| 1 2 3 4 5 |
"Balancing Act" (the seventy-first ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
6 7 8 9 10 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Balancing Act" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), July 15, 2007 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Balancing Act By colin93050-acw@yahoo.co.uk (Entry #10) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Even the endless wind seemed to stop
to listen as the young clansman led the horse into the court of the Dread Lord
of the Great Western Desert. Many secretly admired his brave bid for the hand
in marriage of the Great Lord's favorite daughter. Others saw only a common
upstart soon to get his comeuppance. "Dread Lord, allow me to make you this most unworthy gift," he said, all the while struggling to remember the carefully rehearsed requirements of court etiquette. It was a fine animal, more than the boy's family could easily afford. It drew admiring looks from those who understood horses and a modest smile from the Great Lord's daughter. This was the match she was hoping for, but in those far off days it was for her father to make such decisions. The Lord had risen to prominence as a leader of men who spent their lives in the saddle. He knew horses well and his inspection was careful. All the court listened in silence. He paused behind the beast gauging the strength of its hindquarters for carrying a man in full armor. It was then that the horse, itself perhaps as nervous as the young clansman, chose to pass wind loudly and very obviously in the direction of the Dread Lord. Still watching in silence, the courtiers, some with hands straying towards ever-ready sword hilts, looked towards their lord. Was this an affront that could be ignored? Surely the horse or the young clansman or both should be punished on the spot. First the Dread Lord looked steadily into the eyes of the now pale clansman to see what there was to read there. To his credit, the young lad kept his composure. Then he turned to his daughter and those who were close enough saw a depth of meaning in the glances they exchanged. Finally he turned to the horse and slapping it on the rear said in a voice loud enough for all to hear, "Well, it wasn't me this time." And so the silence was well broken as all the court dissolved in laughter for this was the humor of the warrior. The older and wiser heads who understood such things, noted with appreciation that their Lord had once again succeeded in balancing the needs of state with those of family. This was something they respected in a society where family ties and bonds of kinship mattered a great deal. And then of course there would be a wedding feast to look forward to. It had been a good day. Later when the court was dismissed, the Old Chancellor approached and said quietly, "A kindly and wise decision, my Lord. Your daughter seems so happy." "Yes old friend," the Great Lord replied, "and the boy's clan may be small and poor but it is so very well placed to control the mountain passes to the north." |
| Balancing Act By McChandler www.geocities.com/marlowechandler/mchandler.html (Entry #9) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| It was Saturday. The man called Slim
slipped quietly into the diner. Picked up a newspaper from the rack inside.
Took a forward facing seat in a rear booth. A long standing habit. Never have
your back to the door. That action’s saved his bacon more than once.
He ordered his usual: two fried eggs, ham, potatoes, black coffee -- hold the toast. Flirted with the waitress. Pinched her butt. She turned and looked at him. Poured his coffee. She smiled. He winked back. The usual. Opened the morning paper. The headlines screamed at him: ‘INSANE GUNMAN KILLS TWO’; ‘LOVE TRIANGLE CLAIMS THREE’; ‘MAD BOMBER ON THE LOOSE’. Slim smiled. Sipped his coffee. “The world is full of nuts these days,” he thought. Breakfast arrived: two eggs easy-over, sausage, pancakes, and toast. His nervous system went on high alert. Respiration increased. Blood pressure rose. Adrenaline flowed. He felt a migraine coming. “This isn’t what I ordered,” he spit out as the waitress sat the plate in front of him. “You’re absolutely right sir,” she replied. “I’m sorry. It’s what the cook gave me. I’ll take it back for you.” “No, wait. Let me see the idiot. It’s his problem, not yours.” “I’ll get…,” she started and spied the cook glaring at her. “Hey! You wanna see me?” the fat man bellowed from behind the counter. “That would me nice,“ Slim replied. The cook strutted over to the booth. Rested his ham-like fists on the table. “You got a problem mister?” Slim grinned. Pulled a gun from his waistband. “Not anymore,” and the bewildered looking cook was instantly shot between the eyes. The man fell to the floor. Stone cold dead. “Now that’s what I call ‘fried’,” Slim commented. He got up from the booth. Left a hefty tip for the hysterical waitress. Calmly walked out. Dropped the automatic in the mailbox by the front door. “The world is sure full of plum crazies. I’ll never eat there again”, he thought as he climbed into his car and drove off. # By nightfall, the man called Slim had blown by the state line. The diner was a fading memory 400 miles away. Found a run down motel by the interstate. The Traveler’s Rest. Kind that rents by the hour. Picked a room in the back. Parked in the rear, car hidden from view. Switched license plates just in case. Went in to register. Paid cash as usual. Used a fictitious name. Also as usual. Displayed his California driver’s license as ID. Kept the 49 other ones in his luggage. They always come in handy. Slept peacefully through the night, visions of sugar plum crazies dancing in his head. The sun shining through the broken blinds woke him with a start. Almost shot out the window. Amazing how the sun resembles a plum crazy with a blowtorch he thought. Had one hellacious dream –- or was it? Who in their right mind would shoot a cook over a bad meal? Why they would have to be plain loco, or a plum crazy. Slim chuckled. Not him. Nothing upsets him anymore. Even-keel Slim. There was something bothering him. It happened the day before. But that was yesterday and yesterday’s gone. Today was a new day. Boy, did that waitress ever have a nice butt. Hooters weren’t too shabby either. “Have a good night’s rest?” the desk clerk asked as he checked out. “Fabulous. Slept like the dead. By the way is there a food store nearby?” “Yeah, there’s one next to the gas station at the next traffic light.” “Do they sell sushi?” “No. It’s just a little country store. You’ll want the Piggly-Wiggly a little further on down.” “Oh, good. I want to test a theory of mine.” The clerk raised an eyebrow. Slim gave him a deadly stare in return. “Umm…well have a good time then,” the clerk stammered. “Oh, I believe I will,“ said Slim walking out. He fired up his car. Sped on down the road. On the look-out for the Wiggly-Pig –- Piggly-Wiggly –- whatever. Names weren’t a big thing for him. He’d know it when he saw it. A mile down he found it. Parked