| 1 2 3 4 |
"Infection" (the thirty-seventh ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
5 6 7 8 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Infection" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), September 15, 2004 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Infection by lee10@host365.com (Entry #4) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| "I tell you the child is teething
and that's all it is!" John heard his wife's announcement, but kept his back turned to her. Trying to quell the hot, nauseous rush of anguish that threatened to overwhelm him, he tightened his grip on the crumbling windowsill. He didn't notice the small sliver of wood that pierced his thumb as he gazed through dusty windowpanes to the lane outside their cottage, where the silence made a mockery of his wife's determined optimism. It had rained earlier but the July sunshine was drying the puddles and the mud would soon be baked summer-hard again. Steam rose from the hedgerow across the lane. Yellow dandelions shone in its shade, their fluffy white crowns on the point of bursting, and ripening blue-red blackberries poked their curly heads through the green quick-thorn wall. Long, seeding grasses on the lane's verge shivered with the passage of some creature, too quick for John's weary eyes to follow. He rubbed the glass to see better but snatched his hand back as he smeared an arc of blood through the dirt. "It's an omen," he mumbled, and then turned for fear his wife had seen or heard. But she was busy, crooning to their sick child. John watched them. Robert, at nine month's old was a strong lad. Maybe Ruth was right. Maybe the boy was just teething. Their first child, the one they'd lost to scarlet fever, had teethed at the same age. A thin smell of cooking rose from the meagre stew of old carrots and rooting potatoes that simmered over a low fire. Ruth sat in a dark corner, as far from the heat as she could and shielded the fretful child's eyes from the daylight. A damp cloth lay over his forehead but did nothing to prevent his whining and squirming in his mother's lap. The child was burning up. His brow was an angry, mottled red. Ruth believed his temperature was caused by the eruption of a troublesome tooth but John knew what the boy's mother had chosen to ignore. Suddenly, the boy screamed and a splash of bloody vomit was expelled, gurgling through his squeals. "Hold the child, while I clean him up." Ruth started to cry and thrust the baby towards her husband, wiping her dripping hands on her apron. The stench was foul; cloying, it hung in the air between them for long seconds. "Put him on the bed," John mumbled. "I'll fetch water." He slammed open the door and fled outside to the well in the back garden. While the bucket tumbled downwards, John leaned over the wooden handle and sobbed. Earlier that day he had played with Robert, before the boy's crying had become too intense. He had felt the telltale, swollen lumps under the boy's arms. And John had known then that his child was dying. He slowly winched the full bucket to the surface, wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve and returned to the house. "Mister Rutherford," a youth stood in the middle of the lane, shouting. He leapt back, startled, as John appeared round the corner of the house. "Parson's sent me to fetch yuh," he stammered. John stopped. Water slopped over his worn boots. "Why?" "Dunno. He just said you'd better come as quick as you can." John didn't answer. The boy fidgeted. He kicked at a stone. They both watched it roll into a puddle. "What'll I tell the parson?" The boy was agitated. "Please, Mister. I gotta go. Me Mam don't want me out, but Parson sent me so I had to come." Ruth appeared in the open doorway, a thin, pale woman, looking old beyond her years. Her hair was damp and lank and a sheen of perspiration glazed her forehead. She'd removed her vomit-streaked apron and held her son in her arms again. "Tell the Parson, Joseph, that my husband is not going anywhere. He should be ashamed of himself for sending a child out in these dangerous times." She rocked to baby to soothe his weakening cries. "Go straight home to your mother. She'll be fretting about you, I know. And don't you go near anyone else either." She disappeared into the dim depths of the cottage. John nodded. "Do as Mrs. Rutherford says, Joseph. Go home and make sure your mother locks the door and allows no one in. Not even the Parson." John watched the boy run away down the lane. "John," Ruth's voice was shrill. "Get in here. Now. And bring that water." John followed his wife into the house. "And lock the door behind you." John did as he was told. The baby was on the bed. His father saw that the lad barely had strength left to do more than whimper softly. Ruth had poked the fire and was stirring the poor stew that hung over the paltry flames. "It's very stuffy in here," John said. "I'll open the window" He moved to lose the catch. Ruth spun round. The spoon clattered from her hand, splashing food everywhere. "Don't you dare," she screamed. "You'll let in poisonous vapours and kill us all." John stood helpless, lumps of soft, grey carrots at his feet. All he could do was to reach for his wife and to hold her tight as they cried together. They sprang apart as another shout sounded from the lane. John turned towards the door. "No, don't," Ruth whispered. "It's the parson. Don't let him know you're here." "But I must speak to him." "No, John." Ruth grabbed his arm. "You're not going out there." "But it's the Pastor. Let me go and talk to him at least." "No, no, no." Her whisper skittered across John's nerves, making him cringe, making him compliant. She pulled him back into the room's shadows. "Keep quiet," she hissed. "He'll go away." Her voice caught in her throat. "Let him think we're dead." When there was no response to his second call, the Pastor left; a defeated, round-shouldered, old man who walked slowly away from the cottage. John's instinct was to go after him, to say, "I'm here! Just tell me what it is you want me to do and I'll gladly do it." His muscles must have twitched, signalled his desire to do what he knew he ought, because Ruth's hold on him tightened. "No," she insisted. "You're not going. I don't want you bringing the Black Death into