The Missouri Review

The following is a runner-up in our Downton Abbey Non-Contest, by David Nahm. Entrants were asked to render a famous author’s impressions of Downton Abbey, as portrayed in the popular television show Downton Abbey. 

 Downton Abbey by W.G. Sebald (trans. by Anthea Bell)

It wasn’t until September of that year, when in a fit of restlessness that had taken hold of some nameless, submerged part of my spirit, that I found myself ambling slowly into the small village in Hampshire and after a short respite in the shadowed corners of the village pub, where sipping on nothing stronger than a diet soda, I watched as the faces of the men there hovered like spirit flames waiting to tremble in the presence of something unseen, I saw a great disturbance in the road as several shining vans, loaded with what I was to later learn were various pieces of television equipment, sped through on their way out to Highclere Castle.

 

Slipping from my perch in the shadows, suddenly feeling some strange impulse, unknown and obscure to me in much the same way that the lure of running water must be unknown and obscure to moths, and only then realizing that for too long I’d felt like one of those moths, trapped inside, clinging to a wall for dear life despite the fact that that very clinging was nothing less than death itself, I asked one of the solitary faces there in the half-light of the pub what the gleaming retinue of vans was rushing toward and turning to me, the  face, now suddenly animated and real, a real man with ruddy cheeks and a sweet soft smile, explained to me that the BBC was filming some sort of period drama at Highclere and he further explained that the television program was about a family in the early part of the century and that the family which was the subject of the television program had three young and beautiful daughters and that once recently when walking in the woods with his dogs, he came across one of the young actresses in her period costume standing in the gloom of the half-moon, which she caught and reflected in much the same way that the eyes of certain nocturnal animals reflect the slightest light, and for a moment he was certain he was in the presence of some long forgotten spirit, the kind of which his grandfather told him inhabited those woods when the grandfather was a young boy, but the likes of which had not been seen for many, many years.

David Connerley Nahm lives in Virginia where he practices law, teaches college and writes.

The following is a runner-up in our Downton Abbey Non-Contest. Entrants were asked to render a famous author’s impressions of Downton Abbey, as portrayed in the popular television show Downton Abbey.

“A Terrible Beauty” - from the notebook of Cormac McCarthy at Downton Abbey

by Jack Anderson

He turned then and rattled the ashen spear from a black cigarette clamped between the stiffened fingers of that mangled hand which bore the marks of war and emphasized only the ugliness that comes with knowledge of pain which coiled in angry slumber beyond and between inscrutable and fathomless eyes. With the unworn toe of his shoe he ground the fallen embers into the gray dust of an English courtyard.

As like as not, he said and she turned and inclined her her chin ever so slightly in the response he knew then as half rebuke and half a kind of filial love.

You just find that ruddy dog.

His lawdship ‘ll be more than grateful, I reckon.

She took in the forest and the gathering twilight and gave no reply. Somewhere beyond the green fold of hills a young apiary of bees tunneled away in their ageless dance of warming and unconscious industry, spinning crystalline replications of nectar and yet unaware of what spirit may yet move in them to do so.

Jack Anderson is a writer who - for the benefit of his beautiful wife and precocious children - masquerades by day as an ordinary wage slave scribbling recondite bits of poetry while cramped into the cattle car of a tube train. On occasion, he steals moments in the evening to work on what will, his wife feels certain, surely be the next great American novel. His short fiction has been featured in Leodegraunce magazine, and the slush piles of dozens of magazines across the globe. He lives in Fairfax Virginia. On occasion he writes things at http://hefeasts.blogspot.com/

The following is a runner-up in our Downton Abbey Non-Contest. Entrants were asked to render a famous author’s impressions of Downton Abbey, as portrayed in the popular television show Downton Abbey. 