close to the front door. Locked the car. Can’t be too careful these days he thought. Too many nuts and criminals out there. Once inside purchased ten items. Exactly ten. No more, no less. Express lane limit. Express lane law. It didn’t take long to happen. His worse nightmare. In fact it ended in front of him. Figures. It’s the fat guy every time. The man put fifteen items on the counter. Slim recounted. Fifteen it was. “Hey,” he said to the man while pointing to the express lane sign. “Can’t you read? You’re five items over the limit.” “Mack, what the hell d’ya mean?” the man said turning to face Slim. “So what if I’m over. Who are you, the express lane police?” the man added laughing. Slim turned to the clerk. “Are you going to let him get away with it?” “Oh, come on man. Cut me a break,” he replied starting to ring up the fifteen purchases. The man called Slim turned to the express lane offender. “To answer your question, no I’m not the express lane police. However, I believe in rules. Just call me the express lane terminator.” “The what?” was all the man managed to spit out before the first of five bullets hit him squarely in the chest. One for each item over the limit. “Now you’re six over,” Slim remarked, dropping the gun in the dead man’s grocery bag. The clerk pissed himself, then passed out. Slim smiled. Packed up his purchases. Left a twenty dollar bill on the counter. After all he wasn’t a thief. Swept past the shocked customers. Walked out. Got into his car and off he went. # The man called Slim sped out of the lot. Hopped on I-95. Headed north towards home. Work came early Monday morning. Damn. Forgot to buy sushi at that store. What was it? The Wiggly Pig? No, the Piggly Wiggly. Probably good thing he didn’t. The stuff they had looked past its’ expiration date. He pulled into a rest stop. Bought some coffee from a machine. Used the facilities. Went back to his car and opened the trunk. Unlocked a black suitcase. Glanced around to make sure no one was looking. Removed the false bottom. Felt inside for the two remaining guns. Picked one out and stuffed it in his waistband. Maybe he’d need it. Then again, maybe not. Better safe than sorry. Slim got back on the interstate. Checked his speedometer. Kept it steady right at the limit. After all, only a criminal would speed. He certainly wouldn’t. No, not him. Laws were important. Without them anarchy would rule. Something flickered into his subconscious. Had to do with the sushi again. That’s right. Of course he didn’t buy any. Not only was it more than likely spoiled, but if he had, it would have put him over the limit. And Slim imagined bad things can happen to people who don’t follow rules. He recalled hearing something on the radio. An ugly incident. Ten is ten, not fifteen. Anybody in their right mind knows that. “Sure are a lot of plum crazies out there.” Couple hours later got back to town. Dinner time too. Where to go and eat? Has to be someplace fast. No more diners for him for awhile. For some reason they weren’t appealing to him anymore. Exited at the airport. Drove a short ways and spotted a place. A fast-food joint. Quick and easy. In and out in a flash. Used the drive-thru. Placed his order. Paid, then drove to the pick-up window. The cashier handed him his bag. He checked it. Uh-oh! The man called Slim started to see red. How could someone do this? How could they forget? Are they just dumb, or plain stupid? “Hey, pal –- move it. You’re holding up the line,” the man said. “Cool it, Jack. Just double-checking my order.” “Well, pull up and do it in the parking lot, bud. Ain’t got all day.” Wrong thing to say. Besides he’d been shorted. He felt devastated. “Pops, where’s the hell’s my ketchup?” he asked. “Can’t eat fries without ketchup. It’s un-American.” “Guess they forgot. Go park and come inside and get some. You’re holding up the line.” The man called Slim put the car in park. Pulled out his gun and shot the cashier between the eyes. Almost hit the hamburger clown standing next to him waving to the kiddies. “Well, at least somebody’s got some red stuff,” Slim remarked as the blood dripped onto the counter as the man collapsed. The clown ducked. People screamed. Slim calmly drove away from the drive-thru, dropping the gun into the open mouth of the clown trashcan at the exit. Drove a short ways down the street and pulled into a truck stop. Parked between two rigs. Unwrapped his hamburger and started to eat. Opened the glove box and got out a couple of packs of ketchup for his fries. The man called Slim popped a fry into his mouth. Shook his head. Why are people so dumb? # “Hey, buddy boy looks like we got us another one. This fax just came in from Philly PD.” “Another one what Alex?” Lance asked absentmindedly peering over the top of the morning paper he was reading. “Another twisted homicide, what else. Seems our boy’s been busy over the weekend. Harrisburg, PA, Williamsburg, VA, and now the Holmesburg section of the City of Brotherly Love. Guy’s got a thing for ‘burgs’ now. Six months ago it was the ‘villes’. Go figure.” “Maybe he got shorted a hamburger once when he was a kid,” John volunteered from the back of the room. “Got post traumatic stress disorder from it.” “Or maybe he got molested by that hamburger clown,” Mary commented. The room erupted in laughter. “What makes you so sure it’s the same person Alex?” Lance asked. “Everything fits. Same caliber and type of gun, a public place, an execution. He’s neat, polite, and the motives behind each one are equally insane; a bad meal, over the limit check-out, and now this –- no ketchup with his fries.” “Huh?” “You heard me. The one in Philly was the cashier in a fast-food drive-thru. Forgot to give the man his ketchup. One shot to the head. Missed that clown Ronald by inches.” “Too bad, he missed. I’ve always hated that guy,” Mary added with a laugh. “Oh, great,” Lance sighed. “Now we’ll be issuing alerts to Wendy’s, Burger King, and Carl’s Jr. to make sure they don’t forget the condiments. One thing though bothers me.” “What’s that?” “The description. Each one is different. We’ve got a perp between 5’ 10” to 6’ 4”, brown, green, or blue eyes, weighs 180 to 250, and has every hair color under the rainbow. A regular chameleon.” “Disguise?” Mary offered. “Perhaps, but each killing seems to be a spur of the moment thing. Done when the guy feels slighted about something. He certainly couldn’t predict when they would happen.” “But knowing human nature it’s inevitable someone will screw up sooner or later. Stuff that pisses off the average person makes this guy go bonkers,” added Alex. “Maybe he dresses up when he’s out cruising for the kill.” “Could be,” agreed Lance. Just then the door to the room opened and the supervisor of the special federal task force walked in. “Hey boss,” said Lance, “how was your weekend off?” “Oh, great, excellent in fact. Very relaxing. Got a lot done. Too bad the weekends are so short,” the man called Slim answered as he sat down at an empty desk. “What’s this, another one?” looking at the fax Alex had laid on top. “Yep, he’s been busy. A very bad boy,” said Lance. “What do you make of it boss?” The man called Slim leaned back in his chair. Propped his feet on the desk. Lit a cigar. Blew smoke rings. Paused before he spoke. “I think they’re a lot of plum crazies out there. That’s what I think.” |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #10 Second place (tie): #8, #9 Fourth place: #6 Fifth place: #4 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Balancing Act S. Minanel sminanel@earthlink.net |
