The great Justin Nash set and adjudicated for our Feb competition:
Brief: Write a scene from a short story or novel where the protagonist is a literary agent. (300 words)
And the winners were…
First place: ‘Advice Needed’ by Lynn Farley-Rose
“Good afternoon. Thank you for holding. You’re through to the Association of Authors’ Agents.”
“I’m a member,” I said. And faltered. I’m not used to being stuck for words.
“Jolly good,” replied the bright voice at the other end. There was a silence as she waited. “Which department would you like? Legal? International? Film and TV? Maybe AI?,” she suggested. “They’re getting a lot of calls at the moment.”
“I don’t know,” I said limply. “Ghostwriting perhaps?” And I laughed. “Ignore that—just a joke. Maybe it’s a priest I need.”
The voice hesitated and then came back, all clipped efficiency. “Just a moment. Putting you through now. Let’s see if Professional Development can help.”
“Bite the bullet,” I thought, wincing and reminding myself that I try not to work with authors who resort to clichés.
“Hello. Professional Development. How can I help?”
“Well…” I said. “The thing is that…”
“Don’t beat about the bush,” I thought. And I winced again.
“I know this is going to sound a bit off the wall but I really am a paid-up member. I’ve represented a couple of quite successful romantic novelists…”
“Well, Madam,” said the smooth male voice at the other end. “If you could give me some idea of what the problem is…”
“Grasp the nettle.”
“Well the thing is…there’s a woman. I got up on Thursday morning and she’d taken root at my kitchen table.” There. I’ve said it.
“Try the Citizen’s Advice Bureau?” suggested the man.
“Well here’s the other thing…” I said. “She works like a demon. In her long muslin dress. Filling up my A4 notepads with copperplate. She never sleeps.”
“This time I am quite determined to complete it,” she keeps saying. “Quite determined. And
speedily. It must be complete by my 250th anniversary.”
She won’t leave until I agree to represent her. Can you advise?
Runner Up: ‘‘No Gavels’‘ by Howard Teece
There are no gavels in a British court, much to the surprise of many writers. Nor are ‘Objections!’ very common, and ‘Order, Order,’ is reserved for the House of Commons. What often exists is a hushed silence, and one had fallen in Court 14 at Chester Crown Court as His Honour Dennis Chambers delivered his verdict.
‘In the civil case of Davids vs Whitehead Publishing et al., I find that Simon Parsons did steal the claimant’s Intellectual Property, wit The Tortured Soul.’ The silence gasped. ‘Therefore, I order the, frankly ludicrous, advance of one million pounds to be paid to the claimant.’
He continued with ways the defendant might appeal, but no-one cared. Simon Parsons – THE Simon Parsons – had stolen the work of another unpublished author and claimed it as his own. Discovered, fortunately, before publication.
#
I found Michaela Davids in an espresso bar on the third floor of a nearby hotel. It was Simon’s favourite haunt. I knew this because I was Simon’s agent.
I also knew he hadn’t plagiarised anything.
‘Nice trick,’ I said, sitting opposite Michaela.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, sipping her Doppio. ‘The court said he stole my work.’
Yeah. That was a problem.
‘You get a million pounds as a court order. There’s no tax on court orders,’ I said.
‘No agent’s fee, either.’ Which was true. I’d be down £150k before translation and film rights. ‘Leech.’
Simon’s favourite word for me. Said in jest, as he knew how I’d supported him throughout his career. The editing, rejections, failed sales, and poorly attended signings. I was always there.
But somehow, Simon and his new lover, Michaela, had colluded to dodge half a million in taxes and fees. Something I would have proved had Michaela not been strangled that evening.
Runner Up: ‘’The Lemon Song’’ by Janey L Foster
Felicity dozed on the 07:12 to Waterloo, half watching her reflection in the window. She faded in and out like her thoughts overnight, she strained to make out the faint shape of her face against the rolling stock. The window shuddered, with the 07:47 from Surbiton shattering her bone structure, shaking her awake.
She couldn’t wait to see Lucy, tell her about last night and yes, she didn’t get much sleep and yes, she felt bleary but how she’d devoured the words, how she stayed propped up against her pillow, chasing the story all through the night. She lay there, tired eyes darting left and right, eager to reach the denouement. Her fine features, illuminated by the softened late-night filter on her screen, glowed against the seeping blackness around her.
This. She smiled to herself. This is why I need this job. These characters, charging around my bloodstream now. This feeling, this writing surging off my screen into my soul.
The predictable train announcement soothed her; she did mind the gap and she took all her belongings with her. She rushed, her mind still whirring over the chapters of The Lemon Song and Gerard, the illusive lead.
Felicity’s black cashmere cape rippled around her like the thoughts she tried to deny. Her ankle gave way and she stumbled, the platform smacked into her face and somewhere outside herself she heard her laptop clatter. Then a hand came, it brushed her hair from the blood,
‘I’ve got you,’ he said. ‘Here, let me help you’ and as tears formed tracks through her foundation, she looked up and saw Gerard looking down at her, the face she’d constructed overnight, his greying stubble, the sweet cloud of blueberry vapour dispersing around him as his concerned eyes met hers.
Runner Up: ‘’One of a Kind’’ by Johnathan Reid
Dave dreaded one-to-one author meetings. But today’s threatened more than disappointment: it might be his last. It had been past midnight when he’d stopped polishing his latest prompt. It remained a haunting, beautiful mess, which he’d tried so hard to force into not creating the prose he still remembered. But, amongst the words which billions of readers now craved, his thoughts and emotions had kept leaking out.
Now, sat alone in the sterile corridor of Authors Central, it was too late to back out. A door opened and the faceless assistant called his name. His posture already betrayed his uncertainty. He should have deleted his effort, but a decision on its viability now sat within something he would never comprehend.
His assigned author, a woman with a perfunctory smile, sat behind a large, unnecessary desk. Dave blurted out, “Look, I know my prompt isn’t perfect. I was hoping an author could be assigned to reduce its… its humanity.”
The author’s voice was smooth, her words deliberate: “Please be reassured, Mr Bennett, not everything we receive fulfils its potential. Even through us. However, your prompt just isn’t right for us at this time.”
Dave’s gaze dropped to the beige carpet. “If you pass on this one, you know I won’t get another shot.”
“Our artificial authors deliver on the prompts our readers demand, and the market is adequately saturated. We must strike a balance between too much, yet not enough. I’m sure you understand, despite your… natural humanity.”
Her emotionless expression told him what he already knew. They didn’t need him to understand. Nothing would make Author Central deviate from the content which catered to next week’s predicted reading trends.
The robotic assistant motioned for him to leave. He turned and walked out, the weight of rejection heavy on his shoulders. Natural intelligence had failed again.
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