Masquerade

‘The first prize goes to Charlotte O’Neill, for the best newcomer novel writer of 2017’,

Mrs Summerton shouted wearing a tartan skirt, as she heaved the cup towards her

slowly and trying not to keel over and handed it to her with her knees shaking.

Charlotte looked around at the clapping and faces gleaming towards her full of

admiration of her success and of the novel ‘Heart of Stone’, which had won her acclaim

as a writer.

‘What was your inspiration?’ shouted a lanky man wearing glasses in the audience.

‘It just came to me in a dream’ Charlotte said back in an eloquent manner and

confidently.

‘Wow’ muttered the audience.

   Charlotte held the trophy tightly and firmly as she stood proud and thought to herself,

what a bunch of idiots, such gullible people. She wanted to laugh at them, but she didn’t,

she looked demure and said ‘ I don’t deserve this’ as she knew that this was what they

expected from her, and the show that she put on from their expectation.

She walked off the stage with the trophy gripped tight and the limousine was waiting

outside.

‘Aren’t you going to stay for the party?’ asked Mrs Summerton.

‘I really don’t deserve to be there, and I feel like just reflecting on what this means to me’,

with her eyes fluttering. While Mrs Summerton looked on in admiration at the humility.

She whisked past her Mrs Summerton and whose name she actually could not bother to

remember towards the limousine which the Literary Booker Prize Newcomer 2017 had

organised for her.

 She eased back into the crisp, leather chair as it creaked and smelled airy, musty, stale

and rancid as she kicked off her high heel shoes and reminisced on how ‘Heart of Stone

actually came about.

  ‘I’ve been writing for years and trying so hard’ Simon bellowed.

‘I know babe’.

‘I’ve been pouring so much into this novel, blood sweat tears… well not literally but you

know what I mean’ as he swigged his fourth beer and rubbed his stubble.

She knew, he had written for years without no success, rejections from everyone which

he assumed and never won any competition. He had not heard from any competition

and could not recall entering his stories or not due to his lack of memory.

He threw the manuscript on the table and slammed the door of his bedroom.

 Charlotte looked at the manuscript it had no name on it, like the other stories he had

written she had erased his name and put hers, it had been so easy. He never knew, he

had no faith, confidence, he never checked the internet where she published his work.

The bank transfer’s of the money from the competitions had kept on coming.

The manuscript lay on the table calling her name ‘Charlotte’, it was tempting her, and

teasing her by laying there in the same way all his stories had been with no name, all

she had to do was to enter her own name, so she did.

‘ Where is the manuscript gone?’

‘Babe don’t you remember you threw it away’ looking at him with her puppy dog eyes.

‘Did I? …...Well I had been drinking a little’....Did I really throw it away?’ He asked again

scratching his head trying to recall his memory like always. She had mixed his drink with

the same drugs which caused his confusion and lack of recollection.

‘Oh well…. It wasn’t very good was it?’

‘Babe’ she hugged him. But she knew this was the last time she would bother seeing

him and walked out the next day.

 The competition results had been sent to her by email:

‘Dear Miss O’Neill,

It is with great pleasure that we have to inform you that you have been picked as one of

the top five newcomers in novel writing. We would like to formally invite to the ceremony

to announce the winner at the Literary Booker Prize Newcomer 2017 award’.

Your’s Sincerely,

Mrs Summerton (Literary Director)

    ‘My trophy I knew I would win’ she said as she hugged it tightly and held it close, the

limousine came slowly and smoothly to her flat at Allerton Road.

She opened the door of her flat and switched on her light only to see Simon standing

there, she nearly dropped the trophy.

‘Babe….What are you doing here?’

‘You surprised to see me are you? You would be wouldn’t you, STEALING my novel

from me’

‘Babe… pipe down….babe this trophy it's yours’. She quickly shut the door and slowly

walked towards him.

‘Don’t give me that crap. I know what you are, you're a thief’

‘Babe...look I was only doing it for your own good, to show you how good you are as a

writer’.

He paced back and forth and kept on pacing. She started to edge forward slowly with the

trophy griped tighter, tighter and tighter.

‘You are such a….’ but before he could finish what he was saying his body lay with the

dent of trophy outlining a shape of his head.

‘Babe….Oh Babe… you’re a wannabe writer. I am a writer. I look like a writer, talk like a

writer, I’m attractive and relatable and you were a drunk and inarticulate. You were a

loser, no one would have brought your book’ she whispered into his ear as he body

shivered and shook and then lay motionless as she caressed the trophy, as though it

was a baby. She put in on the mantlepiece gently ‘I'll get you fixed in the morning’ she

said to it while kissing it.

   The trophy overshadowed him and glistened in the moonlight.

‘Oh babe, in the morning, I’ll have to get rid of you as I have loads of newspaper

interviews to do’. She blew a kiss at Simon’s dead body and went to her bedroom to go

to sleep.