#1 of 10 |
| 28 words | |
| Time delves the parallels in Beauty's brow - who's depressed by the fat under her chin - but Ugly's aging's easier somehow - she had never looked that good to begin. |
|
| Balancing Act Carole Davis davisclc@hotmail.com |
#2 of 10 |
| 162 words | |
| Walking the balance beam between two worlds, one of the child you were, and the other of the near adult you are now, I wonder exactly where it was that little boy jumped off leaving me dangling in air, in search of solid ground. Floundering about for a while, I eventually regained my bearings and tried to get back into step. In front of me is the silhouette of a man with attributes from both worlds, confusing you and I simultaneously. Sometimes I think I see a trace of the boy doubling back behind me to shake me up a bit. I hear smidgens of simple words you used to speak as if you were still on the same plane, yet you have bounded forward at a pace I have difficulty keeping up with, though I bend over backwards trying. As time rolls forward I’ll walk a narrow line, learning to straddle the past with one foot and the future with the other. But on rare occasions – I might turn around quickly and glimpse that boy again, landing me slightly off balance once more. |
|
| Balancing Act Toni Giarnese jtgiarnese@sbcglobal.net |
#3 of 10 |
| 81 words | |
| I look across the room and find you, head held high, learning what it means to hesitate, to move your feet the way a mason scores stone. With tentative steps you move in the line of direction, a touchstone between the joy and the fuss. Now your hand settles on mine. I whisper, we’re in this together. The tango buttons on us like an old sweater. A miracle, though some might call it common as a table covered in white linen. |
|
| Balancing Act Deborah Steinberg debbysteinberg@aol.com |
#4 of 10 |
| 987 words | |
| Amongst beeping traffic, long gray sidewalks patterned
by wads of blackened gum and countless newly-opened specialty shops already
displaying neon “EVERYTHING MUST GO” signs existed a bookstore. A gem
well-hidden from Fordham Road, steps away from the Bronx’s famous,
thoroughly red-carpeted Loew‘s Paradise Theatre. Filled with shelves upon shelves of fresh novels, Henderson’s Books seemed to await my oily fingerprints. Every Saturday, I was bestowed with a literary paradise scented of wood polish and freshly printed pages. Not to mention the overhead, colorful turntables of bookmarks that would take eons to reach. “Don’t handle everything, Debbie,” mom said. Of course not. As she’d explained millions of times, I could ruin the smooth paperback covers. No longer would they possess that crack upon being opened. And all because of me. So I had to be gentle. Easy enough. The store was owned by an eternally white-haired couple who reminded me of doves. They adored mother, probably because she kept them in business with book purchases. Lest we forget that when Mr. Henderson installed a new Lottery machine, mom became his biggest fan. Week after week, ticket after printed ticket, she became several hundreds, even thousands, of dollars richer, easily cutting her losses on unlucky days. And guess who received a tremendous tip for simply being nice. Mom and I started out with the tiny, soft Little Miss series. They told a story of merely one sentence per page., but I was so in-love with the cute, round characters! Each was of a different color. Each wore a different outfit. And each indicated a hard-learned lesson at the end. Usually. The key to identification of a lesson involved careful attention to every word and illustration. While lessons were typically expected to arrive at the end of a story, this was not always the case. One needn’t have been a genius in order to discover a significant message by the middle of a particular tale. If, however, you were a stubborn child, you might experience difficulty when searching for the lesson in Little Miss Stubborn. It was as simple as that. Oh, marvelous simplicity! I hope to have been five-years-old upon having deemed Little Miss Scatterbrain my favorite. She was red, with a large nose, and wore a green hat. Little Miss Scatterbrain couldn’t quite get it together until she discovered the power of focus Quite so mutual a fate that, at the age of eight, my lack of attention (to mom’s words and demands, overall) was attributed to my “astrological sign of Libra“. As opposed to, well, tactics upheld, honorably, by childhood. Indeed, I am symbolized by the slightly unbalanced scales (and if you grew up with my family, you’d clearly understand why). By the age of twelve, mother freely named my sarcasm, indecisiveness, and sweet tooth traits of the stars. And she chalked-up my academic excellence, neat handwriting and artistic skills to gifted genes. Mother, a Pisces, worshipped Saints (all of them), Neil Diamond, Princess Diana, the Pope… and a highly-feminine, male Astrologer with a fiery-red mop of hair who bordered on a resemblance equally occupied by Ronald McDonald, Prince and the Pope. The Astrologer spread peace and love, daily, to everyone (from Aries to Pisces) and was a rough combination of royal garb and purple glitter. From a distance, he appeared to have been a woman. From up close, where mom viewed his brief, televised appearances, he could’ve been male. From where she stood, gender was not an issue. He knew what was best for her. Therefore, he knew what was best for me. And she made sure I knew it. At fifteen: “You ought to become a Reporter, Debbie. That’s a great career for a Libran!” At eighteen: “Debbie, the Astrologer said that you should knot a red ribbon on your outfit to ring love into the new year. Here, let’s tie it onto your bra-strap- no one should see!” Always: “Watch your weight or that number will go up and down, up and down. Just like the scales!” Forever: “Your ultimate goal is to maintain a balanced lifestyle. Don’t let the scales go to extremes.” Regarding the ideology of love: “Librans marry young. And not just once!“ When graduating health concerns surrounding mother forced withdrawal from post-secondary schooling, she credited my drop-out status to “the Libran inability to commit.” When Criminal Justice, Psychology, Fashion Design, Education and Culinary Arts entertained my fancy during prolonged consideration of a potential major, mother liberally entertained these options with unlikely dreams of modeling (“Librans are attractive… sometimes…”), performing (“… especially talented in the arts,”…) or anything else (…and they can‘t make up their own damned minds”). Well, I decidedly moved out at the excited age of twenty-three. Though mother had proven open-minded about very little, one belief of hers ruled out every other: “Your problem is that you want everything, and everyone, to be fair. Librans want to make peace. Well, you can’t save the world. You can’t change anyone- only yourself. So stop dreaming so much!” Warmed by a duffel bag, cooled by tears, I arrived into a small town barely one state away by bus, reality in hand. Here, I would be offered skyline views of New York City, employment as a live-in au pair, sweet thoughts of mother and magical refuge far from the unsettling agendas of others. Not too far. But far enough to trust that the kisses blown into the Hudson wind would be caught by their rightful owner. |
