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A few months back I was doing a big shop in Tesco and stumbled across Writer’s Magazine. Now, I’ve never bought any writing/writers’ magazines before (I stole a couple once when I worked part-time in a petrol station, but that’s another story) so I thought I’d give it a go. The magazine contained quite a few interesting articles, but I found myself drawn to the competitions page.

I’ve never entered any kind of story-writing competition before but I thought it would be, if nothing else, a good exercise in writing. The main competition had a £200 prize, and the rules were pretty simple:

     • An adult fairy story
     • 1,500 — 1,700 words
     • Deadline 15th June

The deadline might not seem important, but per the competition rules the winners would be notified within two months of the closing date, and couldn’t use the work elsewhere until after that period had expired. So here I am two months later not having heard anything back.

I guess I didn’t win. I shouldn’t be disappointed but to be honest I am. It was a bit Roy of the Rovers, but I imagined myself winning the competition; the first writing competition I’d ever entered in the first writing magazine I’d ever bought.

Back to reality, the adult fairy story competition didn’t appeal to me at all the first time I read it, as it’s nothing like the type of thing I’d normally write. Then I decided that’s the exact reason I should enter. I thought stepping out of my comfort zone would challenge me.

I did think that what I’d written was pretty good, and yes I thought it was good enough to win (I’m not sure I’d have submitted it if I didn’t think it could win). Sure, I knew the odds were stacked against me, but if you’d don’t buy a ticket you won’t win the lottery, right?

I also had concerns. It was the first time I’d tried to write a serious short story, and I had no previous competition-winning stories to read through and against which I could compare my effort. I was going in blind.

I thought my story might be too dark. I was certainly trying to be clever—was I trying to be too clever? I wrote the piece in the second person—something I’ve never done before. Was I thinking I was being clever when in fact I was doing nothing of the sort? Was it even suitable for publication in Writing Magazine? I didn’t know, but I sent it anyway and hoped for the best.

And here I am two months later, an apparently unsuccessful entrant. I certainly look forward to reading the winning entry out of interest. In the mean time though, here’s my adult fairy story. To be fair the “fairy” aspect of the story is tenuous to say the least, but like I said, I thought it was clever.

Let me know what you think.

 

You Are Not the Type of Man Who Believes In Fairies

     You are not the type of man who picks up women in bars, but when she appears you feel compelled to approach her. You haven’t tried to chat up a girl since university and after twenty years of marriage you’re out of practice but inexplicably confident. She’s sat at the bar and though all you can see from behind are cascades of rich, dark hair you know she’s attractive. You’re alone in a strange city and can’t think of a single reason not to walk over and try to engage her in conversation.

     You watch the barman disappear. It’s late and you’re the only two customers. You walk to the bar and perch a pre-meditated three seats away from her. She looks over and smiles. She’s gorgeous. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a more attractive woman than the one who’s just smiled at you. Returning a smile you fidget, desperate to start a conversation but not really knowing how. The barman returns and you buy a double vodka. From the corner of your eye you know she’s watching. You exchange pleasantries. She says she loves your British accent, asks what you’re doing in New York. You say business. You’re vague but you make sure to tell her an American businessman wants to buy your company and by lunchtime tomorrow you’ll be a multi millionaire. You place particular emphasis on the words multi and millionaire. You’ve never sounded so English. If Hugh Grant walked in now he’d sound positively common beside you. You ask what she does for a living. She tells you she’s a fairy and you laugh. What she does is of no interest to you but you like a girl with a sense of humour.

     You are not the type of man who doesn’t wear his wedding ring, but you’re aware in the taxi as she holds your left hand, fingers intertwined, that there’s nothing on that third finger. You know she knows this too. What were you thinking, leaving your wedding ring in the hotel room? You even made sure to hide it in your suit jacket pocket. Envisaging bringing someone back to your room you didn’t want the ring sitting on the bedside table, a great big admission of your deviousness. You didn’t for a moment imagine you would bring back someone so unbelievably perfect.

     Last night this seemed ample justification, but now you feel physically sick with guilt, a stranger staring back across the bathroom sink. You are not the type of man who cheats on his wife. At least, you weren’t yesterday. When you return home at the end of this week you will kiss your wife and tell her you missed her and your children will jump into your arms. This is when you will feel the most shame. Last night you were nothing more than an animal, unable—unwilling—to oppose his instincts. You stare in the mirror; vodka-glazed eyes refusing to blink. You tell yourself you couldn’t resist her advances but you know that you planned this. You wanted it to happen and now you only have yourself to blame. She appears in the mirror looking more beautiful than you recall. You need to get her out of your room. After an awkward pause you ask if she has plans. She shrugs. You apologise but tell her you have a hugely important meeting this morning and need to be leaving soon. You tail off, busying yourself with your tie, hoping she infers that she should leave. When she offers no response you turn around, your smile strained. She should leave, you suggest.

