Our mission was to write about a meal, channelling the writing through a well known writer, in this case Chaucer.
Since Brexit was looming, I made my entry a Brexit satire, written as if it were part of The Prologue to The Canterbury Tales.
At the Bulldog Inn
We Pilgrims came upon the Bulldog Inn,
an oak-beamed English tavern, and within
the landlord, Nigel, ventured to suggest:
“Our British fare’s the finest to ingest,
and hungriness is written in your eyes.
I’ve sausage rolls, Welsh rarebit and pork pies,
roast beef and Yorkshire puds to fill your face,
or Cornish pasties, chips with cod or plaice;
and washing down the victuals while you dine,
I’ll lay on scrumpy, not some Froggy wine.
For afters, rhubarb crumble, spotted dick,
enough to make a gormandiser sick.
I’ll serve your grub on plates from Stoke-on-Trent,
with knives and forks and spoons that never dent,
forged in the North, from sturdy Sheffield steel;
so let me take the order for your meal.”
“Alas!” quod we. “The hour is early still –
a continental breakfast, if you will.”
Below are links to my Global Short Story Competition winning story, my short-listed story for the National newspaper (Abu Dhabi's annual short story competition) and a story that appeared on the Every Day Fiction site - where you can leave a comment: