrate The Sun is launching a search for the new JK Rowling. We are looking for an undiscovered writing genius among our army of ten million readers. Could YOU have a previously untapped talent for telling a story? Your masterpiece can be up to 1,000 words and on any subject as long as it is your original work. Judges will be Sun columnists and best-selling authors Jane Moore and Jeremy Clarkson. They will pick winners in two categories – under-16 and 16 and over. The best stories will be published in The Sun and there are fabulous prizes for the winners… SEND your story to: Get Britain Reading, The Sun, 1 Virginia Street, London E98 1SN. Or you can email it to firstname.lastname@example.org Remember to put ‘Get Britain Reading’ in the subject field. You must include your name, address, age and daytime phone number. Entries must be no longer than 1,000 words. Closing date is March 20, 2006.
How could one possibly resist?
Here is my 686-word entry. I look forward to seeing it in print…
by Tim Ireland
The cold of the bench in the barren cell penetrated her overcoat and the flimsy party dress beneath it, chilling and numbing her genitalia.
The irony was not lost on her; it was her inability to feel anything below the waist (or, indeed, allow herself to be penetrated) that led to this whole mess in the first place.
She shifted her weight to allow the cold to weave its way into her sexual innards and smiled with grim satisfaction.
This was the way of the world for her, and she would embrace it willingly. Her fate, not unlike the cold bench that was to be her mate for the evening, was set in stone.
She planned her revenge.
A mere three hours ago, she had been coked up to the eyeballs in yet another foolish attempt to stimulate or simulate a warming emotion, and the result – as usual – had been an icy rage. Then, revenge was to have been a carving knife plunged deep into the chest of her significant other, but this was denied her.
Pah! ‘Significant other’…. she loathed the words and their politically-correct origins, but the English language provided no description beyond this and the even more unsuitable options of ‘husband’ or ‘partner’.
‘Other’ was totally suitable in itself, in that he could feel passion for others of his kind. Others unlike her.
When her rage was at its height, he had cowered in a corner and called the police. The police!
Long ago she had come to accept that she was not like other human beings, but she had drawn strength from the knowledge that this was because she was born to be set apart as their leader, not an outcast.
To be bundled into a police car by a uniformed sheep with the ‘law’ on his side was therefore the ultimate indignity. It was insulting to think that she had no choice but to play along and allow the morning light to reveal the truth… that these so-called laws did not apply to her.
Once again, she felt the knife in her hand, heard it slice through the air and felt it carve through flesh and glance off bone as it buried itself to the hilt in his chest. Teasing the blade, she felt the satisfying resistance as it scraped against his ribs. She looked into his eyes as they bulged in disbelief, before twisting the blade hard and finally withdrawing it so she could revel in the gushing fountain of blood warming her face.
She smiled again, this time at her own weakness.
She stood for a moment, swept the tails of her overcoat to one side, and sat once again to better embrace the cold.
There were other ways to carve the heart from his chest. That which made him ‘other’ to her involved two significant weaknesses:
One; while she was forced to manufacture emotion, he was a slave to it.
Two; that which stirred his emotion sickened not just herself, but also many lesser human beings.
She could not simply cast a bright light upon it all; that would most likely compromise her secret as much as his. But she could take the time to coldly and cruelly torture him in the dark and he would be helpless against her.
Yes, that was the answer.
The men he lusted after were young; young, and therefore malleable. She would crawl beneath their skin, one by one, and turn their passion to other men. Significant men.
This time it would be he who returned home to find his inner sanctum violated.
This time it would be he who returned home to see passion flaunted before him… and feel passion denied him.
And she would engineer this time and time again until – finally – it would be he who reached for the carefully-placed knife.
Then he would learn the true difference between them.
The cell door opened as the morning brought freedom. For the first time in a long time, she felt a warm emotion wash over her. It was hope.
UPDATE (26 Feb 2007) – Finally, the results are announced!