our home." She tugged his sleeve. "Promise me, John. Promise you won't go outside until this is all over." Her eyes were large in her face, from which all colour but grey had fled. "I promise, sweetheart," he reassured her. "I promise." Ruth let go of his sleeve and sighed. "I must lay down. I'm so tired." She managed a small smile, "Because Bobby kept me awake all last night with his teething, while you snored your head off and added to the music." She stumbled to the bed and lay down, next to her baby. The child's eyes were screwed tight shut. His face was wrinkled and his breathing was shallow. John saw that his once so-perfect fingers had turned blue; dark-blue, almost black. Ruth's eyes were soon closed too. The cottage was quiet. The lane was quiet. The village was quiet, its normal bustle quietened by the plague. John counted back. It must have been three days since old Ralph Taylor 's death cart had trundled down the lane; three days at least, he thought, since he'd heard the old sextant crying, "Bring out your dead!" "He must be gone as well, " John muttered. "Must be why the Pastor wanted me. Don't suppose there's anybody left but me and the Pastor to dig the graves or bury the dead." John felt a touch of guilt that he'd let the Pastor down but he was only one man, and a poor one at that. He couldn't turn the tide. "What God's sent, we must endure," he affirmed. No longer able to bear the emotions that the last day had wrought, he was empty. He looked across the room as Ruth let out a long, shuddering breath. He'd really had no choice but do as she'd wanted. Let her die in peace, he thought. Please God; take her with a smile on her face and her babe in her arms. The stew smelt good and John ate it, all of it. He felt a slight shame about not leaving any, but he was hungry and healthy and both Ruth and Bobby were still now. John tidied up, washed the cooking pot and hung it on its hook above the hearth. He smiled. He'd done a good job. Ruth couldn't scold him. He wiped drying perspiration from his wife's face with a corner of the bed sheet. Her skin was translucent, the pale blue-grey of a winter's sky. He pulled her boy to her and wrapped her unfeeling arms around the small, cooling body, then covered them with a thin blanket. "Sleep," he ordered them. He stood up and picked up a coal from the fire with the wooden, washday tongs. He blew away a drift of ash, uncovering a faint glow, enough for his purpose. Without thinking, with his free hand, he scratched a bite on his neck, then he opened the door and took one step outside. He wasn't really breaking his promise to Ruth he reasoned. She'd understand. John held the ember up to the underside of the thatched roof and waited while the dry straw caught light. When it was crackling well, and smoke tendrils coiled around him, John went back inside the cottage and joined his family. |
| Infection by dingusdongus2000@yahoo.com (Entry #1) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| I saw her on Sunday, got talking on Monday. She smelled of washed hair, she was pretty and fair. I took her to lunch, such was the hunch, that she’d give me a time, for a vodka and lime. She batted her eyes, as she undid my flies, and chewed some gum, while she fondled my bum. A rubber? I said, as she took me to bed. She said she was clean, and that I was mean. What could I say, but go naked and lay, while the germs gathered round, for our grind, bump and pound. I got an infection, I blame my erection, but she was right there, with cute pubic hair. Now the spot stares at me, when I go for a pee. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #4 Second place: #1 Others receiving votes: #2, #7 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Infection dingusdongus2000@yahoo.com |
#1 of 8 Runner-up |
| 126 | |
| I saw her on Sunday, got talking on Monday. She smelled of washed hair, she was pretty and fair. I took her to lunch, such was the hunch, that she’d give me a time, for a vodka and lime. She batted her eyes, as she undid my flies, and chewed some gum, while she fondled my bum. A rubber? I said, as she took me to bed. She said she was clean, and that I was mean. What could I say, but go naked and lay, while the germs gathered round, for our grind, bump and pound. I got an infection, I blame my erection, but she was right there, with cute pubic hair. Now the spot stares at me, when I go for a pee. |
|
| Infection Sue Scott camel1ss@comcast.net |
#2 of 8 |
| 640 | |
| "We MUST love ourselves the way we are!" The host stood
in front of his audience, his voice booming, "NEVER let women’s opinions
get us down!" The group of twelve men cheered. "If we can’t love ourselves, how can we be the masters of our families? We MUST be strong!" The host made a victory sign to emphasize his words. As one, the audience jumped up and made the victory sign, whooping and shouting out comments. "Too true!" "You said it brother!" "’Bout time we put the women in their places!" Once the hubbub had quieted, the host said, "As you all know, I’m Iron Al D.- the leader of IM #848. I’m proud to introduce Lou R.- our guest speaker tonight. He’s a former IM member. He was once where all of us are right now. Let’s give him a warm IM welcome, huh?" As the obese man lumbered onto the podium the audience rooted him on. "Roof roof roof!" Lou waited for the men to calm down and began, "I know I’m not a good looking guy. From birth my mother nagged at me about one thing or another, giving me a low self-esteem. As soon as I could, I left home and tried to make it on my own in the cold, cruel world. Lots of hazards out there- as I’m sure you all know. Daily, I landed myself in near death situations. But I persevered, and along the way came to realize that I’m pretty special. A one-of-a-kind kinda guy." He paused for a breath, and the audience hooted and hollered with approval. "I want all of you to know, you can be just like me. Let your lights shine; stand out from the crowd- instead of being a sheep, a conformist, a follower. Each of you is wonderful!" More elated cheers as the twelve men got psyched. Lou shouted to make himself heard, "My wife nagged me constantly before I joined IM. Now she knows her place AND STAYS IN IT! I can’t thank IM enough- they changed my life entirely. And they’ll change yours too, if you stand