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18
Dennis impressed me by thinking quickly. Unfortunately, he didn’t think well. “We’re crocodile inspectors,” he said. Charlene pushed him aside. “What he means is, there’s been an outbreak of avian ’flu in the neighbourhood, and it’s a strain spread by reptiles.” “That’s right,” I said. “Dr Charlene here was telling me that there couldn’t be any crocodiles around here and I was saying that I had to check. Lives are at stake.” Golden Boy looked at us, one at a time, like he was working out who to hurt first. “We’re with the epidemic containment agency,” I said, flashing him my video club card at him. “Do you know anyone who’s been coughing or sniffing?” It was a safe bet. He looked uncertain, and I pressed it home. “If you know where any large reptiles are, we’re sworn to keep it in the strictest confidence. It’s the Vet’s Hippocratic oath.” Golden Boy shoved his pimply nose up in my face. “Yeah?” he said. “How do I know you’re who you say you are?” “Sir, I’m not messing around. Yesterday, I had my finger bitten off by a honey badger.” I held up my hand for him to see. “And I didn’t rat out the man who owned it. I’m just trying to save lives.” He looked me in the eye, but I meant it. Well, most of it. “Get in here,” he sneered.

19
We were led through a building with bare concrete floors and collapsed walls filled with beautiful paintings, sculptures and several wide-screen TVs. Golden Boy clearly robbed people with taste and money. I tried not to look; I felt the presence of the large men behind me and I didn’t want to give them cause to use their baguettes. Golden Boy opened the back door and showed us his yard. It was raw concrete for two metres, leading to an evil-smelling pit. The bottom was a muddy pond with a small island in the middle, and on the island was a log with its mouth open. The mouth had sharp teeth. “Get on with it and get out,” said Golden Boy.

20
There was a rope ladder down into the pit. “Guys?” I said, and we went into a huddle. “Any ideas?” I asked. Dennis reached into his pocket and took out a syringe of morphine. “Dennis, you brilliant addicted bastard!” I said. I could tell he regretted showing it. “That was for the ride home,” he said glumly. Charlene nodded at the pit. “There’s no way in hell I’m going down there. They can snap birds out of the air!” she said. “Rock paper scissors?” said Dennis. Golden Boy watched us with suspicion. I waved at him. “You don’t have a rope, do you?” He sneered again, and shouted for one of the big guys, who brought out a long, chewed-looking piece of rope. I dangled it into the pit and waved it over the crocodile’s nose. The crocodile snapped at it at trouser-wetting speed, and tugged hard. I skidded forward on the broken concrete, and the front of my shoes went over the edge of the pit.

21
All I could see was mud and crocodile. I swung my body back and forward like a clown on a tightrope, and miraculously fell backwards. “Now what?” said Dennis, sounding bored. I got up, rubbing my coccyx, and looked back into the pit. The rope hung out of the crocodile’s mouth like a piece of spaghetti that it couldn’t be bothered to slurp. I pulled up the slack, and tied the rope into a wide noose. I fed it over itself and lowered the noose down the rope, which guided it right to the crocodile’s mouth. A quick flick, it was over the snout, and I pulled the noose tight. The crocodile thrashed twice, then went back to being a log. Even Golden Boy looked impressed. For the first time, Charlene looked at me like I was worth a damn. I raised an eyebrow. “That’s how it’s done,” I said, and tripped into the pit.

22
“Are you all right?” Charlene called down. I was lying face down in the mud, completely winded, but I did my best to give her the thumbs-up. When I got my breath back, Dennis dropped the syringe to me and I found a soft part on the crocodile’s throat. The needle made an audible popping sound going in. “That should do it!” I called up to Golden Boy. “Antibiotic. You’re all safe now.” I climbed out and we were ushered back through the headquarters. It was one of the biggest reliefs of my life to get back into the horrible alleyway. There were a couple of drug addicts picking through the bins outside the doorway. I could have kissed them on their scabs. “Just one more thing,” said Golden Boy. I turned back to him, and he took out a knife and cut deep slits down the sleeves of my leather jacket. “Tell one person about me or this place and I’ll slice you between your balls and pull them apart slowly,” he said.

