Daphne Cooper is a long-time friend, dating back to our days at the University of Cape Town Mountain and Ski Club. She is also an accomplished fellow writer. Seven or eight years ago she challenged me to a private writing contest. It’s been going on ever since.
This is how the challenge works:
Every few weeks or months, as the mood takes us, one of us – taking turns – will propose a title out of the blue. The challenge is for both of us to write a story based on that title. Any length, any genre, no holds barred, as long as the written piece reflects the given title. Usually we each respond with short stories, but two of my books grew out of Daphne’s challenges. And Daphne has twice entered one of her resulting short stories in more public writing contests.
When Daphne first launched her challenge, I thought it was because of a fit of competitiveness. She said no, it was to motivate both of us to write more. Hmm.
I make the challenge and its rules sound easy, but of course, the one who just announced the title has an unfair advantage. He or she already has an idea of what they want to write. The other one, the muggins on the receiving end of the title, almost always shouts, “AAAAAArggh. Where did you get such an impossible title? That is just the STUPIDEST title I’ve ever heard. How can anyone write about THAT!”
Still, until now, we’ve always managed to do the impossible and BOTH of us have always come up with something. Sometimes we knock up a response in a few hours, sometimes it takes weeks. In the seven or eight years of the challenge, I estimate we’ve churned out about 35 stories each. It’s been interesting to see just how varied our approaches have been and how they’ve changed over time.
My observation is that Daphne’s earliest responses featured lots of blood, gore, trauma and tragedy – perhaps because of her professional life. Now that she’s a grandmother, though, her writing has become much gentler.
Anyhow, we thought some of you might be interested in an actual example of one of the challenges and how we responded to the same title in such totally different ways.
This was a title I dropped on us both in late 2024:
“The Cat Who Ate Only Chicken”
Daphne’s piece is first up, highlighted in pink, and mine follows highlighted in blue. We’re not looking for readers to pick a winner or a loser, but to enjoy both pieces, enjoy how different our approaches are, and leave us plenty of comments below.
If you want to see more of these challenge stories in this blog, please also let us know – we might even consider taking challenge titles you suggest. Enjoy!
DAPHNE’S VERSION: THE CAT WHO ATE ONLY CHICKEN
© Daphne Cooper, 2024.
No one can accuse me of not being accommodating. My whole life (lives actually) is a record of accommodation. Some of the things that I have had to put up with would make your whiskers curl. Speaking of whiskers, I could tell of the indignity of having had my whiskers cut. I won’t go into that right now, but it does point to some of the many indignities and accommodations that I have made in my life.
I am not some jumped-up little alley cat who has been lucky enough to find a conducive place to stay. Let me make it clear that I have nothing against such cats, and some of them can be quite attractive. I am not a snob. But the thing is that when you come from better breeding, you have certain standards.
Far be it from me to blow my own trumpet, but I have been fortunate enough to have grown up in the lap of luxury with a very good education. My original servants bought me a large and comfortable house in a very up-market suburb. The garden was huge, but I went out only if I felt like a bit of gentle hunting – a gecko or two – or if I wanted direct sunlight. My favourite outside sun-spot was a comfortable bench near the swimming pool. A cushion would be brought for me if I indicated that I would be spending time there.
My education was largely due to spending a lot of time in the servants’ library. The adult servants had a wide range of interests from travel to diet to philosophy. There were discussions on many a topic that happened there, and that I, of course, absorbed. I learnt the children’s classics by attending story times of the young servants. Although the young are now too old for story times, I have fond memories of nestling in with freshly bathed young ones, tucked up in their comfy beds while we had stories read to us by the adult servants.
The servants did their best to find a suitable diet for me, but I did have to guide their efforts until finding what was optimal. Initially they thought to feed me rather boring pellets, but I soon made my distaste clear. Chicken liver chopped and fried was a novelty that I enjoyed for a few meals, but soon grew tired of. Canned cat food was initially tolerated but I can’t say that I ever grew to like it. Finally, we hit the sweet spot (as they say) with Woolworths organic chicken steamed until tender. That really agreed with me, and I rewarded the servant chef with some loud purring.
I tell you of my background so you can know the kind of standards and service that I come from, but as is well known, you don’t get good help anymore.
