My 5 best stories

5. The Pills

I relied on the pills. I don't know what they're called, but they charge my emotions and inspire me. I had writer's block for four years, and these small things boosted my creativity; I wrote five novels in one year. But the pills turned me into a dangerously introverted individual. I detached myself from reality and retreated to the world of dreams, surrealist paintings which were hung all over my walls, and the pianola which played modern music throughout every single hour of every single day. I also experienced hallucinations: I saw blue devils, dead children and golden parrots. The press regarded me as a dangerous maverick prone to being too self-indulgent. My neighbours avoided me as much as they could.

4. David Crapper and Mary Vagina's Love Affair

We should stretch the constraints of any medium, dear audience. We should be vigorously experimental with techniques. And, dear audience, we should not enforce taboos on art! Who’s to say that I’m advocating pedophilia? I’m not! I can hear all you censors! Anyway, a work of art does not channel the thoughts and opinions of a person. This is particularly paramount with fiction – as opposed to, say, a pop song – because it is only meant to portray a certain topic within a certain canvas. If you find this disturbing, you are disturbed with the moral issue of paedophilia – not with the author of the subversive work in question.

3. Finding The Author


They settled themselves in the car and I felt them getting nearer and nearer. It's funny how you get these strange - somewhat psychic - feelings and thoughts. I know Jane and I know Dennis. I just thought that these two would really get on well together, so that's why I paired them up. Jane kept telling me about this sensation she felt when driving through that bridge, and it immediately clicked - Dennis. He had cut himself off from me and all the rest of his friends to live a life of solitude. I don't know, either, what crime he commited; but I'm still sure I'll see him again - again with Jane. Being an author, I get lots of letters, and I befriend many people this way. I met both Jane and Dennis this way, and I could see a real interlocking similarity between them. They both wrote almost identically. I sent Jane down; I knew she'd do a fine job of it all. I have no idea why Dennis got persecuted.
But they never came, and I got a knock on the door - the police. And I ran away. I ran to be under the bridge, where Dennis had previously been. And I got the strongest sensation I'd ever experienced: Jane and Dennis in a car. They left for my home, and I wouldn't be there, so I presumed that they'd leave alltogether to live together. And I lose my riches and I handicap my writing capabilities, but I know that I've done a good job by fixing them up. So I shall perish with these fish, Kafka, Huxley and Orwell. And I will hope that some writer helps me one day, by getting me out of this hell barricaded by a fervid wildlife.

2. Strandenforp's Drunken, Cerebral Outsider

The overhanging bulb dimly lit the small, crowded pub. A dingy glass caked in muck blurred the image of night; the image of violent waves; the image of wind whirling inanimate objects towards all directions; the image of a light twirling in the distance with the water, overlooking the town of Strandenforp; the unforgivable image of sea augmenting its length towards new, unknown islands which may or may not house more content souls, for the residents of Strandenforp found themselves in a state of abject, desolate misery.
The pub was a hole of solace, as it – despite its modest, limited and cramped room – blocked out the misery of the town. There were two contradicting glasses for the residents of Strandenforp: the glass of drink, embodying the epitome of happiness bursting out with euphoria; and accompanying this glass of merriness came the glass of doom, displaying what they sought to escape at all moments. These two glasses clashed at once and, therefore, raised a standstill: everyone stood silent, mouths wide open and full of drink, eyes ajar with anger. Time stood still at the pub.

1. Victoria red (Novel extract No. 1)

There was a small but excited crowd gathered by the outside of a public park and near the car-park of a building that was hidden by some bushes and a couple of trees. I joined the crowd made up of about twenty people, discovering that this was some sort of musical performance, despite the awkward environment and aura it would be taking place within. The crowd eagerly conversed about 'Victoria Red', an ageing old woman that apparently performed 'mesmerising' shows. I saw, placed on top of the grass, five wooden miniature desks; they were all at different heights and were organised in a circular fashion.
Out of the park's entrance, and into the outer spot of grass, came a ragged old woman with an enormous nose that dangled onto her chin; red un-brushed hair falling off onto all locations of her tatty, grey coat; she always kept her mouth wide open, revealing a set of scraggy, yellow teeth; she wore sunglasses coupled by an American baseball hat; and she carried a bag. Never at a sight of a person had I felt such a fright, and a horrid repugnance covered my mind. The crowd went ecstatic, clapping and hollering like mad: "Victorrrrriiiiarrrrrr!!!!!! Yesssssss!!!!!!!!!!"

Which is your favourite? Have your say here.