I was wondering what Horace was up to these days. He seems to be suffering from time lag: the rest of us are having summer, while he's enjoying a literary spring.

'Horace, my old literary nuthatch,' said editor John Farnham, 'It's that time again.'

Horace groaned inwardly. It was too early in the morning – he'd come in at eight, only to find Farnham lurking (his wife Deidre had been making him rise with the dawn to jog since his last physical). Horace hadn't even had his first cup of tea.

He cleared his throat. 'Not the poetry slam?' he ventured. 'If it is, I need time off to visit my therapist.'

The Clarion's editor-in-chief (or EIC, as he liked to be called), laughed heartily, as he always did when he was unsure whether the literary editor was joking or not. 'No, no, not poetry, this time. Deidre's had another of her delicious brainstorms, which has resulted in a new Contest.'

Wait for it... Horace pretended excitement. Not very effectively.

Farnham beamed. 'This time, we're asking our faithful readers to submit a description of a landscape. You know, nature stuff. Since lots of them are either avid gardeners or weekend hikers, this should be a crowd-pleaser.'

Since this rag sells to suburbanites who all think they are nature-lovers, this one should be a five-aspirin job, thought Horace, privately wondering if he had enough Glenfiddich in the bottom drawer to survive the onslaught.

'What's the prize this time?' he asked.

Farnham rubbed his hands. 'First prize is a week in Milton Keynes.'

Horace grinned. He hadn't dared hope for an opening like this so early in the day. 'And the second prize is a fortnight in Milton Keynes?' He left Farnham to chew on that while he went to fetch what passed for tea at the Clarion, and to mull over how to word the announcement for minimum collateral damage.

Horace sat at his laptop in his sister Phoebe's garden. It was late spring, and the laburnums flaunted their golden flowers in all their glory – so like the Clarion's editor's wife, in Horace's opinion, showy and full of false innocence. His sister's bulldog lumbered past with a rakish air reminiscent of the late Winston Churchill, pausing only to lift a bandy leg in the direction of a laburnum. Horace sipped at Phoebe's excellent tea and turned to the bumper crop of entries with a deeper sigh than usual.

The problem, he thought, is that nature is best appreciated with other senses than those used to read literature. The enjoyment of a good breeze and a rose petal is lost when you're trying to think of the perfect word to describe 'cool' or 'velvety'. Life's not always best when there's a Critic at your elbow. With this in mind, he opened the first file with the intention of being charitable.

Far away to the North, in the land known only to Arctic creatures and the furred Nanook, ice floes glide in stately manner over a blackened sea. Majestic, hoary, glassy mountains tower over the viewer's iceboat, surveying him with a lordly mien, as if to say: Ha! You are puny, frail creature of the south, you cannot compete with my immensity, my grandeur. Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.


Of course, this is in winter. In spring, the ice breaks up and floats southward, becoming a hazard to shipping, and stranding unwary polar bears. – Gerald Cholmondeley, Stoke Poges

Horace shuddered, although it was a warm day. He shuddered as if his grave had been walked over by an evil ghost, possibly one armed with a copy of something-or-other by Joseph Wood Krutch. Carefully, oh so carefully did he earmark this particular gem for the attention of Deidre Farnham, bestower of prizes.

Horace was sure without a shadow of a doubt that he had found the Grand Prize Winner, first try. She'll fall all over herself explaining why that's the greatest piece of writing since Moby Dick, he thought. Well, at least it's shorter, and contains no puns. The future of English letters thus secured, Horace could relax and have a bit of fun. After all, he knew that most of these folks were just trying to have a good time.

Horace put this verse in another file – one marked 'Possible Editor's Picks'. He liked the cut of this fellow's jib. Never let a subject defeat you, even if it takes a box of tissues. He moved on.

Nature, red in tooth and nail. Number 10 carmine on the digital extremities, in fact. The struggle for survival is downright evil at times. No creature in all this Darwinian hell is more vicious than the ignoble slug. To observe this hideous creature as it approaches its prey – the innocent, verdant lettuce – is to be witness to the true meaning of life as 'nasty, brutish, and short'. In vain has the lettuce nurtured itself from the stony ground of the back garden, drawing moisture from deep beneath the paving stones with its seeking roots, in vain turned its smiling face (so to speak) towards the life-giving sun, stretching leafy fronds in embrace toward the heavens, or at least toward the top of the picket fence. In vain does the conscientious gardener weed and hoe, hoping for a healthy dose of vitamins with his luncheon. Nay, all in vain. The noxious predator slouches past Jerusalem (in the form of artichokes), sliming the path as it goes...what more awful sight? Until, at last, vengeance cometh. In vain doth the wicked predator try to escape hith [sic] fate. In vain doth he try to turn away from the enticing smell from the shallow dish, the fatal saucer of beer. AHA! Ensnared by his own lusts, he sips, he sups, he falls in, he drowns. The struggle for existence goes on, survival of the fittest (in this case, the gardener) thus assured... – A.Naturalis (pseudonym)

Horace blinked in the sunlight, as if coming out of a trance. He decided that this particular nugget should by rights be forwarded to the Society for the Terminally Perplexed, somewhere near Brightling. Failing that, he would have liked to have printed it out for surreptitious placement under Deidre Farnham's pillow as a talisman to engender nightmares. As he lacked printer access at the moment, Horace contented himself with storing it under 'Review Later'.

He was just about to open the next document, invitingly entitled 'Ode to an Earwig' (by a contributor named Mala-something), when a quiet cough broke his concentration. Horace looked up to see the smiling gap-toothed face of his niece Amaryllis, all braids and freckles. He grinned, and Ponsonby the dog came up, stumpy tail wagging fiercely. Amy reached down to pet him (the dog, that is) while querying her uncle:

"Wotcher doin', Uncle Horse?'

Horace shrugged. 'Reading boring work stuff,' he confessed. 'What are you doing? It must be more interesting.'

Amy nodded vigorously while scratching one leg with the opposite bare foot (it not being practical to use the same one for the purpose). 'I've been in't woods,' she reported. 'Lots of innerestin' doin's in there. First, there wuz two squirrels playin'. One chased t'other up a tree. And then back down. Then they played leapfrog – least, I fink that was what they were doin', only they didn't get it right, because the one got stuck on top...anyway,' she went on, ignoring the faces Horace was making, because he was a Funny Uncle, 'and the birds were singin' like mad, sounded like the choir at St Anselm's, only a lot better, and then I found Somefin' Special.'

Horace was all eyes and ears. 'What, dear?'

Amy crowed proudly, 'Fis!' She held out her hand to reveal a particularly tasty-looking specimen of Abax parallelepipedus. 'Innit bee-yew-tee-foo'?' she demanded. Horace agreed.

Horace forgot about writers, and writing. He forgot about contests, and poetry, and slugs, and noxious metaphors. He and his niece went off together through the damp grass, in search of Ponsonby's ball, all the while chatting about the marvellous beetle.

There is joy in the spring when the birds begin to sing,

In an English country gar-r-r-r-den.' – Traditional

Fact and Fiction by Dmitri Gheorgheni Archive

Dmitri Gheorgheni

08.08.11 Front Page

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