7 DAY STORY WRITING CHALLENGE #7 WINNER
REGISTER NOW! FOR 7 DAY STORY WRITING CHALLENGES
(There is no need to re-register if you have signed up for 7 DAY STORY WRITING CHALLENGES before)
THEME: AN UNLIKELY FRIENDSHIP
Prize: £500
Finalists
Matthew Llewellyn
Creshea Hilton
Meera Rohit Kumbhani
Ann Marie Struck
Elizabeth Liang
Patrick M. Heffernan
Joel O'Flaherty
Ella Menzies
Edward Kierklo
Honourable Mentions
The following are writers who just missed out on being named as a finalist!
Karen Darger
Aqsa Baig
Thandi Rose
Andrew Gillespie
Joyce Bingham
Lauren Hulme
Claire Lindsey
Sharon D. Hancock
Isabel Flynn
Julie Dron
Sneha Kumar
Keiran Meeks
Hilary Ayshford
James Hancock
Meir Avital
Mary Ethna Black
Eric H. Janzen
Joe Bogle
Anita Goodfellow
Olivia Todd
S. S. Tehreer
Linda M. Blackshaw
Zelda C. Thorne
Lauren McKenna
Dawn Chen
Abby Airuedomwinya
Deborah Thompson
K. L. Vincent
Debbie Wingate
Mohammad Khan
Krystyna Gadomski
Sarah Heald
Sandra James
Marianne Colpas
Marie-Louise McGuinness
Karen Mitani
Adam J. Bruise
N. W. Razzell
K. Antonio
Mia Sommer
Kerr Pelto
Marilyn Caladine
Bunny Lynn Norton
Sarah Claymiller
Ardaschir Arguelles
Krystal Bernhardt
Andrew Shaughnessy
Paul Lewthwaite
Molly Geater Milton
Kat Morris
Kathleen Cranidge
Emma Ng
A. O. Henderson
Bec Curtin
Alysa Johnson
Sarah Turner
Daniel Ho
Eleanor Talbot
Laura Cox
Dhevalence Moodley
Margaret Duffy
Mira Sharma
Barbara Adair
Nicola Wiggins
Heidi Mitchell
JC Du Bruyn
Ben Wakefield
Emily Renk Hawthorne
Catriona Trainer
Haimanti Dutta Ray
Wemuyie
Lachlan Evans
Mary Cassells
John Van Devender
Sue Wright
Nelly Shulman
John Brown
N.L. Buckley
Alexis Aurol
Jean Cooper Moran
and the winner is…
Allan Gaw
DEAD FAMOUS
(HUMOUR)
Mike thought the parade was a really bad idea. He said so every year, but no one in management listened. Why would they? They didn’t have to organise it. While he was feeling sorry for himself, his phone rang. He really had to change that ringtone. It was a good joke at the time, but Bat Out of Hell didn’t seem appropriate. Not here. He saw the caller I.D. and sighed, but knew he had to take it.
“No, your majesty. I’m sorry, there are rules I have to follow. No, you can’t lead, it’s strictly chronological, sire. No, I know…’
The line went abruptly dead. That was the third Henry to call and hang up on him that day. Before that he’d had a Tsar, two Presidents and Alexander the bloody Great to deal with. And, of course, they all wanted the same thing — precedence. But it was still early. His daily earful from Genghis Khan was still a treat to look forward to.
He had been promised an assistant this year, but whoever had been assigned was new and was probably still negotiating the traffic. Whatever the excuse, he was late. Of course, you could say that about everybody up here. While Mike smiled at his own joke, a thin, dark-haired man strode towards him apologetically holding out his hand.
‘Sorry, sorry. Not a great start, I know, but I’m here now, sir.’
‘Don’t call me “sir”.’
‘Should I call you Michael?’
‘No. Can’t you read my new badge? It’s the latest directive from public relations — “Hi! My name’s Mike”.’
He shook his head in disgust and tried to cover the little smiley face on the plastic badge with a fold of his robes.
‘And if you think I’m annoyed, you should hear what the other Archangels have to say. I mean Gabby, Rafa and Uri don’t quite have the same celestial ring to them anymore. But that’s progress for you. Breaking down barriers, being inclusive, “more user friendly”. Yeah right!’
‘There’s still something I don’t understand, sir. I mean, Mike. How does an Archangel like you get saddled with a newcomer like me?’