strong. Males UNITE, for the common cause!" Lou bowed, then plodded off as the men leapt up and gave him a standing ovation. They chanted "I M, I M, I M ..." over and over until Al D. quieted them down. "Okay guys, that’s it for tonight. Refreshments and a Q&A with Lou R. will be held, for those interested. Otherwise, I’ll see you next week!" Rob S. bumped into his friend on the way out. "Hey ugly, long time no see! Good lecture, wasn’t it? You going to the chat with Lou R.?" "Eat crap, you ugly grub! How the hell you been?" Joe K. smacked his friend on the back, "I’d like to hang around, but Mabel would throw ten fits if I’m late for dinner. She’s serving up some week-old road kill she unearthed." "Cripes, I’m glad you said something! Dinner clean went out of my mind. Janie’ll swat me if I’m not on time, especially since she lugged a fetid chunk of intestine all the way home. My favorite, you know." "No kidding? I’m a mold man myself, but the little lady says my cholesterol is too high, and has been forcing putrid white meat down the old gullet lately." Joe grimaced with distaste. Bob sighed wistfully, "Remember when we hung out until all hours, doing nothing but gorging on that dismembered leg? Some good times then! Wonder what happened to the old gang..." "Probably got their heads turned by a pretty larvae, and wound up with a harpy wife and more eggs than they can count- same as us." "Iron Maggots unite!" Rob said. He and Joe laughed companionably as they squirmed off the decaying dog and towards their respective homes. |
|
| Infection shyluva@webtv.net |
#3 of 8 |
| 70 | |
| I learned about an infection that can cause chain reaction It can lead people to kill of course it's againest their own will It begins with a little bit of lust Then ends with no trust It has no prejugdice Just hope your missed Theres a large fraction Of people with this infection So BEWARE The end is near If your getting some action and your luver has this infection. |
|
| Infection lee10@host365.com |
#4 of 8 Winner |
| 1615 | |
| "I tell you the child is teething and that's all it
is!" John heard his wife's announcement, but kept his back turned to her. Trying to quell the hot, nauseous rush of anguish that threatened to overwhelm him, he tightened his grip on the crumbling windowsill. He didn't notice the small sliver of wood that pierced his thumb as he gazed through dusty windowpanes to the lane outside their cottage, where the silence made a mockery of his wife's determined optimism. It had rained earlier but the July sunshine was drying the puddles and the mud would soon be baked summer-hard again. Steam rose from the hedgerow across the lane. Yellow dandelions shone in its shade, their fluffy white crowns on the point of bursting, and ripening blue-red blackberries poked their curly heads through the green quick-thorn wall. Long, seeding grasses on the lane's verge shivered with the passage of some creature, too quick for John's weary eyes to follow. He rubbed the glass to see better but snatched his hand back as he smeared an arc of blood through the dirt. "It's an omen," he mumbled, and then turned for fear his wife had seen or heard. But she was busy, crooning to their sick child. John watched them. Robert, at nine month's old was a strong lad. Maybe Ruth was right. Maybe the boy was just teething. Their first child, the one they'd lost to scarlet fever, had teethed at the same age. A thin smell of cooking rose from the meagre stew of old carrots and rooting potatoes that simmered over a low fire. Ruth sat in a dark corner, as far from the heat as she could and shielded the fretful child's eyes from the daylight. A damp cloth lay over his forehead but did nothing to prevent his whining and squirming in his mother's lap. The child was burning up. His brow was an angry, mottled red. Ruth believed his temperature was caused by the eruption of a troublesome tooth but John knew what the boy's mother had chosen to ignore. Suddenly, the boy screamed and a splash of bloody vomit was expelled, gurgling through his squeals. "Hold the child, while I clean him up." Ruth started to cry and thrust the baby towards her husband, wiping her dripping hands on her apron. The stench was foul; cloying, it hung in the air between them for long seconds. "Put him on the bed," John mumbled. "I'll fetch water." He slammed open the door and fled outside to the well in the back garden. While the bucket tumbled downwards, John leaned over the wooden handle and sobbed. Earlier that day he had played with Robert, before the boy's crying had become too intense. He had felt the telltale, swollen lumps under the boy's arms. And John had known then that his child was dying. He slowly winched the full bucket to the surface, wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve and returned to the house. "Mister Rutherford," a youth stood in the middle of the lane, shouting. He leapt back, startled, as John appeared round the corner of the house. "Parson's sent me to fetch yuh," he stammered. John stopped. Water slopped over his worn boots. "Why?" "Dunno. He just said you'd better come as quick as you can." John didn't answer. The boy fidgeted. He kicked at a stone. They both watched it roll into a puddle. "What'll I tell the parson?" The boy was agitated. "Please, Mister. I gotta go. Me Mam don't want me out, but Parson sent me so I had to come." Ruth appeared in the open doorway, a thin, pale woman, looking old beyond her years. Her hair was damp and lank and a sheen of perspiration glazed her forehead. She'd removed her vomit-streaked apron and held her son in her arms again. "Tell the Parson, Joseph, that my husband is not going anywhere. He should be ashamed of himself for sending a child out in these dangerous times." She rocked to baby to soothe his weakening cries. "Go straight home to your mother. She'll be fretting about you, I know. And don't you go near anyone else either." She disappeared into the dim depths of the cottage. John nodded. "Do as Mrs. Rutherford says, Joseph. Go home and make sure your mother locks the door and allows no one in. Not even the Parson." John watched the boy run away down the lane. "John," Ruth's voice was shrill. "Get in here. Now. And bring that water." John followed his wife into the house. "And lock the door behind you." John did as