"A Word From Our Sponsor"
(the twentieth ACW monthly writing contest)

Assignment:
Write a story or poem using the
following title: "A Word From Our Sponsor"
2500 words or less.

Deadline:
Midnight (DST),
April 15, 2003

Home


A Word From Our Sponsor
by lee10@host365.com
(Entry #3)
~Winning Entry~
The reporter was so bored that slitting her wrists was beginning to seem a good idea. The wind was too flighty for an umbrella and rain seeped inside her coat collar. She’d just discovered her boots let wet and she was miserable. Cold and miserable. And bored.

Sarah wouldn’t have volunteered for this assignment, not in a month of Sundays. Reporting the monthly Town Council meetings was preferable to this, but the editor had insisted.

"It’s a very important game." He’d placed a folder containing the details on her desk. "My brother is the sponsor. He’ll be there to present the cup." He’d grinned at her misery. "We all had to start at the bottom. Make a good job of this and you might get a chance at editing the problem page when Dear Deirdre goes on holiday next month."

It was too early to be up and out on a Sunday. Sarah was resentful. And sober. The early start had meant she’d not been able to go clubbing with the girls the night before and dammit, her pen wouldn’t write in the rain. She scrabbled in her bag for a pencil and tried it. It tore a hole in the damp paper. She ripped several sheets from the pad, stuffed them in her pocket and tried again.

‘Sunday, 13th April, 2003,’ she wrote. ‘Holmes Park Football Ground. I’M BORED!!!!!!! Exclamation marks soon covered the page. She sighed and turned over to the next.

Sarah stood near a corner post. Two boys were playing in the goal. A ginger-headed boy, with waxed, spiky hair and knees already muddy, was practising taking a penalty. Carefully he placed the ball. He retreated a few paces, squinted and lined the ball up with the dark-haired lad wearing a green woolly jersey, who stood in the centre of the goalmouth. The goalie crouched, his eyes intent on the ball. Ginger ran and booted the ball with all his nine-year-old might. It trickled past the left boot of the goalie who’d stepped to his right.

"Goal!" screeched Ginger, leaping up and punching the air.

"T’aint." The goalie turned mardy. "I weren’t ready." He picked the ball up from the back of the net and hurled it at Ginger. His aim was good. It hit Ginger mid-crow and knocked him over onto his backside. It was Ginger’s turn to scowl.

"Yes." The goalie clapped.

Ginger jumped to his feet and grabbed his friend. They were rolling round in the mud when a woman scuttled across the field.

"Stop it, you pair," she screamed, with no effect. They continued to wrestle, grunting like pigs.

A man ran over. He pulled the two apart. "Why’d your boy attack our Nigel?" he demanded, pulling the ginger-headed boy to him protectively.

"MY boy didn’t do anything." The mother wiped dirt from the goalie’s face. "Your boy started it."

Sarah groaned. I must have been really wicked in a previous life, she thought, to deserve this. A gust of wind flicked her blond hair across her face, glueing it to her wet cheek. With the air of a martyr, she peeled the strands back and tied her hair up with a pink scrunchie. It was pointless, she reasoned, trying to look like J-Lo in the middle of a football field.

The man dragged his son away, scolding him at every step. The mother clipped the goalie on the side of his head. "What have I told you about fighting and getting dirty?" she nagged. The boy burst into tears.

‘CHILD ABUSE IN LOCAL PARK’. Sarah tried out a possible headline. It’s the parents who need a good hiding, she told herself. ‘ACE REPORTER ASSAULTS PARENT BULLIES’, she doodled.

The game started at 10 o’clock. A bad-tempered referee moved her away from the sideline. "Can’t stand there," he told her. His sour look indicated she should be in a kitchen somewhere, not under his feet.

"Would you care to comment on today’s game for the ‘Whetstone News’?"

"I don’t talk to the press." He turned and stalked off.

"Forgive me for breathing," Sarah muttered.

It was a poor game from the start. The football was scrappy at best. The ball spent most of its time off the pitch and the boys spent most of their time offside. The parents, who’d been moved back by the referee, had wandered forward again and stood in squabbling clumps along the sideline. The linesmen were constantly obstructed. There was much blowing of whistles and cussing. Four times the referee threatened to abandon the match. Some of the fathers and many of the mothers were giving the referee as good as he gave them. Younger brothers and sisters argued amongst themselves too, using the same phrases as their parents. "F… this" and "S.. that!" rang out from all levels of the crowd.

Then a boy fell over in the penalty area.

"Foul!" screamed a red-faced man, whose fat gut showed how much time he spent in the local pub. "Foul!. Ref! Did ya see that? Our Jeffrey were fouled."

The referee’s whistle shrilled. A penalty was given. The captain, a lean shank of a boy whose glasses were speckled with mud and rain, called Ginger over to take the free kick. Ginger’s hair was slicked flat to his head. His once white shorts would never be clean again and his red shirt clung damply to his pigeon chest. Carefully he placed the ball. He retreated a few paces, squinted and lined the ball up with the dark-haired lad who stood in the centre of the goalmouth. The goalie pushed the sleeves of his green jersey up his arms and crouched, his eyes intent on the ball. Ginger ran and booted the ball with all his nine-year-old might. It trickled past the left boot of the goalie who’d stepped to the right.

"Goal," half the crowd roared.

"Foul," the other half responded.

"The goalie weren’t ready," someone shouted.

"Don’t talk bloody stupid, woman." A man wearing paint-splattered jeans turned on the woman who’d spoken. "What do you know about football?"

"As much as you do, John Robinson. At least I’M not a primary school drop-out."

"What d’ya mean, you stuck up cow. You….."

All around her, parents were rowing with each other. Sarah made a few notes wondering if she’d get away with writing a scathing article about squabbling parents.

Eventually the rain ceased and the game finished. Ginger’s was the only goal. Arguments continued to rumble round the crowd. Segments of oranges and thin, cheap orange-juice in plastic cups did nothing to stop the hostile undercurrents.

The winning team had its photograph taken by the winning parents. Ginger’s Dad tried to resurrect his son’s spikes, tangling the boy’s ginger mop. "Your Mam’ll kill me if she sees you like this," he groaned, tugging the comb harder despite the boy’s tears and protests.

The winning goalie, who’d had little to do during the game, was wrapped in several layers of jerseys but was still shivering. "Hold still, our Stevie," his mother grizzled, "or you’ll be all out of focus."

Behind them, beaming, stood the manager of the team, the publican of The Black Horse. His pub sponsored the team. This’ll bring the punters in, he thought, when the cup’s back of the bar.

The losing team also had its photograph taken, by the goalie’s Mum with a throwaway camera. The publican of the Queen’s Arms glowered into the lens. The camera clicked once, and that was that.

Meanwhile, VIPs began to assemble on the tarmaced play area next to the pitch. The Town Mayor was looking at the trophies and chatting to the Town Clerk who was looking bored. Sarah thought, I know just how you feel. The Mayor and the Clerk could have been brothers they were so alike. Both were in their sixties, greying and bespectacled. Their coats were tight across well-filled paunches. The Mayor wore his chain of office over a brown woollen overcoat. The Clerk had no such badge of power but was the one with the air of authority, nevertheless.

On feet of ice, Sarah stumbled across and introduced herself. She made a display of writing down the Mayor’s name and getting the spelling correct. The Mayor was flattered at the attention. She looked up from her pad as a man with looks to die for strolled up to the group.

"Ah," the Town Clerk said to the Mayor. "Our sponsor."

The Clerk moved forward, in front of the Mayor. "Good morning, Mr.Davies. And how are you today?"

The sponsor shook the Clerk’s hand. "Ted. Good to see you. Good game?"

"Reasonable, under the circumstances." The Clerk moved to one side. "May I introduce you to the Mayor, Councillor Ronald Stirling."

The two shook hands. Sarah could not take her eyes off the newcomer. His filmstar looks, tall, dark and smouldering, captivated her. She envisaged him taking the lead role in an 007 film, swash-buckling his way past the baddies to rescue her from all this. As if, she thought. By now, she was surrounded by parents, pressing forward to see their boys handed their trophies, so she was trapped for the duration of the speech-making.

The Clerk took a wooden gavel from his overcoat pocket and banged the table. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he bawled. "Your Mayor, Councillor Stirling, wishes to say a few words." There was a hush.

Sarah wrote ‘….pleased to see you all here…awful day….wonderful football….good sports…and the boys too….ha,ha,ha…. Shame there must be losers…all played a noble game….now hand you over for a word from our sponsor….Mr.Timothy Davies….Managing Director….Davies’ Breweries…Applause.’

Timothy Davies smiled at the crowd. "Well." He paused and made eye contact with one or two of the more presentable mums. "What an incredible tournament this has been." He saw Sarah starring at him and cranked his smile up a notch. Gorgeous little creases appeared at the corners of his eyes. Sarah came over all warm and glowing. Even the ice in her feet melted. The sun peeped through a crack in the grey clouds. The day lightened.

"We started with sixteen teams," the sponsor continued. "There has been some excellent football over the previous weeks as we whittled the number down to these two, the best in the county."

Sarah was struggling to listen, lost in daydreams generated by those deep blue eyes. She managed to catch the end of the speech, "…..and so, as the sponsor of the tournament, on behalf of Davies Breweries, brewers of the best beer in the Midlands," the fathers cheered, " it is my very great honour to present the cup to the winning team. To the Black Horse." With a flourish he handed the trophy to the thin captain.