My original servants who really did offer me a very acceptable lifestyle, had to move and sadly could not take me with them. A string of new servants came to view the house, each lot more unsuitable than the last. I fear that the family who eventually took up residence was a vulgar lot who had more money than sense. They seemed to have no conception that this was my home and that they were in service to me.
“Hey look at the kitty,” shouted the youngest, “so cute.”
Me “cute”? I don’t think so! I turned tail to stalk out of their presence, only to hear the adult servant say, “You must be nice to kitty, she comes with the house”.
Did they not realise that this was my house? How could they be so blind?
I was outraged at their presumption and lack of respect, and this was made still worse by the young one chasing after me and calling “Kitty, kitty, pretty kitty, can I be your friend?”
No one tried to correct and educate the young servant as to the proper hierarchy of the home and I can tell you that I was subjected to a number of humiliating and terrible incidents as a result of her ignorance. Being dressed in dolls’ clothes, having my whiskers cut, being carried around and strapped into a dolls’ pram were just some of the outrages that I endured. And they all called me “Kitty”. Calling me “Kitty” was really too galling, and I refused to respond to that name. The new servants were, however, stupid as well as vulgar and never realised that “Kitty” was not, and never would be, a name to which I would respond.
Instead of the leisurely pace that I was accustomed to, I now had to spend my time in trying to avoid the servants and particularly the young one who was making my life a living hell. I would find a good sunny place to have a power nap, only to be disturbed by the piercing cries of the young servant. I was forced into the garden more and more and could only dream of my comfortable time in the library. I missed the intellectual stimulation, and I missed being left to quietly get on with being in charge.
As to the standard of food that I was served – I can hardly mention how ghastly it was. I did make my displeasure very clear and had to resort to bringing a large rat into the house where I dismembered it on the adult servant’s bed. However, they still did not seem to get it and continued to serve me some disgusting mush. The young servant sometimes tried to slip food under the table to me. This I may add, was food that she did not find palatable, so how she imagined that I would eat it is beyond me. One mealtime things had just gone too far and I acted totally out of character. You must surely know that I am a cat who has acted with dignified restraint all my life, but the frustrations that I had endured with the new help were intolerable; I simply lashed out and clawed the young one on her cheek. She screamed loudly and knocked her head on the table in trying to get away from my sharp claws. I padded from the room, unnoticed amid all the fuss that the servants were making about a very minor scratch. There was no concern for me, of course. I went to the kitchen where I noticed a roast chicken on the kitchen counter. It was not a Woolworths organic chicken, but it was a roast chicken, nonetheless. I hopped onto the counter and started tearing into the first decent food that I had had for some weeks.
I felt much restored after eating the chicken and stretched out on the counter to digest my meal and have a snooze. I vaguely heard the servants coming in and whispering to each other not to disturb me. Clearly, they were now somewhat afraid of me, which I thought no bad thing. But what really heartened me was hearing the young servant say, “Kitty eats only chicken. That’s what we must feed her.”
Yes indeed. If you give me chicken, I feel that we might reach some understanding about how we live together in my house.
And now …
PETER’S VERSION: THE CAT WHO ONLY ATE CHICKEN
© Peter Staadecker, 2024
At night, after I’ve put Sandra and the twins to bed, I rinse dishes and talk to Tasha. Talk at the after-supper dishes has been our habit since day one of our marriage, and I’m not stopping just because Tasha’s dead. Almost 14 months now, but after all the years together, I can fill in her side of the conversation pretty well. A sort of post-mortem telepathy.
“The twins,” I say, “The twins went to Judy’s sixth birthday party, over at Erin and Brian’s.”
“Simon and Kate each had a card and present to give Judy?”
“All taken care of, Tasha. All under control.”
She snorts. “Except?”
“What except?”
“Except?”
“Well, OK. Simon gave Judy a haircut. It wasn’t great. Brian laughed, but Erin was furious.”
“Why didn’t Erin supervise them? Or Brian?”
“That’s what I told Erin. Made her even madder.”
“Hmm.”
“She wanted me to pay for a remedial haircut for Judy at her very chi-chi hair stylist. I said, no, but said I could give Judy a remedial haircut here at our place.”
