In Competition No. 2411 you were invited to supply a poem or piece of prose entitled ‘The Last Smoker on Earth’.
William Danes-Volkov wrote to me, ‘Anyone attempting this competition should read Garrison Keillor’s brilliant and terrifying story “The Last Cigarette Smoker in America”.’ Terrifying too is Thomas Hood’s poem ‘The Last Man’, in which a man who thinks he is the sole survivor of a global pestilence meets another lonely scavenger, quarrels with him, hangs him, and then realises with horror that there is no one left on earth who can perform the same office for him. Back to smoking (which I gave up a fortnight ago). This was a delightful competition which threw up a great variety of approaches. The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and G.M. Davis’s unprosaic piece of prose earns the extra fiver.
The expression on Crawford’s face told Clarice Starling that this was going to be a VI-CAP priority. She suppressed a complacent smile, knowing what was coming. ‘I want to emphasise,’ Crawford said, ‘that this will be a purely voluntary assignment. I can’t order anyone to do it.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Starling told him. ‘I handled him before, I can do it again.’
‘What?’ Crawford looked puzzled, then recovered. ‘No — it’s not Lecter. If only it were. Take a look at this.’ He started the video, which Starling watched with accelerating horror. The man on the tape — outwardly normal, like Lecter — was …She shielded her eyes, battling a wave of nausea. ‘I thought they’d all been terminated,’ she said, trying to keep her voice level. Crawford’s face was grim.
‘Me too. But the tape’s genuine. And we haven’t a goddam clue where he might be.’
G.M. Davis
If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,
Atop there stands a notice, Smoking Zone,
The last in England.
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