23
We dropped Charlene back at her car, and thanked her. She didn’t look back at us, but she didn’t give us the finger either, which I appreciated. We spent the rest of the afternoon getting our gear together. We had black clothes, rope, a grappling hook made out of the bottom of an office chair, three rolls of duct tape, a thermos of coffee (instant, hot water from the tap) two plastic cups and 50ccs of liquid morphine, which I asked Dennis to leave at home. “It’s only going to get you into trouble, isn’t it?” I said. He nodded sadly, like a four-year-old who’s been caught eating from the sugar bowl again. We got in the car and drove back to Golden Boy’s, parking opposite the alley. After midnight, we heard the gates open, and a black van drove out, followed by Golden Boy’s SUV. “All right!” I said. “Operation Nabzilla is go.”

24
We stood under the wall again. Dennis threw up the home-made grappling-hook, and it caught on the third try. “You first,” I said. “Why?” said Dennis. “Because I’ve only got nine fingers!” Dennis climbed to the top of the wall. “Can you see it?” I hissed up. “I don’t know. It’s really dark,” he said, leaning forward as far as he could to get a better look. All I could see was his legs. “Be careful you don’t -” I said, as he flipped over the wall. I heard him scream, and there was a splash. “Dennis?” I called in a hoarse whisper. My phone rang, and I answered it. It was Dennis. “Eugene, I’m in… the pit… with the crocodile,” he said. I heard a beeping. “Hang on, I’ve got another call coming in,” I said. “Eugene, don’t you dare hang up on -” The other call was from Charlene. “Get here now,” she said. “Why? We’re kind of in the middle of something,” I said. She lowered her voice. “Golden Boy’s here. And guess what he’s brought with him.”

25
I parked outside Charlene’s vet clinic, a safe distance from Golden Boy’s SUV and van, and walked around the back. Through a window I could see Charlene in her white coat, and the crocodile asleep on the table. I rapped on the glass and she opened it. “What happened?” I asked. She looked around nervously. “He phoned me half an hour ago and said the crocodile was acting weird so I told him to bring it here.” “What’s wrong with it?” “It was spasming. You should warn Dennis that whatever was in that syringe wasn’t exactly pure. But I’ve sedated it. Where is Dennis, anyway?” “He’s out of trouble. I left him in the crocodile pit.” This gave Charlene a moment’s pause. “Is he okay?” “Yeah. He’s safer there than here, especially if he starts spasming. I have to go back with a longer rope. Now let’s get the crocodile out the window.”

26
I hadn’t counted on Charlene being against the idea. But she had a point; Golden Boy knew where she worked, so she couldn’t be seen to steal his property. She went back through to the waiting room to discuss the dangers of avian ’flu with Golden Boy and the gang while I awkwardly maneuovred the sleeping crocodile out the open window by myself. I had to leave the muzzle straps on the surgery floor to make it look like it had broken out on its own. Staying as far as possible from the creature’s mouth made moving it less easy. I dragged it by the tail, through the bushes and across the concrete to Dennis’s Golf, and hauled it onto the roof with a muscle-rupturing effort. As I was duct-taping it down I heard the rumbling of the sliding glass door. “What the hell?” said Golden Boy. He stood outside the waiting room with an acned sneer of surprise, flanked by his friends who definitely, definitely weren’t carrying baguettes.

27
I was bleeding quite badly by the time I reached Mr Grey’s house. He greeted me personally in the lush white foyer. “Ah! The delivery from Dennis Pennant! And a crocodile, no less! Well done.” He poked it with his foot. “I trust you had no problems in acquiring it?” “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Except for the shooting. And the car chase. I had to escape Golden Boy’s gang, understand. And then there was a road-block, so the police started chasing me, too. That helicopter overhead, I think that’s theirs.” I was definitely dizzy. I felt like I was moving backwards down a tunnel. Mr. Grey was staring in disbelief. Behind me, the door burst open and Golden Boy and his thugs pushed their way in. “You! You think you can steal a crocodile from me?” he was shouting at Mr Grey. “You think you can steal a crocodile from Golden Boy? You had this coming, you poncy bastard!” “Bring it on, you pizza-faced prepubescent!” shouted Mr Grey. I started to lose my eyesight. I dropped to my knees, and then to the floor. There were a lot of bangs, and the last thing I remember is someone shouting “Aaaaaaaah! It bit my leg off! It bit my leg off!” I drifted into unconsciousness, smiling.