he was told. The baby was on the bed. His father saw that the lad barely had strength left to do more than whimper softly. Ruth had poked the fire and was stirring the poor stew that hung over the paltry flames. "It's very stuffy in here," John said. "I'll open the window" He moved to lose the catch. Ruth spun round. The spoon clattered from her hand, splashing food everywhere. "Don't you dare," she screamed. "You'll let in poisonous vapours and kill us all." John stood helpless, lumps of soft, grey carrots at his feet. All he could do was to reach for his wife and to hold her tight as they cried together. They sprang apart as another shout sounded from the lane. John turned towards the door. "No, don't," Ruth whispered. "It's the parson. Don't let him know you're here." "But I must speak to him." "No, John." Ruth grabbed his arm. "You're not going out there." "But it's the Pastor. Let me go and talk to him at least." "No, no, no." Her whisper skittered across John's nerves, making him cringe, making him compliant. She pulled him back into the room's shadows. "Keep quiet," she hissed. "He'll go away." Her voice caught in her throat. "Let him think we're dead." When there was no response to his second call, the Pastor left; a defeated, round-shouldered, old man who walked slowly away from the cottage. John's instinct was to go after him, to say, "I'm here! Just tell me what it is you want me to do and I'll gladly do it." His muscles must have twitched, signalled his desire to do what he knew he ought, because Ruth's hold on him tightened. "No," she insisted. "You're not going. I don't want you bringing the Black Death into our home." She tugged his sleeve. "Promise me, John. Promise you won't go outside until this is all over." Her eyes were large in her face, from which all colour but grey had fled. "I promise, sweetheart," he reassured her. "I promise." Ruth let go of his sleeve and sighed. "I must lay down. I'm so tired." She managed a small smile, "Because Bobby kept me awake all last night with his teething, while you snored your head off and added to the music." She stumbled to the bed and lay down, next to her baby. The child's eyes were screwed tight shut. His face was wrinkled and his breathing was shallow. John saw that his once so-perfect fingers had turned blue; dark-blue, almost black. Ruth's eyes were soon closed too. The cottage was quiet. The lane was quiet. The village was quiet, its normal bustle quietened by the plague. John counted back. It must have been three days since old Ralph Taylor 's death cart had trundled down the lane; three days at least, he thought, since he'd heard the old sextant crying, "Bring out your dead!" "He must be gone as well, " John muttered. "Must be why the Pastor wanted me. Don't suppose there's anybody left but me and the Pastor to dig the graves or bury the dead." John felt a touch of guilt that he'd let the Pastor down but he was only one man, and a poor one at that. He couldn't turn the tide. "What God's sent, we must endure," he affirmed. No longer able to bear the emotions that the last day had wrought, he was empty. He looked across the room as Ruth let out a long, shuddering breath. He'd really had no choice but do as she'd wanted. Let her die in peace, he thought. Please God; take her with a smile on her face and her babe in her arms. The stew smelt good and John ate it, all of it. He felt a slight shame about not leaving any, but he was hungry and healthy and both Ruth and Bobby were still now. John tidied up, washed the cooking pot and hung it on its hook above the hearth. He smiled. He'd done a good job. Ruth couldn't scold him. He wiped drying perspiration from his wife's face with a corner of the bed sheet. Her skin was translucent, the pale blue-grey of a winter's sky. He pulled her boy to her and wrapped her unfeeling arms around the small, cooling body, then covered them with a thin blanket. "Sleep," he ordered them. He stood up and picked up a coal from the fire with the wooden, washday tongs. He blew away a drift of ash, uncovering a faint glow, enough for his purpose. Without thinking, with his free hand, he scratched a bite on his neck, then he opened the door and took one step outside. He wasn't really breaking his promise to Ruth he reasoned. She'd understand. John held the ember up to the underside of the thatched roof and waited while the dry straw caught light. When it was crackling well, and smoke tendrils coiled around him, John went back inside the cottage and joined his family. |
|
| Infection mrsdew4@adelphia.net |
#5 of 8 |
| 957 | |
| "Are you a microbiologist?" was the doctor’s
response to my question about what type of infection they were treating my
mother for. She had been in ICU now for six weeks following complications
related to heart bypass surgery. This man just strolled into her room amidst the throng of equipment and monitors beeping constantly that surrounded her bed in the brightly lit room. Saying not a word to us, he merely stood there looking at my mother. He could have been a priest, a visitor in the wrong room, or some nutcase for all we knew. I turned and faced him squarely, noting his overgrown hair and shabby appearance. Feeling my breathing and heartbeat increase, my eyes squinted as my body tensed and fell straight into the "scolding mother posture" of hands on hips, foot ready to start tapping furiously. Looking through him, while branding him with the inferno in my eyes, I sarcastically asked "Do I look like a microbiologist to you? And if I were a microbiologist, would I be asking you any questions at all?" He just looked at me blankly, and did not respond. He was probably thinking ‘back slowly out of the room.’ Sighing heavily, I whipped off my eyeglasses. I closed my eyes tracing the outline of my eyebrows firmly with my fingertips, keeping them there for a moment. My eyebrows presently the only thing keeping me from losing my mind and having to be committed or arrested. I continued to wash over my face with my hands trying to clear out the exhaustion and despair. It had been an extremely long six weeks; the exhaustion of dealing with doctors taking its toll. Some days are longer than 24 hours. Some seem like a lifetime. Oh, I was a snippy one. ‘Was I a microbiologist?’ What a moron. I could have smacked him for being such an idiot. This guy must have some good contacts to get in and through med school. Finally, he did tell us who he was, though I couldn’t hear him he spoke so low; a low-talker. He was from the Infectious Diseases Department, which prompted my question about what type of infection my mom had. We got through our prickly "introduction," and found out my mom had a very serious infection which antibiotic treatments used so far had all been unsuccessful. She was allergic to penicillin, and this was a hindrance. We discussed what options we had, which was one, and the decision was made to go ahead and give her penicillin since she was in ICU. Any allergic reaction could be managed. "Sure," I thought "just like the bang up job you did with the bypass." We obviously had no choice at this point, and gave Dr. Low Talker the okay to administer penicillin. My father and I went to the hospital everyday, staying all day sometimes only getting to see her for 30 minutes or so. The coffee shop volunteers knew us by first name now; even how we took our coffee. We went there at least twice a day just to move our bodies off the ICU waiting room couch. The doctors had to medically paralyze my Mom because she had severe trouble controlling her breathing, even though she was in a drug-induced coma. So basically, she had been only conscious one day since her surgery. The complication she experienced happened less than 1% with bypass surgery. It occurred when the heart lung machine is switched off and all the organs start to work again with the new heart. All went well except with her pancreas. We had no idea or knowledge that such a complication could occur. Heart bypass surgery seems almost routine these days. Things happened so fast from the moment I got the call from my Dad at 9:30 PM that my Mom couldn’t breathe, and the ambulance was there taking her to the hospital now. "Can you come down and help me?" Of course I would. There was never any other thought. By the time I got there, the decision had been made by her doctor to send her to Mt. Auburn Hospital in Cambridge, Massachusetts for the heart bypass. She had 100% blockages and needed immediate surgery. We didn’t have time to think, our emotions taking a seat on the roller coaster we never imagined would last for weeks. During the times waiting to get the okay to see her, I would "talk" to her telling her we were there and would not leave her. One day when I went in to see her, I saw a disturbing look on her young 64 year old face. I would describe it as the "look of death." She was gone; machines keeping her going. I never said a word about it to my Dad. The doctors did surgery on her everyday to sop up the sepsis infection. One day during that sixth week while performing surgery, as they picked up her organs, they just fell apart in their hands. Although she was dead, the decision still had to be made to stop treatment. My Dad couldn’t do it. They had been married for over 40 years. So looking into his eyes and feeling my soul die I heard my voice say "Dad, it’s time to let her go." She was gone 30 seconds after the machines were shut off. My sister and I stayed with her while she received last rights from an Irish priest with bright red hair. My Mom was Irish so she would have liked that. We talked to her saying goodbye as her body went cold so quickly. After six weeks of treatment for this horrible infection, she barely resembled the beautiful mother I will remember. |
|
| Infection My Nguyen idlemousse1885@yahoo.com |
#6 of 8 |
| 2224 | |
| The hallway bustled with high-schoolers venturing their
way through the crowded corridors of Breachford High. Each side of the hall was
bordered with lockers opening and shutting in violent jerks and thrushes. The
linoleum floors were newly waxed, and sneakers, boots, loafers, as well as the
clatter of platform heels the more high-fashioned girls wear, slapped against
the shiny surface. A momentary squeak screeched hauntingly down the hallway.
It was the first day, and the guys happily slapped each other’s backs, as in a ‘how ya been doing, man!’ As in: we’re back and we rule this place. The bulletin board lay bare, except for the scratches and small tear holes from the pins. There, scars from old messages and announcements look forlorn on the cushion board with its acne-like craters noticeable without the cover-ups of mismatched paper to hide its ugly, used face. The flag drooped on its post next to the clock continuing to tick, counting the passing seconds even as no one notices, or want to know or accept, that every line that the red hand passes is fleeting. Even if it is an ongoing cycle, the moment will be gone forever and you can’t undo or relive what is past. Conversation started in waves of excitement as comparison of each of their summer vacations arose, were analyzed and discussed. The girls pouting cutely when they were bested but awed and impressed all the same. They shrugged uncommittedly, one hand stiffly on a hip, and with a flick of their long, flowing hair, display to one and all ‘okay, fine, look, like my new outfit?’ They pretend to listen to the certain hyper person talking, and at the same time look through their long lashes at the other cliques to see if anybody was watching, laughing aloud convincingly when it was appropriate, on cue once something funny had been said. A girl leaning on her locker showed off to her friends her new white belt, with fake diamonds lined in a row glittering under the florescent lights. Already they were prematurely dulling as if it knew it was a mere trend, here today, gone tomorrow. The old lockers creak and groan, as they cough or ingest the books, papers, pens, pencil, and for some: hair products, necessary hygiene sprays, deodorant, priming, cutting, spreading products, combs, brushes, and makeup. The list could go on but it is unnecessary for us to get into any greater detail because it is overall the same products though with different brand names. The anti-drug posters hung tiredly on the yellow walls. Their message and aim are clear but what is not so obvious is how it manages to still hang on so arduously as if by a single shred of paper that is its lifeline to the faded wall. Its face no longer has the appealing glossy surface of the new. And profanity, dirty jokes, numbers, and names are scrawled