Relationships (My impersonation of Lydia Smith watching Downton Abbey)

by Michael Credico

Earl is a title, not a name. There is Robert – an Earl – with the American wife (Cora). The dead child on the Titanic and his father Crawley. Also: Of course, there are other Crawleys – Matthew and Isobel, for examples. Mary loves Patrick, I think. And there is a Violet who is in some way in love/related to a man named/titled Duke. Evelyn Napier is a man — which beats against my better judgment of names and people. (I once played canasta with a woman named Evelyn)

The truth is that I feel for these fictional relationships much the same way that I feel for my own: Confused and uninterested and perhaps some angry at the faceless men that had written them.

Michael Credico is a writer based in Cleveland, OH. His poems and stories have appeared in Kindling and The Allegheny Review and are forthcoming in others

I could not be more pleased to announce the winner of our latest non-contest.  Entrants were asked to render a famous author’s impressions of Downton Abbey, as portrayed in the popular television show Downton Abbey.  Full guidelines can be found here.

The following winning entry comes from author C Wallace Walker:

Jane Austen’s Visit to Downton Abbey

May 4, 1913

Dearest Cassandra,

The house has been in such a bustle, I could scarce command quiet time to compose a letter to you. The new heir, Mr. Matthew Crawley, yesterday arrived with his mother. They are lodging at Crawley House but dined with us at the big house last night.  

Mrs. Crawley is a pushy sort, but not nearly the equal of old Lady Grantham. I maneuver away from her ladyship whenever possible, though do try to remain within earshot of her remarks. Her wit is not to be missed as long as it is not directed at oneself.  The Lady does heartily approve of my performance at the pianoforte. She cannot tolerate ragtime and prefers the waltzes and quadrilles with which I am familiar. I had not the heart to tell her that for want of a secluded room in which to practice, I would wish to learn the contemporary pieces. The house contains an abundance of modern sheet music, but the only pianoforte sits in the library, a room nearly always occupied. In a stroke of fortune, the library also contains books enough for even me. 

Mr. Crawley, aside from being bestowed with a future of both rank and fortune, seems of good character, despite having once studied the law. The Lady Mary clearly considers her station above Mr. Crawley’s, though she is neither the eldest son of a man of fortune, nor engaged to be married to a man of fortune. Lady Mary is perfunctory in her behavior toward me and the other guests, summoning a servant to attend to any of our needs but not troubling herself. She is so wholly unhappy with the threat to her position that the entailment poses. Lady Mary is the Charlotte Lucas of Downton, only in better clothes, prepared to steer her heart to the most advantageous attachment.  

Quite the opposite, Lady Sybil the youngest, handsomest sister, cares nothing for rank or fortune. She is a headstrong girl, who feels a conviction to speak her mind, yet hopes to marry.

Lest you think me too severe on our sex, Lady Edith and I are similar in disposition and temperament. Like me, she takes pleasure in a good novel. 

Lord Grantham is all you would expect for a man of his situation in life, a fair and kind master, neither soft nor severe.  Aside from the unfortunate fact that Lady Grantham is American, one would never suspect that she is of no breeding.  

In closing my dearest Cassandra, I do you wish you could see the grounds of Downton. I would sketch them for you, but my drawings are horribly unlike their subjects.  With more than 50 bedrooms the house is impressive, but most majestic are the Lebanon cedars that surround the gardens.  I long to walk among them with you and listen to the wind whisper in their branches. 

Yours very affectionately,

JA

C Wallace Walker began her writing career in fourth grade by sending complaint letters to companies on behalf of her Pennsylvania Dutch-speaking grandmother.   Writing success in those days came in the form of complimentary new fan blades and coupons for free cat food and cereal. Later she wrote obituaries and edited speeches. After years of piecemeal work, she secured a real job as a technical translator.  Her professional stature and desirability were inexplicably enhanced by the seizure and confiscation of her passport and visa in the former USSR.  Since then, she was awarded a PEN prize among other honors. Her work can be found in Ploughshares, The Southeast Review, The Little Patuxent Review and other journals.  She is a member of the Broadneck Writers’ Workshop and editor of the Literary Lunch Room.  Wallace lives on Maryland’s Severn River with her husband, two sons and two scheming but lovable beagles.