COMPETITION

The rest of the story

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1610 you were in- vited to provide a story either beginning or ending with the words: 'Then the dog rolled off my face.'

Infidel dogs, fire-dogs, shaggy dogs, dogs came in all shapes and sizes, the corgi proving the most popular breed for this particular exercise. Ingenuity ran riot. One competitor made the key phrase a misprint from a fisherman's story — 'Then the fog rolled off my dace'; another turned it into a mishearing from a tape — 'The Dag Roulet of my place' — the name being that of a Norwegian vessel! John Digby, Katie Mal- lett and Vicky Cornford get honourable mentions, the last for a plausible tale in which a well-trained dog loyally sits on a 'Wanted' poster of his master while armed police search his flat, and only rolls off obediently when they've left, baffled.

The winners printed below take L14 each, and the bonus bottle of Mercier Brut champagne, kindly presented by Cham- pagne Mercier, after hovering between him and Beverley Strauss, falls into the lap of David Oliver.

'Then The Dog Rolled Off My Face!?' Johnny Stein reached for an entrepreneurial cigar. He

wasn't getting those chart-buster vibes yet. He chewed on the tapered end. 'Tell me about it.'

The nervous young man brushed his long hair aside. 'Well, it's kind of, er, a protest type song.'

J.S. remained fixed to his cigar. `Go on.'

'Well. Hey man, like the dog is the oppressor and like he's always pushing your face down into the dirt, you know.'

Johnny Stein wasn't convinced. 'Boy. 1 reckon you got a lyrics problem. Sorry, kid. Can't use it.'

The young man looked disconsolate for a moment then dived into his scruffy case. He pulled out a handwritten sheet and tentatively placed it on Stein's desk. J.S. took one look at the title and ejected the cigar. 'The Cat Is Through The Wall!? Okay, sunshine. We'll be in

touch.' (David Oliver) Coney Island out of season is a landscape of giant skeletons: funfair rides stripped of their summer trimmings. Quite a place for a farewell

rendezvous. Linda and I shared out the keys, hers for the house and mine for the car. On the way to the parking lot 1 bought one of Leo's hot dogs. Consolation.

But not for long. Slipping on the ice-glazed sidewalk, I toppled into the gutter. My glasses smashed. The sausage slid from its bun arid the frozen air welded it to my lips and cheek. Twenty-four hours later, I was still in police custody, unable to see or speak, a suspect for several crimes.

A lucky break for me that, among my blunders the day before, I had handed Linda the wrong keys. When, she called at the police station in pursuit of me, I heard her strong, insistent voice from my cell. Tears flowed, wain and dissolving. They poured over my cheeks, Then the dog rolled off my face.

(Basil Ransome-Davies)

Then the dog rolled off my face. 'Cut!' called Damon. 'A nice take, boys and girls, but I think we'll go for just one more before lunchiepoos.' I groaned. A commercial where the St Bernard actually drinks the brandy itself while nearly suffocating the avalanche victim it's supposed to be rescuing was a mildly amusing angle — but surely they'd got enough in the can already. I'd now been buried in polystyrene snow for over three hours. 'OK, everyone — take 79.' The great smelly keg-laden brute ambled up the slope again and squatted on my face as so often

before. How it happened the inquiry never really established. All I can say is that a chrysoprase statuette for the year's Most Life- like and Convincing Performance in a British Booze Ad doesn't cut much ice with Elysian Fields TV — especially when it's posthumous.

(Martin Fagg) 'Then the dog rolled off my face on to the sand — a tiny fluffy dog, Poirot.'

'But 'Astings — this tiny dog, you allowed it to sit on your face?'

Hastings laughed. `I'd been asleep and woke to find a stunning redhead —' 'My dear 'Astings — so easily led astray by a pretty girl.'

'Oh I say! Hardly fair. This apparition was kneeling beside me and happened to mention that the dog liked to curl up on her face.'

'Wait. It's time to employ those little grey cells.'

Poirot stood motionless, a dapper figure on the deserted beach.

'There is only one reason why she told you not to move,' he said eventually. 'She wanted your. eyes shut. What was happening?'

'Thee was only a fishing boat —' 'Precisely. And while you were playing your little game the so-called fishermen stepped ashore with the heroin. I think we will find them at Cliff Cottage.' (Ba Miller) To look at me now you'd never guess I'd suffered a severe stroke. I couldn't move my hands. The old ticker had finally given in. They said I was carrying too much weight and I suspect that was the case.

Eccentric old Max used to wind me up, telling me I needed a face-lift. His golden retriever, that followed him everywhere, provided the inspiration for the gilt dog he gave me. I wore it as a centrepiece; one gets attached to the oddest things. Anyway, I had a lot of time for Max.

One dull Sunday afternoon I had the grand- father of all breakdowns. I was so tense I felt that something was about to snap. And it did. Everything went spinning round, seconds seem- ing like hours, my hands fell limply to half past six and then the dog rolled off my face.

(Frank McDonald) Then the dog rolled off my face. 'Then' seemed a foolish name, even for a Russian wolfhound, but her skills as a cosmetic surgeon were manifest. She dropped the mask-like flap of wrinkled tissue into a shiny bowl and prepared to apply a duplicate mask of fresh skin. I watched in the overhead mirror, my fears as an experimental patient at the Pavlov Institute now evaporating. My mind was as calm as my anaesthetised flesh.

It seemed miraculous that an animal could be trained in such advanced and intricate skills, though I wished a way had been found to sweeten Then's breath. Agile paws stitched and sutured my reborn features. Then I was wheeled back to bed by the humans who performed the ancillary tasks.

The new face healed fast. I was youthful and attractive, welcomed everywhere. Bliss had returned to my life — that is, until a suspicion appeared of what the ads call 'unwanted facial hair'.

(Beverley Strauss)