Tasha is laughing. “What else.”
“You guessed there was more?”
“I can tell.”
“Well, they all ate too much cake, and Kate threw up on Erin’s carpet.”
“Oh.”
“Fun news, though … pass me the glass bowl…”
“Yes?”
“Because they were so stuffed … we had too much chicken at dinner, too much even to freeze after.”
“Chicken?”
“Yup. Sandra helped me cook it. So anyway, we had leftovers, and the twins said to give it to Ic.”
I stop talking, because Sandra is wondering downstairs for a last glass of water. She doesn’t like it when she catches me talking to Tasha. She’s very grown up for eleven. She thinks it’s weird that I still talk to Tasha. Tells me I have to accept and move on. Says if she can accept her mom’s death, I should be able to also.
Anyway.
Ic is Icarus Cat. The kitten who jumped too high and then crashed. As I was trying to tell Tasha, there we were feeding chicken to Ic that night. Party night for Ic. Real chicken instead of dried cat food.”
He stuck his face into the bowl like a scuba diver and didn’t resurface until the bowl was sparkling clean. When he finally came up for air, his eyes were glazed. Blissed out on a chicken high. He flopped down and fell asleep right by his bowl. One paw resting on the bowl. “Don’t nobody take my bowl.”
The kids were entranced.
“Wow.”
“Did you see that, Dad?”
“Ic the vacuum cleaner.”
“Ic the black hole of chickens.”
“What a pig.”
“Don’t call him a pig.”
“Pig.”
“I’ll punch you if you call him a pig.”
“Simon, Kate. Enough. Go get washed for bed. Nobody punches anyone or calls anyone a pig. He’s just enjoying real chicken for the first time. Like you tasting party cake for the first time. Be happy for him.”
“Party cake with icing.”
“And candles and sprinkles.”
“And throw-up.”
“Right. Be happy for him. Sandra—bath night.”
And that was that, or so I thought.
After Sandra returns upstairs with her glass of water, Tasha says, “Hmm” with great skepticism, and won’t tell me why.
I find out the next day.
Monday morning: Sandra’s time to feed Ic. “Dad, he won’t eat his dry food.”
“Is he sick?”
“I think he wants chicken.”
“Ignore him. He’ll eat his food when he’s hungry.”
Monday night—from Simon: “Dad, Ic hasn’t eaten his breakfast. He wants chicken.”
Tuesday morning—from Kate: “Dad, you have to cook chicken for Ic. He’s not eating.”
Tuesday night from all the kids: “Dad, you have to cook chicken for Ic. And for us. He’s going to starve.”
Me: “I’m not going to let that overfed, over-entitled, chicken-pig dictate what we cook and eat.”
Kate: “Don’t call him a pig.”
Simon: “He’s not a pig.”
Sandra: “You’re the pig, Dad. You’re going to let him starve. We’re going on strike for Ic.”
God knows why their school has to teach eleven-year-olds about labour negotiations and strikes, but Wednesday morning the twins announce a go-slow when it’s time to dress for school (put up to it by Sandra of course). I drive them to school in pajamas.
Tasha is not happy with me.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her, “leave it to me.”
When I pick up the kids after school, the principal wants a word with me.
“Please sit, Mr. Grayson.”
I sit.
“I want to say again, Mr. Grayson, how sorry we all are about Tasha.”
“Thank you.”
“I know that bringing up three girls on your own must be difficult. Mr. Grayson. The school has a woman; she’s a social worker, a lovely woman and very personable, whom you might like to meet …”
“Principal,” I say, “that’s kind of you. But no matter how lovely your friend is, I’ve no intention of dating right now. It’s far too soon.”
The principal looks confused. She hesitates and then says, “Well, it was really the twins coming in pajamas this morning that made me think …”
“What?” I say to her. “The entire school had a fun pajama day last month. I’m just continuing on that tradition. The kids loved it.”
I leave while she’s still struggling to get around that.
Tasha will have a fit of giggles when I tell her about it over dishes. Before dishes that night, though, there are a reporter and a photographer at my door wanting pictures of Ic, the cat. Bloody Sandra! Standard negotiation tactics: get the press on her side and vilify the opposition.
