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Literary Maneuvers April 2021: Defiance (1 Viewer)

Harper J. Cole

Creative Area Specialist (Speculative Fiction)
Staff member
Chief Mentor
Literary Maneuvers, April 2021


650 words, deadline 23:59 GMT / 18:59 EST, Thursday, 15 April


This month you will be following the prompt:

Pick your own title, write about whatever you want, as long as it fits the prompt. You have 650 words of fiction in which to do this.

If you win, you'll get a badge pinned to your profile, plus the chance to write for our Feb 2022 Grand Fiction Challenge which carries cash prizes.


The judges this month are Matchu, myself, and a mystery judge. For those interested in judging, let me know via PM or in the new Coffee Shop. If you wish to know more about scoring, take a look at the NEW JUDGING GUIDE which also includes a template to use for your scoring. Please use this template for consistency.


All entries that wish to retain their first rights should post in the LM WORKSHOP THREAD.

All anonymous entries will be PMed to myself and please note in the PM if you want your entry posted in the workshop

Please check out our Rules and Policies for extra details on the LM contests.

Everyone is welcome to participate, including judges. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score, though some judges are happy to let you know their score for you privately. Please refrain from 'like'-ing or 'lol'-ing an entry until the scores are posted.

Judges: If you could send the scores no later than April 30th it will ensure a timely release of results. Much later than that and I will have to post with what I have. Again, please see the Judging Guidelines if you have questions. Following the suggested formatting will be much appreciated, too.


Senior Member
STINKER @ 645 words

Randolf lay under the quilt with his radio nestled at his breasts, the morning after Randolf and all good people of Littleshire wept tears in such profusion upon hearing the announcement:

King Arthur was dead.

‘I loved that king Arthur,’ said Randolf. He thumped the duvet.

‘Ooch,’ said his tiny woman, his soldier sharing the sack on this day of the national mourning in their bedsteads.

He rolled toward her, soothed her soul. The radar stick rolled along, his commando thumped blue sheets, twitched, sought the greatest attentions and a greatest solace in the moment of their shared grief.

‘I love you too,’ said Randolf into the ear.

‘Get off you shits’ replied Titch assaulted by the lollipop man of all her nightmares, her drool evidenced on a pillow.

He rolled away. A return and a re-embrace of radio pleasures. He re-tuned to Littleshire networks for latest informations on the national crisis.

‘By God he was the funniest king…beloved in Borneo…Babes Babes Babes…listen to Pluto call our Lord his Poppadoc. The president Fart inspired by such service and by his duty, very moving words from every corner of the parish, Honey. Honey Honey?’

Titch slept soundly in her beds. And like the bravest men of the quotation Randy descended a staircase alone to attend to her tiger pet. Popsi filling the kitchenette, the terrible fluff animal extended in fur from the cooker to the table and brushed under light bulbs, a tiger eighteen times the size of any writer.

‘Take it you bastard!’ said Randy, the gazelle carcass gripped to his chest. Aroused to her starter niblet the feline’s paw whipped Randy and his ram-snack bodily toward the window’s farthest frames. She leaped and she landed upon his face, her fangs scraping, her tongue slobbering over the feast of gazelle and chicken in the mince gravy on the ground crumble. Randolf inhaled ovaries swinging into his eyes and clambered from the breakfast occasion and upon his stockinged feet now opened the window and sucked clean air at last inside the fetid property and fetched momentarily under his gown pinching for the extra inch and urinated through the crack of light in a moment of freedom and of defiance.

‘If the world could see me now,’ he said to the tower block across the street.

A tiger’s appetites assuaged, he hoisted himself up the staircase toward a treasured me-moment of release in a favoured chair. Such inspiration to purchase his commode.

‘Do not follow me now,’ he cried to Popsi, ‘I shall be upon my commode, darling.’

And he would walk the tiger later.

‘Cup of tea!’ cried Titch from the floor above. You see this was the three-floor cottage conversion.

Randolf gazed longingly toward the commode placed in front of his television.

‘Cup of tea!’

He chewed his lip and thought to defy all creatures for the one day only, pleasure in the commode breakfast telly combo. Then great worthiness descended his senses considering the last words of the king laid in the coffin. Was he worthy to serve his king? Eager to serve a queen, not unlike the king bound by service and by his duties?

Indecision gripped Randy at this stairwell. Downstairs Popsi spread her width the entire length of the kitchenette-laundry. She was not, or was she, or was she not the most appealing sight in her furs? One paw extended up the wall in her great longing desire. Randy considered this leap into the oblivions, but no, commitment to true love was more important than any tryst with a tiger. He stepped, hopped, twirled gingerly along the kitchen sideboard and with flick of the kettle switch and a hurl of Dreamies from his gown pocket, Randy was freed from persistent pawing to fill two mugs, three bags, a double bagger for his wife-baby and he rushed mugs up the staircase like a man.