|
| Balancing Act Gregory Christiano gregoryjnc@hotmail.com |
#5 of 10 |
| 1411 words | |
| Like any other patrolman, Jim Donovan dreamed of the
bright lights and action in mid-town…of a beat where things happened and a
young rookie could distinguish himself. Then he got his break and half-wished
it never came along! “Donovan, come in my office,” said Captain Barnes, “I may have a job for you.” As Donovan sat down the Captain continued, “How’s your dancing, Donovan? Do you get along with the ladies? Don’t laugh – this is business!” Donovan squirmed his 6 foot frame a little. He had dark hair, handsome features and eager to please. “I…I guess I get by, Sir,” came the answer, “Why?” The Captain, a man in his fifties and looking to retire soon, explained his plan. “The midtown squad is having trouble with these socialites. They show a fortune in jewels in the swank nightclubs, then complain when someone fingers them and they lose their precious trinkets!” Holding his fingers to his chin, Donovan responded, “What will I be doing, sir?” “Go undercover, hang around with them. Drift in and out of the night spots and get a line on the gang behind the robberies. Pose as an out-of-town playboy. You got the looks! The job shouldn’t be too hard to take!” The boys in the locker room roared when Jim Donovan confessed about the new assignment. ‘Glamour Puss’ was the mildest term heard! Donovan was changing out of his uniform to his street clothes. “Lay off, I didn’t ask for the job – but I’ll do my best while I’m on the case!” He had a robust expense account and a new, well-tailored suit for the occasion. It took some time at first…young Donovan drifted around the better places, feeling his way, gradually getting to know the usual crowd. He entered a ritzy nightclub one evening and was called over by a gentleman he had met before. “There’s Jim! You remember, Clair. I introduced him last night. Come over Jim and join us.” “Thanks,” answered Jim, straightening his bow tie, “Hello Gordon.” Clair Stevens was a stunning blonde, dressed in a silky red gown and wearing a breathtaking necklace, loaded with precious gems. Gordon, her brother, was a rich lawyer frequenting this spot as a regular. “You’re a man of mystery,” said Clair, “You never tell us anything about yourself, Jim.” “I didn’t want to bore you,” Jim said, dryly, “Care to dance?” As he waltzed around the dance floor, a pleasant thought entered Jim’s mind, “If the boys could only see me now.” He turned and spotted a shady-looking man staring intently at Clair’s jewels. “That character,” thought Jim, “I’ve seen him around somewhere, and always near people with money and jewels.” The man approached Gordon, “I met you at the club Gordon, didn’t I? Good evening Miss Stevens. I see you’re wearing that gorgeous necklace again!” “Why not?” she responded with a subtle smile, “It’s no use to me in the jewel case at home.” It was a casual meeting, but young Donovan heard enough to make him think and suspect the man was up to no good. He said good night to all but didn’t go home. Channing offered a ride to Gordon, his sister and Gordon’s date, a red-head with an expensive fur and bracelet. “Don’t bother Channing,” said Gordon Stevens, “We can get a cab.” “Don’t be silly Gordon, I’ll be glad to drop you off.” They accepted his offer and got in. Meantime, a half a block down the street, Donovan hailed a cab, showed the driver his badge and told him to follow Channing’s car. It was nearly three hours of waiting in a dark alley opposite the residence of the Gordon’s, after Channing Drake delivered the threesome to the door. Donovan’s patience was rewarded. He saw three, well dressed men pull up in the same car Channing Drake had driven the socialites to their high rise. “Drake isn’t with these characters. I’ll have to follow them anyway.” Donovan waited till the men entered the elevator. Checking the apartment directory at the concierge’s station, he found the apartment number and the Gordon’s floor. All was quiet on the eighth floor, but when Donovan tried the knob, Gordon’ apartment door was unlocked. He opened it slowly and entered. Drawing his revolver he overheard one of the men…”They’re all tied up, including the maid! The chief said the ice is in the jewelry case – probably in the bedroom.” “Okay boys, this party is over, we start the next one down at the station house.” “It’s a cop!” cried one of the hoods, “Someone fingered us!” Donovan was just beginning to read them their rights and disarm them, when – he was struck from behind and knocked unconscious. The third member of the gang had slipped around a bedroom and came up on Donovan from behind. Next day, feeling like a fool with a terrible headache, he reported to the precinct headquarters and Captain Barnes. “So I bungled the job! They got away before I could get to my cell phone and call for backup. Want me off the case Captain?” Donovan’s head was bandaged and it was still throbbing, but he suffered no concussion! “You’re stuck with it, Donovan. The boys who made the actual take didn’t know you. Channing wasn’t there either to identify you, as you reported, so you can go on eating caviar with the big shots or nab that gang!” Gordon, his sister Clair and Gordon’s date were sworn to secrecy about Jim Donovan’s real identity…and they introduced him around to help in his assignment. On one such evening in a plush night club Stevens’ introduced Donovan to a very rich widow. “Mrs. Lacey,” said Clair, “this is Jim Donovan, a friend of mine from out of town.” “I’ve heard of you Mrs. Lacey,’ said a rather overwhelmed Donovan , “ and your famous jewel collection!” Naturally, there was Channing Drake, hanging around the night spot. Donovan, recognizing him, turned to say, “Foolish, isn’t it? Tempting fate wearing all that jewelry!” “You’re too suspicious Donovan,” replied a rather coy Channing, “No one would bother Mrs. Lacey.” The rookie had another hunch; this time he was determined to do the job right. He was deep in thought as they bid each other goodnight, “She must have more than a hundred thousand in diamonds around her neck right now!” He noticed Drake and some of his henchmen outside the nightclub climbing into Channing’s car. Looks very much like they planned to follow Mrs. Lacey’s limo. Donovan hopped in a cab. “They’re the same boys that jumped me! I have a hunch Drake is going along on this job himself. I hope he does, I’ll be right behind him and we’ll get the whole gang!” He was right! Drake and his gang forced Mrs. Lacey’s limo off to the curb, jumped out with guns drawn, “Start taking off the rocks lady! These guns are loaded!” Suddenly, a rather nervous crony yelled, “Look out boss, we got trouble.” Before he could utter another word, Donovan disarmed him and punched him in the jaw. ”Drop your weapons,” Donovan demanded. “Hey, Drake,” shouted another of his cronies. “…it’s the same guy – a cop…ugh!” Donovan socked him as well. Drake, his face covered with a neckerchief, wheeled around and pointed his automatic at Donovan…”So you’re the snoop who tipped the last job. You won’t get in our hair again!” “Take it easy, Drake. You’re done for and you know it.” Young Donovan wasn’t bluffing as Channing Drake’s game was up. Two uniformed officers grabbed Drake from behind. Donovan made sure he had time to call for backup. Later Drake and his men were booked at the precinct. “You look a little sloppy, Jim,” joked the captain, “the girls in the bright spots wouldn’t know you now!” “I guess not, Sir,” quipped Donovan, “By the way, when do I go back in uniform?” “Not a chance, Jim!” said the Captain, “That boyish charm of yours would be wasted on an ordinary shift.” “What luck! I’ll probably spend the rest of my career getting ulcers with the celebrities or from undercover work.” Donovan smiled, hands in his pants pockets, bouncing back and forth on his heels. “Someone has to do the job, Jim,” reasoned Captain Barnes, “I used to pound the beat ages ago and even I had to put up with all the small talk.” |
|
| Balancing Act glenlee10@sky.com |
#6 of 10 |
| 2405 | |
| Learning to ride a bike is as big a part of growing up
as acne; only it comes a little sooner. Most youngsters learn to ride when Dad
holds onto the saddle and his child pedals furiously, squealing in fear and
delight. My Dad was too busy working to teach me, so I was eight when my
thirteen-year-old brother decided he would do it. I didn’t have a bike of
my own but he thought Mum’s bike would do. I was too small to reach the
ground or the pedals when I was sitting on the seat. I didn’t want to ride any old bike. “I can’t do it,” I whined. “You can do it,” Marcus said. “Just hang on.” He held the bike steady, made sure I had a good grip on the handlebars and pushed. Then he let go and I whizzed down the road, picking up speed, the pedals whirring like windmill sails in a storm. I kept my feet out of the way and the bike and I sailed across the turning circle at the end of the road. “The brakes!” my brother screamed. “Use the sodding brakes!” I remember thinking, brakes? What brakes? Then as I ran out of road, I began to run out of satisfactory alternatives. It was either crash into the fence of a neighbour’s front garden, fall off onto the hard road or steer into the alley that ran from the end of our road. It was a pedestrian route only, and to ensure that no loony tried to drive his car up the alley, the council had erected two concrete posts in its mouth. There may have been more screaming behind me. I think I heard a noise but it was indistinct and might just have been the wind in my hair. I hung on. It was a balancing act beyond belief. Had it been an audition for circus school, I’d have passed with flying colours. Marcus told me later that there was only an inch to spare on each side as I sped between the posts. The alley sloped uphill so by the time Marcus caught up with me, the bike was slowing and I was seriously wobbling. He caught me just before I toppled off. “You idiot,” he shouted. “Why didn’t you use the bloody brakes like I told you?” And he clipped me round the ear, just before I jumped off. When we got home Marcus had a clout from Mum for putting me in danger and another for messing around with her bike. I learnt a lot that day. I still couldn’t ride a bike but throughout my childhood, I seemed to have to steer a narrow route between conflicting forces. I learnt to hang on. I learnt there was rarely much room for manoeuvre. Always, I walked a tightrope, holding my breath in case I fell and my safety net turned out to be just a flimsy film of nothingness. The safety net I should have had, my family, was suspect. My mother might support me on an issue but on the other hand, she might turn on me as viciously as my worst enemy. There was no identifying beforehand, which it would be. She was as likely to push me off the edge of the cliff as run and catch me when I fell. Dad was little use. Much as I loved him, I discovered that quite early on. And Marcus? Like me, he did his best to keep his head down. At school and at university, I was quiet and studious and apart from the one incident when I suffered from depression and had to, ‘go away for a while’, as Mum always put it, I never rocked the boat and my teenage years were surprisingly trouble free. I never dared to allow hormones to unsettle me. Until I met Derek that is, when I was 23. Mum didn’t think much of Derek. The first night I brought him home she was all smiles and they chatted over a cup of coffee but after he’d gone she turned on me. For once I’d missed the signs. I should have known better but I was in love. “A bricklayer?” she spat, as soon as I returned to the lounge after seeing Derek out. “You can do much better than that, my girl!” The glow I’d been feeling all evening disappeared and I fled the room in tears. “And don’t think you’re too big for a good hiding either.” The words followed me upstairs. I didn’t seek confrontation but Mum was determined that I was going to give Derek up. It was no good telling her I loved him. “What do you know about love?” she sneered. We fought bitterly during the following seven days. She used all the weapons in her armoury, and they were all powerful ones; blackmail, moral blackmail and her weak heart. Mum was a dirty, underhanded fighter and even though I knew this, she still managed to erode my resolve. Then she went quiet, turning that sorrowful, hurt look on me rather than talking to me. She must have made Dad’s life hell because finally, after about two months of this treatment he came to me. “Please make it up with your mother,” he begged. “Your attitude is killing her.” MY attitude I thought, screaming inside. But Dad, bless him, was only the messenger. I wanted to shout at him. I wanted to tell him to be a man and to stand up to her. But I knew this wouldn’t happen. Not now. It was too late in their married life. I didn’t do as Dad had bid. Mum must have reckoned I was slighting her flag of truce, and her silence became more intense and her ‘looks’ more pointed. Derek never visited our house again, not after I’d told him about the argument, though I didn’t tell him everything, of course, but we still continued to date and out of the blue, he bought me an engagement ring. It was a wonderful evening when he asked me to marry him. Or it would have been but for the black shadows that followed