‘That’ll be her little joke. Mary Magdalen, head of A.R. — Angelic Resources. It was just a slip of the tongue, but she’s never let me forget it. How was I to know you weren’t supposed to say that anymore? Apparently, she prefers ‘sex worker’. Anyway, I’ve been in the doghouse ever since.’
The newcomer looked about with fresh eyes eagerly drinking everything in. The sights and sounds all around him had a carnival feel. Brightly coloured streamers and bunting vied with each other to decorate every building. There was music and laughter everywhere.
‘Well, this is exciting, isn’t it?’
‘First parade? You must be very new. When did you get here?’
‘I’m not sure to be honest. I think I was somewhere else for a while. And then this morning or was it yesterday, I woke up and the light was different.’
‘That’ll be the L.E.D.s We’ve switched over up here to save energy, but I hear purgatory’s still running on flaming torches. Well, you’re here now. Better give you the quick tour before we get started.’
‘Forgive me, but you don’t look very happy about it. I mean you’ve got the shimmering wings, the shining halo, the full shebang. Shouldn’t you be all serene and holy? You know, like on the stained-glass windows.’
Mike looked his new assistant over and sighed again.
‘Forget everything you think you know about this place. That’s the best advice I can give you. And as for me being happy. How would you like to be the events co-ordinator in heaven? I mean think of the seating plans alone. And the characters you have to deal with. There are plenty up here that were full of themselves when they were alive. And believe me they’re just as unbearable when they’re dead. Every single one of them thinks he’s a big shot. I say ‘he’ because it’s mostly the men. But that Marie Curie’s still swanning around showing off her two Nobel Prizes to everybody. I mean, it’s interesting the first time, but you don’t want to encourage her.’
‘I’ve always wanted to meet her.’
‘Well, you can’t miss her. She’s the one that glows in the dark. But listen, the ones that were famous when they were alive aren’t the worst of it.’
‘Really? Do you mean the heavenly hosts, Cherubim and Seraphim, the Holy Trinity?’
‘Oh no, that’s management. I mean the ones that were nobodies when they were alive but for one reason or another became celebrities after they died. And there’s lots up here that think they’re the vicar’s knickers now because of their posthumous fame. Take that one over there, for instance.’
Mike pointed at a crowd spilling out on to the pavement from one of the bars. At the centre of the throng and holding court with his drinking friends was a thin figure. He was bearded with ginger hair, and his waistcoat was covered in streaks of paint.
‘Him. The Dutchman with the funny ear. He gets right chuffed with himself every time one of his daubs gets bought by some Japanese corporation. Keeps a keen eye on the art market. By all accounts, he was a melancholy sort when he was breathing, but now that he’s dead and famous he’s quite taken on by himself. Always laughing and buying the rounds. You’d think he was Rockefeller the way he goes on.
‘How is Mr Rockefeller, by the way?’
‘Oh, he’s never quite got over realising that there really aren’t any pockets in a shroud. But mind, those new celebrities are the ones that cause the most trouble. I had that Henry VIII on the phone earlier. Big bloke, codpiece, likes the sound of his own voice, but he’s a pussy cat to deal with compared with the likes of that one over there.’
‘Who? The little man in the dirty uniform? I don’t recognise him.’
‘No, and that’s the way it was supposed to be. He’s the unknown soldier. And, believe me, he’s happy to let everybody know it! Just one of the thousands that died in the war. When he arrived with everybody else, he was as nice as nine pence. But then they go and pick him out and plant him in the aisle of Westminster Abbey. Well that went right to his head, I can tell you. Just like the bullet that brought him here in fact. No living with him now — if you’ll pardon the pun. Expects all his old pals to kow-tow to him. Like that’s going to happen. I mean, they knew him when he was nothing. But he’s certainly a thorn in my side now.’
The pair strolled on through the crowded streets of heaven. Everybody who was anybody was getting in a festive mood for the big parade. The wine was flowing, and a number were already the worse for wear. The Buddha and Gandhi were having an arm wrestle at a pub table and Queen Victoria was laughing her head off at Casanova’s dirty jokes.
‘Has he got his hand on her thigh?’
‘What can I say — he’s Italian.’
Over on the grass by the library, Dickens, Faulkner and Joyce had their jackets off and we’re almost coming to blows over the correct use of the comma. And Catullus was trying to teach Wordsworth some dirty words to spice up his poems. Mike shook his head and hurried his new assistant on.