28
The police found me asleep among the remains of five and a half gang members, including Mr. Grey and seventy-five percent of Golden Boy. The only reason I’m not in jail was the badger. While I was in custody they did a blood test, and found traces of rabies. I was given the vaccine immediately, and my surprisingly ambitious state-appointed lawyer managed to claim I was officially rabid at the time of my reckless driving and crocodile theft. He got me off with temporary insanity. And that was it. The crocodile was shipped to a game park. Dennis was put off morphine permanently after spending the night spasming in a mud-filled pit owned by a drug lord. Charlene rescued him the next morning, and I was horrified to learn that they bonded over the experience, and started going out. They stayed together until she found out he was stealing her horse tranquillisers. And me, right now, I’m back at the game park, studying to be a game ranger. I’m staying away from people, learning how to deal with animals, and I’m getting a gun. Bliss.

*Thanks to Burnt Umber on Flickr for the pic.

10

It was only a small tree. It took out a headlight, bent the bumper and gave the engine a whole new sound. Dennis agreed to drive to a lay-bye and call it a night. We sat side by side in the dark, and a couple more questions came to mind. “Why did he want an animal?” “You know these drug lords. They aren’t worth a damn without a leopard. This other guy he knows has a crocodile, and they’ve got a one-up thing going. So I said, hey, my brother’s a vet at the game park -” “I’m not a vet.” “No?” “I’m writing guide books,” I said. He shrugged. “Mom never tells me anything. Anyway, he said if I could get something like that, he’d let me off.” “What was he going to do?” There was a silence from Dennis that might have been embarrassed. “He was going to cut off my fingers,” he said. I flailed around in the darkness trying to hit him, but he grabbed my broken nose and held on until I calmed down.

11

The next morning we sat in Dennis’s office over an abandoned porn store, watching daytime television and discussing our situation. The microlight was technically Dennis’s, but he’d sold it to me cheap when he found out it was too noisy for smuggling. It had been my main source of income. Now it was gone. The Golf had just gone down in value. Dennis was technically squatting in the office, so that couldn’t be sold. We were both broke. Nothing was insured. The only hopeful thing was an insert on the news saying that researchers were making great strides in medicine, and they’d soon be re-growing fingers using an extract of pig’s bladder. Other than that, things were bad. And they got worse when a guy with a face like a brick kicked Dennis’s door into splinters.

12

Brickface fixed us with a glare that said, “Don’t complain about the door,” and stood aside for a guy in a grey suit who had his hair combed to look like toupee. I felt Dennis tense up. “So this is where you work!” said Mr. Grey. “Appropriate.” He pointed two fingers at Brickface, then at the door, and Brickface went to stand in the porn-strewn hallway. Mr. Grey turned back and gave us a smile out of a training video. “You know me, Mr Pennant,” he said to Dennis. “I’m a manager. Strategically, I should be leveraging your failure with public punishment to reinforce protocols and motivate sustained workforce discipline.” He paused for effect. I don’t know if Dennis fully understood what was said, but he must have understood “punishment.” “However, a suitable prestige animal would have a similar long-term effect, as well as being a superb and multifunctional negotiation tool. It could be used as a conversation piece, a status symbol, a torture device, or a badge of irrationality to highlight the futility of attempted compromise.” He gave Dennis a look. “I trust I will get the delivery forthwith?” he asked. “Tomorrow?” asked Dennis. Grey winced as if Dennis’s voice was a few octaves too high. “That’s stretching our agreement,” he said. “I’m afraid I will now have to demonstrate my dominance.” He unplugged the television set, and peed on it.

13

After Mr. Grey left, Dennis tried to plug in the TV. There was a bang and a cloud of smoke. “Should have left it to dry,” he said. This was typical Dennis, and it should have made me angry. Instead, it was a moment of enlightenment. What I realised was: my older brother was an idiot. Up until that point, my plan of action was to get quietly on the first bus, spend the next eight hours traveling to Namibia and let Dennis sort out his own mess. But it was clear now. If I left, Dennis would die. It was up to me. I made a cup of coffee (instant, no sugar, hot water from the tap, plastic cup) and went through the yellow pages, getting the numbers of all the local vets. I was in luck. One of them was a classmate from my first year, and he was in on the veterinary surgery gossip. After some unnecessary reminiscing, he gave me the name and number I needed, and asked me what I wanted it for. I told him. “Right. Good luck. Later, yeah?” he said in a strangled voice, and hung up. I was pretty sure I’d never hear from him again, even if I lived.

