The Winter’s Tale

In Competition No. 2925 you were invited to submit a short story entitled ‘The Winter’s Tale’. There were lots of references to Shakespeare’s play in the entry and to judge by its somewhat sombre mood most of you agree with Mamillius’ assertion that ‘A sad tale’s best for winter…’. Those printed below earn their authors £25. Frank McDonald takes the bonus fiver.

Herding sheep is boring, so when a party of rich folk pass it is big news. Jude, the world’s best joker, cheekily enquired where they were headed and was given a courteous and surprising reply. They had presents for the new prince and wanted directions to the palace. Jude told them that in this part of the world royal babies were given a taste of poverty at birth, to make them better rulers. So the baby would be elsewhere.
‘And where,’ asked the oldest traveller, ‘may we find the prince?’
‘Over the hill there you’ll see an old barn.’ Jude knew very well that his pal would be stunned and embarrassed at having visitors. But he and his wife would eventually see the funny side, especially when they were given some of the 30 silver pieces the grandees had offered him for his information.
Frank McDonald

The decline had been coming for some time. He knew it, of course — had been waiting for it, in fact. It was strange to him that it caught people unawares. Heaven knows, the signs had been there for all to see: the physical dwindling, colour ebbing into grey. Yes, there had been good days among the bad, glimpses of the old brightness, times of sudden invigoration. But always there was a sense of things closing in, of an inevitable ending. And he was happy enough with that. It was how life worked. He had preserved everything in his power, left it for another generation. If facing him made people uncomfortable, that was for them to deal with. Now his hold on the world was starting to slip. It truly was time to pass on. Soon he would be forgotten and Spring would have its own story to tell.
W.J. Webster

Matthew was the Extreme Shakespeare Company’s third artistic director. He fully expected that he, like Hamish and Selena before him, would perish in one of the troupe’s deliberately dangerous productions. ESC’s mission was to stage the Bard’s plays in the planet’s most forbidding environments, and every company member was prepared for artistic martyrdom. Matthew had been playing Caliban to Hamish’s Prospero on the slopes of a Hawaiian volcano when a sudden eruption had claimed the lives of half the cast. He had directed Selena’s Cleopatra in the Egyptian desert, and still carried shrapnel in both legs from the suicide bomb attack there. ‘Theatre to die for,’ he murmured as he surveyed the Canadian Arctic landscape he had chosen for his performance as Leontes in The Winter’s Tale. It would be a welcome challenge to find the emotional truth in that scenery-chewing role. He never saw the polar bear coming.
Chris O’Carroll

‘It’s roasting,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Winter. Every year, we spend the summer skulking in shade, lying in bathtubs of ice, downing pints of ready-frozen lager. And then, six months later, we’re positively steaming.’
‘Well, darling, we have to spend our heating allowance.’
‘Done. I bought fur-lined boots. And now my feet are sweltering.’
‘But I like a radiator, Margaret.’
‘Look at the dial! The thermostat! Crazy! I’m going out in the snow, and I won’t be back in a hurry.’ The door shuddered.
Simon opened the walk-in cupboard. ‘It’s all right, she’s gone. Where were we?’
‘Mmmm. Lucky I like the heat. Toasty.’
‘Let us go naked,’ said Simon.

————-

‘About the only good thing about Simon is his cranking up the bloody heat,’ said Margaret. ‘It’s a good excuse.’
‘I thought you liked heat!’
‘Yes, yes. We have three hours. Turn it up to 104, Jonathan, will you?’
Bill Greenwell

It was midnight on Christmas Eve at the farm and a howling wind swept through the coombe and into the barn where Silverside, Rump, Sir and Loin stood on their stiff, arthritic legs, chewing the cud and huddling together for warmth. ‘He’ll be doing it now,’ said Rump and they pictured the Mythical Man sitting once more in front of the glowing embers, warming his hands as he weaved his fanciful tale and recited it to the elders. Only Silverside doubted the truth of the legend. Grown older now, he knew that his painful joints would prevent him from battling against the wind to see if the legend was true. Could a fabled old man at this late hour really be peddling such nonsense? Nevertheless, despite the cold, had one of the others suggested they go and see, he would have gone with them, hoping it might be so.
Alan Millard

He reached for the bottle as if stretching to pat the shoulder of an old friend. Most people had old friends, trustworthy lifelong companions; it was his misfortune to be cursed with false ones who deserted him in time of need. Publishers and editors shunned him, denying his genius. He was upbraided for his vices. Now, with a grim, impoverished Christmas approaching, a sick young wife to nurse and not the merest inspiration to set pen to paper, he looked dejectedly around the shabby room which wintry cold was invading as the fire died. Wrung with grief and horror, he felt mocked by the cheap plaster bust of Pallas over the door. In the corners, deep shadows lurked; one in his fancy took the shape of an ominous bird, like the raven in Macbeth. Suddenly his creative self was awake. He filled his glass and took up his pen.
Basil Ransome-Davies

No. 2928: No thanks

You are invited to submit a thank-you -letter for a particularly unenjoyable Christmas visit to relatives that manages to be diplomatic but deters them from ever inviting you again. Please email entries to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 4 December.

The early deadline is because of our Christmas production schedule.