‘Riff-raff but at least none of them are bending my ear about this parade.’
‘I don’t understand the problem.’
‘Don’t you? You’ve got every leader in history here. Some of them are out and out crackpots, and every one thinks they should lead the cavalcade. How do you rate Napoleon against Lenin or Ivan the Terrible against Churchill? What about Wellington against George Washington? And all the while you’ve got Margaret bloody Thatcher in your ear telling you that all the men are “Wets” and she’s more important than the lot of them.’
‘So, what do you do?’
‘With Thatcher? That’s easy — just introduce her to the other girls, Cleopatra, Boadicea, and Lady Macbeth, and let them fight it out between them.’
‘Is Lady Macbeth real?’
‘She is if I say so. There’s got to be some perks to being an Archangel.’
‘And what about the rest of it?’
‘Well, I’ve tried alphabetical and that didn’t work. No one could agree on what alphabet we were to use. The Phoenicians and the Etruscans got especially upset. So, I tried age at death. You know, respecting our elders, and all that. But that was a disaster too. Half of them didn’t even know how old they were. So recently, I’ve gone for chronological. It’s not perfect, I grant you, but it’s the least worst of all the other bad ideas. Means Adam and Eve always take the lead and that’s nice, isn’t it? They’re a sweet couple. Had their marital ups and downs like everyone but they’re still together after all this time. Mind you if a breeze gets up it can play havoc with their fig leaves.’
As the pair walked on to the vast parade ground, Mike took his assistant through the order of the day. While he was showing him the banners and flags that had been specially prepared for the occasion, the Archangel suddenly froze.
‘Quick, stand on the other side of me. I don’t want her to see me.’
‘Who?’
‘Her. The woman in white. She’s always trying to touch my wings. Stroking my feathers and murmuring, “Hope. Hope. Hope.” I tell you she gives me the creeps.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Another one of the dead famous — Emily Dickinson, the poet. Lived half her life locked away in her bedroom. Not so bashful now, though. Now that her poetry is all the rage. Quite hands-on in fact. Oh good, she’s spotted Gabriel. I mean Gabby. Looks like it’s his turn to be touched up today. “Hope is the thing with feathers” indeed. I mean, what kind of masterpiece is that? Told you it’s the newbies that cause all the problems here. All that post mortem fame down on Earth just addles their heads.’
While he was at the parade ground, Mike took the opportunity to check the management seats in the main viewing box. Everything seemed to be in order, and he thought he and his assistant could chance a short break for a cup of tea and a biscuit before the rush started.
‘So, what’s your story? You must have been somebody downstairs.’
‘No, I’m afraid I couldn’t have been more ordinary, Mike.’
‘Why, what did you do?’
‘Just a humble insurance clerk. No wife, no kids. And a bad writer. That was always my dream, but it wasn’t to be. When I got sick, I asked my friend to burn everything I’d written after I’d gone. I didn’t want any of my silly scribbles to get free and embarrass the family. So, you don’t have to worry, I won’t be one of those newbies that make your life a misery. Nobody rated me when I was alive, and they certainly won’t now that I’ve gone.’
‘What was your name?’
‘Franz. The joke was that we were a family of Jackdaws living in Prague because our last name in Czech sounded the way the locals said it — Kafka. Don’t bother trying to remember it, Mike. No one knows who I am.’
The Archangel stopped writing on his clipboard and looked up at the thin face of the man now smiling at him. All he could think of was the piece of his mind he would be giving to that Mary Magdalen in A.R. As if today wasn’t hard enough, this was now going to be a whole different kind of trial.
About our winner…
Allan Gaw is a Scot who lives and works near Glasgow. A pathologist by training, he is a writer by inclination. He has worked in the NHS and universities in Scotland, England, Northern Ireland and the US. He writes short stories, historical crime fiction, poetry and experimental novels. His poetry has been published by Dreich. In 2022, he won the UK Classical Association Creative Writing Competition with a short story entitled The Mother of Heroes and the International Alpine Fellowship Writing Prize with a short story entitled Excision.
You can read more of Allen’s writing here.
REGISTER NOW! FOR 7 DAY STORY WRITING CHALLENGES!
(If you have registered for 7 DAY STORY WRITING CHALLENGES before, there is no need to re-register)