14

At closing time, Dennis and I waited outside the offices of Dr Charlene Adams, veterinary surgeon. People came out carrying various animals with plastic cones on their heads. The secretary had gone home early, and through the glass door we saw Dr Charlene finishing up behind the counter. She was a couple of years older than me, with her hair up in a bun and the expression of someone who spends their days looking into cats. “Why did you tell him we’d get it for tomorrow?” said Dennis. “It isn’t nearly enough time.” “That was you,” I said. “No, I’m pretty sure it was you.” Dr Charlene saw us, and waved us in. We probably didn’t look our best, wearing leather jackets and covered in bandages. “Hi,” I said. “We heard that you might know where we can find a crocodile.” “Are you with the cops?” she said. “No. I guess we’re robbers. But -” I didn’t get much further because she pepper-sprayed me in the face.

15

I curled up on the floor and cried while Dennis did his best to explain that we weren’t planning to rob her specifically. When Dr Charlene had a rough idea what we were up to, she sat me down on a dog-hair covered sofa and got some milk to wash out my eyes. I explained to her who we were and what had happened to us, while Dennis flipped through a copy of “National Geographic Kids”. “Is that why I can smell honey badger?” she asked. “Yes.” I told her what we needed from her. She thought about it carefully. “Get out,” she said. “Well, okay. But can you help us first?” “Not a chance.” My face fell. I must have looked really pathetic, with red eyes, a broken nose and nine fingers, because she sighed and said, “Okay, fine. I’ll show you where it is. But that’s all.”

16

“This is Golden Boy’s place,” said Dr Charlene, gesturing at a mean huddle of buildings surrounded by a peeling wall. We were in a part of town that made Dennis’s porn squat look like a hotel in Dubai. The street cleaners had obviously been mugged a long time before they made it to this alley. “That’s his name? The guy who made Mr Grey jealous with the crocodile?” I asked. Dennis nodded. “He’s a bad one,” said Charlene. “He marched into my office with a gun while I was taking a puppy’s temperature. He told me to come with him, and took me off in a big black car to see this crocodile. It was sick because it hadn’t been eating stones to help it digest. He told me if I told the police about it he’d kill my family. When I got back the thermometer was still in the puppy.” Charlene’s eyes glazed over at the memory. A rumbling at the entrance of the alley made us turn. A black SUV was driving in. “Don’t look,” said Charlene. “It’s Golden Boy.”

17

We turned away and pretended to be fascinated by a giant graffiti painting of what I slowly realised was a penis. I heard the metal gates opening, and the SUV pulled in. I risked a glance and caught the tail end disappearing inside, black and shiny. I let out my breath. There was a change in the motor’s sound, and the SUV reversed back out. I held my breath again. A guy who couldn’t have been more than twenty dropped down to the ground. He was wearing a tracksuit, covered in acne, and chewing gum. He pointed at Charlene, sneering. “You, you’re that vet, aren’t you? Who are these guys? Cops? SPCA?” Some much bigger men unfolded from the SUV with curious bulges in their jackets. They might have been carrying baguettes, but I doubted it.

1
Here’s the truth, a badger is no substitute for a parachute. I hoped I wouldn’t have to prove it while accelerating towards the ground at two hundred kilometers per hour holding nothing more than an irate striped mammal. Dawn was breaking, the horizon was banded with pink and orange, and the honey badger, which I’d named “Bastard”, had just peed through the cage and soaked my legs. There was thick fog below and I was almost out of aviation fuel. I needed a plan, and fast.

2
The microlight’s motor was sputtering. I couldn’t see the altitude gauge, but I assumed it was trying to give me bad news. I gave up hoping that the fog would clear to reveal a wide runway with a forgiving control tower and angled downwards, letting waves of fog shoot over and embed me in a wet white void. It was eerily quiet which wasn’t a good sign: The motor had died. I felt lighter than usual, which meant I was dropping. Fast. Bastard growled.

3
Something grew out of the fog ahead of me and I pulled left hard, narrowly skimming an electrical pylon. Orange balls on the cable shot past the wing. I’d always wondered what they were for, now I knew they were there to scare the hell out of pilots. I strained to keep the microlight from spinning, and the wings fluttered like firecrackers. The ground was a vague greyness that was getting blacker and harder-looking by the second. I flew over a line of trees and glimpsed a field directly ahead, wide open and perfectly flat. My heart bounded. I held my breath, and brought my nose up for landing. I couldn’t believe my luck. I shouldn’t have. It was a lake.