in the spare spaces around the ‘Stay Away’ and the big red of ‘Drugs’. On the bottom half of the block red letterings, sections of the poster were ripped out by anonymous writers to either print off reminders or phone numbers when something to write on was not available. A big ‘Fucking’ was scribbled on top of the ‘Stay Away’, and next to it a heart around the name Greg with an arrow pierced through the plump heart. The door to the main entrance of the hallway opened and a wind blew in, awakening the tatters that happened to be the wrecked poster. It slipped a notch from the tack holding it, but somehow managed to stay stuck to the wall. The door closed and it froze in its new position, diagonally leaning onto a locker. A girl in a long worn coat patched here and there, one on her elbow, the other by the base of the jacket’s right pocket. The sleeves to her coat are long and only her fingertips could be seen of her small white hands peeking at the helms. She wore a lengthy skirt that ruffled in tiny yet long folded rectangles. Her knee socks climbed and clung to her leggings, every crinkle like the base of a Corinthian column. Her shoes were simple shoes; more like everyone else’s than the rest of her. The only difference is the mismatched beads on the laces, carefully slipped into the shape of the bow, stopping right beside the official knot. A little face peeped from under her gigantic hat. Glasses perched up upon a little upturned nose, already slipping underneath her eyes. A mysterious smile was on her thin lips that she gave everyone as if she knew a joke about each person she laid eyes on. She shrugged her backpack up her shoulders, happily marched up the hallway to the school’s office pass the groups of students milling around. Everyone watched this one-person parade in shock as well as horror, with their mouths wide opened, unawares and unattractively. It was like a deviation to all that they thought was normal and could be possible. How this little freak comes along to change all the rules, and they did not like this at all. "What was that?" asked Kelly, wrinkling her pretty little nose in disgust. "I don’t know, but, God, does her parents pick out her clothes or something?" said Amber. I don’t think so. I mean, would any parent hate their kid that much?" piped in Ashley. "It wouldn’t last long in high school looking like that," predicted a junior out loud. *** By lunch, news was quickly spreading about the ‘New Kid’. They only labeled her that because nobody could decide on a better name. They didn’t know much her. After all, it had only been the first day and information, or else unknown information did not travel that fast. But, of course, there were already rumors circulating. "I heard she was from Ohio or somewhere out of nowhere and they expelled her because she was stealing all the rats in the science lab to, I don’t know, eat them?" "Maybe she just felt sorry for them, Lisa," suggested Andy, taking a sip from his carton of milk. "Well, how do you know what she did to them?" "You’re telling us," said Andy, rolling his eyes. "Well, I think somebody should find out for us. Since you brought it up, Lisa, I dare you to go up to the ‘New Kid’ and ask her yourself. And, you know, get to know her." "Yeah, right. Are you kidding? I mean, why me?" "C’mon," said Kelly with another flick of her long, shiny blond hair. "You’ve got to. I mean, are you afraid or something? I can see it in your eyes. You’re got no guts even to face a freak." Then she signed dismissively, looking to her other group of friends. "Fine," Lisa stammered, getting up rather distractedly. She walked up to the empty table where the ‘New Kid’ sat alone. The kid’s bulky shape hunkered over the lunch her mother obviously packed for her, laid out on the table: a Mayo sandwich, celery, applesauce, and grape juice, As Lisa neared the table, her annoyed demeanor disappeared and was replaced by a friendly energetic expression. "Hi! How are you doing? You’re new here, right? I’m Lisa. What’s your name?" "Hi, I’m Lisa too. Well, actually, my real name is Melissa, but I prefer Lisa as well," Melissa said, smiling all the while enthusiastically. She was like a little puppy eager for love and acceptance. "Well…" said Lisa, and then she recovered, "me too. That’s nice that we already have something in common. What school did you come from?" "We move around a lot, so I went to a number of schools. But I really, really like it here," Melissa gushed. Lisa smiled stiffly. She started to open her lunch when she realized Melissa was watching her every move. She took a fork-full of her lasagna, leaned in, and was about to take a bite, when she glanced over and saw Melissa about to do the same thing with her spoon-full of applesauce. Lisa dropped her fork abruptly, mumbled ‘gotta go’ real quick and left. Melissa stared remorsefully after Lisa’s back reclining farther and farther away from her, wondering that exactly she had done wrong. *** "Oh my god. She is, like, such a leech," Lisa reported. "Did she really do everything you did?" "I don’t know if she breathed whenever I did or not. "Wow, she is like a leech." "For your information, I don’t ever want to be near that freak ever again. I might catch something of hers," said Lisa dramatically. "Do you think," asked Ashley leaning in secretively, "that she has head lice?" "Yeah, why else would she wear that gross hat," says Amber. "Do you really think?" The boys started to nudge each other conspiratorially and a plan was hatched the last fifteen minutes before the lunch period ended. *** Melissa saw the whispers and stares, which made her want to hide under her hat and burrow farther into her coat. She stared down at her food and chewed glumly, not tasting a thing. She pushed her spoon back and forth, chopping the already mushy applesauce, but destroying her food did not make her feel any better. She bit down on her lip, trying not to cry, her small hands blushed red in tiny fists. What did she do wrong? It was only the first day. They must give her a chance. She only wanted to be liked, if that was too much to ask. Her table was the only one empty, except the short moment ago, but she screwed that up and her almost friend had fled as if she found out she had rabies or something. The rest of the cafeteria was filled with loud