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Competition No 3782

Set by George Cowley, 19 May

Dr John Pridmore recently wrote in the Church Times that "novels dealing overtly with theological issues rarely work". We asked for an excerpt from such a novel.

Report by Ms de Meaner

No room this week, as dialogue chews up those inches. £20 to the winners. Top dog Bill Greenwell also wins the vouchers.

Sebastian trolleyed down the aisle of his Tesco Metro. The front wheel ran smoothly across the linoleum, moving him almost inexorably towards the tinned fish. It was amazing, always, to think of the long, industrial process that led to these Titans being netted, gutted and canned. And all for his convenience. Absorbed, he felt the judder of mesh on mesh, and found himself facing Julienne.

"Not the Dodgems," she reprimanded, but led the way to the groaning shelves.

She pointed to the bargain offers. "Three cans of tuna for the price of one," she remarked. "In brine."

Sebastian was brought up short. "Have you ever thought," he began, "of how this mirrors the conundrum of the Trinity? Is this three-in-one, or one-in-three?"

Julienne was struck. "In their oneness," she replied, "wouldn't they be distinctly divisible, or even divisibly distinct? Father, Son and Holy Ghost, although contained within one cellophane cylinder, would all turn out the same. Would all be tuna."

"Not from the same fish," attempted Sebastian. "They may look the same, but their character would, surely, be subtly different."

"A better example would be the spices offer," suggested Julienne, with a faraway look. "Cumin, juniper, cinnamon."

Bill Greenwell

"He's dead, sir," Lewis said, inspecting Professor Madrigal's corpse.

"Yes, Lewis," ruminated Morse, "but where is he now?"

"Here, sir," said Lewis. "Well, most of him, anyway."

"Not the body, Lewis, the soul!" Morse explained, effortfully.

"Oh, I see. Well, the wife reckons there's an afterlife. Heaven, like."

"For all of us, Lewis? Even Madrigal's killer?"

"The wife reckons to understand all is to forgive all, sir."

"That's ridiculous, Lewis!" Morse exploded. "If we all got to heaven, it wouldn't matter how we behaved in life. Surely God rewards good and punishes evil?"

Flummoxed, Lewis said: "The trouble is, you think God can be fathomed out, like one of your cases. But if you had faith . . ."

"Stop thinking, you mean?" Morse interjected, drily. "I can't, Lewis. Nobody can once they've started. I need answers and if the way you're hiding behind your wife is anything to go by, so do you. We need to question God, clear all this up."

"Where'll we find Him, sir? And what about Madrigal?" Lewis asked, alarmed.

"God knows!" bellowed Morse, making for the nearest pub, but for once he sounded positive.

Adrian Fry

Cries in the darkness, a mountain of rubble. There seemed no way out of the collapsed building.

"All we can do now is pray," Johnson muttered.

"But not to Allah, I take it?" said Krebs.

"This is no time for ideological humour," Kate said. "The efficacy of prayer is predicated on the existence of a personal god. But religious belief per se does not hinge on such a deity."

"What are you saying?" Johnson asked. "To me, any supernatural deity is an illusion. But even if I'm wrong, what we choose to call God may be a life force or energy gestalt, not a providential being with an interest in our fate."

"I sense creeping Hinduism here," said Krebs.

They could all feel the heat rising as the ruins consumed themselves in flame.

"Look!" Johnson broke the silence. "Let's at least take Pascal's wager. Though, of course, if God is all-knowing he will see through our opportunism."

"Well, it's better than waiting for the emergency services," Krebs said.

Kate looked at Ali, who hadn't spoken.

"What do you think?"

Ali shrugged. "What will be, will be."

Basil Ransome-Davies

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. Nor the next, nor indeed at the weekend or the following week. The Lord may have promised never again to destroy the world by a flood, but that had still left Him with plenty of options. He had promised that the heavens and the earth would pass away, that at the last trumpet, on the last day, like a thief in the night, the end would surely come and that no one knew the time or the season. So, as the moon turned to blood, the stars fell from the sky, the sun withheld its light, under the Johannesburg floodlights the German goalkeeper nervously but efficiently tried to settle himself. The trophy glistened with expectation. As Rooney stepped up to take the final decisive penalty, the lights went out. Forever.

David Silverman

No 3785 Set by John Crick

Chick lit, Aga sagas . . . new genres of novels are a growth industry. Could we have new types of fiction, please, with examples or excerpts?

Max 200 words by 20 June(to appear in issue dated 30 June). E-mail: comp@newstatesman.co.uk

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