4
The wheels dug into the water and yanked the microlight into a forward somersault, spraying a white V in front of me. An instant later I was looking at the horizon behind me, upside down. Then things were the right way up again but I was under water, strapped in tight, with an iron cage filled with badger on my lap. I fumbled for the cage’s latch and felt a crunch. Shock and cold water numbed my hands, but I was pretty sure Bastard had just bitten off my pinky.

5
The mud at the lake shore was thick and full of broken branches that kept trying to trip me up. I felt impossibly heavy as I tramped my way out, coughing, with my bleeding right hand in my left armpit. For some reason I’d always thought that losing a finger would be less painful than losing, say, a fingernail, so I learnt something. Bastard scampered off into the bushes ahead of me. Ingrate. Even if I got my pinky back, I didn’t know if it could be reattached. And I didn’t want to kill Bastard, or shove another finger down its throat to make it throw up. It was gone. I’d never clean my right ear with it again.

6
I took off my soaking coat and looked at my stump, severed at the first joint, not too cleanly. I checked my pockets and found that my wallet was missing. It was probably at the bottom of the lake. The thought of cancelling my cards distressed me for a second, until I remembered my finger. Amazingly my cell phone still worked, except for the numbers five and three. I walked up a low scrubby hill until I got one bar, and called my brother. “Eugene!” he said. “Did you get it? Is it done?” “Not exactly,” I said. I explained where I was (by a lake, pylons, a metal windmill, a road in the distance), where the badger was, where my finger was, and what had happened to the plane. There was a pause. “Okay,” he said. “Stay calm. I’m coming to punch you.”

7
It was late evening and the sky was blue-grey behind the mountains when I heard my brother’s VW Golf bombing along the dirt road. I stood to the side and it shot past, bouncing on soft suspension, and ground to a halt after five hundred meters. There was the sound of grinding gears and it reversed, almost running me over, and pulled up in a cloud of dust. Dennis burst out, shedding empty chip packets. I hadn’t seen him in five years, and it was like a missing and unwelcome part of the universe had returned. “You know how many lakes there are by pylons and roads?” he said. “Where’s my baby?” I pointed at a triangle of cloth, still visible in the half-light, poking above the water like a fin. Dennis swore. “You call that looking after it?” He turned back to me. “Oh well, let’s see your hand then.” I showed him. He gave an impressed whistle. “Brutal!” He opened the boot, took out his box of paramedic supplies and filled a syringe with liquid morphine, measuring it carefully. He tapped out the bubbles and injected it into his arm. “Ahhh!” he slurred. “All right, let’s get you fixed up.”

8
Dennis set up the first aid kit on the bonnet and started fixing me. “Why were you getting a honey badger?” he asked. “Because you phoned me and said bring a dangerous animal and don’t ask any questions.” “Yeah, like a leopard or a lion! Not a honey badger!” I took offence at this. “They’re vicious predators!” I said. “They have lightning reflexes, powerful jaws-” Dennis wasn’t listening. He sniffed at his armpit. “Is that you?” he asked. “-And apparently they can shoot stuff from their butts,” I continued. “Like skunks?” “Exactly like skunks.” Dennis snorted. “You get a lousy creature, you crashed my plane, you got me to drive out here, and now we’re going to have a four-hour ride with you smelling like that?” “You call me out of nowhere, get me in a panic, make me fly in bad weather, you get me skunked, get my finger bitten off-” It was like old times. “Have some more morphine,” I said. “Why?” “Because I want to punch you in the face.” Denis considered it. “You first,” he said. “Deal.”

9
We rode in silence. I held a handkerchief up to my nose until it stopped bleeding. Dennis was driving. He’d taken less of a beating because he could hold his morphine, but the pain kept me more alert than him. Every so often we’d start drifting off the road, and I’d reach across and steer us back on. After the third time we almost wrapped ourselves around an oncoming Maserati, I tried talking. “Why do you want an animal?” The question woke him up a little. “I owe this guy. He said he’d take a fierce creature.” “What do you owe him for?” “Well, you know I’m a smuggler?” I did know. Mom had told me. It made me feel so much better about my matric score. He continued. “I lost a shipment. Told him the cops got it.” “Okay.” “Could be worse. If he thought I stole it I’d be dead.” “What was the shipment?” Dennis looked down, embarrassed. “Morphine.” he said. He kept looking down a bit too long, and we drove into a tree.

