The Ultimate Ultra Micro-Short Short Story Competition

The packed hall was buzzing with excitement, the crowd, mostly made up of writers, filled with anticipation. The entry for this year’s competition was huge and, rumour had it, the best, most competitive, yet.

Dave sat waiting anxiously for the ceremony to begin. He’d barely eaten a morsel of the delicious banquet, his tightly strung nerves strangling his appetite. It was crazy, really: after all the accolades, the prizes he’d won, the success he’d enjoyed, two Olivias, four Dannys, his mantelpiece groaning with the weight of all the awards: this little competition should mean nothing to him. But it meant everything!

It was where he’d begun, a reminder of his roots, of his innocent former self, setting out on a lifelong career, hoping to make it as a writer. He’d made it alright, though God knows, somewhere along the way, he’d sold his soul in the process. But he’d never won the Ultimate Ultra Micro-Short Short Story Competition, it was the one prize that still eluded him.

He’d entered every year since he left college. Well, every year except ’35, when he’d taken Mi’anda on a Jovian moon cruise for their honeymoon. He sighed, he’d been so happy then. But it hadn’t lasted, of course. All his friends had warned him, ‘You can never trust a Dolgarian, they don’t even know what loyalty means.’

Mi’anda was only half-Dolgarian though, and he’d genuinely thought she’d be different. Events had proved him wrong, of course.

He glanced across the room to where she was sitting, her pale blue skin glistening under the lights. She was so beautiful, it made his heart ache to see her here with Adelaide. For the umpteenth time he had to admit the painful truth to himself: he still loved her, and he always would.

The waiting bots were clearing away the coffee cups and the judges were beginning to make their way to the stage. At the age of 102, Tristain was still the chair. Dave wondered how much longer he’d be able to carry on. Hopefully a long time yet, as rumour had it Adelaide was lined up to replace him when he finally stepped down. While that would mean she was barred from entering the competition, it also meant he wouldn’t stand a hope in Hell of winning. He had to win before then, and that could well mean this year was his last chance.

Of course, he’d never expected to win the first few years: he was a young, unknown writer back then. But, as his career started to take off, he’d begun to feel frustrated that this one particular, special honour seemed to be beyond his grasp.

He’d found Tristain propping up the bar after the ceremony back in ‘28 and, though he couldn’t really afford it, had offered to buy him a drink. He’d grimaced when Tristain ordered a ‘Jenny’s Jedholm Mind-Boggler’, the most expensive cocktail on the menu. But it had done the trick, loosening Tristain’s tongue enough for Dave to be able to extract some valuable advice.

“What was your entry this year, lad?” slurred Tristain, his eyes focussed somewhere slightly to Dave’s left.

“Mine was ‘Revolutionary’. It got highly commended, but didn’t make the shortlist.”

“Oh yeah, I remember. Yeah… you write some good stuff, David, but it’s too long, you need to make it shorter. The world’s a busy place nowadays: holovision, 6D movies, crystal implants, nano-narrator infusions, fifth generation immersive AI modules… the old storytelling tradition is getting squeezed out. Young people now have such limited attention spans, you need to write something shorter. But, if you do, if you can, I think you’re in with a shot at winning, I like your stuff.”

So, he’d starting writing shorter, tighter stories and he’d begun to make the shortlist. Then, in ’33, he almost cracked it, coming in second with ‘Hell’. That was how he’d met Mi’anda: in the same bar, after the ceremony. She’d been with another girl and the two of them had an awful row, acrimoniously splitting up right before his eyes. He, of course, was there to pick up the pieces.

Looking back now, it was pretty obvious Mi’anda preferred women, he was just the exception that proved the rule, or maybe, for her, some kind of experiment, something she needed to try. Dolgarians had plenty of time to try everything, after all; they lived over two hundred years.

But that night had been heavenly. He’d woken early in the morning, softly cradling her in his arms, watching the rising sun reflecting off her skin: blue and gold fusing together to create something truly amazing. By the time she woke up, he was hopelessly in love.

Love and happiness aren’t always good for a writer’s creativity. It’s often been said artists must suffer for their art. He wrote some absolute crap over the next couple of years, including his competition entry in ’34, ‘Bliss’. Commercially though, it was his most successful phase, reaping one award after another, not to mention millions of credits. Artistically, it was nothing but garbage.

Things flipped in ’36 when Mi’anda left him to move in with Adelaide. Once he’d emerged from his self-imposed prison of despair, he began writing dark, edgy pieces, like he’d done in his youth, but now imbued with a pathos born of bitter experience. His financial returns plummeted, his personal satisfaction soared.

