Now for a short story. It is one I again wrote for my writing circle annual competition. It is one word under 2000 word long which is around the norm for most short story competitions you see advertised in writing magazines.
The Auction
"What do ya mean, man, there's no rooms left? It's not a black thing, is it?"
"No sir. I can assure you it is nothing to do with your colour. I doubt if you will find an empty room in the whole of London. I have heard hotels are booking up as far away as Birmingham."
"What the hell's going on?"
"Surely you've heard, Sir? It's the sale of the century. Being held at Christie's at 12 noon tomorrow."
"What are they selling? The Crown Jewels?"
"Something far more valuable than those, believe me. I've heard the King of Siam is coming in his private 747."
"Maybe he'll have some spare space."
The man, briefcase firmly under his arm, then left the hotel and made his way towards the YMCA just off Oxford Street. How he wished he hadn't let that other room go. As he walked past Marble Arch he glanced down Park Lane. There must have been half a dozen Rolls Royce's outside the Hilton.
"Give me a paper, man," he said to the lad outside the underground station. "Maybe that'll tell me why London's gone crazy."
"It's the auction, mister. Everyone's coming. I've heard the American President will be here."
"But I thought he was in Moscgow for a summit with Yeltsin?"
"He was, but Yeltsin left early to fly here for the auction."
"Jesus, it must be something out of this world to get the two most powerful men on earth here."
"Don't forget the chinese leader," said a customer. "There must be more heads of state in London than Wimbeldon supporters."
"What the hell is everyone after?"
"Have you been on the moon or in prison?"
"Whoever gets their hands on it will be the luckiest person alive," sais another paper buyer. "I just wish I could see one. Have you ever seen one? Na, 'course you haven't."
The black man was now beginning th think that he had been on the moon, instead of spending the last three days locked away working on the final draft of his book. No television, no papers, no radio. Just quiet. Yet, in those three days the world seemed to have gone crazy. And for what? A bloody auction.
By now there were half a dozen people around the paper stall, more joining every second. It was like John Major's soapbox.
"What do you think one looks like?" uttered someone. "I've heard it's made of solid gold."
"Platinum more likely," chimed in someone else.
"Where do you think they keep them," voiced a lady at the back of the ever growing group. "I mean, you couldn't keep it in a cabinet in the living room, now could ya?"
"I've heard Nixon keeps his in Fort Knox."
Continued over
"It is an auctioneer who can equally and impartially admire all schools of art"
Oscar Wilde
1854-1900