     You are not a man easily shocked, but when she tells you you’re not wearing your wedding ring you are frozen with surprise and guilt and anger. She opens your jacket and pulls the ring from the inside pocket, places it in your palm, tells you to wear it to your meeting. An incredulous stare is all you can manage in the way of communication. She winks, tells you she’s here to help, walks from the bathroom. You follow, forcing your wedding ring onto your finger, screwing it down lest you’re ever tempted to remove it again. Again, you ask her to leave. You don’t need this, you say. Not today. Then why is she here, she asks. You tell her last night was a mistake. You’re married. You were drunk. Weak. It shouldn’t have happened. She says she thinks she’ll stick around. You beg her, please leave. She can’t, she says. She’s a fairy and she’s here to help. She can’t leave until she’s completed her assignment.

     You are not the type of man who believes in fairies but you’re reminded of something from last night. Humouring her, you ask what her assignment was. She tells you she hasn’t a clue; she hoped you’d know. The joke is wearing thin, you think. You have to go, you say, taking her clothes from the chair in the corner and dropping them on the bed. Doesn’t she have to clock on at Fairy Head Office or something? Today, you think, should be the greatest day of your life. This is not the way you thought it would begin. This afternoon you will sign a contract to sell the family business for almost twenty million dollars. You don’t want to sell it, but the offer is too good. You ask if it’s money she wants. You’ll give her a thousand—no, ten thousand dollars to leave, this instant. Shaking her head she asks why a fairy would need money. She’s a nutjob, you say, a lunatic. She shrugs; she’s not the one talking to a fairy.

     You are a man accustomed to getting his own way, and her refusal to leave is beginning to irk you. You’ve really done it this time. Not only have you cheated on your wife with a one-night stand you picked up in a bar, but you now can’t get her to leave and you strongly suspect she’s a psychopath. Top marks. Sitting back on the bed she asks about the company you’re about to sell. It’s the family business, you say with a wry smile. Ninety-five years of family history. You don’t want to sell it, she says, she can tell. You grin and say the twenty million dollars they’re paying you is softening the blow.

     “An offer too good to refuse?”

     “Something like that—”

     “Like me.” She winks and grins.

     You are not proud of what you’ve done, you say. This is not a proud moment. You sure know how to make a girl feel special, she says. You love your wife and family, your voice wavers. Last night was a huge, regrettable, awful mistake, and you currently loathe yourself, you insist, meaning it. You want to be alone. Please, crazy lady, get dressed and leave. She just stares. Just leave, you say—demanding, no longer asking. You tell yourself this is the last time you will try to reason with her, and when she doesn’t flinch—let alone move—you grab the phone. You’re calling reception, you threaten, hoping not to have to. You’re calling reception and you’re going to tell them to call the police. She rolls her eyes and takes the phone from you, slamming it down. No, she says, you can’t. They’ll think you’re crazy. You lift the receiver but again she takes it from you with surprising force. It would be a bad idea, she says. They won’t see her, you know that, right? Stunned silence. We’re finally getting somewhere, she smiles.

     You are not the type of man who believes in fairies. Repeat a thousand times. I’m here to help, she interrupts your thoughts. Then go, you beg. Just go. But she can’t. You’re not getting it—you don’t want to admit it. You’re the only one who can see her, she says. No, you say. No no no. This isn’t happening. I’m here to help. Fairies only exist in the minds of those they’re sent to help. No no no no no. Please, you say, dropping to your knees, hands clamped together, please just go. You wish last night had never happened. Please, if she’s really a fairy then help you now by making everything better. You’re sorry—you didn’t know what you were doing. You’re a weak person. You’re stressed, you’re tired. Just make it better. Say last night didn’t happen. You’ll give anything, anything to undo what you’ve done.

     “Anything?”

     Solemnly you nod, defeated, tears of frustration welling up in your eyes.

     She smiles, “Twenty million dollars?”

     You think and slowly nod. “Anything.”

     Just go home, she says. Check out now and get the next flight home. She’ll leave you in peace if you leave New York now. You love your wife, you say, the tears now snaking down your cheeks. You’ll do anything, just make it better. Even walk away from a twenty million dollar deal? Yes, you nod again and she’s gone. You stand and look around. Every trace of her is gone in the blink of an eye. You need to go home. You think you understand.

     You are not the type of man who picks up women in bars.

     You are not the type of man who cheats on his wife.