Two years ago, ‘Bitch’ had taken third place in the competition. The judging panel had admired its personal undertones, its autobiographical qualities, but quietly, over a few more Jenny’s Jedholm Mind-Bogglers, Tristain had told him it was too direct, too literal, the trend was for something more abstract, something that broke the boundaries of conventional storytelling.

So, last year, he’d entered something daring and different, hoping it might satisfy the judges. But it had been rejected on a technicality, it broke the rules.

“Surely they’re only guidelines?” he’d demanded angrily.

“Well, mostly, yes. But there are some fixed rules we have to observe, or it would just be mayhem: ‘anything goes’, and we can’t have that.”

“Why not? Rules are the enemy of creativity, they’re made to be broken, why let them confine us. As artists, we should have no rules, we should be free to write anything we like.”

“You are, but not in the Ultimate Ultra Micro-Short Short Story Competition. I’m sorry, David, ‘Reflex Action’ doesn’t meet the rules, I’m afraid you’re disqualified this year. Better luck next time, eh?” Tristain smiled.

To add insult to injury, Adelaide had entered ‘She’, an obvious reference to Mi’anda. Not only had Adelaide won the competition, she managed to rub her victory in his face, gloating at his misery.

But, like all good artists, he’d turned those negative feelings: his despair, heartbreak, aching, lovesick loss, into something positive. He’d worked on it for months, honing it, crafting it, until he had something he was truly proud of. He’d made the shortlist and now, here he was, waiting anxiously for the results to be announced.

He was confident he would at least place this year, but was his piece good enough to win up against competition like Adelaide, Jesmeldi, and even Botkina Gilvano, the Valexian princess who’d been so confident in her story, ‘Dual’, she’d stepped down from the judging panel so she could enter this year.

The babble of hundreds of conversations filling the hall subsided as Tristain stood up and started introducing his fellow judges. He welcomed the audience: the thousand or so in the room; those joining by live-streamed holovision throughout the ten continents, the space stations in Earth orbit, the lunar colonies; and the many millions receiving ultra-light transmissions on Mars, the Jovian moons, Valexia, and Dolgaria.

Tristain read out the highly commended titles, the shortlisted compositions, and their authors. The audience applauded then a hushed silence filled with expectation descended. Almost as if to prove the point, someone dropped a pin and the sound echoed throughout the hall.

“I will now announce the top three places in the traditional reverse order. I invite those in the room to clap their hands and those out there joining us on holovision or ultra-light transmission to use the applaud function on their devices. Please give it up for, in third place, for their composition, ‘Rainbow’, Jesmeldi Dean-Faressi Gibbert.”

The room exploded in a crescendo of foot-stomping, hand-clapping, whoops, cheers, and electronic, simulated applause from distant continents and planets, as Jesmeldi made their way to the stage. Tristain handed them the trophy, they smiled and then, as was customary, read their piece to the room, and the Galaxy beyond.

After Jesmeldi had finished their reading, Tristain addressed the audience once more, “And, in second place, with another, very strong entry, last year’s winner, Adelaide Oz with ‘Doubt’.”

Dave clapped politely for as short a time as he felt he could get way with, conscious of the myriad cameras around the room, beaming images out into the cosmos. He was filled with mixed emotions: delighted his nemesis hadn’t won again, resentful that she had placed so high.

Adelaide read her piece, then the room fell quiet once more. This was it, the moment of truth. Dave could barely contain himself. A small part of his mind, somewhere at the back, was saying, ‘You’ve got it, this is your year, you’re going to win’, but the other 97% was telling him to keep calm, smile politely at the cameras, and do everything he could to hide the crushing, bitter disappointment he was going to feel when Tristain announced the name of some 22-year-old  who’d written a trendy new composition called something like ‘Piss’ or ‘Shit’.

He closed his eyes as Tristain spoke into the microphone, then felt the applause washing over him like a tsunami of adulation. Was he imagining it, was he hearing things, had the chair of the judging panel really just announced his name?

Staggering to the stage in a daze, it all felt so unreal, like a dream, as if he’d bought a nano-narrator infusion and injected himself with his most cherished fantasy. But the 3% at the back of his mind took control and told him it was real, it was happening: he’d done it, he’d finally won the Ultimate Ultra Micro-Short Short Story Competition.

Grinning from ear to ear, he shook Tristain’s hand, accepted the trophy, then read his winning composition to the Galactic audience.

Leaving the stage, he stumbled towards the bar. He was going to need a few more Jenny’s Jedholm Mind-Bogglers before his feet reconnected with the ground and his mind stopped spinning like a top. He didn’t think life could get any better than this but, as he felt a hand on his arm and turned around to look into that smiling face he knew so well, suddenly it did.

