The Thurber House | Literary Picnics

THE ANNUAL THURBER TREAT HUMOR WRITING CONTEST

Local authors, both young and old, are invited to submit entries to the 2008 Thurber Treat humor writing contest. For this year’s contest, writers are asked to compose advice column parodies similar to those that James Thurber wrote in his “Pet Department,” which is collected in the best-selling The Thurber Carnival.

Winning authors will be guests of Thurber House for dinner at the Wednesday, June 11 Literary Picnic, and will read their sage or silly entries.

Rules: To enter this contest, writers must follow these rules –

Submit a humorous story inspired by the chosen theme.
Limit entries to 1000 words.
Fill out the Humor Contest application, which can be downloaded below. DO NOT include your name on pages of your entry.
Keep original for yourself – no entries will be returned.
Send the entry to:

Thurber Treat Humor Writing Contest
Thurber House
77 Jefferson Avenue
Columbus, OH 43215

Submission deadline: Entries must be submitted to Thurber House no later than Monday, May 19 by 5:00 p.m. If mailing, envelope must be postmarked by Monday, May 19.

2008 Thurber Treat Application (PDF)

2007 Thurber Treat Winners:

Thurber House is pleased to announce Lee Jansen, Eileen Mitchell, and Denise Neary as the 2007 Thurber Treat humor writing contest winners. Based on the famous James Thurber fable "Unicorn in the Garden," contestants were asked to write what they thought the unicorn did while he/she was "away" from Thurber House this past summer. The three winners read their entries at the Wednesday, June 13 Literary Picnic at Thurber House. For more information on the Literary Picnics or to purchase tickets, please click here.

Lee Jansen
“Off My Pedestal”
A Columbus free-lance writer, Lee Jansen received a master’s degree in journalism from Ohio State University. She is currently working on a book about child abuse. Lee has four cats, two Pekingese and assorted squirrels in her garden but is still waiting for a unicorn. Lee’s favorite authors include Marguerite Duras, J.M. Coetzee and Tara Ison; Lee is eagerly anticipating Ison’s appearance at the June 27 Thurber Picnic.

Off My Pedestal
By Lee Jansen Columbus, OH

It’s not easy being put on a pedestal. Some people expect you to be perfect. Others are just waiting to take you down a few pegs—to knock you off your high horse, as it were.

I’ve been standing on my pedestal by the Thurber House for almost 30 years. Is it any wonder I developed issues?

Last year, I started thinking quite seriously about some short-term psychotherapy. It’s not just about being on a pedestal. There’s the guilt, too. I mean, I feel a lot of responsibility for that poor woman being carted off to the booby-hatch. Sure, she was no prize as a wife, and her husband had to put up with her carping for decades. But let’s face it, he was no George Clooney himself. And he had no appreciation, whatsoever, for the antique roses she tended so lovingly in the garden. He let the entire yard go to pot after she was gone. Having become a bit of a gourmand, I truly missed her delectable flower beds.

When I agreed to the husband’s little hide-and-seek caper, I thought it all was to be innocent fun. He didn’t tell me about the strait jacket and the booby-hatch. Some nights, the pitiful screams she emitted as she was taken away still echo in my mind. And I truly hope the asylum that became her home allowed the poor woman a small plot to plant and weed.

But let’s get back to my own need for therapy. I just feel that I have too many issues to deal with. The guilt, the striving for perfection, and then the metaphysical and ontological questions. I mean, people are still debating whether I exist. That can really damage your self-esteem.

I must say that last summer’s heat and humidity added a new intensity to my angst. And I knew it was time. Time to see a bit of the world; time to find a good shrink. I screwed up my courage and trotted off my pedestal. Geez, it was nice to feel my hooves on the ground, to kick up a little dirt, as it were.

I wasn’t far from Columbus’ Main Library, so I headed there to bask in the air-conditioning and peruse the yellow pages for a unicorn-friendly therapist. After all, not any therapist would do. I was looking for a non-Freudian. I certainly didn’t need to hear some sexual psycho-babble about that horn sticking out of my forehead.

Wow! Have you seen those topiaries at the Deaf School Park? I stopped by on my way to the library, and saw shrubs re-creating Seurat’s wonderful painting of a lazy Sunday afternoon. Shrubs designed to look like people, like dogs, like boats. What an impressive sight it is: Or should I say: What an impressive sight it was. I mean, I ‘d been on a pedestal for years. I was hungry. For future reference, may I point out that there are some marvelous unicorn tapestries that would be awesome as the basis for topiaries?

