Wonderful Short Stories

by Stan Mason

  The trainer brought Danny, wearing the gorilla’s skin, into the ring, held by a steel chain with a leather collar around his neck. The strongman swallowed hard at the ordeal ahead of him. This time it was for real! There was no safety-net! If he fell he would probably either die or break a number of bones in his body. The crowd waited in anticipation with baited breath. Danny grunted a few times and jumped up and down, scratching his chest and screeching, emulating the antics of a real gorilla. He was beginning to find the role quite fascinating as he pretended to be the real thing. If someone in the crowd had been eating a banana, he would have cheerfully approached them to purloin it for himself.

  Then came the roll on the drums. This was the part he was going to dread. That awful long walk on the tight-rope eighty feet high. He began to climb the rope ladder and made his way slowly upwards. When he reached the top, he looked down at the audience and swayed violently almost losing his balance. The crowd sighed, holding their breath, as he managed to hold on to a pole like grim death. There was no safety-net! He could have died at any moment! What was the advice given to him? Don’t look down! Never look down! Slowly, he placed one foot on the tight-rope and moved his hands out to steady himself. Focussing on a coloured patch in the roof of the tent, he made his way forward reciting the poem Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard. With stealth, under the gaze of a fascinated audience, he moved across the tight-rope uneasily. He had gone just over half way when he realised that he was standing over the lions’ cage. It had never been there before, yet now it was underneath him. It was then he made his fateful move... he took his eyes off the patch in the roof, stopped reciting and looked down. There were four lions staring up at him and he suddenly lost his nerve. Tilting heavily to one side, he fell off the tight-rope directly into the lions’ cage, his fall being broken by the net which covered the top of the cage. Picking himself up off the floor, he faced two roaring lions with their eyes focussed sharply upon him.

  Panicking, he ran swiftly to the side of the cage, grabbed hold of the bars and shook them before screaming: ‘Help! Help! Let me out! Let me out!’

  One of the lions bounded up to him and roared loudly but, instead of sinking its teeth into his rear, it yelled in his ear: ‘Shut up, you fool! Do you want to get us all the sack!’

  Odd One Out

  Fate is often in very close contention with the affairs of men and women alike. It is mercurial, elusive, sometimes good, occasionally bad, but, one thing is certain, mankind does not have the knowledge to assess when it will arrive, or in what strength it will come, or the effect it might have on any individual. It may be simply ephemeral, long-lasting or even permanent, descending in force almost spiritually as it influences the lives as well as the will and the determination of a naive population. It may strike suddenly indiscriminately at anyone or at any place any time without rhyme or reason. No one is sufficiently safe or sacred to be able to shelter from it or avoid it, while often it bears down heavily on the most innocent people who deserve a better deal from life!

  Davina Wickham was ostensibly an ordinary woman with a very strange secret. It so happened to be her fate to be born at midday on the twenty-ninth of February which meant that her birthday occurred every four years when there was a leap year. Whereas most people born on that unusual day normally accept the first day of March to be their birthday, Davina refused to accept the substitution, insisting that she advanced one year in age only once in every four years. Consequently, at the age of forty-eight, she considered herself to be only twelve years old. Throughout her life, the fact that she adhered firmly to his birth-date caused her no end of problems. For example, when she applied for a driving licence, the administration refused to accept that she was only five, when she was actually twenty years old. Regardless of her explanation, which was absolutely correct as far as she was concerned, she was forced to change the document before the licence was awarded to her even though she resisted most strongly. However, she refused to change her age on the documents relating to her employment after leaving school. Consequently, her employer was forced to submit records which declared her to be only four years old, having to add a rider in parentheses stating the reason for employing someone so ostensibly young. After all, there were laws constraining companies from employing minors and, at four years of age, Davina would certainly be regarded as a minor. However, there were agencies which were completely disinterested in the matter. One, for example, was the Inland Revenue who clawed tax from her salary without caring what age she entered on her tax return.

  In general, life ran on in the normal fashion. At the age of twenty, she met a handsome young man and they married. A few years later, they boasted two children and everything ran normally for the couple until the competition too k place! It was sponsored by the local newspaper, the Daily Globe, who ran a short story competition which they advertised broadly. There were three prizes in each category for the best efforts... one for the juniors of sixteen years and under; the other for seniors who were seventeen years and over. The first prize in each category was one thousand pounds which seemed very attractive and Davina, who was always dabbling at writing short stories for her own amusement, decided to enter. Without wishing to cheat or overpower the opposition, Davina found herself in a fix. She was actually only twelve years old if one considered that her birthday occurred every four years. However, if she entered the junior competition, it would be unfair to the other competitors. Nonetheless, she was adamant that she was only twelve years old and so she entered two short stories for the junior section. When the fateful day arrived, she received a letter from the newspaper to advise her that she had won the junior section with one of her stories. Furthermore, a function was being held at a local hotel at which the prizes were to be given out in an award ceremony. It was quite an ostentatious affair with a glorious buffet, wine flowing for the adults, and orange and lemonade for the youngsters. A stage had been erected at one end of the main hall and eventually, after everyone had had sufficient time to satisfy themselves from the refreshments, a man appeared with a microphone to announce the winners and runners-up and to hand out the prizes.