Photographs were taken and the Mayor presented medals to all the players. Sarah made one or two more vague notes but her mind wasn’t really on the job.

She had managed to extricate herself from the crowd and was putting her notebook into her bag when Timothy Davies walked over. He’d had his eye on the blond the instant he’d turned up, as the final whistle blew.

"Hi," he said. "I guess my brother sent you?"

Sarah blushed and nodded.

"Good choice." Timothy grinned. "I told him not to send that old fart, Rogers, but to pick a better-looking reporter this time. So it’s me you have to blame if you’re cold and wet."

"Oh, no. Not at all. I will warm up. That is," Sarah stopped, confused. It was something to do with those eyes.

"I’m guilty. Let me make it up to you."

Sarah just looked at him. Her wits took a while to catch up.

"The boys and their parents are going back to The Black Horse for a celebratory drink and nibbles. Would you care to accompany me for a celebration? And a warm?"

"To The Black Horse?"

"God, no. To somewhere a bit more …. comfortable."

"I don’t know. I don’t drink beer." Sarah struggled to gain some control over the situation.

Timothy leaned closer. "Can I say something?" He looked round conspiratorially. "Off the record?"

Sarah nodded.

"As a final word from the sponsor?"

She nodded again.

"Neither do I. Drink beer, that is. Hate the stuff." He laughed. "Especially the muck we brew."

He tucked her arm into his own. "On the other hand, a nice crisp Chardonnay….." He started to walk towards the car park. Sarah had no choice but to go with him. "There’s a new wine bar in town. Fancy trying it? There’ll be no obnoxious parents or their grubby offspring to annoy us."

Sarah smiled. She pulled the pink scrunchie from her hair letting it dry in the cool breeze. The sponsor’s advertising spiel had worked. She was hooked.

Home


A Word From Our Sponsor
by mrwrleft@yahoo.com
(Entry #6)
~Runner Up~
"Ok. Let’s get the next caller. That’s Jerome from Inglewood. Jerome you’re on the Tom Linquist show."

"Hey, Tom, how are you?"

"Do you care?"

"I sure do...Tom."

"Thanks Jerome. What’s up?"

"Tom I need some advice."

"OK."

"I got into a relationship with this girl…"

"Jerome, how old are you?"

"Twenty One."

"Why are you in a relationship? Were you listening to my show? I always say: "Don’t get into the relationship until you banged a lot of broads."

"Yes, Tom, I know. And that’s generally how I approach this. But this time it was different."

"How so? Was she dynamite in bed?"

"Worse. She turned out to be the daughter of my boss."

Tom whistled.

"O’boy, Jerome, that’s a toughy. Does she know that?"

"Not yet."

"What about your boss?"

"I don’t think so."

"You didn’t get her pregnant or anything?"

"Oh, no, no. I use condoms religiously."

"Good man, Jerome."

Then transcending Jerome’s case Tom pontificated, "I said that and I will say that again, if she tells you she’s on the pill or she’s got a spiral, or she’s got her period, or whatever - don’t trust her. Always use the condoms and not hers. She might puncture it at the moment when you need it and you don't have a chance to check. Remember she might get herself pregnant with your sperm and you will have to pay child support for the next 18 years!"

Returning to Jerome’s case Tom continued, "Now Jerome, are you a company man? Meaning can you get another job?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"Then do it. This is the cleanest way. And as soon as you get a written offer dump her."

"Thanks Tom."

Tom felt hungry. An hour before the show he had sex with Melanie one of his girlfriends. It took longer than he thought and he didn’t have enough time to eat. He looked at his wristwatch and decided to order pizza during the next commercial break and station identification. ‘It’ll take about two minutes; should be enough if I’m lucky."

"You’re welcome. Ok, who’s the next caller? That would be Rochelle from the North Hollywood. Rochelle welcome to Tom Linquist show."

"Oh, hi Tom."

"Hi Rochelle, what’s up".

"Tom I want to say that I am listening for your show and I agree mostly with what you say about women."

"That most women are attention whores and bitches? Of course, how can anybody dispute that?"

"Well, I just want to say that not all of them are bitches."

"I never said that all of them were bitches. Is that what your call is about?"

"No, I actually have a question."

"OK, fire up".

"I have a boyfriend."

"A boyfriend. How did I know?"

"Yeah. And I like, like him a lot. He is really hot, you know?"

"Good. So he’s hot. What’s the problem then?"

"He’s hot, but…"

"But what?"

"But I don’t get anything out of it. I mean sexually…"

"What, he doesn’t sleep with you?"

"He does. It's just that I don’t get anything out of it."

"Oh, so he stinks in bed. Then you know already my answer. Dump him, no question about it. Find yourself someone else."

"Yes, but I really, really like him. He’s good at everything else. And he’s really hot too. Really!"

"Ok, Rochelle. You know when you go to the movies and order this big bucket of popcorn for eight bucks. Ever done that?"

"Yeah. Do it all the time."

"Well, doesn’t popcorn look attractive at first? Looks good, smells good. And so you buy it, right?"

"Yeah."

"But then later you realize that it’s soggy and doesn’t taste that good. OK. Then what do you do? You dump it, right?

Rochelle paused.

"Right? I can’t hear you Rochelle. Stay with me."

"Yeah, but…"

"There is no "ifs" or "buts". It’s the same thing. Am I making sense?"

"Yeah, kinda."

"So you’re gonna dump him right?"

"I’ll try. Thanks for the advice Tom."

‘What a dummy.’ Tom caught himself on a brief thought. ‘Definitely extra cheese, but what topping mushroom or pepperoni?’

"No Problem." Rochelle hung up and Tom continued.

"Next caller is Skip from Long Beach."

"Hi Tom, how’s it going?"

"Fine, fine, what’s up?"

"You know I am following your show and am following all your advices, but I still cannot close the deal."

"How so?"

"You see, I am just too nice. That’s my problem. How can I be a jerk? How can I close the deal?"

Tom quickly jumped out off his chair, took a couple of steps away from the microphone and burst into laughter. In spite of Skip’s attempt to sound mature his tone was pitiful like the one of a little boy who didn’t get his Christmas present. Getting a hold of himself Tom returned to his chair.

"Well Skip, you close the deal by being unpredictable, by being unreliable. Just keep on pressing the issue and you get there. No Mr. Nice Guy. No flowers and all that crap. That will never get you anywhere. Chicks will just use you."

"Thanks Tom, for the reassurance. I’ll do that."

‘What a character!’ Tom rolled his eyes.

"You’re welcome. Ok next caller. It’s Chris from Pasadena. Chris you’re on Tom Linquist show."

"Good evening, Tom."

"Good evening Chris. What’s up?"

"I am listening to your program Tom and let me tell you, you’re such a loser."

"Hm.. loser, me? Hahahahaha…" Tom laughed a bit theatrically. "Well, let’s see. I have hottest show in town, a seven figure salary, drive a sports car, have a house on the beach and I'm banging eighteen-twenty year old girls you wouldn’t believe. Does that spell loser to you?"

Tom stopped for a short instance giving the opportunity for his words to sink in the minds of listeners and continued

"Loser, How so?"

"You are now forty something. You have no family, you’ve been divorced three times and look at you, you’re teaching young people to do some of the most immoral and reprehensible things."

"Hold on man. Are you one of those church activists or something?

"In a way. I do volunteer work for children with Down syndrome."

"I thought so. Well, let me tell you, Pal. I am talking about things that people want to hear. That’s why I have the highest ratings. I am teaching them real life issues."

"You're still are a loser. You know you are."

"Ok, Chris. Is that all you wanted to say?"

"I think you should use your popularity to teach people good, moral things."

"Chris, Chris. Wake up and smell the coffee! If I talk about this stuff, who in the World is gonna listen to me? I would lose my ratings. Good Bye Chris."

The connection terminated and Tom continued.

"We’re gonna take a commercial break. Don’t go away. It’s the Tom Linquist show!"

Tom’s words were succeeded by a loud click and the air was instantly filled with a voice. The voice seemed to be not of one person but of a chorus comprising all possible variations of audible sound.

"The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of the evil men. Blessed is he, who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak in the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children."

As soon as Tom heard the first words of the "commercial" he jumped out of his chair and ran to the producer’s booth.

"Hey, Mike. What the hell did you just do? It was supposed to be a Nike commercial."

"I don’t know what happened, Tom", Mike lifted his hands in bewilderment. "We were about to air the Nike commercial and something got locked up. We are working on it." Angry Tom nevertheless excluded the possibility of sabotage, seeing puzzled technicians frantically fidgeted around the control panel.

"What do you mean, something got locked up? You are gonna fuck up my ratings. Get that crap off the air!"

The voice started calmly as if reading a narrative, but then it rose in volume and expressiveness and ended up with a chilling seriousness.

"And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you."

As the Bible passage was over the same loud click demarcated its ending giving the way to the suppressed Nike commercial while Tom felt how chill went down his spine. ‘Could it be? This could it be … ‘ his thought cycled idly like the wheel on the muddy road.

Tom smoothed his hair and while his hands went in the contact with his forehead he felt they were covered with the cold sweat.

‘Nah,’ he reassured himself, ‘someone’s just fucking with me.'