Anyway, as I nibbled away at a parasol, I was approached by a winsome, dark-haired woman who introduced herself as Karen. “You look a bit depressed,” Ms. Karen. said. “What’s the matter?”

I didn’t wait for a psychiatrist. I blurted it all out to Ms. Karen as she ate a late lunch of low-fat mango yogurt and grapes.

“First of all,” said Ms. Karen as she handed me a grape, ”perfection is boring. If you were perfect, you wouldn’t have left your pedestal. And I would never have met you.”

“As for your guilt issues, you just have to let them go. When I was in Catholic school, a nun once told me that guilt was a luxury and a sign of self-centeredness. If you’re feeling guilty, you’re thinking of yourself and your own feelings, Sister Teresa used to say. Expand your world. Think about others.”

I wanted to tell her that I was thinking of others. In fact, I was thinking about what a kind and lovely maiden she was. I put my head in her lap and she petted my nose.

“Finally,” Ms. Karen said, “How do any of us know if we exist? Descartes said: Cogito ergo sum. I think therefore I am. But his argument was a bunch of baloney. I think I exist because these grapes are sweet and juicy, because the wind feels soothing as it blows through my hair, and because I think I see a gleam in your eyes.”

“Yes,” I said, snuggling closer to Ms. Karen. “It’s as Lewis Carroll wrote: Now that we have seen each other—if you’ll believe in me, I’ll believe in you.”

I looked up at Ms. Karen’s big brown eyes. “I’m ready to go back to Thurber House now. Will you walk me home?”

“Of course,” said Ms. Karen. And we strolled off into the sunset.

“That’s quite a horn you have,” Ms. Karen noted s we drew near to my pedestal. “I wonder what Freud would say about it?”

Eileen Mitchell
“Unicorn in the Big City.”
Eileen Mitchell lives in Palatine, Illinois, and is the 2006 second place winner of the Will Rogers Humor Writing contest sponsored by the National Society of Newspaper Columnists. She was also a 2006 Finalist in the Canadian "Writing Fairy" contest, and is the current 4th place winner of "America's Funniest Humor!" Writing Contest. She is a contributing columnist in Book II and III of "America's Funniest Humor" published by Humorpress.com. She has recently sold a story to the best-selling "Chicken Soup for the Soul" series of books, due out in August, and has just completed work on a humor novella and is in search of a publisher. Previously Eileen taught literature and writing at the College of Lake County in Grayslake, Illinois, where she always enjoyed teaching a unit on Thurber featuring "The Unicorn in the Garden" and "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty"

The Unicorn in the Big City
By Eileen Mitchell Palatine, IL

One bouncy spring day the unicorn in the garden sprang from its pedestal like a coiled snake from a magician’s bag of tricks.

“Where are you going?” said the dog atop the garden fountain to the unicorn springing in the spring flowers. The unicorn confessed he was going to Broadway to break into show business.

“Why do you have to break in?” the dog inquired, “are you a burglar?”

The unicorn explained the door was locked and the key was connections.

“Don’t you have connections?” asked the dog.

“I will build connections like a bridge and cross over into the magical land of glitz and glamour.”

“You look pretty glamorous right here,” said the dog “why do you need to go to Broadway? Can’t you just be glamorous here?”

“I could be glamorous here but it would be like writing a book that never gets published. I want to share my glamour for all to enjoy.”

“Is there much demand for the glamour for all to enjoy.”

“Even if they need only one and I am the only one then I might break in. Of course if you have connections you don’t need to have glamour. The truly glamorous often languish unnoticed in garden just like this.”

“Why do they languish?” the dog asked.

“Because they can’t get an agent,” replied the unicorn.

The dog seemed puzzled. “Don’t agents like glamorous unicorns?”

“Agents like people who have connections. They don’t like connecting people who aren’t already connected.”

“I understand,” said the dog who didn’t understand but didn’t want to appear unworldly. “Can I be your agent?”

“You can pretend to be my agent and I can pretend to be connected and you can pretend to be the one who connected me.”

