They gathered, the six jury members, to decide the best novel of the year. Shortlisted entries were on the shelf, all six of them leaning above each other, some thick some no so much. Before the judges sat together for reading, they thought it would be a good idea to get a few drinks. They went to a nearby bar leaving a window, or two, open. A cold gust of wind came and made the pages of the topmost book flutter. A character walked out. He strolled through the alley of fine literature, touching the lengths of books like walls of an ancient building. He opened other books like doors, and more characters came out. They took turns to introduce themselves, and, while judges were having a ball - raising toasts in the bar - here, these semi-opaque characters were too having a great time - laughing and telling tales they had come from. Then there was a sound of a knob clicking. The judges came in. The characters ran in confused directions, and everyone just jumped into the nearest novel; All of them ended up in the novels they didn't belong to. It was not funny because whole lives were changed: an illiterate driver who had killed his master in his original novel, now found himself teaching algebra in a primary school. The reading went on for weeks and a collective observation of the judges was published on the website: The mix this year is very different, very unusual. The winner was announced, and as the characters had remained intact in the copies sold worldwide, nobody thought the winner that year was a fair choice.