me everywhere. A wonderful man loved me and I tried to forget my problems, but it was difficult and even the solitaire diamond set in gold and platinum seemed tarnished by them. After I’d finally torn myself away from his arms I went home. It was late. I didn’t expect anyone to be up but they were all there, in the dining room. The television was on but the sound had been turned down. I can see the tableau even now. Mum was sitting in a wooden, dining chair. Her back was straight and her feet were tucked underneath her as though she was spring-loaded. Dad was standing by the mantelpiece looking sad and Marcus stood next to Mum with his hand on the back of her chair. My excitement died. It was apparent a storm was about to break and whatever was wrong, by brother was siding with Mum. Dad never took sides so it was two against one; them against me. The television flickered. My concentration slid away from the inevitable to the ridiculous. It was a talk show. I watched the host introduce some frothy, blonde, suddenly-I’m-a celebrity nonentity, to a wildly cheering audience. “Switch the television off, Frank.” Dad did as Mum ordered. “I want Sandra’s complete attention.” She’d got it. “Sit down.” She pointed to a chair similar to the one she was sitting in. I shook my head. I remained standing. I was terrified. I needed to run and hide. I should have turned round and left that house forever. I had somewhere to go. Derek would have taken me in. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but at the time I was too frightened to move. “I thought I’d made it quite clear that you were not to see that man?” The question, if that was what it was, hung in the air between us. How could I answer it? If indeed an answer was possible. I was damned if I agreed with her and damned if I didn’t. She mistook my silence for insolence, deliberately, I think. It gave her more ammunition. The room was hot. I took off my coat and hung it over my arm, as though it might form a barrier between myself and whatever would come next. “You will not, I repeat not, marry a man who gets his hands dirty for a living.” “But…” “Be quiet!” Dad shuffled his feet nervously. The knuckles of Marcus’s hand, where he was gripping the chair, were white. “Your father has telephoned your boyfriend,” she almost spat out the word, “and he has been told in no uncertain terms that if he comes near you again, the police will be called.” “But you can’t!” The words burst from me and I took a step forward. Mum stared me in the eye. “Don’t you raise your voice to me!” The silence was heavy and menacing and it was then that Mum pushed me over the cliff. “I have told him of your mental problems,” she said, “and how you were incarcerated that time in the hospital. I don’t think you’ll be seeing any more of him.” She pushed herself up from the chair as though she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. She smiled. I remember how white and even her teeth were. I remember that the smile didn’t reach her eyes. But her smiles never did. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “It has been a long evening.” And she left the room, leaving me nowhere to go, having aced any argument I might have had. Dad and Marcus trailed from the room after her. “’Night,” Dad muttered but wouldn’t look me in the face. I stood in the middle of the dining room. Tears ran down my face. I couldn’t stop them. I cried quietly. The only satisfaction I had was that she couldn’t hear my anguish. Hours later I tried to telephone Derek but found that someone had disconnected the phone and taken it away. My mother, of course. She believed in knowing her enemy and planning ahead. I didn’t see Derek again. If he tried to contact me he failed. Mum always got to the post first and I was forbidden to answer the telephone or the door. She even had the telephone service changed to receive incoming calls only. It must have seriously inconvenienced her but she got her way and Derek was removed from my life. She broke my heart and my spirit. This time, I’d hit the concrete posts and the depression that followed was blacker and deeper than the first had been. I had to give up my job and became more or less housebound. Mum must have considered it was worth it. She never once showed any signs of remorse, convinced that what she’d done had been the right thing to do. Marcus brooded for weeks but if he felt guilty he didn’t to express it and one day he left home and just didn’t return. I had a postcard from him a week later. It had been posted in Yarmouth and just said, “I’m OK. I’m not coming home. Look after yourself. Love Marcus.” Slowly I returned back from that place of nightmares. I found a new job at the place where Mum worked but it didn’t pay well, not enough for me to leave home, so I remained under her care. I stayed home most evenings but occasionally went out with her and Dad to the firm’s get-togethers. That was where I met Justin. He was the Marketing Manager’s son. He worked at the firm too. “He has a bright future with the company,” Mum assured me. “He’ll earn good money before he’s much older.” “He’s a catch,” she said. “Don’t mess it up. So put a smile on you face and stop looking so sullen all the time.” I suppose Justin looked twice at me because I was thrown at him. I don’t know what he saw in me but he asked me out on a date. I didn’t question why he wanted me. I didn’t ask why the other girls at the company ignored him and gave me pitying looks. Whatever, Mum made sure it went from there to the altar. Justin and I have been married for three years. I don’t work anymore. “No wife of mine is going out to work,” he brags. What he means is, no wife of his with a bruised face and a split lip must be seen out in public. Which means I rarely go out. The groceries are ordered on-line and delivered. We have no help around the house. “You’re home all day, you can do the housework,” my husband says. We moved down south when Justin changed jobs. He was headhunted and has a much better job and a huge pay packet with generous bonuses. He is the perfect son-in-law, according to Mum’s reasoning. I have no friends because Justin thinks he is all the company I should need and he won’t let Mum and Dad visit without at least a fortnight’s warning. I suppose that is to allow the swelling around my black eyes to go down first. The groceries have been delivered for the day and I have put them away. The washing and ironing are done and Justin’s shirts have been folded and put in his cupboard. I have polished the black shoes that he wants to wear tomorrow and the house is clean. But I haven’t made the bed. There is little point. I will rumple the sheets anyway. My solitaire diamond ring shines on my finger. I will never take it off again though someone else may do afterwards. If I hold my hand up to the light, the diamond twinkles as the sun catches each carefully cut face. It is a beautiful ring. I could have had a beautiful life. But I was cheated. The ring that Justin gave me, for the sake of convention, is in the drawer. He chose it. It is a heavy ring, an ugly ring. The three sapphires are too big for my small hand but at the time it showed that my fiancé was wealthy. I am balanced between two worlds; living and dying. I am frightened of both but the vodka and the pills will help me slide from one to the other and I shall miss the concrete posts. I hope that God will catch me before I tumble. I pray that He will be there for me, because since I was eight years old, nobody else has been. |