So off they went to the big city. The dog rode on the back of the unicorn and the unicorn carried the dog which was the perfect logistics for an agent and his client.

When they got to Broadway the door was locked just as the unicorn had said. They tried getting in through different doors. First they went to the door marked “Sardi’s.”

“I would like to have my picture on the wall like the glitzy and glamorous stars,” said the unicorn. “Can you get my picture on the wall at Sardi’s?’

“Sure Babe,” said the dog with an agent-like flourish as he drew a sketch of the unicorn on a cocktail napkin and stuck it to the wall with chewing gum.

Next they went to the door marked “Winter Garden Theater” and the unicorn said, “I would like to appear in that theater. Can you get me to appear in that theater?”

“Sure.” said the dog and he swindled two tickets from a scalper who was trying to swindle him. the unicorn made an appearance in the upper balcony.

Next the unicorn said “I want to be photographed with stars. Can you photograph me with stars?”

“Sure,” said the dog who hit the unicorn over the head with a camera and snapped a picture with stars floating around him.

When the unicorn recovered in the emergency room he had one final request. “You have shown me glitz but what about glamour? I want more than to be in a theater, I want to be on the stage. Can you get me on the stage?”

“Sure, do you know how to use a mop?”

“Let me clarify,” said the unicorn. I don’t want to mop up or appear in the balcony. I want to be in a Broadway show on the stage. I want to display my glamour for all to see.”

“Glamour is harder to sell than glitz but let me see what I can do.” When the dog returned he said “I can get you in a show but you’ll have to cut off your horn.”

The unicorn protested. “Didn’t the great playwright Lillian Hellman say ‘I won’t cut my conscience just your horn.”

“If I cut off my horn I will look like an ordinary horse. I’ll be like everyone else.

“They want you to be like everyone else.”

“But I am unique.”

“Unique isn’t selling tickets on Broadway this season.”

“Okay.” said the unicorn resignedly lopping off his horn and taking his place in the chorus line just as the star of the show entered stage left.

Said the unicorn, “the star looks like a horse with a snow cone glued to his head.”

“He is a horse with a snow cone glued to his head,” said the dog.

“But I’m a unicorn,” said the unicorn, “and he’s just a horse pretending to be a unicorn. If they needed a unicorn why didn’t they choose me? What makes a fake unicorn better than a real unicorn?”

“His uncle is financing the show,” said the dog. “That makes him a better unicorn.” The horse went to win an award for ‘most authentic portrayal of a unicorn’ and later wrote a best selling book despite his inability to read.

“The unicorn glued his horn back on and abandoned the stage returning to the garden from whence he came. Before he ascended the pedestal he threw his last dime in the garden fountain as if it were a wishing well, a final connection to a dream that wouldn’t die. ”Someday the whole world will appreciate my glamour,” said the unicorn as he dove unglamorously in after the dime realizing it was his last coin. The dog dove in after his ten percent commission. The unicorn learned he didn’t have to travel all the way to the big city to make a splash.

Moral: It’s better to be well connected than connected to a well.

Denise Neary
“Statue Without Limitations”
Denise Neary lives in Rockville, Maryland with her husband and two teenage children. She is an attorney with the Federal Judicial Center in Washington, D.C, She admires good writing of all sorts, and is especially delighted with authors who make her laugh. She is so pleased to have her writing recognized by Thurber House. She was unable to be attend the Treat picnic.

Statue Without Limitations
By Denise Neary Rockville, MD

Do mythical creatures get a magical wish, Frito wondered?

Being a statue always had its limitations, but this was the worst summer day each year for the unicorn. Not just tourists snapping his picture, jumping on his back, rubbing his horn---that’s all in a days work. Today, the tourists were frenzied about the Whetstone Park Rose Festival. They wouldn’t stop talking about it. A festival. Of ROSES. It seemed almost an intentional cruelty, as Frito had been staring at a lily since what seemed an eternity. Frito ached to go to the festival.

A docent wandered by at dusk, the last tour group in tow, speaking in solemn authoritative voice about Mr. Thurber. A little girl separated from the group and placed her pink and white striped flannel stovepipe hat right over Frito’s horn.

“Now you are a horse with a hat.”

These were, under normal circumstances, fighting words for a unicorn, mythical beasts of awesome power. But Frito chalked up one more indignity in a bad day. The group moved on, the hat stayed put. Quiet descended, but was short-lived.

