Think you have what it takes?

Want to get some practice?

Just need an excuse to put pen to paper?

Then enter the Secret Attic Short Story Competition!

Each month you can submit an entry that will be passed onto our judges who will pick the best and award a winner. During some months the subject matter will be a 'free for all', where you can write anything you like, other months will have a specific theme.

Previous Competition Winners

February 2005 David Willshaw

April 2005 Christine Sutton

May 2005 George L Darley

July 2005 Robyn O'Hara

August 2005 Richard Adamski

September 2005 Hannah Southgate

October 2005 Heather Parker

December 2005 Feathers by Bob Lakin

January 2006 RD Larson

February 2006 Debra Spiller

March 2006 Nethi Sette

The Da Vinci Con by Joe Louis, Liverpool, UK

“It was Leonardo who started it all really” said the Pope, “he was a very indecisive chap, bit of a pain in the arse. He gave the painting to what's-’is-face, François the somethingth’, but then he turns up on his doorstep couple of week later sayin' he’d missed a bit, and repaints the whole background again... You see in the original she was sitting on the beach, that’s why the lighting's a bit weird on the birds face.”
It was surprising to say the least.
“ Yeah so basically, as you know Leo was a bit experimental, and the first one was actually painted on some kind of dough, which didn't last long, then he did the one on poplar wood... but he continued working on a knitted version of it which he himself considered to be the true masterpiece.”
Carlo Azeglio Ciampi nodded solemnly. Francis surveyed the important faces in the familiar classroom and half expected Dom Jolly to appear and reveal that this was part of a new episode of ‘Trigger happy TV’, but in his heart of hearts he knew there would never be a third series.
“ Then it just became a habit you see, no one painting has ever lasted more than 50 years, we always realise we’ve messed up and have to replace it. They get tatty really quickly anyway, its the kind of paint you have to use to get that glow; it peels. Back in the day you’d just get rid of the old one and a couple of days later no one would remember exactly what it looked like so you could just shove the new on up and nobody would notice... Course there was that one fiasco, 1911 I think it was, it was like a bleeding ealing comedy. We selected some bloke called Eduardo de Vasaline to do the painting, but the fella' only went and made a dozen extra ones to flog! Then at the same time the bloke who was meant to get rid of the old one tried to get a few quid for it down the market... it was a headache man I’m telling you...”
The pope paused and took a last look at francis’s GCSE coursework, then handed it back to him.
“ Yep, your definitely our man kiddo, it’s not a lot of fun but basically there's nothing you can do about it. We’re all in this together CIA, MI5, KGB, Opus Dei, the Masons; this is the one thing we’re all unified on. Your in this thing for life.”
“ Yes sir Mr Pope sir” said Francis. “But err... why me?”
“ It’s the shading.” Said the pope pointing at Francis coursework, which was a painting of an apple.
“ Very nice shading. I’m not into arty stuff myself but you meet the criteria apparently.... It’s all got more complicated these days what with photos and all that. The reproduction has to be absolutely perfect now, so for the next fifty odd years that's what your going to be doing: perfecting it. Don’t worry you’re not the first, we pick one in every generation. It’s kind of an honour... though of course you’ll never be remembered for it.”
It all seemed fairly definitive.
“ Oh ok then... So who did the last one?”
The pope glanced over at Tony Blair and Tony gave him a nod.
“ Tracy Emin.”
“ Tracy Emin? Really? but she's crap!”
The pope rolled his eyes.
“ Of course she's crap! You’ll have to be crap as well, we can’t have people wandering round being as good as Di Vinci, It’d be suspicious! You win a few art prizes it’s in the contract... compensation kind of thing. Tracy caused us a bit of bother with that Turner travesty though. She was going through a bad patch that year trying to paint the smile right, so she entered that bed thing to piss us all off, she knew she had to win whatever she did because it had already been fixed.”
“ Oh”
“ Any more questions?”
“ No not really.”
“ Good well sign here then, we’ll tell your folks you’ve been given life for crack dealing to explain things.”
And with that Francis signed away his future. It was all a bit daunting, he’d actually been planning to drop art but que cera cera.
76 hours later Francis stood in front of the painting, Tracy Emin’s masterpiece clutched in his arms. This was how it was done apparently. Each novice began his career by replacing the old painting with the work of his predecessor. Then for the next fifty years the novice would tirelessly slave over an exact replica, after which a new novice would restart the cycle.
Francis did what he had been told to do, (all the alarms had been deactivated especially), and emerged out of the big pyramid to were the pope was waiting for him. It was raining. The pope wound down the window of the pope-mobile.
“ Did you get it?”
“ Yes”
“ Good, we’ve sorted you out with an artists garret on Rue de something or other, you better get cracking.”
“ What do I do with this then?” Francis held up the painting.
“ Oh you keep hold of that, you need it to copy off.”
And with that the pope put his foot down and sped off into the night.
A security guard came and chivied Francis away; they wanted to reset the alarms.
‘ Sod it’, thought Francis, and he headed off to the station. The pope had given him a credit card so he bought a ticket for the 9am Eurostar, and by 3pm the next day he was back in Bootle.
Only Francis’ dad was in when he got home, which made things a bit easier.
“ Thought they locked you up?” Said his dad.
“ Nah, that was just a lie.”
“ Oh right... You didn’t seem like the type anyway. I said to your mum, I said he was probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time I said.”
“ Yeah... Well anyway I’ve got to go on the run because there's an insanely powerful secret society after me.”
“ All right then, shall I tell your mum you’ll be here for tea or what?”
Francis packed his stuff into an overnight bag and left. He wasn’t sure what he could do, he supposed he could get some money off the credit card and set himself up as a drug dealer somewhere.
Standing on Oriel road station Francis took out the painting for the first time since he’d taken it off the wall in the Louvre.
Rays of sunshine peeped through the soggy sky and played on the woman's cheeks, drops of moisture trickled down the cracked paint, giving it new life. She was jaw dropingly beautiful.
In the gallery the woman had looked sad, trapped behind inches of glass to be leered at at millions of tired, greasy tourists. Frozen. Sterilised. There was no mystery to her, her beauty had been neutralised by familiarity. People only came to look at her to tick a box.
Without really knowing what he was doin Francis hung the Mona Lisa up on the green railings, framed in bushes of nettles and budleia. She looked as if she had always been there.
The train was approaching and it began to rain again.
The woman's cheeks shone through the streaming water; she looked invigorated. He knew she wouldn’t last long, but perhaps nothing permanent could be so utterly beautiful.