To The Victors

Unseasonably chill winds gust through Vocalia’s streets. Above the library, the most sacred building in the realm, the great bell tolls gently. It is not yet time for the announcements, but the ringing of hammers on boards is only just silenced.

Today, the residents of Vocalia know is the long awaited one. Despite the silence of the Patron, despite the delay of the Crier, each knows and wakes to that first, gentle tolling. It is not yet the announcement of the Crier, not yet the call to gather on the village green and await the proclamation, yet it wakes them still.

First to the field, eager in the morning’s chill, a woman with red hair places her hand on the announcing podium. It is wreathed in long chains craft of discarded though still treasured drafts. Lines of verse and prose flutter in and out of focus.

Stepping up behind her, the raven haired woman counts the pedestals on which the victors will stand. Deciding to pass the time in earnest discussion of deeds most literary and devious, she opens conversation with her friend. It is going to be a glorious day.

Next arrives the thatcher, blowing into his hands for warmth. He greets the first two and asks if they have read the entries, especially his own. They gleefully discuss the stories together, all but blind to the slowly gathering crowd.

High in the belltower, a lever moves. The mysterious ringer, whom none have ever seen, heaves on the rope and a first true, sonorous bong! rings through the still quiet early morning. Birds take wing, wheeling over the heads of the gathered Vocalians as their heads turn, eyes questing for the Crier on his horse.

With slow, deliberate steps, he rides through the fading morning mist. His passage is marked from behind windows and through half-opened doors. It is not Announcement Day, not truly. The Palace of Curation has not reached its conclusion on their tournaments currently under judgement. But it is an announcement day, the one that will bring to a final close the first ever challenge of a new Patron.

People gather, a quiet mass. Deliberate in their silence. Wrapped in long cloaks that flutter in the chill wind, few can see their neighbour. Fewer still fully aware of the writer behind the cowl, waiting. Waiting.

Step by step, the Crier leads his horse through the crowd which parts like summer grass before him. The flower is already in its spot over his right eye. He waits only on the final tolling of the Library Bell before speaking.

Alighting from his horse, he climbs the stairs to the podium and throws his cloak over his shoulders. Arms thrown out, he cries, “hear ye! Hear ye!” in perfect time to the fading of the final, echoing bong!

“Today, dearest Vocalians is the day for which many have waited! Delayed slightly by necessities of life beyond our village, the Patron has finally returned his answer to those brave enough to place their work in the collection box.

“But hark unto me, for you can plainly see that I carry no message from him. Might you well question why this is so. But I shall not leave you in suspense! Now, addressing you directly for the first time, I call on the Patron himself to give unto you his judgement!”

Stunned silence rings loud as the silenced bell across the green, none even seem to breathe as figured, cloaked and wrapped as are they all against the wind, steps forward. Tall, broad of shoulder, he moves slowly forward and climbs to replace the Crier on his perch. Many have seen him before, none have heard his voice, most know him only through the words they have consumed.

Standing before them now, he throws off his hood and reveals a broadly grinning face. Blue eyes shine at them, glittering with the joy of his smile.

“Dearest friends, valued readers, and excellent creatives, lend me your ears,” he says, meeting the eye of as many in the throng as he can. “On the 8th of July this year of our common era I released to you a tournament. I presented to you a challenge and welcomed all comers to show me the best of their creativity. So it has been!

“In the time since, I have had the tremendous honour of reading eight stories from eight valued and esteemed members of our community. First of all, please allow me to extend my most earnest thanks to each of you,” he bows three times, each to one third of his audience. “Seven Days Before is an idea first presented to me as an anthology by my mother. Yet I modified it and thought it would be an excellent challenge to which you would all rise with alacrity.

“So, it was! I will not sport with your attention, for I know that each of you wishes to return to your creative spaces, longs to again take up your pen and craft worlds and joys and sorrows and fears for us to enjoy. Please accept therefore my most sincerely thanks.” Again, he bows.

“In the interest of brevity,” he grandly gestures towards the podiums behind him, “turn your attention to the winners stands and listen well to the praises for your fellow Vocalians! Please do come forward once you are called and take your place among our hallowed victors!”

Producing from within his cloak a spiral-bound notebook with gilded cover, he opens it, clears his throat, and begins.

“Mackenzie Davis,” she steps forward and up onto her podium as Vocalians cry her praise. “Your submission ‘The Argumentative Voice’ touched our very soul! From the opening sense of confusion so beautifully conveyed, to the realization that the main character has gone back in time to the final, terrible end, this was a perfect story!

“Combined with some mild humour, designed and placed with such care to alleviate somewhat of the tension before your skillful use of melancholic horror drives our hearts into our boots, your skill at crafting a story to draw tears from any who can relate to the terrors of the pandemic is unmatched! Stand proud in knowing that you moved not only myself but all of your readers!”

Before the gathered Vocalians can finish clapping or shouting their polite congratulations, the Patron speaks again. “Liam Storm!” and he stumbles forward, “I invite you to join Mackenzie in triumph! ‘The Mysterious McEvoy’ was the most unique of the stories presented for this challenge.

“Filled with humour, meta commentary, and the heartbreaking cost of a world unable to contend with a worse version of that very virus which confined us to our homes for two long years, your story had me laughing and blinking through tears. The choice to cast myself as a most foul granter of Faustian Bargains was, if I may selfishly say, entirely elevating! A specific line that brought forth a genuine laugh that might have been heard a country mile away was this, ‘Jake jumped out the window.’ Giving no context, I recommend that everyone read the tale of comedy and tragedy!”

Again the crowd shouts its praises, and the Patron flips to the next page in his notebook. “Addison Alder! Join us please!” Stepping forward, Addison waves at the crowd, smiling broadly.

“Fierce Tears,” shouts the Patron, “is a testament to the power of love. To the horrible choices that we feel we must make. To the cost of mercy and the limits of a human soul’s ability to endure the suffering of those we love. Indeed this story did bring forth fierce and burning tears as I read it! From the very first lines, I might add, I was glued to the page and surprised when it ended. The quality of your writing was such that I could not turn away, nor yet did I want to see what comes next.

“Absorbing, tragic, and deeply human. This story merits more praise and attention than I can here bestow yet take heart that it remains one of the best stories I have read!”

Addison bows, back straightening just as the Patron continues, “Rebekah Conrad! Join us, if you please.”

Smiling broadly, Rebekah steps forward, bows to the Patron, then to the audience, and a third time once the steps are summited.

“Jet Lag was an incredibly human story! Hopeful and hilarious, with the sense of discontent and being out of time dripping from the very start! In particular I enjoyed the over-tired grumbling about bosses and work travel. You managed to bring forth wonderful feelings of mounting dread, palpable anxiety, and fierce determination to do better with a second chance, so powerfully! My favourite two pieces were the phone call with an elderly relative done to protect them, and the final lines which I will not spoil for the surprise alone is worth the read, elevating the work to unforeseen heights!

“Thank you again and again for joining us and sharing this tale of hope and lingering uncertainty!”

Pointing now, the Patron cries out the next name on his list, “Anna, my friend, if you please,” Anna tilts the brim of her hat up, and smiles at the Patron before coming forward to take her place.

“In 'The Pain of Regret' Anna crafted for us a story containing a plot that I have not seen before! Taking no stance, she imagines a world in which the pandemic was not half so tragic as we knew it to be. Full of hope for humanity that the rest of us have long since done away with, she presents to us a world of rational actors eager and honest in their endeavours to make the world a place that much better for all involved!

“Indulging this fantasy, she also sneaks in a reference to Europe’s first war of conquest since 1945, and again presents a unified world that stands against tyranny. Hopeful and optimistic, this story was a beautiful tribute to the hopes we all have for our fellow creatures. Take with pride your place on the podium!”

The Patron now closes his notebook, the snap of its covers coming together echoing in the silence that follows Anna’s passage. There still remains one space among the victors unfilled. He waits a long moment, allowing the silence to stretch, broken only by the shuffling of feet and the rustle of cloaks in the wind.

“Last but certainly not least,” he shouts, shattering the silence as does a rock through thin ice, “for the submission titled ‘You Better You Bet,’ I invite the skilled and amiable Mike Singleton to join our victors in pride of place.

“This submission took a standard journey and flipped it on its head. The main character, lost in the modern era to addiction, is gifted a second chance to redeem himself and stave off his fate. By awakening in March 2020, he is provided the opportunity to right the mistakes of his first time through.

“What really stuck out to me was the fact that he did not use his knowledge of future events to craft for himself a golden throne in the world that would come after. Rather, he acts with care and reason to maintain his own self, neither abusing nor abandoning the power that his ‘foresight’ has granted him!”

Reaching into a pocket concealed within his cloak, the Patron produces a pouch of gilded tokens. “For the skill in creation, for the courage in submission, for the tears and laughs and hopeful yearning shown in your excellent fictions, I follow through on my promise to reward your effort and determination! To each of you on this day, I give the promised remuneration!

“Thank you, each of my valued victors and every Vocalian who granted us their time and attention! But think not that I have forgotten an honourable mention.

“Sadly, disqualified for lack of time travel, one Donna Fox deserves a share in the spotlight as well! Her submission, treasured by me for its sorrowful ingenuity, ‘A Choice’ is a testament to her skill as an author. The comedic reference to the ‘bat flu’ dragged from my jaded chest a genuine laugh, done just as skillfully as the tragic reveal of the consequences of Long COVID. The love and loss in this piece are palpable! Thank you again and again for joining us.”

Applause follows this statement. Donna’s smile, one borne of joy and mild chagrin, is pure and bright. The laughter and congratulations of the winners, the comparisons between their works and the trading of critiques flows like pure water through a verdant land.

The Patron descends from the podium, uncomfortable with the spotlight, and puts up his cowl. Tea sounds nice around now, and he slips away in anonymity, departing before questions can be asked. Though he will, as always, answer the correspondence that the Vocalian Comment system presents to him.

Satisfied, the Crier ceremoniously removes his helmet and tucks the red flower into its carrying case. Re-mounting his horse, he departs the village, smiling at the conclusion to such a fine day, as the first rays of the sun burn away the last of the night-time mists and the wind warms just a hair.

Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

Closing Announcement