3rd place Last Dice of the Throw

Last Dice of the Throw

   Of course, it wasn’t meant to be like that. Once he had joined this dumb-looking writers  

group he knew that he would scoop every writing award. How could they not recognise a 

genius. It was obvious to all that he was the next coming scribe, the one who would go on to 


   But so far it was not to be. Harry hadn’t won a single writing competition organised by the 

Woodley Green Writers Club. A club that consisted of eight members, five of whom 

had dementia.  

   It was a fix. That was the only explanation for his failure thus far. Look at last month’s 

winner? Jack Mason. A total moron. Couldn’t spell the word ‘cat’ if you held a gun to his 

head.  And who was the judge of last month’s comp?  Mandy James, Harry’s lover. Lover?  

Maybe that was extreme. But he could see that they were close. Sitting together, 

chatting, touching, laughing. Clearly suspicious behaviour in Harry’s book. 

   And this month’s topic? Write a Bond Epic. What a stupid assignment. 

Approximately 600 words in Times Roman Numerals or was it Times Ancient Tasmanian? 

Harry couldn’t remember. And the font size? Was it 12, 14 or 35?  Again he couldn’t 

remember. Double spaced to the left and no full stops or was it double spaced to the right and 

no commas, or was it no spacing after the full stop with acute parenthesise and dialogue in 

brackets after a question mark after a violent subjective clause? He couldn’t recall. Who 

cares, thought Harry. I just write, he said to himself.

   And who was the judge for this one? Jane Mountbank-Jones. A right uppity twerp. Loved 

grabbing the microphone and rabbiting on aimlessly about the possessive apostrophe, 

emancipated exclamation marks and collective radicals. What bollocks. And how many times 

had she won? Harry had lost count. And what did she write? Oh, yes, there was the infamous 

curtain story. Pages of drivel describing curtains swaying in the breeze while the window was 

closed. Impossible. But being a born-to-rule person Mountbank-Jones got away with it. 

Brilliant descriptive writing said the dim wits huddled at her feet. Oh, for some rat poison. 

   So, this month’s story? Bond. Harry is seventy-two. But if Bond was real he would 

be even older, thought Harry. Then again Fleming, the Bond author, had Bond drinking 

and smoking his head off. Bond would have been dead by the time he was fifty? And all the 

women he had bonked. Bond that is. Thousands of them. Surely he would have had a heart 

attack well before that? 

   Harry spent a few days watching old Bond films on Fox to get into the groove. After 

watching Die Another Goldfinger and From Russia With A Thunderball the story was 

cemented in his head. Harry was going to play smart. He wasn’t going to write 600 words. He 

had done that with his past stories. Even more, going on to write 10,571 words for one epic, 

in a 500 word comp. Well stuff you lot, thought Harry. I’m going for minimalism this time. 

Harry also decided he was also going to impress with big words. Alone in his bedroom he 

began to type…   

     Bond  walked maladroitly into the room. He looked and saw with laser-beam eyes that Fatfinger was hiding monotonously in a cupboard behind the bed close to the walk-in-wardrobe with the pearl handles near the telephone that had no phone book but you could get a number if you dialled 0 for reception. The receptionist was a tall blonde woman with long impregnable red hair. Bond had made love to her with Viagra-like energy and lust on the reception desk seconds earlier while she had booked in Mr & Mrs Fraser with matching suitcases from Newcastle in room 101. Mr Fraser was shocked at the receptionists behaviour, but joined in once Bond had invited him to partake of a three-some. Mrs Fraser, who ate boiled sweets in great quantities, collapsed in shock misanthropy while Bond rightly finished her off with his Walther PPK hand gun. Fatfinger emerged indefatigably with attitude from the cupboard and also made hieroglyphics-style love to the receptionist who had rapidly tired of the indigestible Mr Fraser and was sprawled unmitigated on the big bed in Fatfinger’s room. Bond perambulated and uncoordinated pulled out his gun and translucently shot them both dead after they had escaped while the Bond music emancipated and the credits crenulated. 

   Wow! What a story, thought Harry. A sure winner. 

   At the next meeting of the writer’s club Harry was a ball of tension as Jane Mountbank-

Jones stood to announce the winner. He watched her lips carefully as he gripped his fully 

loaded Walther PPK that was nesting patiently in his jacket pocket.   


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