kids talking and laughing and basically enjoying themselves. Melissa held down the burning tears, but silently wept inside. Suddenly, Melissa heard a clutter as a tray hit the table and to her surprise, someone sat down across from her. Melissa’s face brightened and she jumped to greet the girl settling herself down at the table. "Hi! I’m…" Melissa said brightly. The other girl looked up, saw Melissa and realizing her mistake that could’ve costed her socially, rushed out of her seat, figuring she’d rather stand than sit next to the Leech. Melissa’s heart dropped a million depths until she could no longer fathom how far down the dark hole she had sunk into. Melissa did not look up when a gang of boys walked over to her table. She was too down-casted to even notice the sudden expectant silence around her. "Hey," Brad called, waving a hand over Melissa’s face. "What’s the ‘New Kid’ doing here all alone? Hard time making friends?" Melissa decided for the time being to ignore him. Maybe they would all go away and leave her alone to waddle in her own misery. "Hey! He’s talking to you, and you should always s listen to the ‘Man’," one of them said, and all the guys laughed arrogantly. Melissa still does not say anything, nor does she seem to be breathing. Brad gets a little annoyed that his insults were not being noticed. "Hey!" he says, slamming the table with his outstretched hands, "You listening, Freak?" He grabs her hat from off her head, spilling mousy brown hair down Melissa’s shoulders. She covered her head in surprise, and then reached for her hat. Brad, realizing her had her attention, decides to monkey around a little. He whisks the hat out of her reach and throws it to his partners in crime. They play around with her like this for a while, enjoying their game of harassment until it got a little boring. Obviously, it was no challenge throwing a hat around and keeping some small kid from getting it. So they knocked it around for a while and then Justin decides to throw it at their table where their girlfriends sat. Everyone watches as the tall senior threw the purple hat at the popular girl’s table, which lands onto Kelly’s lap, while she was delicately finishing her lunch. She screeched as she realizes what was thrown at her, and stood up, her hands spread open and arms twisted in the elbows, moved in funny little jerks. "Ew, ew, ewww----, get it off me! I’ve got lice now." Everyone in the cafeteria watched as Kelly did a little dance, slapping herself silly, brushing away whatever little vermin she thought had landed on her. Melissa watched all of this, her eyes brimming in tears, as rumbles of the laughter started and waves of it suddenly knocked her over completely. She ran out of the cafeteria, crying into the sleeve of her coat. Kelly and her friends continued inspecting her clothes and hair, finally finding she was clean. "Ugh! Better stay away from her," said Ashley perkily, though with a certain conviction. *** The next day, Melissa did not come back to school. But she was yesterday’s news and nobody really cared. Kelly showed off her new fur-lined boosts, and all the girls were awed and struck with envy. All the girls who knew anything wanted them. Another infection had started and they were all infected by this new fad. |
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| Infection Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#7 of 8 |
| 449 | |
| "Four more years!" "Four more years!" Dan Lippnam switched his TV set off in disgust. The Conservative party convention had come to a close with its usual ostentations display of patriotism: balloons, confetti, waving signs, oversized flags, and what amounted to mob frenzy. How could any intelligent person buy into that crap, he thought. Well that would all change come election day if his meticuluous design of disruption worked as planned. Dan called Irv Morris, the campaign coordinator for the Liberal party. "How's Winnie doing?" "Winnie", was Thomas Winston, a syndicated columnist, Washington pundit, and unofficial spokesman for the Liberal party. He was doing a post convention analysis on a major network. "Doing great, even better than I thought. He's steadily refuting Bosh's statements and omissions with a lot of facts but I'm sure he'll build up to a big finish and skewer president Bosh pretty good at the end. Go ahead and call me back tonight after Beavis and Butthead report to you." Beavis, the code name for Edwin Hadley, had joined the Conservative campaign a year ago as a computer expert. Butthead was Andy Wellman, a genial, trusted man who had been placed there as a mole three years ago and was now in the higher echelons of the party. Lippman's plan depended largely on the performances of these two men. At two AM, the three of them met in the shadows of a parking garage. "How did it go, boys?" "Without a hitch," Beavis replied. Butthead created a diversion while I was in the computer room and I slipped the virus disc into the main brains. I had a close one when someone came up behind me but I spotted them in time and quickly flipped to the network TV coverage." "So the timer is all set?" "Yes. They'll never find the infection. I encoded it right where I wanted it." "Excellent. You have done America a great service and I hope this will end all the corruption and loss of life. Don't forget to make yourselves scarce by November 3rd." On the Sunday before the presidential election, there appeared on all the Computers of the Conservative party, data relating to scandal in the White House and of many infuential backers. The media picked it up and it was spread all over on Monday before the crooked incumbents had a chance to refute or spin it. The Liberals won the election by a small margin but good enough that even the president's brother in Florida couldn't rig his state. On January 20th, right after he was sworn in, new president Carey signed an executive order, bypassing Congress, to remove all of our troops from Iraq. |
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| Infection Julie Thomas-Zucker dkmerlin61@juno.com |
#8 of 8 |
| 1114 | |
| Since Jeff's salmon business went bust, he'd looked for
an alternative to starting a business in Alaska. He knew that chickens carried
an infection that he didn't want, but he wondered if ducks might fair better.
