ANONthology authors revealed!

This story was originally published anonymously as one of the stories in Fourth Estate 25th anniversary publication, the ANONthology.

Space is at a premium in Paris, and one of the early challenges Professor F faced upon arriving in the city was lack of it. As the newly appointed director of the Department of Cognitive Studies at one of France’s most prestigious centres of higher learning, he knew that his young and expanding unit would soon outgrow the 250 square metres that had been allocated to it, and that it was his job to find room for the overspill.

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Due to unprecedented demand (!) we’ve decided to reveal the names of the remaining ANONthology authors in this post.

It means that anyone looking for the answers will easily locate them here.

Who wrote what

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This story was originally published anonymously as one of the stories in Fourth Estate 25th anniversary publication, the ANONthology.

He was at the age that people would not think as young any more, but he was a young man to them, grandmothers or at least mothers-in-law now, with plenty of reasons to feel neglected by their married children and grandchildren. Before they had discovered him—or he them—they had gathered at the pavilion for other reasons, exchanging gossip, complaining about husbands and unpleasant in-laws, and reminiscing about their youth, but all those reasons seemed trivial now that they had him.

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This story was originally published anonymously as one of the stories in Fourth Estate 25th anniversary publication, the ANONthology.

The Hypnotist’s Wife

Through the wall, she can hear him again; a low, relentlessly soothing monotone, the words inaudible. She sits sewing, concentrating on the quick flashes of the needle through bright cloth. At the edge of her field of vision, the television flickers mutely. She has grown used to her entertainment, such as it is, being noiseless. He likes to maintain the illusion of a sound-proofed sanctum, into which the chaos of the external world cannot penetrate. The slightest disruption – a ringing telephone, a muffled cough, the faint rattle of a teaspoon against a saucer – could endanger this delusion, and the onus is on her not to shatter it.

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This story was originally published anonymously as one of the stories in Fourth Estate 25th anniversary publication, the ANONthology.

Lara could normally spot the new children a mile off because they tended to cling either to their parents or to some token articles of clothing – swimming trunks, typically, but one new arrival had memorably retained long socks and sandals. But he approached them directly, as unencumbered by textiles or relatives as any regular in their little gang. Lara had not noticed until then that that summer they were all black or brown-haired; they tended to become so muddy and stuck with leaves and twigs that such physical niceties could be hard to distinguish. He strode confidently into their midst in the forest clearing and they instinctively formed a respectful circle about him.

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This story was originally published anonymously as one of the stories in Fourth Estate 25th anniversary publication, the ANONthology.

The Political Obligations of the Lover

If you live under a repressive regime, you may have the duty to die for love. Go to the capital, stand in the central square, distribute pamphlets urging a general strike and compose a revolutionary song with the refrain: “I am loyal to nothing but love!” The imperial guardsmen will then shoot you dead. Be assured that it is better to die young and ecstatic than to suffer impotence, irrelevance and bureaucracy—the humiliations of old men who conform to oppression.
If you live under a regime that is not repressive but is merely corrupt, the guardsmen may not kill you. You may have to hold public orgies in order to be shot. I have never attended a public orgy, but I certainly would organize one if I lived under the graft and negligence of a puritanical petty tyrant. Make certain that if you are not shot dead but merely jailed for life, then your friends are prepared to break you out. Tell them: “It is only fair that you help me escape, given that I invited you to my public orgy.”

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This story was originally published anonymously as one of the stories in Fourth Estate 25th anniversary publication, the ANONthology.

Do

The leaves are the color of dried carrots. They sail in the wind, settle on the seats of the swing sets, on top of the plastic play tunnel, on the dull soil of the playground. Steven watches as the children jump into piles of them, gleeful shrieks echoing round the graffiti-strewn buildings nearby. Steven does not clean the bench at the corner of the playground and the leaves on it make the crunching sound of crumpling paper as he sits. His eyes are fixed on the little girl with two round ponytails standing on either side of her head.

The air has a coppery tinge, as though the whirling leaves have stained it, and the little girl’s brown face, her dark eyes, gleam red-gold as he watches.

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Well, it’s been an exciting few months since we launched our anonymous anniversary publication, the ANONthology, and asked you to guess who wrote what.

Since then, the ANONthology has been read over 10,000  times. We have in part to thank this brilliant plug on Springwise.com for the wave of recent digital attention.

The competition is now closed and the time has come to reveal the authors. We’ll be doing this right here, week by week, starting today with piece one: ‘Do’.  In fact, not only will we reveal the author’s name but also provide the full text of the story, for you to read at leisure. Look out for the next post when the author is revealed…