He shook off the feeling, hardened and made a mental note to himself. 'I am not gonna let it slide. Whoever did this shit…I'll show you how to fuck with Tom Linquist!' Tom gripped the microphone tightly with his beefy hand, cleared his throat and as soon as the commercial was over continued.

"Ok. Let’s get the next caller. That’s Michael from the Valley. Michael you’re on the Tom Linquist show."

'God damn!' he remembered, 'What about pizza? God Damn!'

Home


Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.


A Word From Our Sponsor
by Mort Ginsberg
mginsberg1@comcast.net		 #1 of 12
1185 words
"Hello, down there!"

"Who said that? I’m the only one here!"

"Think!"

"I must be going nuts. I’m the only one here and I didn’t say a thing."

"You’re still not thinking!"

"You know, I’ve been sitting at this darned computer too long. No matter what I do I can’t break through this mental block."

"With my help you can!"

"There it goes again. I’m getting out of here."

"Oh, no you’re not. Because I’m going to help you smash that mental block into dust!"

"OK, I’ll play along with whatever’s happening to my disintegrating mind. Who are you?"

"I, Mr. Writer, am your sponsor!"

"What am I - some kind of TV show? How can I have a sponsor?"

"Everybody’s got a sponsor. TV show or not. I thought you knew that."

"Look, whoever you are up there in my fatigued little brain, sponsors pay megabucks to have their products or services advertised on radio or TV shows so vast audiences can be entertained at no cost to themselves. And I have no TV or radio show. Not that I haven’t tried writing a few scripts which brought me some searing rejections. Paddy Chayefsky I’ll never be!"

"Oh no? Who do you think made Paddy who he was? Who do you think gave him all those marvelous ideas? Who do you think made him so famous?"

"Look, you little voice in my head - at this point in the day I’m lucky if I know my own name let alone who it was who made Paddy so successful."

"But I know."

"So tell me already. And also tell me why you said I’m wrong when I said I’ll never be like the great Paddy!"

"It was me, dummy! Me, your sponsor - and his sponsor too!"

"Paddy had a sponsor? What kind of sponsor? Patrons maybe. Friends for sure. Great contacts and even greater talent. But a sponsor? My sponsor?"

"Look, oh great creative genius. Can you spread out your fingers? Really spread them out?"

"I can span ten keys on my keyboard. Look!"

"Can you pick your rear end up out of that chair and walk across the room?"

"Next you’ll ask me if I can breathe!"

"Can you?"

"I am breathing! I can do all those things. Easily, see?"

"I see, I see. But I wonder if you can see - mentally - why you’re able to do all those things."

"Because - because - I can! That’s why. Plain and simple!"

"Oh, no, my good writer, not so plain and not so simple. And if you don’t believe me, take a walk into any hospital and see how many people there wish they could do all those things so easily."

"Hm - hm! I never thought about it that way. Guess they need a sponsor like you."

"But I already am their sponsor."

"Oh yeah, little voice? So if you’re their sponsor, why can’t they do all those things, like I can?"

"I said I’m their sponsor. I didn’t say I’m a blabbermouth. There are things a sponsor does that will never really be understood by those sponsored, like you.. That’s why some people hate their sponsor! And they look for new sponsors."

"I know, I know. If a show doesn’t do well in the ratings, the sponsor usually drops the show and, if the people don’t find new sponsors, pfft!"

"I think you’re finally understanding. But that’s with human sponsors, not me. I never drop anyone, no matter how poorly that ‘anyone’ may do."

"Are you telling me you’re really the BIG sponsor? The ultimate kahouna? Like .. the one up there?"

"No - no I’m not ‘up there.’ If you’ll just put your hand over your heart as if you’re pledging allegiance, you’ll know where I really am."

"Okay, so you’re really here - in my heart. Right?"

"Right! And as, they say on all those radio and TV shows we’ve been talking about, here’s ‘a word from our sponsor’".

"Our? You mean more than me?"

"Since I really do sponsor everybody, sure - billions more than you."

"Awesome!"

"Sometimes I hate that word but - well, yes, I guess I can be awesome."

"So what’s the word oh great sponsor way up there? Oops, I mean in here, under my hand."

"The word - words actually, many words -- but I’ll try to keep them to a bare minimum, are a reminder of the greatest gift I’ve ever given you - all of you."

"Gift? You mean like my being able to reach ten keys and breathe?"

"Great gifts, for sure, but even greater than them. You’re a writer. You’re supposed to be creative. So create an answer to the question, ‘what’s the greatest gift my sponsor ever gave me?’"

"There goes that block again, darn!"

"Glad you’re watching your expletives. But think. So few of my people are willing to do it anymore."

"Your greatest gift, huh? Dunno! I give up!"

"Only if you want to. And that’s a clue!"

"Only if I want to? You mean if I choose to? To give up instead of going on, instead of trying and trying and trying?"

"You’ve just gone from warm to hot. Keep going."

"Choose. I. Me. I’ve got a choice. Like, I can control how I feel, what I do. Hotter?"

"Just about boiling. You’re almost there. Your sponsor’s message is almost visible."

"FREE WILL! That’s it. FREE WILL. Your gift is my - our -- right, our ability, to make choices. To create our own destinies. Your greatest gift to all of us is FREE WILL. Am I right?"

"Dead on!"

"So what is your message. It can’t just be two words - ‘free will’. Like, it’s got to be more than that. Even short sponsor messages fill at least thirty seconds. And, you, being THE sponsor - certainly your message should be longer than that, right?"

"Actually, wrong! A truly profound sponsor message - one that’s really going to be meaningful - may be as brief as only a few words - and take far fewer than thirty seconds to get across."

"Okay - so, since ‘free will’ alone doesn’t make a message, what IS your message? I mean, how many words - how many seconds?"

"Listen and count: ‘Free will - it’s my greatest gift to you. Use it wisely - and with love!"

"Fourteen words, about ten seconds. Brevity with a capital B."

"No, not a capital B - make that a capital G. Get it?"

"Got it! So now what?"

"So now, mister writer - smash that block into dust and write about what’s just happened."

"I will - I will. And I have a feeling this is going to be one of the finest things I’ve ever written. But, what should the title be?"

"Again, mister writer - think!"

"I’m thinking. I can feel it coming. It’s almost here. I can see - I can feel - an incredible warmth -- a brilliant shining -- I’ve got it. The title. It’s here. It’s, it’s … ‘A message from our sponsor’."

Home


A Word From Our Sponsor
by Donna Dufour
mrsdew4@adelphia.net		 #2 of 12
444 words
I love to watch news programs; most definitely a junkie, and I am absolutely not looking for a cure. You know the programs I’m talking about: the Today Show, Good Morning America, Fox News Alive, CNN, and others. The more I can find with my Direct TV satellite dish - the better. Now it’s been my experience lately that these are the only programs that use a phrase similar to "and now, a word from our sponsor." It’s very rare to hear this phrase on network television today. It has been replaced with the softly spoken "and we’ll be right back."

During the 1950’s era of television programming and earlier radio, I remember programs teeming with this phrase approximately every 15 minutes or less – making you crazy enough to contemplate throwing something at the television! It was just too much for a human to bear. These sponsors were everywhere!

"A word from our sponsor "was THE segway to commercial for just about every show on television back then. And when you heard it, you either heaved a heavy sigh, or dropped your shoulders to brace for the onslaught of commercials you knew were now coming. It could also serve as an opportunity for us to get our "behind" out of the chair to get something to eat, fold some laundry, or use the restroom. A positive use of our time. The remote control wasn’t quite developed for that time period around the fifties, so you couldn’t remain seated and click, click, click as we routinely do now. Most folks just complained about how many commercials and then settled until the next sponsor signal. Some even talked to their family members!

But there are some television programs that it is just unacceptable to either vocally or mentally use that phrase. I’ve narrowed it down to two: my favorite soap opera (or "my story" as devoted soap fans label them) and a Stephen King movie. Now some people might disagree with not having a break from a King flick, since they are so intense and frightening. They appreciate the break to bring them back to their safe reality. I find it annoying to interrupt such a great piece of artistry, in my humble opinion.

Since we have now socked away "A Word from our Sponsor," from our television culture, we need to be more creative in our excuse for not moving out of our worn Lazy Boy. We will have to rely on the present: "Please Stay Tuned." How’s that, huh? How can you possibly leave the room after that statement? You just can’t. It would be rude. Ask my husband. He’ll tell you so.

Home


A Word From Our Sponsor
by lee10@host365.com		 #3 of 12
Winner
2129 words
The reporter was so bored that slitting her wrists was beginning to seem a good idea. The wind was too flighty for an umbrella and rain seeped inside her coat collar. She’d just discovered her boots let wet and she was miserable. Cold and miserable. And bored.

Sarah wouldn’t have volunteered for this assignment, not in a month of Sundays. Reporting the monthly Town Council meetings was preferable to this, but the editor had insisted.

"It’s a very important game." He’d placed a folder containing the details on her desk. "My brother is the sponsor. He’ll be there to present the cup." He’d grinned at her misery. "We all had to start at the bottom. Make a good job of this and you might get a chance at editing the problem page when Dear Deirdre goes on holiday next month."

It was too early to be up and out on a Sunday. Sarah was resentful. And sober. The early start had meant she’d not been able to go clubbing with the girls the night before and dammit, her pen wouldn’t write in the rain. She scrabbled in her bag for a pencil and tried it. It tore a hole in the damp paper. She ripped several sheets from the pad, stuffed them in her pocket and tried again.

‘Sunday, 13th April, 2003,’ she wrote. ‘Holmes Park Football Ground. I’M BORED!!!!!!! Exclamation marks soon covered the page. She sighed and turned over to the next.

Sarah stood near a corner post. Two boys were playing in the goal. A ginger-headed boy, with waxed, spiky hair and knees already muddy, was practising taking a penalty. Carefully he placed the ball. He retreated a few paces, squinted and lined the ball up with the dark-haired lad wearing a green woolly jersey, who stood in the centre of the goalmouth. The goalie crouched, his eyes intent on the ball. Ginger ran and booted the ball with all his nine-year-old might. It trickled past the left boot of the goalie who’d stepped to his right.

"Goal!" screeched Ginger, leaping up and punching the air.

"T’aint." The goalie turned mardy. "I weren’t ready." He picked the ball up from the back of the net and hurled it at Ginger. His aim was good. It hit Ginger mid-crow and knocked him over onto his backside. It was Ginger’s turn to scowl.

"Yes." The goalie clapped.

Ginger jumped to his feet and grabbed his friend. They were rolling round in the mud when a woman scuttled across the field.

"Stop it, you pair," she screamed, with no effect. They continued to wrestle, grunting like pigs.

A man ran over. He pulled the two apart. "Why’d your boy attack our Nigel?" he demanded, pulling the ginger-headed boy to him protectively.

"MY boy didn’t do anything." The mother wiped dirt from the goalie’s face. "Your boy started it."

Sarah groaned. I must have been really wicked in a previous life, she thought, to deserve this. A gust of wind flicked her blond hair across her face, glueing it to her wet cheek. With the air of a martyr, she peeled the strands back and tied her hair up with a pink scrunchie. It was pointless, she reasoned, trying to look like J-Lo in the middle of a football field.

The man dragged his son away, scolding him at every step. The mother clipped the goalie on the side of his head. "What have I told you about fighting and getting dirty?" she nagged. The boy burst into tears.

‘CHILD ABUSE IN LOCAL PARK’. Sarah tried out a possible headline. It’s the parents who need a good hiding, she told herself. ‘ACE REPORTER ASSAULTS PARENT BULLIES’, she doodled.

The game started at 10 o’clock. A bad-tempered referee moved her away from the sideline. "Can’t stand there," he told her. His sour look indicated she should be in a kitchen somewhere, not under his feet.

"Would you care to comment on today’s game for the ‘Whetstone News’?"

"I don’t talk to the press." He turned and stalked off.

"Forgive me for breathing," Sarah muttered.

It was a poor game from the start. The football was scrappy at best. The ball spent most of its time off the pitch and the boys spent most of their time offside. The parents, who’d been moved back by the referee, had wandered forward again and stood in squabbling clumps along the sideline. The linesmen were constantly obstructed. There was much blowing of whistles and cussing. Four times the referee threatened to abandon the match. Some of the fathers and many of the mothers were giving the referee as good as he gave them. Younger brothers and sisters argued amongst themselves too, using the same phrases as their parents. "F… this" and "S.. that!" rang out from all levels of the crowd.

Then a boy fell over in the penalty area.

"Foul!" screamed a red-faced man, whose fat gut showed how much time he spent in the local pub. "Foul!. Ref! Did ya see that? Our Jeffrey were fouled."

The referee’s whistle shrilled. A penalty was given. The captain, a lean shank of a boy whose glasses were speckled with mud and rain, called Ginger over to take the free kick. Ginger’s hair was slicked flat to his head. His once white shorts would never be clean again and his red shirt clung damply to his pigeon chest. Carefully he placed the ball. He retreated a few paces, squinted and lined the ball up with the dark-haired lad who stood in the centre of the goalmouth. The goalie pushed the sleeves of his green jersey up his arms and crouched, his eyes intent on the ball. Ginger ran and booted the ball with all his nine-year-old might. It trickled past the left boot of the goalie who’d stepped to the right.

"Goal," half the crowd roared.

"Foul," the other half responded.

"The goalie weren’t ready," someone shouted.

"Don’t talk bloody stupid, woman." A man wearing paint-splattered jeans turned on the woman who’d spoken. "What do you know about football?"

"As much as you do, John Robinson. At least I’M not a primary school drop-out."

"What d’ya mean, you stuck up cow. You….."

All around her, parents were rowing with each other. Sarah made a few notes wondering if she’d get away with writing a scathing article about squabbling parents.

Eventually the rain ceased and the game finished. Ginger’s was the only goal. Arguments continued to rumble round the crowd. Segments of oranges and thin, cheap orange-juice in plastic cups did nothing to stop the hostile undercurrents.

The winning team had its photograph taken by the winning parents. Ginger’s Dad tried to resurrect his son’s spikes, tangling the boy’s ginger mop. "Your Mam’ll kill me if she sees you like this," he groaned, tugging the comb harder despite the boy’s tears and protests.

The winning goalie, who’d had little to do during the game, was wrapped in several layers of jerseys but was still shivering. "Hold still, our Stevie," his mother grizzled, "or you’ll be all out of focus."

Behind them, beaming, stood the manager of the team, the publican of The Black Horse. His pub sponsored the team. This’ll bring the punters in, he thought, when the cup’s back of the bar.

The losing team also had its photograph taken, by the goalie’s Mum with a throwaway camera. The publican of the Queen’s Arms glowered into the lens. The camera clicked once, and that was that.

Meanwhile, VIPs began to assemble on the tarmaced play area next to the pitch. The Town Mayor was looking at the trophies and chatting to the Town Clerk who was looking bored. Sarah thought, I know just how you feel. The Mayor and the Clerk could have been brothers they were so alike. Both were in their sixties, greying and bespectacled. Their coats were tight across well-filled paunches. The Mayor wore his chain of office over a brown woollen overcoat. The Clerk had no such badge of power but was the one with the air of authority, nevertheless.

On feet of ice, Sarah stumbled across and introduced herself. She made a display of writing down the Mayor’s name and getting the spelling correct. The Mayor was flattered at the attention. She looked up from her pad as a man with looks to die for strolled up to the group.

"Ah," the Town Clerk said to the Mayor. "Our sponsor."

The Clerk moved forward, in front of the Mayor. "Good morning, Mr.Davies. And how are you today?"

The sponsor shook the Clerk’s hand. "Ted. Good to see you. Good game?"

"Reasonable, under the circumstances." The Clerk moved to one side. "May I introduce you to the Mayor, Councillor Ronald Stirling."

The two shook hands. Sarah could not take her eyes off the newcomer. His filmstar looks, tall, dark and smouldering, captivated her. She envisaged him taking the lead role in an 007 film, swash-buckling his way past the baddies to rescue her from all this. As if, she thought. By now, she was surrounded by parents, pressing forward to see their boys handed their trophies, so she was trapped for the duration of the speech-making.

The Clerk took a wooden gavel from his overcoat pocket and banged the table. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he bawled. "Your Mayor, Councillor Stirling, wishes to say a few words." There was a hush.

Sarah wrote ‘….pleased to see you all here…awful day….wonderful football….good sports…and the boys too….ha,ha,ha…. Shame there must be losers…all played a noble game….now hand you over for a word from our sponsor….Mr.Timothy Davies….Managing Director….Davies’ Breweries…Applause.’

Timothy Davies smiled at the crowd. "Well." He paused and made eye contact with one or two of the more presentable mums. "What an incredible tournament this has been." He saw Sarah starring at him and cranked his smile up a notch. Gorgeous little creases appeared at the corners of his eyes. Sarah came over all warm and glowing. Even the ice in her feet melted. The sun peeped through a crack in the grey clouds. The day lightened.

"We started with sixteen teams," the sponsor continued. "There has been some excellent football over the previous weeks as we whittled the number down to these two, the best in the county."

Sarah was struggling to listen, lost in daydreams generated by those deep blue eyes. She managed to catch the end of the speech, "…..and so, as the sponsor of the tournament, on behalf of Davies Breweries, brewers of the best beer in the Midlands," the fathers cheered, " it is my very great honour to present the cup to the winning team. To the Black Horse." With a flourish he handed the trophy to the thin captain.

Photographs were taken and the Mayor presented medals to all the players. Sarah made one or two more vague notes but her mind wasn’t really on the job.

She had managed to extricate herself from the crowd and was putting her notebook into her bag when Timothy Davies walked over. He’d had his eye on the blond the instant he’d turned up, as the final whistle blew.

"Hi," he said. "I guess my brother sent you?"

Sarah blushed and nodded.

"Good choice." Timothy grinned. "I told him not to send that old fart, Rogers, but to pick a better-looking reporter this time. So it’s me you have to blame if you’re cold and wet."

"Oh, no. Not at all. I will warm up. That is," Sarah stopped, confused. It was something to do with those eyes.

"I’m guilty. Let me make it up to you."

Sarah just looked at him. Her wits took a while to catch up.

"The boys and their parents are going back to The Black Horse for a celebratory drink and nibbles. Would you care to accompany me for a celebration? And a warm?"

"To The Black Horse?"

"God, no. To somewhere a bit more …. comfortable."

"I don’t know. I don’t drink beer." Sarah struggled to gain some control over the situation.

Timothy leaned closer. "Can I say something?" He looked round conspiratorially. "Off the record?"

Sarah nodded.

"As a final word from the sponsor?"

She nodded again.

"Neither do I. Drink beer, that is. Hate the stuff." He laughed. "Especially the muck we brew."

He tucked her arm into his own. "On the other hand, a nice crisp Chardonnay….." He started to walk towards the car park. Sarah had no choice but to go with him. "There’s a new wine bar in town. Fancy trying it? There’ll be no obnoxious parents or their grubby offspring to annoy us."

Sarah smiled. She pulled the pink scrunchie from her hair letting it dry in the cool breeze. The sponsor’s advertising spiel had worked. She was hooked.

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A Word From Our Sponsor
by tom_set@yahoo.com		 #4 of 12
504 words
Another grey, drizzly day, cold droplets polka dotting my left leg 'cause I have my car window down to smoke a cigarette, yet another lethal product sold to my mindless consumer mind. A word from our sponsor on the radio, six minutes of blather and five minutes of commercials. Just like on tv. Flashing neon billboard cuts the gloom saying America has sold out to the sellers, man, and you can't look, see, or be anywhere without the hucksters crawling up your back like rats on a sleeping ghetto baby.

Everything is sponsored now from the clothes you wear, to giant stadiums smeared with corporates feces, to the pop-up ads on your computer. The land of the free to be bombarded with your insecurities and dreams and always feeling that you need more, you haven't got enough when people are dying and starving everywhere.

I'm a damned an old codger now with still the voice of a young rebel. When I was young, sonny, all you might see driving the two-lane highway were some Burma Shave signs, which were cool, and maybe a farmer's barn painted with "62 miles to Carlsbad Caverns." In the old days, sonny, people knew what to do with a Sears and Roebuck catalogue: keep it in the outhouse to wipe yourself with.

Time was when you could ride your bike down a country lane, wind whipping through your hair, head for the swimming hole, climb trees, eat your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, see animals in the forest, and not be touched by the taint of civili-commerciali-zation. Thinking of my bike, unridden in months, shivering and rusting in the rain, I punch my radio presets, looking for programming and hit the jackpot - all six stations are on commercial.

Where can you escape the insincere admen now? By putting out your eyes like King Lear? Cutting off your ears like Van Gogh. Changing your nose like Michael Jackson? Hiding in a cave like Bin Laden who hasn't seen a commercial in years. The wild creative thoughts that once swam through my brain are being crowded out by jingles. The wonderful world of nature is harsh, man-made, glutted with gluttony.

The shillers don't care about your well-being or your needs or your financial condition. They only care about selling you something you don't need and showing a profit so they don't lose their brown nosing jobs, so they can live in a fancy house and whip out credit cards to keep them running forever on the hamster wheel of avarice. Looking down at the ants from their skysrapers thinking those people are too dumb to know what they want. We will tell them.

I finally find a downtown parking spot amid the buildings and businesses teeming with gaudy ads. I flick out my cigarette and join the scurrying flocks. A cold homeless teenager huddled under a dripping awning asks me for a quarter for a cup of coffee. I give her five bucks and tell her, "Go to Starbucks, kid."

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A Word From Our Sponsor
by H. J. Lazarus
lazdom@ono.com		 #5 of 12
100 words
I’ve been waiting
for a word from our sponsor
as I shuffle pass
the wrinkled up-turned palm
and the hand-painted sign.


I keep an ear bent
for a word from our sponsor
as I quietly tune out
the wail of the bleeding child
suckling the empty breast.


I’m counting the minutes
for a word from our sponsor
as I swiftly switch
from image to image,
scenes sliding past
as moot as reality.


But this silence is telling,
and my eyes burn
to either be gouged
or finally blessed,
for a word from our sponsor
would be too little too late.

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A Word From Our Sponsor
by mrwrleft@yahoo.com		 #6 of 12
Runner Up
1574 words
"Ok. Let’s get the next caller. That’s Jerome from Inglewood. Jerome you’re on the Tom Linquist show."

"Hey, Tom, how are you?"

"Do you care?"

"I sure do...Tom."

"Thanks Jerome. What’s up?"

"Tom I need some advice."

"OK."

"I got into a relationship with this girl…"

"Jerome, how old are you?"

"Twenty One."

"Why are you in a relationship? Were you listening to my show? I always say: "Don’t get into the relationship until you banged a lot of broads."

"Yes, Tom, I know. And that’s generally how I approach this. But this time it was different."

"How so? Was she dynamite in bed?"

"Worse. She turned out to be the daughter of my boss."

Tom whistled.

"O’boy, Jerome, that’s a toughy. Does she know that?"

"Not yet."

"What about your boss?"

"I don’t think so."

"You didn’t get her pregnant or anything?"

"Oh, no, no. I use condoms religiously."

"Good man, Jerome."

Then transcending Jerome’s case Tom pontificated, "I said that and I will say that again, if she tells you she’s on the pill or she’s got a spiral, or she’s got her period, or whatever - don’t trust her. Always use the condoms and not hers. She might puncture it at the moment when you need it and you don't have a chance to check. Remember she might get herself pregnant with your sperm and you will have to pay child support for the next 18 years!"

Returning to Jerome’s case Tom continued, "Now Jerome, are you a company man? Meaning can you get another job?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"Then do it. This is the cleanest way. And as soon as you get a written offer dump her."

"Thanks Tom."

Tom felt hungry. An hour before the show he had sex with Melanie one of his girlfriends. It took longer than he thought and he didn’t have enough time to eat. He looked at his wristwatch and decided to order pizza during the next commercial break and station identification. ‘It’ll take about two minutes; should be enough if I’m lucky."

"You’re welcome. Ok, who’s the next caller? That would be Rochelle from the North Hollywood. Rochelle welcome to Tom Linquist show."

"Oh, hi Tom."

"Hi Rochelle, what’s up".

"Tom I want to say that I am listening for your show and I agree mostly with what you say about women."

"That most women are attention whores and bitches? Of course, how can anybody dispute that?"

"Well, I just want to say that not all of them are bitches."

"I never said that all of them were bitches. Is that what your call is about?"

"No, I actually have a question."

"OK, fire up".

"I have a boyfriend."

"A boyfriend. How did I know?"

"Yeah. And I like, like him a lot. He is really hot, you know?"

"Good. So he’s hot. What’s the problem then?"

"He’s hot, but…"

"But what?"

"But I don’t get anything out of it. I mean sexually…"

"What, he doesn’t sleep with you?"

"He does. It's just that I don’t get anything out of it."

"Oh, so he stinks in bed. Then you know already my answer. Dump him, no question about it. Find yourself someone else."

"Yes, but I really, really like him. He’s good at everything else. And he’s really hot too. Really!"

"Ok, Rochelle. You know when you go to the movies and order this big bucket of popcorn for eight bucks. Ever done that?"

"Yeah. Do it all the time."

"Well, doesn’t popcorn look attractive at first? Looks good, smells good. And so you buy it, right?"

"Yeah."

"But then later you realize that it’s soggy and doesn’t taste that good. OK. Then what do you do? You dump it, right?

Rochelle paused.

"Right? I can’t hear you Rochelle. Stay with me."

"Yeah, but…"

"There is no "ifs" or "buts". It’s the same thing. Am I making sense?"

"Yeah, kinda."

"So you’re gonna dump him right?"

"I’ll try. Thanks for the advice Tom."

‘What a dummy.’ Tom caught himself on a brief thought. ‘Definitely extra cheese, but what topping mushroom or pepperoni?’

"No Problem." Rochelle hung up and Tom continued.

"Next caller is Skip from Long Beach."

"Hi Tom, how’s it going?"

"Fine, fine, what’s up?"

"You know I am following your show and am following all your advices, but I still cannot close the deal."

"How so?"

"You see, I am just too nice. That’s my problem. How can I be a jerk? How can I close the deal?"

Tom quickly jumped out off his chair, took a couple of steps away from the microphone and burst into laughter. In spite of Skip’s attempt to sound mature his tone was pitiful like the one of a little boy who didn’t get his Christmas present. Getting a hold of himself Tom returned to his chair.

"Well Skip, you close the deal by being unpredictable, by being unreliable. Just keep on pressing the issue and you get there. No Mr. Nice Guy. No flowers and all that crap. That will never get you anywhere. Chicks will just use you."

"Thanks Tom, for the reassurance. I’ll do that."

‘What a character!’ Tom rolled his eyes.

"You’re welcome. Ok next caller. It’s Chris from Pasadena. Chris you’re on Tom Linquist show."

"Good evening, Tom."

"Good evening Chris. What’s up?"

"I am listening to your program Tom and let me tell you, you’re such a loser."

"Hm.. loser, me? Hahahahaha…" Tom laughed a bit theatrically. "Well, let’s see. I have hottest show in town, a seven figure salary, drive a sports car, have a house on the beach and I'm banging eighteen-twenty year old girls you wouldn’t believe. Does that spell loser to you?"

Tom stopped for a short instance giving the opportunity for his words to sink in the minds of listeners and continued

"Loser, How so?"

"You are now forty something. You have no family, you’ve been divorced three times and look at you, you’re teaching young people to do some of the most immoral and reprehensible things."

"Hold on man. Are you one of those church activists or something?

"In a way. I do volunteer work for children with Down syndrome."

"I thought so. Well, let me tell you, Pal. I am talking about things that people want to hear. That’s why I have the highest ratings. I am teaching them real life issues."