  ‘I’m Mike Flannery,’ he announced over the loudspeaker system, ‘the Editor of the Daily Globe. We ran this competition to inspire writers young and not so young and I’m pleased to say that there were over six hundred entries. But let us start by naming the winners and the runners-up. I would be obliged if you would come up when I read out your names to accept your award.’ He opened an envelope and took out a sheet of paper. ‘The winner of the junior competition was Davina Wickham. Will you come up and receive your trophy and cheque Miss Wickham?’

  Davina stepped forward and climbed the few steps to the podium, approaching the man with a smile on her face.

  ‘I think you’ve made a mistake, dear,’ claimed Flannery as she reached him. ‘This prize is for the juniors... those up to and including sixteen years of age.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she told him flatly. ‘I’m Davina Wickham and I’m twelve years old.’

  The Editor stared at her in bewilderment. ‘You think you’re twelve years old?’ he retorted incredulously, wondering whether to humour the woman or not. He had never come across a situation quite like this before. ‘Yes, my birthday falls on the twenty-ninth of February. I’ve enjoyed twelve birthdays in my lifetime so far.’

  ‘But that’s impossible,’ he told her, tightly clutching the winning trophy and the envelope containing a cheque for one thousand pounds. ‘This competition is only for young people.’

  ‘Well I’m only twelve years old,’ she snapped sharply. ‘You asked me to put my age on the entry form and I did.’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ he ventured turning away to one of his colleagues seated at a table behind him. There was a fairly long discussion in dark whispers before he turned back to the prize-winner. ‘We’ll have to put this one on hold,’ he told her bluntly, ‘because I think yo
u’re going to be disqualified.’

  ‘Disqualified? Why?’ she countered angrily. ‘I’m in the age range. I won the award. What’s the problem?’

  ‘This competition was designed for young people of sixteen years of age and under,’ repeated Flannery forcefully, considering the woman to be outrageous. ‘If you wanted to enter, you should have gone in for the senior competition.’

  ‘How could I?’ she demanded, her temper rising as she stood in front of the microphone before the large crowd. ‘I’m only twelve years old. How could I enter the senior competition? You tell me that!’

  He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and began to mop the perspiration from his brow. ‘Normally, people whose birthday falls on the twenty-ninth of February substitute the first of March. It makes life so much simpler.’

  ‘Well they’re living a lie then, aren’t they? They delude themselves to save a lot of trouble in a world that refuses to understand... the same way you fail to accept it now!’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t understand,’ he explained, puffing and blowing out his cheeks. ‘It’s just that the competition was devised for juniors. And, let’s face it, you’re not a junior in any sense of the word, are you?’

  ‘The form asked for my age and I truthfully wrote that I am twelve years old. It’s not my fault you entered me for the junior competition and not for the senior one, is it?’

  Flannery heaved a sigh and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not prepared to argue with you, not here in this ceremony,’ he muttered. He reached for the microphone and switched it on. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he began, with a worried expression on his face. ‘We’ve hit a small snag so the presentation of the junior prize and it will be delayed while we sort it out. Thank you Davina Wickham. I’d like now to pass on to the presentation of the senior prize.

  Davina stepped off the stage in a fury. What right had anyone to deny her of the prize? She could prove that she was only twelve years old so why was there such a fuss? After all, the man admitted that the junior competition was devised for entries from people up to and including the age of sixteen, and that included her.

  All the junior prizes were frozen that evening and the committee of newspaper executives met the next day to decide what to do.

  ‘We can’t give it to the woman,’ declared Elsa Ramone, one of the senior reporters on the newspaper. ‘Do you realise what we would be doing? We’d set a ghastly precedent... not only for the newspaper. It would mean that anyone born of the twenty-ninth of February would have carte blanche to do anything they wanted to do.’

  ‘But how many people are actually born on the twenty-ninth of February,’ cut in Desmond Parry, the sub-editor. ‘First of all, it happens every fourth year when there’s a leap year. Secondly, most people born on that day use the first day of March as their birth date. It’s the only realistic way of running one’s life.’

  ‘Exactly!’ blurted Elsa vehemently. ‘You’ve hit the nail right on the head. It is the only realistic way of running one’s life and Davina Wickham ought to realise it!’

  ‘We can’t let her get away with it,’ stated Flannery bluntly. ‘I won’t allow her to take the trophy and the cheque when the competition was designed for juniors. It’s not on!’

  ‘I mean, if we allowed her to win, any other competition run by this newspaper which was split between juniors and seniors would become fraught because she would enter again,’ ranted Elsa frustratedly.