Frito recognized the sound of angry feet pounding through the grounds as the early evening rattling of Spook, one of Thurber House’s resident ghosts.

The writers called the ghost a lunatic. Hello---pot, kettle here. Spook sometimes charged people, threw around the occasional photo, had some fun slamming doors. Was Spook wandering around the grounds, pulling at his hair, muttering words like “continuity,” “setting,” and “flow.” Oh, no--- that would be the writers, the sane ones.

Spook charged Frito.

“Looking for some magic?”

Frito was flabbergasted. “You can talk!”

“Duh! Aren’t unicorns supposed to be smart, or is that just legend? I have a busy night ahead, pal, so what’s your story?”

“I want to go to the Rose Festival.

“C’mon, that’s your secret wish, the deep desire that compels you?”

If statues could blush, Frito would be scarlet.

“I love roses. I’m dying to go.”
“Know how to get there?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Here’s the deal. I will turn you into a living, breathing unicorn for the evening. And you can do whatever tickles your fancy---if this Rose festival is calling, knock your tail off. but---you must be back by midnight.”

“No way---midnight. Like in the fairy tales?”

“Is it too much to ask that you stay on point? Yes, Unicornella, be back here, on your pedestal, by midnight.”

Frito felt a sense of dread. “Or……?”

"Or I’ll be REALLY mad. And there will be a statue of a unicorn somewhere in the middle of Columbus, Ohio. There will be a police investigation, and people will get in trouble. I like to mess with people, not get anyone hurt. So be back on time. Understand?”

“I’ll be back.”

Spook spoke in hushed tones. “Abracadabra.”

Before Frito could say “are you kidding---abracadabra?” he was a breathing creature.

Spook, this is AMAZING! I’m free at last!”

“Steady, there, Dr. King, let’s not go crazy. I’ve got crazy covered. Scat! And keep the hat---people will think you are a horse.”

Frito reared up on hind legs---what a glorious feeling of freedom.

“A HORSE? Unicorns are majestic, elusive creatures.”

“So you’d rather use your few hours of freedom arguing about semantics than exploring the world? You are perfect for Thurber House. Giddyup, horsie.”

Frito looked around the gardens---no one in sight. He trotted, then he cantered. He galloped out of the grounds, down Jefferson, turning on Long, and heading toward I-71------just the way he had heard tourists describe. The feel of the night air on his body was cool and invigorating; the smell of diesel fuel horrific. People in cars pointed at him, but he kept moving. He saw the sign for Broadway---he was almost there. Take Broadway, then High, and then Whetstone Park. He’d made it!

This sign greeted him: Whetstone Park—closed for the evening.
Unicorns don’t cry, Frito reminded himself.
What did those writers always whine their characters needed? Gods to intervene. Deus ex something or other. He looked around, and noticed a deer squeeze through a tiny opening at the park gate.

If it works for Bambi, it works for me.

Not a human in sight. Frito squeezed through the opening, and ran.

The park was gorgeous, soft and dark. He ran passed gazebos, gardens, letting his snout take the lead until he found it---the most beautiful, most tantalizing, biggest rose garden, better tan his wildest dreams.

Which sense to satisfy first? Frito breathed in the roses’ aroma, turned on his back and rolled in a pile of soft petals that had blown to the side of the festival grounds. Then he started eating. He didn’t mean to be greedy, but he did eat hundreds of festival roses. And then took one of those wonderful full-belly naps he had heard the writers describe, bedded in the discarded petals.

He galloped home, a contented unicorn, returning well before midnight.

He wanted to tell Spook all about his night, but Spook was a ghost of few words.

“Spook, it was the best night—thanks.”

“Frito, if I were a young stud like you, I’d have been galloping over to the Columbia School grounds to meet the other unicorn statue. She’s beauty.”

“THERE’S A GIRL UNICORN NEARBY? Why didn’t you say so?”

“Did you ask? No. But since you proved to be a beast of your word this time, maybe the Spookster will grant you another magical night soon.”

“When?”

“You’ll just have to hold your horses, huh? Okay, on the pedestal.”

Frito obliged.

“Abracadabra.”

“Night, Spook. I’ll never forget what you did for me.”

“Don’t go mushy on me, Unicorn. I have a reputation to protect.”