*Thanks to dickvolz on Flickr for the photo

All the amazing Novel Idea stories – including ones from Henrietta Rose-Innes, Lauren Beukes and Diane Awerbuck – are up on the Novel Idea WAP site in full until the end of September. Type www.mobfest-novelidea.co.za into your phone browser to go to the WAP page. If you’re not already registered, it’s a quick process through the “New users register here” button. If you’re already registered, go to “Chose your stories” to read the synopses and chose any of the Novel Idea stories to read. (You may be prompted to enter your number.)

(For those with HTC and Blackberry phones – sorry, but there are compatibility issues we can’t work around. Anyone else with problems, mail me on michelle@michellematthews.co.za.)

http://bits.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/08/29/introducing-the-twiller/?scp=1&sq=twiller&st=cse

“Start spreading the news…” pum tiddly pum pum!!

Video: Michelle Matthews on Novel Idea

• Fuzzy? Not loading? Watch on BOOK SA TV

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Sam Wilson is South Africa’s first award-winning mobilist with a clear majority: 38.5% of the readers’ votes. Sam’s story “Prestige Animals” is a rollicking comedy adventure involving an animal smuggler, his reprobate brother, an angry badger and a crocodile-coveting drug lord. Packed with gags and cliffhangers, it kept Novel Idea readers hooked to their phones for their daily updates. Sam Wilson wins R8000, sponsored by Vodacom. Congratulations Sam!

“It was one of the most enjoyable writing challenges I can think of,” said Sam, “being asked to make a story that had to be unrelentingly entertaining.” Sam added, “All the stories were wonderful, and as snappy as you’d expect from such great writers.”

Here is a clip of just how Sam reacted when he was told the news:

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Video: Sam Wilson’s Happy Dance

Click here to view the embedded video.

• Fuzzy? Not loading? Watch on WombatSam TV

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The runner-up position was shared between “Ghost Girl” by Lauren Beukes, “Winona Forever” by Sarah Lotz and “City Fun” by Stephen Simm. They share R2000, from our sponsors Vodacom.

The stories are now available in full through Novel Idea (until the end of September 2008). To register, SMS the word NOVEL to 33879, follow the link to the WAP site, click on ‘new users register here’ and send through your cellphone number.

This Novel Idea pilot, which launched on 7 July 2008, has been groundbreaking in so many ways: it’s the first time short fiction has been specifically commissioned for delivery via mobile phones (as far as we’re aware, worldwide), it’s been a unique way to promote edgy professional South African writers (all originally published in print or as screenwriters) and it’s the first time original Afrikaans content has been published on mobile. The winning story was determined entirely by public vote, highlighting the interactivity and openness of the cellphone platform.

Literature and cellphones will keep mashing as mobile becomes more and more popular as an entertainment platform. Just a couple of weeks ago, Nielson announced that their recent research had shown that the mobile internet had reached “critical mass” this year (http://www.nielsen.com/consumer_insight/ci_story6.html).

And… We’ll be launching round 2 of Novel Idea before the end of the year. The line-up of exciting local authors will be announced shortly.

Now he’s got his publishers Simon & Schuster and Marvel Comics semi-animating 25 episodes of a new short story for viewing on mobile phones. It’s even got an ad from Colgate at the end of it. Gotta love big budgets.

I first read about it on The Guardian where the video player is embedded on this page (yup, it’s not only available on mobile, but it’s embeddable in social media too – book publishers are getting smart, hey!)

Stephen has the kind of geek-pop culture appeal that allows him to do these forward-thinking things and draw an audience. Somewhere before the middle of the scale between “early adopters” and “mainstream” is Stephen, a kind of “bridging producer”. So, watch where he’s going, because the rest of us will get there eventually…

• Les écrivains publient désormais sur mobile

They even say the winning author will be scooping “le premier prix littéraire mobile au monde”. Au monde! That means “the first prize for mobile literature IN THE WORLD”! At least, it did 15 years ago…

Right now (2pm on Tuesday) Prestige Animals by Sam Wilson is back at the head of the pack. Voting closes on Thursday and THE WORLD’S FIRST winner of a mobile literature prize will be announced on Friday.

(Thanks for the link Ben. That’s some impressive surfing you’re doing there…)