It might be the end of harvest season now, but that didn't stop a bumper crop of stories from sprouting up this month! And now, it's time to identify the cream of the crop (I never knew you could grow cream...).
My Long List
Glen - A touching and wistful paean to what is, and what was, and what has been lost. The flourish of one word - succumbing - made this a deeply affecting story.
Victoria - Love Letters. Prose poetry is notoriously difficult, but this is a wonderful, impressionistic air to the elements themselves, and the ways in which they speak to one another, far beyond our human understanding.
Littlestar - Piece Taut to a Whorled At Wore. I couldn't put my finger on why I liked this, but it had a kind of abstract
je ne sais quai that is starting to typify your work on these challenges. In the end I decided it didn't actually
mean much at all, but was simply words at play, and for that reason alone it deserves a mention.
Drof - One Small Misstep. Yeah, that ending is coming a mile off, but it didn't stop it from plastering a soppy grin all over my boat race. The only thing that would have improved it would have been the captain doing a Clay Davies style, "Aw, sheeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiit" at the end. But one mustn't be greedy about these things.
Kerry - another lovely piece of preternatural prose poetry; a Tolkienesque glimpse into the secret lives and language of trees. Who is the silent assassin, I wonder? I reckon it's Alan Titchmarsh. My hero!
Mr Orange - you're churning out comedy gold at the moment. We shall have to start calling you Oranjeboom!
!!!!!
Jo - I loved this. Absurd and sincere, daft as a box of monkeys and as beautiful as a shaft of sunlight through the trees, all at the same time. At once it's a love story not only between two characters, but the love stories we cultivate with our own, private languages. Skills, Jo.
Phyrebrat - gosh, this reminds me of something, and I can't for the life of me remember what, but the idea of entire existences' worth of knowledge, emotion, and experience being condensed and explained by a single word is a powerful one, and effectively conveys the humble limits of our own understanding. The repetition of "one" is like a mantra, a chant, approaching Zen, approaching totality. More than a whiff of TS Eliot about this. Maybe that's what I'm thinking of.
Cul - it's a wonderful thing that you can wind up in any bar on any spit n' sawdust planet in this crazy ol' galaxy and be sure that, whether the bug next to you's got three heads or a massive proboscis, you'll both find something to chew the fat over once you get a pint of the good stuff in front of you. Unless you're French, in which case it'd be a demi-litre, the Philistines. Let's just hope the Anglophiles make First Contact, eh?
Harebrain - It's Götterdämerung. But with extra clorms. You clever sausage.
Ursa - like a one-man punning juggernaut drowning in a vat of his own boiling hot syntax, Ursa clorms as many double sausages into this magnificent bag of nonsense as is humanly probable, delivering goolygang after goolygang of dripping wet word pudding with all the ganache of Russ Abbott (for it is he again!) in a Thesaurus-eating contest.
In the end it was a brutal four-way verbal punch-up between Jo, Victoria, Phyre and Ursa.
Jo was a whisker away... but in the end I had to give it to
Ursa, the naughty chap.