|
| Balancing Act RUBY ASTARI author81@gmail.com |
#7 of 10 |
| 137 words | |
| Aren't you tired? Silently I wonder as you wake me from my deepest slumber. There's a wail from my sister demanding her breakfast readily served while dear brother stays quiet and our lethargic father's eyes remain shut. Oh, you must be. Loads of housework are waiting and your hands are barely free. Even as the sun rises high scorching us until we're dry, you know you just can't quit now. It's your daily routine of a reality show. Yes, I am sure you are. The sky is getting dark. Still, I am caught up in this wonder, 'though I choose to watch you have more fun whenever you have the rare, free time, so you'll get to recollect your sanity and smile before you return on the same, old track because that's how you're balancing your act! |
|
| Balancing Act petbesan@yahoo.com |
#8 of 10 |
| 956 words | |
| There she was again, amidst the crowd of pseudo-kindred
spirits. In a lot of ways they think like her. In many ways they act like her,
or at least the way she acts in her head or when no one’s around. Still,
she’s not sure what they do think of her, and more importantly, what they
would think of her if they knew everything. She can tell it’s not going to be one of her better days. There are a few new people in the crowd. New people always mess with the equilibrium. To make things worse the new and semi-new people nearly outnumber the familiar people. Carefully placed on the outskirts, but still close enough to claim involvement, she observes. The conversations ebb and flow among the group. Those in which the whole group participates are the hardest to handle. She knows they notice she’s not talking, but there’s still nothing she can do about it. She doesn’t know yet what will shock the new people. She doesn’t know what will go how far over their heads. She doesn’t even know how much laughter, teasing, and shocked, stunned, or confused faces she can take tonight, even from the familiar people. Guys make it harder; single guys even more so. With girls it’s not so bad, likely it has to do with her lack of worry what they think of her body, clothing, hair, make-up and sometimes even expressions. She can usually get over things and really join in by the end of an evening. The guys, though, present a challenge. They could read many things into the blonde hair, the short shorts, the semi-tight/semi-low-cut shirt, the big boobs, the skinny yet shapely legs, the shy smiles, the bemused thought-invoked expressions, and the countless other non-verbal signals and expressions that she’s completely to somewhat unaware that she’s giving off. Even worse are the ones she’s somewhat to completely aware that she’s sending, on purpose or not. In real time, she can’t notice, recognize, interpret, and respond to any signals they might be sending her. By the time words even enter the picture she’s well beyond any feeling of control she may have had over the situation. Control is important to her. It’s why she spends most of her life in her head. She can control the world in her head; what people say, how they react to her, how she reacts to them. She controls nothing in the real world, least of all herself. All this time she desires, looks for and attempts to control herself and other things in the world, when what she really needs and wants is authority. All she needs is to know that if she gets into the wrong situation, advertently or inadvertently, that she can get out of it, without getting hurt, and with as little hurt to others as possible. She doesn’t believe enough in herself to say no and leave the situation or take the steps to defuse it. She doesn’t believe anyone would take her seriously if a situation were to get out of hand. Still she sits, deflecting any and every attempt to draw her in and make her just another one in the crowd. The very thing she wants most is handed to her again and again, but, even though she recognizes it, she rejects it each time. Maybe that’s just what she fears most – being just another face in the crowd, someone no one will notice or remember, someone who doesn’t exist. Instead she will stand out by the sheer force of her willpower to not exist; it will make her someone to remember. The conversations are more listless now; people are getting tired, thinking of what they need to do the next day. The evening is coming to an end; she’s missing her chance, just as she has so many times before. As usual, she tries to concentrate harder on the conversations, trying harder and harder to come up with a comment that will fit in. As usual, it changes very little. The conversations are a little too far beyond her knowledge and experience; a little too far beyond her passions and interests. She just has nothing to say about these things, and she knows most of the things she would have to say are things beyond the others’ scope or in the opposite direction of thought of everyone there. It’s no use to say anything she will really mean. The repercussions would be way too many for any part of an opinion she could offer. While she admits this to herself and lets another opportunity for them to know the real her pass her by, she tries to listen, follow, and understand at least enough to make a comment that means nothing. One of those comments she’s perfected over years and years of social interactions where she has hid herself; a question of wording or a comment on how something could be construed wrong. Anything that would let them know that she does still exist; that she’s there and a part of the group. Each time she finally comes up with something to say she repeats it over and over in her head, trying to find just the right spot to interject it. But, as usual, the conversation moves on, it doesn’t fit anymore. It sounded pretty stupid anyway. One by one people get up and leave. Soon she finds herself among the last remaining. It’s time to go home, the party’s over. She missed her chance again, just as she had suspected would happen from the very beginning. Too much thought, too many new people, too many things to keep track of, too many things she couldn’t control. |
|
| Balancing Act McChandler www.geocities.com/marlowechandler/mchandler.html |
#9 of 10 Runner-up |
| 2049 words | |
| It was Saturday. The man called Slim slipped quietly
into the diner. Picked up a newspaper from the rack inside. Took a forward
facing seat in a rear booth. A long standing habit. Never have your back to the