"You're still are a loser. You know you are."

"Ok, Chris. Is that all you wanted to say?"

"I think you should use your popularity to teach people good, moral things."

"Chris, Chris. Wake up and smell the coffee! If I talk about this stuff, who in the World is gonna listen to me? I would lose my ratings. Good Bye Chris."

The connection terminated and Tom continued.

"We’re gonna take a commercial break. Don’t go away. It’s the Tom Linquist show!"

Tom’s words were succeeded by a loud click and the air was instantly filled with a voice. The voice seemed to be not of one person but of a chorus comprising all possible variations of audible sound.

"The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of the evil men. Blessed is he, who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak in the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children."

As soon as Tom heard the first words of the "commercial" he jumped out of his chair and ran to the producer’s booth.

"Hey, Mike. What the hell did you just do? It was supposed to be a Nike commercial."

"I don’t know what happened, Tom", Mike lifted his hands in bewilderment. "We were about to air the Nike commercial and something got locked up. We are working on it." Angry Tom nevertheless excluded the possibility of sabotage, seeing puzzled technicians frantically fidgeted around the control panel.

"What do you mean, something got locked up? You are gonna fuck up my ratings. Get that crap off the air!"

The voice started calmly as if reading a narrative, but then it rose in volume and expressiveness and ended up with a chilling seriousness.

"And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you."

As the Bible passage was over the same loud click demarcated its ending giving the way to the suppressed Nike commercial while Tom felt how chill went down his spine. ‘Could it be? This could it be … ‘ his thought cycled idly like the wheel on the muddy road.

Tom smoothed his hair and while his hands went in the contact with his forehead he felt they were covered with the cold sweat.

‘Nah,’ he reassured himself, ‘someone’s just fucking with me.'

He shook off the feeling, hardened and made a mental note to himself. 'I am not gonna let it slide. Whoever did this shit…I'll show you how to fuck with Tom Linquist!' Tom gripped the microphone tightly with his beefy hand, cleared his throat and as soon as the commercial was over continued.

"Ok. Let’s get the next caller. That’s Michael from the Valley. Michael you’re on the Tom Linquist show."

'God damn!' he remembered, 'What about pizza? God Damn!'

Home


A Word From Our Sponsor
by nightmare4241@comcast.net		 #7 of 12
1137 words
The four women stepped into the office prepared for anything. The youngest among them, still in college, the brainy one of the bunch. She is the one who thought of this scheme and brought it all together. She made the important introductions to the mayor and her father, the owner of the local general store.

"Ladies, can you be seated, please."

Everyone sits, and the discussions begin. Soon all would come to fruition, and the women will prove their point.

***


"You sure your father won’t mind us doing this?"

Hank nodded his head approvingly. His father is supposed to be keeping the meat for the fair in the freezer at the store, of course he won’t mind the two friends delivering it in time. That will show those "veggie eatin’ femi-nazis" that his sister hangs around with since going off to college, just because this is a small Midwestern town, they cannot just march in and make fools of everyone. We will have the last laugh, that’s for sure. He backs the truck into the fairgrounds.

"C’mon Freddie, we’ve only got a couple of hours till daylight."

Freddie yawns and scratches his head as he climbs out of the truck.

"Couldn’t you wait until morning to do this?"

"It is morning, three in the morning. Now, let’s get this done."

The boys start unloading boxes of frozen hamburger patties and hot-dogs packed on ice. A line of freezers sits on the grass under the canvas tent. Hank opens the first and begins taking the boxes out and putting them in the truck.

Freddie looks perplexed.

"Hey, how come we’re taking these out?"

"Don’t worry about it and keep working" Hank commands.

Freddie knows better than to push Hank harder when he speaks like that, and hurriedly continues the switch of burgers, because in the distance, they hear the birds singing, heralding the coming of dawn.

***


The sweet aroma of beef grilling over hickory coals floated for miles. Whether you attended the "Moore County Bull Roast and Picnic" or not didn’t matter, spiritually, you attended.

"Damn, that smells sooo good."

Tess turned and smiled at Kevin, This is the first time they could be seen together publicly, that is except the time at Lover’s Point when the sheriff’s patrol caught them.

"Hungry?" she teased

"You bet" as he turns into the grass lot and put the ancient pick-up in park.

***


Tess and Kevin walk hand in hand to the nearest stand on the midway, Tess eyeing the ferris wheel that spun silently not twenty feet away, and Kevin eyeing the hamburgers that sizzled only five feet away. Nearby, another stand held the hot-dogs and drinks.

"C’mon Kevin, let’s have a little fun before you start stuffin’ your face."

"Aw, c’mon. I’m hungry!"

Tess grabs his hand and leads him away, giggling softly. Kevin knows that he won’t win this battle, and submits. They find the line to the ferris wheel is short, and their wait is only a few minutes. From the top of the great wheel, they can see the stage under construction for the mayor and the sponsors of the event to make their speeches, welcoming everyone and officially opening the fair at five o’clock. Kevin glances at his wristwatch, scratched from working at Mr. Paul’s General Store. Four thirty. Kevin had promised the mayor that he would be on the stage with the others, representing the high school football team.

"Half and hour, good. I’ve still got time to grab a hot-dog before the speech."

Tess giggles some more.

" Is food all you think about Kevin?"

"Most times" he answered.

The ferris wheel stops, leaving the two at the top where they can spy the end of their world; the sign showing the town limit.

***


"Ladies, are you ready to make your announcement?"

"Oh yes, we are."

Escorted by the mayor, the ladies march in unison to the stage. Soon, it would be the chosen hour of five o’clock . The fair had been open for several hours now, but the official grand opening was planned for five. Soon, they would make their announcement, and bring meaning to their holy cause. Together, an unbroken chain, they climb the steps up, and take their seats, joining the other representatives who were given the honor of sitting here, at the official opening of the fair. The feed store, the general store, the school board chairman, and Kevin representing the high school football team, winners of the state championship only a few months ago. Hank sits next to Kevin, quietly giving his sister and her friends the finger as they mounted the stage, and take their seats. Hank can’t help but giggle as his sister sat down. Kevin lightly shoved his elbow into his Hank’s side.

"What are you laughing at?"

"You’ll see, just watch."

The mayor went immediately to the podium, and tapped the microphone a couple of times.

"Testing, testing. Can I have everyone’s attention please."

All the activities ceased ten minutes ago, in preparation for this moment.

"I want to welcome you to the annual Bull Roast and Picnic. Enjoy yourselves and eat hearty. As you know, the Bull Roast and Picnic has always been funded from the town budget, as our gift to you, the citizens of Moore County. These are trying times though, and the Town Council was not able to fully fund the event. Because of that, we found it necessary to find someone to help us, and now, we would like to thank these good people. So now, I give you this years sponsors."

The oldest of the women arise, and taking a burger from a plate and taking a bite, approached the podium slowly, a touch of ketchup still clinging to her chin.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we, the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, sponsored this event to prove a point. You don’t have to kill animals to have a good time and eat good food. Unbeknownst to you, none of the meat at this event is meat, but vegetable substitutes."

Hank suddenly falls into a full belly laugh, roaring and falling out of his chair in the process.

"You idiots! I switched them last night. It’s all real. It’s all real meat"

The women, by now all eating burgers and hot-dogs and suddenly ill, begin gagging and coughing. The speaker’s mouth dropped open, allowing her burger to fall out and onto the heads of the unfortunate people at the front of the crowd. Hank’s sister began shaking and screaming.

"HANK!"

She starting slapping at the still laughing Hank, her tears falling. The mayor could only stare in disbelief, watching the three older women run past the crying girl and off the stage.

"Excuse me, does that mean you won’t sponsor next year’s picnic?"

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A Word From Our Sponsor
by GPain97046@aol.com		 #8 of 12
655 words
A word from the sponsor prompted me to turn off the television. The program couldn't hold my attention; only the house and Jeffery could. He should be home anytime now, he really should.

"You have to make a choice. This house or me," he had said this morning.

The words had hurt. I loved this house my parents had bought us. I walked to the window and looked out over the lake and mountains surrounding it. The view took my breath away. How could I give it up. His words had kept coming.

"Giving us a honeymoon in Paris was okay but buying us the Mercedes and now this house. I can't take anymore."

"Darling, they want me to be happy." I loved the exterior of the house. It was cedar that had a fresh woodsy scent.

"I can afford something like this in five years. The law firm will make me a partner by then."

"The house came on the market suddenly and my parents knew how much I admired it." Why couldn't he understand that. I turned and looked at the large airy room I was in. I had the workmen paint the room a stark white. What a perfect background it was for the original oils in the natural wood frames my parents had given us. The other walls were a warm pine.

"I like city living," he had said and paced the dining room floor this morning.

"We can have an apartment in the city too. Sit down. Marilee will be in with our breakfast."

"We won't be able to afford both for years."

I walked to the leather couch and sat down. He hated everything in the house. I had said, "But Jeffery, some day all they have will be mine. I'm their only child."

"I feel like a well kept mistress." HIs blue eyes had flashed with anger and he kept brushing his blond hair back.

"Darling, let's discuss this when you get home tonight." I had put my arms around him but he pushed them away.

"I will give you until tonight. The house or me." He had stormed out.