He began pricing ducks and learning about their diseases. He thought; this will
work. Jeff learned that Hong Kong sold ducks for less than $1000 for a
flock. Jeff talked the prospects over with his neighbors, Carol and Edward Ross. Carol said, "I don't think I'd buy anything animal or food product from Hong Kong. The press has warned us against buying anything from them until the crisis caused by the infection is completely over." "But think about the economical cost. Ducks are different from chickens. I know they are in the avian family, but who says that ducks will carry the infection. I want to try." "You know our feeling on the subject, but we can't stop you from causing harm." Maybe customs will, Carol thought. Jeff waited expectantly for his flock to come. When they did, he rushed over to tell Carol and Edward all about it. "The birds look healthy enough. I think we worried for nothing. Well, I just wanted you to know they arrived." For a month, things at the duck farm went well. Jeff collected eggs from the nests he'd set up for the female ducks. Soon he produced dozens of duck eggs and sold them to the markets. Some of his other neighbors also bought the eggs. But trouble always followed Jeff. Before he knew if one of his best hens died. Others looked sick. He called Carol, "Carol, help my ducks are sick. What can I do? I don't want to lose the whole flock." As a veterinarian, Carol served her community mostly horses and dogs. "Jeff, you need to separate the sick ducks from the healthy ones and let me see what disease they have." "Okay. You don't think they carried the infection do you?" Carol noticed that Jeff's voice sounded weak and he coughed. Jeff cleared his throat and blinked. Taking a drink of water, he raised his finger to signify he needed a second to swallow. Setting the water down, Jeff said, "The duc. . ." He halted in mid-word, emitting a huge sneeze. Carol grabbed the glass of water and quickly offered it to him. As Jeff gulped, Carol explained, "I don't like the way this looks. Do you have the flu? I wish you'd have warned me that you were sick. I thought the cough was just your allergy." Suddenly, Jeff choked and coughed, the water exploding from his mouth like a geyser drenching Carol. Knowing her temper, Edward tried to quell an upsurge of laughter which caused him to cough. He grabbed the glass of water and downed the remaining gulps, but it went down the wrong way. He coughed once and his cheeks expanded. On his second cough, the water shot from his mouth drenching Carol again. As Jeff's face turned livid, Edward coughed, hacked, chortled and choked. Gaining control of himself, Jeff said, "Forgive me. I honestly hadn't felt this bad until now." He coughed again and Edward slapped his back knocking him onto the wet table. Rising from the pool of water, Jeff said, "I'll call later and see how the ducks are. I hope you don't get sick." He turned to leave knocking over some of Carol's books. He stumbled out the door and nearly fell over his snowmobile. That afternoon Carol told Jeff, "I'm sorry. The ducks you brought me died. I don't know what disease you have over there but I suggest you get rid of the ducks soon or they can contaminate the entire area." "Okay, Carol. Don't go paranoid on me. I know you think it is the infection, but what if it's just my flu." "That would be worse! Many people get the flu every year. If the two mutate, then a big epidemic could kill many of our friends. Please get rid of those birds." Jeff took Carol's advice and sold most of the ducks back to the owner. But he kept his hens. If nothing else, he figured he could make money on the eggs. If he let some of the eggs hatch, he'd have a whole new flock. Two weeks passed, Carol stumbled around the office. Though the snow fell from the sky, she felt hot and sticky. "Edward, where's the thermometer? I think I've got Jeff's flu." "Didn't you use it last? I don't know. Let me check the bathroom." Carol crashed on the couch. Edward called the doctor. "She's definitely got flu," he said. "Carol is concerned that infection might be in Alaska? Do you think she has that?" "What birds has she doctored?" "They died. They were my neighbor, Jeff's." Edward pointed to the house behind them where smoke came out of the chimney. The doctor nodded. "I'll pay him a visit and see if he has any more sick animals." "Thank you. Give this to Carol. I hope and pray that she recovers." Two more weeks pass, Jeff visited them. Knowing that Edward is no cook, Jeff prepared a duck meal for them. "Shall we have dinner?" Edward hesitated. "That isn't a dead duck that died from the disease is it?" "What disease? My ducks are healthy." The food tasted delicious. Since Carol's illness, Edward fixed only sandwiches and soup. Carol welcomed the change. Edward only hoped Jeff told the truth that no more flu existed. "You get better now." Jeff told Carol. "You stay well and make her well, Edward." Jeff said as he left. Two more weeks passed and Carol got worse. The doctors checked and found the infection lived on. It killed hundreds of birds and now the papers reported that 80 people died. They worried that more might die soon. Carol too became part of that number. Jeff visited Edward, "I never envisioned anything like this happening." "Oh, no. You wanted my wife dead because I had her. You wanted her for yourself. Don't play Mister Innocent with me. I know your motives." "But really, I didn't want her or anyone to die." "Then let's do something about it. Let's shoot those birds." Sighing deeply, Jeff didn't know if he could. Arriving at Jeff's house, Edward took his rifle and shot the small herd. Later, Edward asked forgiveness. "The newspapers say that the disease is not just confined to you and your ducks. No proof exists that you caused the outbreak. The disease spreads from human to human. I'm sorry I accused you. I just loved that woman so much." Jeff patted his arm. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club