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Oxymoronic

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IN COMPETITION NO. 1840 you were invited to supply a story with an oxymoron- ic title.

Despite some intriguing titles — 'Silent Noise', 'A Bolshevik Word of Honour', 'Free Overdraft', 'A Malign Benediction' — this was a disappointing entry. I was par- ticularly disappointed because nobody accepted my challenge of 'comic rape'. I had looked forward to something worthy of Fielding, but perhaps late-20th-century PC inhibited you. Mike Morrison, by being oxymoronic throughout, led me into the land of lunacy, where I leave you:

'My name is Hilary Lent,' the girl screeched silently. 'Hilary Lent is a contradiction in terms,' the fellow retorted with casual vehemence.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to David Barton for the extra touch of imagination.

Open Prison

'I suppose the term implies a place where inmates are put on trust not to sneak out?' I ven- tured.

'Well, yes, originally,' my escort replied with a condescending smile. 'Nowadays it's more a case of putting the public on trust not to sneak in. Conditions here are very good: regular, well- cooked food, warmth in winter, hot showers and all manner of indoor and outdoor activities and games. We realise that occasionally people will get in but tend to turn a blind eye and accept it as a compliment.'

'You're not bothered much by riots then?' I asked with a laugh.

'No, not here, but it can get hectic if an "out- sider" jumps the queue at mealtimes. We nearly had a lynching the other night, in fact, when one of these temporary guests tried to nick a portable TV. You can rest assured he'll not get in here again.' (David Barton) The Well-dressed Nudist Garrick Bonn was confronted by a moral dilem- ma whenever he was invited to a nude bathing party. While he approved of nudism in theory, its practice was, in his case, out of the question. It was not modesty, he emphasised: he just couldn't do it. If, he thought, he practised hard enough at home he might eventually overcome his public inhibitions. But the more he took off the more he wanted to put on. 'Yes,' he murmured, and pon- dered deeply.... At the next nude bathing party his arrival in faultless evening dress caused such a sensation that it was mentioned in all the soci- ety papers for months afterwards. His presence at these parties has now become indispensable. A distinguished and indeed unique figure, he not only stands out like a living fashion-plate but also emphasises the nudity of the others. His moral dilemma has been overcome.

(C.H. Laurie) Enthralling Newscaster Rwandan refugees and the permutations of the coming Cabinet reshuffle took on a totally new dimension as the nation watched the two ham- sters skitter along the shiny curve of the desk and start nibbling the script. Even the attention of mothers was diverted from their tea-making for- ays to a million kitchens. There was universal dis- appointment when his long blond wig and pink fluorescent tee-shirt emblazoned with 'Change Channels Why Don't You?' were replaced, after the break, by a white silk shirt and a cool female delivery. 'They had to bring in the heavies,' the deep familiar voice told the eager throng of reporters outside the ITN studios, 'but what a way to go — making the news at last instead of just reading it.'

The Prodigal Ascetic Although Martin ate and drank abstemiously, eschewed company and avoided television, radio and recorded music, he brooded on banquets enjoyed beside beautiful ladies. In the silence of his room, he waltzed with perfumed beauties to music that only he could hear. If, in dim reality, he seemed content with stale bread, water, a car- rot and the occasional lettuce-leaf, he imagined a tournedos Rossini one day, lobster Thermidor the next, veal fricandeau the day after and so on, mentally quaffing celebrated clarets or vintage champagnes, puffing imaginary Havanas, lurch- ing drunkenly from the feasts of his dreams to the pneumatic bosoms of nubile phantoms. As time passed, Martin was inebriated by a sip of Evian and sickened by a finger of dry toast.

'I have', he confessed to the priest come to shrive his anorexic self, 'given myself to mad hedonism and consumed my manhood in the pursuit of lascivious women.' (Alanna Blake) (Connie Yapp) Profitable Loss We'd arranged this threesome hill-walking camp, but Rob brought his sister Cindy, who was disas- trously the wrong type. Attractive but flighty and unpractical, she proved a dead loss, quickly exhausted, needing help over every stile and ditch, a hopeless drag. Next day she was worse: in tears over scratched legs, having to be escorted back to camp, our expedition ruined. On Sunday she asked to stay behind, tidy up and welcome us back with a lovely hot supper. We returned to find floods of tears, no supper and my sleeping- bag burnt to ashes, having been used to beat out the fire caused when Cindy upset the paraffin. Rob, mortified, fetched fish and chips from the village, and afterwards we turned in — myself, sans sleeping-bag, perishing cold. Around mid- night, a conscience-stricken Cindy, finger on lips, roused me and led me to her own warm sleeping- bag.

(W.F.N. Watson)