I walked over to the huge fireplace with its marble top shelf where I kept the Hummel statues my parents had given me. The flames flickered behind the glass doors. I should call the butler to build up the fire.

The house was a multi level design with a greenhouse built on the lower level along one side of the house. Its glass roof extended above the formal dining room and I could look down into a garden of blooming flowers. How could I give this up.

I walked up the circular stairway and into our master bedroom. The skylight above our bed was a stained glass design. It transformed the sunshine into rainbow jewels of light dancing on the walls. I couldn't make myself call the maid to pack for me. I couldn't leave this beautiful place. I couldn't.

I heard voices downstairs calling me. Jeffery had changed his mind and I rushed down calling, "Darling. darling, you've changed your mind."

I ran to the living room and stopped. One of the common workmen was standing there calling my name. "Clara, Jeff's outside waiting for you. Are you ready?"

How could he talk to me like that but he said Jeffery was there so I ran to the front entry way. But the man called out to me again and said, "Not that way silly. The back door."

Not thinking straight and glad Jeffery was back, I ran passed the butler and maids and out the back door.

"Jeffery, you're here," I cried. How I loved the man.

"You've been day dreaming again. Get real," he said from the window of his rusted old truck. He shook his head and scratched his hair, dandruff falling over his faded shirt, and said "Are you done with the cleaning?

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A Word From Our Sponsor
by topcat@spiritone.com		 #9 of 12
1116 words
The New York wind was whipping around scraps of newspapers as I tightened my collar and headed for Charlie's Bar on 1st street to meet Vinnie. I hoped he had good news for me because by the end of the day I hoped to be a full-fledged wise guy. I was getting tired of petty larceny and running numbers down on Mott Street. I needed a lucky break. Lord knows I haven't had one for a while, I thought, crossing myself.

Charlie's was only half full that time of day with a few suits playing hookey from work and a couple of hustlers I knew. I spotted Vinnie at the end of the bar and after exchanging a few words with Mikey Moocher, Lightfingered Lennie and Joey Schiparelli, I eased onto the stool next to Vinnie, where Mario, the bartender, already had my Johnny Walker on the rocks sitting.

"What's with the free drinks, Mario?"

"Mikey Moocher had a big score so he's buying tonight."

"Mikey never bought a drink for anyone in his life. He owes me a months worth of drinks ."

"Well you better go get it now." Vinnie leaned closer. "Word is he got up the nerve to hijack a truck. Conked the driver at a rest stop in Jersey, drove the cargo of cigarettes up here and unloaded it for eight grand."

I let out a low whistle. "That's a class A felony. It ain't safe to be around him."

Vinnie shrugged. "If he wants to play the big shot, let him."

"So what's the word from Tony Martini?" I asked, lighting up a cigarette. "Are we in?"

"I told him about you and he's interested. He was my dad's best friend and I call him my uncle, my goombah. A word from him as our sponsor and we're in. He needs a couple of guys to look after some matters since Chubby Benito and Meatball went down. Word is they were skimming some of the profits and since last Tuesday, they ain't been heard of."

I shuddered a little as I took a big gulp of my scotch. Those guys didn't mess around. You fucked them over and next thing you're part of the foundation for a new building. I had thought of maybe dealing some blackjack in Vegas or running a bagel store or something in Miami Beach; anything to get away from these frigging hustlers and freezing New York winters. Sometimes you just gotta step up to the plate, though.

There's a big party tonight at the social club," Vinnie continued. "Tony will call you over for a little talk. You answer everything honestly. You lie, and he'll find out. Wear your best suit, look him straight in the eye like a man and he'll sponsor you. He needs people he can trust right now - family."

Vinnie and I were only second cousins or something but to a Sicilian, that's like blood brothers. We even looked a lot alike. I told him I'd be there at eight, drained my scotch, hit up Mikey Moocher for the three bills he owed me, and headed home to change.

*****************************************************

With my most expensive suit, silk shirt, designer tie, and Gucci shoes, I was worth about eight hundred on the hoof as I stepped into the social club that night. The place was done up right with red and green banners, tables loaded with spaghetti, scungilli, calamari, fresh bread, and bottles of red wine. In the corner an eight piece band was playing Italian love songs. I was thinking I could get used to this. Vinnie was giving me the high sign from the back of the room so I squeezed my way passed the pretty girls in fancy dresses and the wise guys with their big cigars and pinkie rings.

I was a little nervous meeting Tony Martini because after all, this was a guy who if you crossed him, might whack you and mail your head to your mother. Our little talk went well, though, and the result was that Vinnie and I would join his crew tomorrow.

The rest of the evening was a bunch of eating and dancing and meeting the boys and sometime after midnight I found myself dancing with a pretty girl named Carmine who I had been eyeing all night. She was three sheets to the wind, dancing with wild abandon, and snuggling close to me during the slow songs.

Like most broads, she couldn't hold her liquor or her bladder and she demanded I lead her to the ladies room. I waited outside, like a gentleman, and in a few minutes she popped back out and dragged me back inside. She locked the door, lifted her skirt, and we did it right there on the little couch. I had never seen any girl so wild and sexy. After we'd finished, she just passed right out. I straightened her skirt, put her legs up on the couch, and slipped out of there unnoticed.

Things were winding down at the party and as I got a double scotch, Vinnie comes up to me.

"Where have you been, I been looking all over for you?"

"I've been getting laid, buddy boy, with some drunk broad."

"The one you were dancing with, Carmine?"

"Yeah. You know her?"

"That's Tony Martini's daughter, she don't get out much. If Tony finds out you either gotta marry her or you'll be swimming with the fishes."

"Jesus Christ but I can't catch a fucking break. His daughter!"

"You gotta do the right thing, capeesh?" Vinnie says. "Besides, you marry into the family and you'll be sitting pretty."

"Screw that. That girls got a mouth on her like you wouldn't believe. I ain't marrying no broad who'd get drunk and nail a guy she just met. Maybe she won't remember it was me, Vinnie."

"That's your call, but if Tony finds out, I wouldn't show your face around here no more."

I knew what I had to do. I borrowed a grand each off a couple of Shylocks, hot-wired a Caddy, and by dawn I was crossing the Brooklyn Bridge heading out of New York. Vegas wouldn't do, it was crawling with wise guys who'd clock me in a minute. It looked like Miami Beach for me.

********************************************

It was a nice 80 degrees in January as I sat on the beach nursing a rum stinger and checking out all the bikinis. I got five bagel shops on the Beach now. Carmine has got two kids, forty extra pounds, and she's still got quite a mouth on her. But I'm glad it was that chump Vinnie she married, and not me.

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A Word From Our Sponsor
by eaayers@hotmail.com		 #10 of 12
199 words
We’ve been on earth 30,000 years,
If you believe the science class;
But only 6,000 years or so,
If the bible’s right, alas.


We’ve killed and raped and pillaged here,
In the name of faith, truth or might,
The bodies broken, maimed and burned,
Many victims were too weak to fight.


The history of our species shows,
Whether biblical or from cave walls,
Men can so easily destroy this earth
But peace takes real balls.


I choose to believe that God exists,
And that he taught men lessons true,
Morals to defeat their evil twists
To rebirth their souls anew.


We’ll stumble upon the planet here,
Until we’ve all become battle-sore,
And gaze up one great day of shame
To hear a word from our sponsor.


He’ll come in glory on that day,
To judge the living and the dead.
He’ll heap the evil souls in hell,
And the sun will turn blood red.


With this day approaching soon,
We must prepare today,
Don’t wait to see the sackcloth moon,
To accept the prophets’ say.


Will man learn to live in peace,
Before it falls to fate?
Can we change the goals of man,
Before it’s all too late?

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A Word From Our Sponsor
by Jessica E. Schelle
seashell8886@aol.com		 #11 of 12
1732 words
Tonight's the big night. Do or die. Or was it try and die trying? I don't know. Either way, I'll just die if I don't win. I have struggled too long and fought too hard, stomped on so many small people, to get to this point. Oh, I don't think I should include that in my speech. I wonder if I'll win. I sure hope so. Man, I just can't believe that I'm not performing. It sucks so bad. I really wanted to perform but no. Esmerelda is singing. Doesn't anybody know she's out?!? SO last year!?!

Rachel pictured herself up on the stage: green, purple, and orange lights flashing all over the place; a microphone in her hand, her vocal cords stretched tighter than ever before; a faceless crowd with thousands of people. She was so excited. Her mind began to wander. She wondered if, given she was performing, she could do such a great job that they changed the name on the card to Rachel, Rachel Harwin, so she could win. She wondered if it was possible. How easy was it to rig the Grammy's? She doubted the likeliness but continued to let herself daydream. She really wanted to win but she hoped it was because she earned it, not because it was a setup. Hell, she just wanted to win.

Rachel stood up from her spot on the couch. She was in one of the fanciest hotels of the world and only a few hours away from one of the most major award ceremonies that showbiz has to offer. She had bought the most beautiful dress in all of L.A. the week before. She would have gotten it sooner but she was very indecisive on which selection to go with. The garment that hung in the closet a few feet from the bathroom door was exquisite, to say the least. It was a one of a kind Armani gown. The cloth was a pastel orange hue. It was becoming to Rachel's body shape. Small iridescent beads were carefully sewn on in the shape of feathers.