“We have no cat,” I say to them, “just an overfed, over-privileged, pig and three overfed children.”
“Can I quote you, Mr. Grayson?”
“You can quote Götz von Berlichingen, for all I care,” I tell them, adding a touch of erudition to this undignified circus. “Now get out.”
“Who’s Götz von Whatever?” says Sandra.
“He was part of a German Peasants’ Revolt in the 1500s, and told the other side where they could stick their demands.”
On Thursday morning the kids are dressed on time but giggling. There are signs on the lawn in their handwriting: “Dad unfair to cat!” and “Chicken for Ic!!” and “Honk if you support Ic!!”
Several neighbours drive by, honking like lunatics.
There is the same newspaper photographer lurking on the sidewalk with his lens pressed against our hedge. I pretend not to see him.
Erin—Judy’s mother if you remember—the one who wants me to pay for a remedial haircut for Judy—is walking their beagle past our hedge and sticks her tongue out at me. I wave my hand at her, real friendly for the sake of the photographer, except I’m making snip-snip scissor movements with my fingers.
After I drop the kids off at school, the photographer is still there. I turn on the in-ground sprinkler system to water the hedge. Then I have a coffee with Tasha.
“I’m not letting a cat get the better of me.”
Tasha is unusually unsympathetic to my case.
“Get it sorted, or I’m going on strike too,” she says.
“You’ve been talking to Sandra!”
“Just get it sorted.”
“God help me when Sandra becomes a teen,” I tell her.
When I pick up the kids at school, the principal wants another word with me.
“Sandra has taken to telling pupils and teachers they can kiss her behind. Where do you suppose she picks up such language, Mr. Grayson?”
“Either in the school yard…”
“No, Mr. Grayson, our students do not use such language.”
“… or she’s been studying Renaissance history.”
“History, Mr. Grayson?”
“Sandra is a keen student, as you’re no doubt aware, Principal. Her curiosity takes her far beyond the standard school curriculum. ‘Kiss my ass’ may seem like common parlance today, but it was a phrase first made famous by Iron-Hand Goetz, during the German Peasants’ Revolt of 1524 …”
“Iron-Hand?” Once again, the principal seems confused by where our conversation is going.
I’d like to tell her to focus, but I’m polite:
“Oh, yes, Principal,” I say instead. “He lost his lower arm during a military campaign in 1504 and had an iron prosthesis made that could hold a shield.”
Before she can lose focus again, I continue.
“I’m sure you and the school must feel very proud to have a young scholar like Sandra in your ranks. In my own way, I try to encourage her academic curiosity, as I’m sure you and your staff do, Principal. Thank you for calling me in to tell me how proud you are of her. It means a lot to me.”
That night I gather the kids around the supper table. Chicken dinner.
“OK kids, here’s what we’re going to do. Management has agreed to your demands to feed Ic chicken from now on, if that’s what he wants, but there have to be concessions from the labour force too.”
The kids aren’t sure whether to cheer or not.
“What concessions?”
“Since chicken is more expensive than regular cat food, there will have to be wage concessions from the workers.”
“Wage concessions?”
“15c each off of Simon and Kate’s weekly allowances, and 25c off Sandra’s weekly allowance. Or the deal’s off.”
There is some squabbling, but in the end they agree. Everyone is happy, pretty much. Especially Ic. And over dishes that night Tasha says to me, “Nicely done.”
“I know,” I say modestly. “Pass the water jug please.”
And now over to you, the reader. Thoughts? Comments? Observations? Cutting critiques or deafening applause? Requests for more? Be sure to let us know in the comments section below.
I love this challenge. What enjoyable stories to read – thank you! I can just see Daphne’s cat enjoying the comfort of her (cat’s) house, but alas no big garden. And then Peter’s story – love the cat Ic (or does that stand for In Charge?) But your website verification process – I have to click on a picture of a dog!
So pleased you enjoyed them. As for the verification process, beyond my control unfortunately, but oh my: you got a DOG! ROFL.
I think you two gifted authors are totally priceless! Undiscovered talent…till now! High time a book came out of this, perhaps the ‘Daph & Pete Challenge’…but clearly you could both come up with a way better title. Look fwd! Xx
Love the encouragement. Thanks a bundle!