*

“Oh, Dave, I’m so happy for you, you really deserve this, it’s long overdue.”

“Er, er… thanks, Mi’anda, that means a lot to me, especially coming from you.”

“Dave, can we go somewhere to talk?”

“About what, Mi’anda?”

“About us.”

“There is no us anymore, you made that very clear when you left me for Adelaide.”

“I know, Dave, I’m sorry,” she stared at the floor, there were tears in her eyes. Typical, Dolgarian crocodile tears his friends would tell him if they were here, ‘Don’t trust her,’ they would have hissed.

“Look, Mi’anda, it’s good to see you, but my heart is only human, I don’t think I could take it if you broke it again, it’s taken me years to get over the last time.”

“I’m sorry, Dave, but can’t you see that I… I… I made a mistake, and I… I’m so, so sorry. Please, can’t you give me… give us… another chance… please?”

“But you’re here with Adelaide.”

“It’s just for show, for the ceremony, we broke up a month ago. Please, Dave, please forgive me, I… I… I…”

“Mi’anda, you’re a Dolgarian, everyone knows you can’t be trusted. Sure, I’d love to think we could get back together and everything would be wonderful, but I’d be a complete and utter fool to trust you, everyone knows that. It was good to see you, you’re looking fabulous, like you always do, but I have to go, I have an appointment with several large celebratory cocktails,” he turned and walked away, heading for the bar once more.

“I’m half human, Dave, or had you forgotten… because I haven’t… I have never forgotten… never forgotten that I love you.”

He turned around again.

*

The morning sun was streaming through the window. Its rays fell softly onto her pale blue skin, setting it aglow with a radiance like cold fire. He pulled her close, almost unable to believe this miracle was really happening.

He looked across the room at the trophy taking pride of place on his mantelpiece, then down at the serene beauty of her lovely face. Suddenly, the prize he’d craved for decades, and had finally won, paled into insignificance next to the far greater prize he held cradled in his arms. Was he being a complete and utter fool to trust her? Right now, he didn’t care. After all, he really didn’t have a choice because, whatever else was going on in this Galaxy, the two of them were… well, just as his winning composition described.

Her scarlet eyes flickered open in that strange, abrupt, Dolgarian way, as she instantly moved from deep sleep to wide awake. She smiled up at him, “Good morning, my beloved husband.”

“I seem to remember we got divorced.”

“We can soon fix that,” she grinned.

“What would you like to do today?”

“Mostly, make love, non-stop all day. I’ve missed you, you know.”

“I’ve missed you too,” he laughed, “especially that appetite of yours. But only mostly?”

“Yes, first I’d like to hear that winning story of yours again. It’s so good, it just sums up so much of what’s good about us, about life, about the very thing the Ultimate Ultra Micro-Short Short Story Competition ought to be about. That’s what I told Tristain, and he obviously must have agreed. Go on, read it again, please.”

“OK, well, er…”

“No, stand up, face the room, like you’re reading it properly, to an audience.”

“I haven’t got any clothes on.”

“Neither have I,” she giggled, “I don’t care.”

“Alright,” he climbed out of bed, staggered to his feet and turned to face her. Looking down at her smiling up at him, her skin shining in the morning light, he felt overwhelmed by the depth of his feelings. She was right, his ultimate ultra, micro-short short story said everything that mattered. He cleared his throat ready to deliver his piece.

“Do it properly, Dave, like you’re speaking into the camera, like you’re on holovision, riding the ultra-waves all the way to Dolgaria.”

“OK,” he smiled at the love of his life, knowing he would do anything for her: although if he really thought her mother could see him on Dolgaria, he would definitely have got dressed first.

“Well, this is my latest composition, the winning entry in this year’s Ultimate Ultra Micro-Short Short Story Competition, and it’s called ‘One’ by David F. Barker.”

“Go on, Dave, go on, read it,” Mi’anda grinned up at him.

Addressing the imaginary camera, he spoke, striving to inject as much gravitas into his voice as he could muster.

“One.”

Mi’anda was bouncing up and down on the bed, squealing with delight, the way only a Dolgarian can, “Oh Dave, it’s so good, it’s your best yet, it’s absolutely brilliant, I love it… and I love you.”

Laughing, he jumped onto the bed, hugging her tight. “I love you too,” he whispered, his heart overflowing with joy and pride. He’d finally written a piece short enough to win over the judges. But, more than that… much more than that… the piece had won him the prize that meant more to him than anything in the Galaxy: the piece had brought her back to him.

He already knew the title for his entry next year, ‘Love’.