In Competition No. 2491 you were invited to submit a piece of prose describing what happens when you wake up one morning to find yourself transformed into an insect but not a beetle. Beetles were outlawed so that you weren’t scribbling quite so much in Kafka’s shadow. But in fact, the correct translation of Ungeziefer is vigorously disputed. In his lecture on The Metamorphosis Nabokov insisted that Gregor Samsa’s new incarnation was not as a cockroach, as it is sometimes rendered, but as a ‘big beetle’ with wings, capable of flight had he but known it. The more generous than usual wordcount means fewer winners. G.M Davis’s ant-with-attitude went down well but top of the form and winner of the bonus fiver is Brian Murdoch’s flea with a postmodern twist. The other prizewinners, who get £35 each, are printed below.
When I awoke from disturbed sleep I was surprised and bloody furious. I’d done a deal with my author for him to turn me into some kind of huge beetle. Ungeziefer, Kafka kept saying, but I should have realised how pissed he was because he could hardly pronounce it. Next thing I’m waking up as a sodding flea! Obviously he hadn’t told the other characters either. ‘I’m on the goddam dog,’ I kept shouting. Well, I was hungry. Or possibly thirsty — it’s hard to tell when you’re a flea. I’m supposed to be an image of the misunderstood outsider! I said angst-ridden, not flea-ridden! Just one vigorous scratch from Fido here and it’ll be a damned short novella, I can tell you. My sister, my parents and the rest just sat around for a bit, and then wandered off into Thomas Mann novels where nobody would notice them …
Brian Murdoch
Christ, an ant. And not only that but a female ant. Which means apparently that for no good reason and without my consent I’ve been plunged into a kind of primitive male-supremacist hell, where I do nothing but work while the blokes spend their time fertilising the queen. How unfair is that? And individuality? Forget about it. Now I’m just part of an eusocial superorganism, or, to put it in plain language, an anonymous slave. Just picture it. I do long-distance foraging for food 24/7, supposedly in fulfilment of my biological duty to the colony. Yeah, right, another day in paradise. Plus I’m potentially food myself for predators galore, not to mention the risk of accidental crushing by large creatures who can’t even see me. And if my pheromones smell wrong, it’s ‘hasta la vista, baby’. And while I’m thinking all this with what’s left of my human understanding, physically and neurally I’m hard-wired to go back and forth carrying dead maggots, kitchen crumbs or whatever, like an automaton. With a short life expectancy. So where’s the upside to this metamorphosis? The ability to sting people is what it comes down to. Spoil their picnics. Oh goody. Let’s hear it for formic acid. But a weapon of mass destruction it ain’t. I seem to recall the term ‘anthill society’ was once employed by writers to describe a kind of dystopia. They didn’t know the half of it.
G.M. Davis
Monday morning was unremarkable, except that it had discovered me face-down and naked on the sinktop. I stared in astonishment at my stainless-steel reflection: overnight, I had mutated into Lepisma saccharina, a wingless insect popularly known as the silverfish. How, I mused, does a 50-year-old psychotherapist from Sidcup become a one-centimetre specimen of the genus Thysanura, frequenter of moist domestic habitats, and with a dietary penchant for wallpaper glue and bookbinding adhesives? Facts must be addressed: I could not telephone my Department to report sickness — indeed, to report anything. Marta, the cleaning lady, was due at 11 o’clock; murderous insectophobe Marta. Accordingly, I devised a strategy for survival. Firstly, and crucially, avoid Marta. Second, explore my environs from this new perspective. Third, explore myself. This last consideration took next to no time; I was, unquestionably, genderless. Investigation of the vast terrain revealed a bar of green household soap, a chained sink plug and a rusty fish slice. On balance, I decided that matters might be worse, although a sharp sense of hunger troubled me. I felt the urge for the equivalent of sugar rush; a cellulose fix. A large hardback celebrity cookery book reposed on the distant worktop; three minutes’ scuttling at most. The trek proved futile, as the adhesive tasted of nasty, nutrient-free PVA. Journeying onwards, I reached that damp corner of the kitchen where the lining paper had started to peel… Ah, Solvite!
Mike Morrison
So here I am, transformed into something though not quite sure into what, attempting to break through a sticky membrane that completely encases me and appears to be attached to the base of a long, thick cable. Finally free to examine my unfamiliar form and bizarre surroundings, I discover to my amazement that I now have six legs clinging precariously to one of countless cables intertwined in a tangled mess above and about me. Gasping for air and minus a normal nose, I find myself breathing through nostrils positioned all over my body in very odd places. Relieved to know that they function, my thoughts turn to food, and, instinctively piercing the crusty floor at the foot of the cable, I suck up a surfeit of warm, sticky sustenance swelling my innards to almost bursting. Only now, feeling full and contented, does terror strike as ten gigantic, sausage-like probes disentangle the mesh that conceals and protects me and someone, whose name sounds like Nora, screams, ‘Just as I thought — the waif is infested with nasty nits!’ What follows is nothing short of a deluge as foamy and foul-smelling liquid is worked by the same fat, frankfurter-feelers into every follicle and fibre. Awash with a sense of inevitable death, I abandon all hope of survival until a lone voice calls from a nearby cable, ‘Don’t worry, mate, we’ve developed an immunity to this lousy lotion. Just join the clan and cling on to your roots!’
Alan Millard
No. 2494: Malade imaginaire
You are invited to submit a poem (maximum 16 lines) written by a hypochondriac about a minor ailment. Entries to ‘Competition 2494’ by 10 May or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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