  ‘You’re right,’ agreed Flannery. ‘I suggest we disqualify her and give the main prize to the first runner-up.’

  ‘I agree with that except for one thing,’ submitted Parry wisely. ‘I think we should give the cheque to the first runner-up but let Mrs. Wickham have the trophy. In that way, when she calms down, she might let the matter rest.’

  ‘But that would be tantamount to suggesting that she won the competition,’ countered Elsa sharply.

  ‘Does anyone know anything about the woman?’ asked Flannery seriously.

  ‘In what way?’ returned Parry puzzled by the question.

  ‘Well, is she the sort of woman who might take action against the newspaper because, if we disqualify her, I think we might leave ourselves wide open to litigation,’ he told them thoughtfully. ‘She seems to be a very determined woman, to say the least. I mean, I wouldn’t have the gall to enter a junior competition and go up to collect the prize stating I was only twelve years old when I was forty-eight, would you?’

  ‘I suggest she’s disqualified and let that be an end to it!’ concluded Elsa finally. She was strongly in favour of women’s liberation and, in fact, had written many reams on the subject. However, as far as she was concerned regarding this matter, Davina Wickham’s claim was beyond the pale.

  The committee ended on that note and Davina was informed of their decision by letter a few days later. Naturally, she fumed as she read it and decided to litigate against the newspaper. What right had they to challenge her age? What right had they to disqualify her from the competition when she was telling the truth about herself? She would challenge their decision in the Courts to overturn it! She would show them who was right and who was wrong! Consequently, she contacted her solicitor, Harvard Collins, immediately asking him to handle the case. She went to see him a few days’ later and was shown into his office where he greeted her briefly.

  ‘I’ve given it a great deal of consideration,’ he stated firmly, ‘and I suggest that the Court is likely to consider this case in two ways. In the first place, you’re absolutely correct in claiming that your birthday occurs every four years. There’s no doubt about that. You have every right to declare that you are only twelve years old, albeit that fact will be a pretty tall order for a judge to accept. On the other hand, in a civilised society where everything is regulated, it would seem to be against the spirit of the law to accept that you are only twelve years old when you are obviously very much older. The Court may decide that you are in actual fact forty-eight years old because you were born forty-eight years ago. Therefore, regardless of the date on which your birthday falls, you have been living on Earth for forty-eight of its years.’

  ‘So where does that leave me?’ asked Davina, with her mind in a whirl wondering what the solicitor was going to advise.

  ‘Well,’ continued Collins, ‘you can go to Court but you must be prepared to accept the consequences.’

  ‘What consequences?’ she asked as she knew she was in the right whatever the Court decided.

  ‘I’m talking about costs. If you lost the case, the other side would claim their costs as well. I’m sure they would employ a barrister to defend them However, if you won the case, they would probably have to pay your costs and you would receive the cheque for one thousand pounds. In view of the amount involved, it’s a difficult decision for you to make.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances,’ she told him brusquely. ‘It’s about time I stood up against the world to prove my age.’

  The solicitor’s eyebrows moved rapidly upwards at her rapid decision. He didn’t really think she stood a chance in a Court of law but as Mr. Bumble declared in Dickens’s Oliver Twist: “If the law supposes that, the law is a ass... a idiot!”

  Flannery was disappointed that Davina Wickham was litigating against the newspaper. He had personally decided to run a writing competition and, unwittingly, it now led him to Court. It was something out of the blue... totally unexpected.

  On the appointed day in the Crown Court, the Judge stared down at the Plaintiff and the Defendant over his glasses with a scowl on his face. It was as though he detested silly cases ... those which appeared to have insufficient foundation for him to arbitrate. They seemed to be attracted to him like steel with a magnet.

  ‘Proceed, Mr. Collins,’ he told the solicitor tiredly, looking down at the papers in front of him as though he didn’t care to listen to the opening statemen
ts.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ began the solicitor calmly. ‘The Plaintiff was born on the twenty-ninth of February and therefore celebrates her birthday every fourth year, when there is a leap year, instead of each year. When the Daily Globe ran a writing competition for seniors above the age of seventeen and for juniors up to and including the age of sixteen, where the first prize in each case was one thousand pounds, the Plaintiff entered stating that her age was twelve because she has only been able to celebrate twelve birthdays during her lifetime. I would add that the Plaintiff has always maintained her age at one-fourth the normal amount. Even her employer has documents which, to all intents and purposes, state that she is a minor although in real terms she is an adult.’

  ‘Am I to understand that she is actually forty-eight years of age?’ asked the Judge staring over his glasses.

  ‘No, sir,’ continued Collins. ‘She was born forty-eight years ago but, due to the fact that her birthday falls on such an unusual day, she has celebrated only twelve birthdays. Therefore, in essence she regards herself as twelve years old.’

  This fact did not go down well with the Judge who muttered something incoherently and wrote a brief note on the paper in front of him. ‘Carry on!’ he muttered eventually.