Rachel walked into the bathroom and flicked on the light. She looked at herself in the wall-length mirror. Turning sideways, she studied the reflection that stared back so repulsively in her eyes. She touched her abdomen with the palm of her hand and pushed in gently while holding her breath. Releasing the air with a huff, she slumped forward and rested her elbow on the countertop. She pulled her hair back and knelt beside the toilet. She knew she had developed a deadly habit of this but she just couldn't stop. Soon after, a small amount of yellow fluid traveled up her throat and landed into the toilet. It was nothing of substance, having not eaten much in the past few days. Rachel knew she had to eat something to settle her stomach but she needed something light so it wouldn't make her sick. She rinsed her face and brushed her teeth, the rush of mint causing her to gag. Seeing her favorite sweatshirt on the edge of the sofa, she threw it on quickly and strode downstairs to the breakfast bar. It was all free, paid for by some big wig that helped finance the Grammy's. Several minutes later, she found herself sitting on a stool with an orange in her hand.

Glancing at her watch, Rachel sprung up and took the elevator to the twelfth floor. She got off and walked to her room. Two hours later, she came out into the hallway looking like a completely different person. She sported the gorgeous Armani dress; sequined, off-white Prada pumps; earrings made from feathers that dangled to her shoulder; and a ravishing gold necklace with her grandmother's locket suspended from the chain. She always wore the latter to events where she wanted a little extra luck. Her left arm was ornamented with a very small off-white purse beaded with the same beads that were strung onto her dress. It was lovely to look at her image. All that was lacking was a timeless hairdo but this would come very soon.

She went downstairs to the lobby. The doorman thoughtfully guided this starlet to her limousine which was waiting up front for her. She had one place to go before the award show: To Do: Up-Do's. After that, she would be soon on her way to the event she had been waiting a lifetime for.

She arrived at the award ceremony at precisely 6:30pm. The window, which was barely opened a crack, was opened just enough for Rachel to peer out and see the vast crowd standing outside the entry way. Cameras and reporters were everywhere. A thick red carpet led from the door of her limousine to the door of the building. She could feel the blood rushing through her veins. Her door opened and a hand appeared for her to reach for. She delicately outstretched her hand into the man's and levied herself into a standing position just outside the limo. As she looked down and realized that she was standing upon "the" red carpet, a huge grin washed over her facade. She walked down the carpet stopping every few feet to smile for a picture or shake someone's hand. It was actually happening. Rachel Harwin, a meek girl from Colorado, was standing on the red carpet being admired by thousands of people worldwide. Her dream was coming true.

She went in and found the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, she barely recognized her own reflection. She leaned forward and rested on the countertop, letting out a big sigh. Everything was happening so fast. She washed her hands and walked back into the lobby. She was approached by several people all telling her that she must go find her seat and wait patiently in the theater. Making her way into the auditorium-style room, she found a seat with her name printed clearly on it in one of the front sections. She made her way through the crowd and sat, waiting nervously for the show to begin. About a half an hour later, they started.

The ceremony was well on its way when she was approached by a man wearing a microphone headset. He asked her to follow him backstage. Apparently, Esmerelda couldn't make it because she was in Japan playing at a benefit show. Rachel was going to have to perform her hit song in just short of 20 minutes. They were giving her a few minutes to freshen up and prepare and then they were going to send her out.

Rachel was definitely excited but surprisingly nervous at the same time. She just wasn't sure if she could it on such short notice. But, then again, hadn't she wanted just this? Hadn't she wanted to play in Esmerelda's place? She was going to have to do it.

The producers went to a commercial break and came back with a plan of two awards being presented and then a performance by Rachel. She was still backstage. Crewmen were fixing her up, hooking her up with all sorts of wires...input, output, microphone, backup microphone, etc. She stood there patiently allowing herself to be hooked up while she began to sweat bullets and her stomach did about 10,000 flip-flops. One more award to go and then her. It was for best rock duo. Then she heard her name called as a crewmember pushed her towards the stage. She came out singing the high entrance note of her first hit song. Her eyes were shut and her head tilted back as she belted out the loud note with gigantic force. The song started out slow but picked up a nice dance rhythm that was fast-paced and upbeat. Background dancers emerged from behind with smoke coming up at their feet. When Rachel turned around in a special dance move, she saw them out of the corner of her eye and was kind of surprised. She had never performed with other people on the stage.

As the song went on, Rachel sang high notes, low notes, and everything in between. She sang her song with radiating passion. She had literally been waiting for this precise moment in time her whole life. This is why she was born and this was her purpose in life. Everything she had ever wanted or asked for she was receiving. These short-lived four minutes were her dream come true. One could only imagine how she felt.

She was only half way through the song. She was dancing and spinning and running and jumping. She was singing and smiling, and crouching and reaching. Every muscle in her petite body was being worked right now. As she glided across the stage with her microphone in hand, she saw something silver on the floor. Knowing that she had to avoid whatever this object was, she spun around in a 180-degree turn to head back toward where she just came from. The cord of her microphone, which lay at her feet, was lifted ever so slightly so that, when Rachel pulled off this svelte turn, her foot slipped under the cord. She hadn't pulled it off, not even a little bit. She had, in fact, gotten her foot so immensely tangled in that cord that when she took a step in the opposite direction, her arm outstretched as the microphone fell to the floor. She knew she was about to go down to but, trying to avoid this, she lifted her feet up and down as if she were stepping on red-hot firestones. This only made it more tangled and in less than three seconds, what seemed like the longest three seconds of her life, she opened her eyes to the sight of a blue floor up against her nose. She had fallen flat on her face. She rolled over and fell right back down onto her back. She could feel her nose throbbing. So many things were all running through her mind. She just completely blown the chance of a lifetime. This night was a dream come true and she never would have thought of wanting a commercial break. It had been her time to shine. She was waiting for someone to come out and say something, anything. Then she heard seven sweet words of relief: "And Now, A Word From Our Sponsor!"

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A Word From Our Sponsor
by trishwahlstrom@yahoo.com		 #12 of 12
724 words
"And now a word from our sponsor." Cue the girls.

Meltettes, they're our brand
Finest candy in all the land
Once you try one mmm you bet
You'll rush right out to get Meltettes

The band was cued and launched into another fifteen minutes of popular favorites featuring the vocal stylings of Gwendolyn Starr. Of more importance to us, though, is the trio that just sang the jingle, more specifically, the girl on the end. No, the other end, the one with the bright green eyes and chocolate brown hair, and dressed as fashionably as her $18 a week salary would permit. Hetty and Millie are nice enough but it is with Daisy Gayheart that our story commences.

While the other two girls gossiped in low whispers, Daisy took off her shoes, rubbed her sore feet, and gazed raptly at Gwendolyn singing all the songs she knew by heart, all the songs she practiced for years accompanied by her Victrola. Like most girls her age, to whom the world has yet to show it's cynical shoulder, she had aspirations, dreams, and knew she was destined for finer things.

Then came the day, you knew this of course, when Gwendolyn Starr came down with a terrible cold and could barely croak. Mr. Feeney, the gruff station manager whose bald head, ruddy complexion, and loose brown suit made him rather resemble an overripe tomato perched on a burlap sack, was immediately accosted by our Daisy who told him she knew all the songs and couldn't she please, please, be allowed to sing. Not having much choice, Mr. Feeney permitted the understudy to have her day.

And sing she did. Much has been written favorably about the sweet dulcet tones of the nightingale but they were but the caws of a dyspeptic crow next to the melodic sounds of Daisy Gayheart that day. Rushing back and forth between the bandstand, rejoining Hetty and Millie whenever "Now a word from our sponsor." was heard,

Cleano, Cleano, it's the best
Gets your clothes whiter than all the rest
When you lift the lid you're sure to go
Cleano, Cleano, boop-boop, Cleano!

she was quite exhausted but happy by the end of the afternoon.

Many girls would be content to rest on their laurels and demurely accept any accolades that came their way, but Daisy was made of sterner stuff. She flounced over to Mr. Feeney and asked him point blank.

"Didn't you think that was swell? Maybe I should be the one on the bandstand every afternoon."

"No," was the brusque reply. "Miss Starr will be resuming her duties tomorrow and would you kindly be satisfied with singing jingles and not presume to think above your station."

Crushed, she trudged out of the building and was standing forlornly in the doorway when a young man spoke to her.

"Pardon me for not having had a proper introduction but my name is Robert Vanderbilt. Are you Miss Daisy Gayheart?"

"Yes," she replied looking over his Prince Albert coat, light striped trousers, and broad-brimmed soft hat that shaded a pair of twinkling blue eyes and square chin.

"I represent a big band that has only today lost it's singer." At this he mentioned a name so well-known that it cannot be revealed in this story.

"I came to hear Gwendolyn Starr but after hearing you today, I am sure you are the one we need. Would you like to join us as our featured performer?"

Daisy rose up to even an inch taller that her 5 feet even and swayed slightly like a new sapling in a gentle spring breeze.

"Give me a half a second to think about it and then the answer is: you bet I will."

"And in order to fill you in on the particulars, would do me the honor of dining with me this evening?" Here he mentioned an establishment that only the finest people could afford and Daisy had only looked at longingly from across the street.

"Sir, Mr. Vanderbilt. I hardly know you so I must refuse as so to protect my honor and modesty, but ask a second time and the answer will be, Gee Willikers, Yes!"

It is said that good things come to those who wait, but that little sound that you and Daisy just heard was the knocking of Opportunity.

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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club

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