door. That action’s saved his bacon more than once. He ordered his usual: two fried eggs, ham, potatoes, black coffee -- hold the toast. Flirted with the waitress. Pinched her butt. She turned and looked at him. Poured his coffee. She smiled. He winked back. The usual. Opened the morning paper. The headlines screamed at him: ‘INSANE GUNMAN KILLS TWO’; ‘LOVE TRIANGLE CLAIMS THREE’; ‘MAD BOMBER ON THE LOOSE’. Slim smiled. Sipped his coffee. “The world is full of nuts these days,” he thought. Breakfast arrived: two eggs easy-over, sausage, pancakes, and toast. His nervous system went on high alert. Respiration increased. Blood pressure rose. Adrenaline flowed. He felt a migraine coming. “This isn’t what I ordered,” he spit out as the waitress sat the plate in front of him. “You’re absolutely right sir,” she replied. “I’m sorry. It’s what the cook gave me. I’ll take it back for you.” “No, wait. Let me see the idiot. It’s his problem, not yours.” “I’ll get…,” she started and spied the cook glaring at her. “Hey! You wanna see me?” the fat man bellowed from behind the counter. “That would me nice,“ Slim replied. The cook strutted over to the booth. Rested his ham-like fists on the table. “You got a problem mister?” Slim grinned. Pulled a gun from his waistband. “Not anymore,” and the bewildered looking cook was instantly shot between the eyes. The man fell to the floor. Stone cold dead. “Now that’s what I call ‘fried’,” Slim commented. He got up from the booth. Left a hefty tip for the hysterical waitress. Calmly walked out. Dropped the automatic in the mailbox by the front door. “The world is sure full of plum crazies. I’ll never eat there again”, he thought as he climbed into his car and drove off. # By nightfall, the man called Slim had blown by the state line. The diner was a fading memory 400 miles away. Found a run down motel by the interstate. The Traveler’s Rest. Kind that rents by the hour. Picked a room in the back. Parked in the rear, car hidden from view. Switched license plates just in case. Went in to register. Paid cash as usual. Used a fictitious name. Also as usual. Displayed his California driver’s license as ID. Kept the 49 other ones in his luggage. They always come in handy. Slept peacefully through the night, visions of sugar plum crazies dancing in his head. The sun shining through the broken blinds woke him with a start. Almost shot out the window. Amazing how the sun resembles a plum crazy with a blowtorch he thought. Had one hellacious dream –- or was it? Who in their right mind would shoot a cook over a bad meal? Why they would have to be plain loco, or a plum crazy. Slim chuckled. Not him. Nothing upsets him anymore. Even-keel Slim. There was something bothering him. It happened the day before. But that was yesterday and yesterday’s gone. Today was a new day. Boy, did that waitress ever have a nice butt. Hooters weren’t too shabby either. “Have a good night’s rest?” the desk clerk asked as he checked out. “Fabulous. Slept like the dead. By the way is there a food store nearby?” “Yeah, there’s one next to the gas station at the next traffic light.” “Do they sell sushi?” “No. It’s just a little country store. You’ll want the Piggly-Wiggly a little further on down.” “Oh, good. I want to test a theory of mine.” The clerk raised an eyebrow. Slim gave him a deadly stare in return. “Umm…well have a good time then,” the clerk stammered. “Oh, I believe I will,“ said Slim walking out. He fired up his car. Sped on down the road. On the look-out for the Wiggly-Pig –- Piggly-Wiggly –- whatever. Names weren’t a big thing for him. He’d know it when he saw it. A mile down he found it. Parked close to the front door. Locked the car. Can’t be too careful these days he thought. Too many nuts and criminals out there. Once inside purchased ten items. Exactly ten. No more, no less. Express lane limit. Express lane law. It didn’t take long to happen. His worse nightmare. In fact it ended in front of him. Figures. It’s the fat guy every time. The man put fifteen items on the counter. Slim recounted. Fifteen it was. “Hey,” he said to the man while pointing to the express lane sign. “Can’t you read? You’re five items over the limit.” “Mack, what the hell d’ya mean?” the man said turning to face Slim. “So what if I’m over. Who are you, the express lane police?” the man added laughing. Slim turned to the clerk. “Are you going to let him get away with it?” “Oh, come on man. Cut me a break,” he replied starting to ring up the fifteen purchases. The man called Slim turned to the express lane offender. “To answer your question, no I’m not the express lane police. However, I believe in rules. Just call me the express lane terminator.” “The what?” was all the man managed to spit out before the first of five bullets hit him squarely in the chest. One for each item over the limit. “Now you’re six over,” Slim remarked, dropping the gun in the dead man’s grocery bag. The clerk pissed himself, then passed out. Slim smiled. Packed up his purchases. Left a twenty dollar bill on the counter. After all he wasn’t a thief. Swept past the shocked customers. Walked out. Got into his car and off he went. # The man called Slim sped out of the lot. Hopped on I-95. Headed north towards home. Work came early Monday morning. Damn. Forgot to buy sushi at that store. What was it? The Wiggly Pig? No, the Piggly Wiggly. Probably good thing he didn’t. The stuff they had looked past its’ expiration date. He pulled into a rest stop. Bought some coffee from a machine. Used the facilities. Went back to his car and opened the trunk. Unlocked a black suitcase. Glanced around to make sure no one was looking. Removed the false bottom. Felt inside for the two remaining guns. Picked one out and stuffed it in his waistband. Maybe he’d need it. Then again, maybe not. Better safe than sorry. Slim got back on the interstate. Checked his speedometer. Kept it steady right at the limit. After all, only a criminal would speed. He certainly wouldn’t. No, not him. Laws were important. Without them anarchy would rule. Something flickered into his subconscious. Had to do with the sushi again. That’s right. Of course he didn’t buy any. Not only was it more than likely spoiled, but if he had, it would have put him over the limit. And Slim imagined bad things can happen to people who don’t follow rules. He recalled hearing something on the radio. An ugly incident. Ten is ten, not fifteen. Anybody in their right mind knows that. “Sure are a lot of plum crazies out there.” Couple hours later got back to town. Dinner time too. Where to go and eat? Has to be someplace fast. No more diners for him for awhile. For some reason they weren’t appealing to him anymore. Exited at the airport. Drove a short ways and spotted a place. A fast-food joint. Quick and easy. In and out in a flash. Used the drive-thru. Placed his order. Paid, then drove to the pick-up window. The cashier handed him his bag. He checked it. Uh-oh! The man called Slim started to see red. How could someone do this? How could they forget? Are they just dumb, or plain stupid? “Hey, pal –- move it. You’re holding up the line,” the man said. “Cool it, Jack. Just double-checking my order.” “Well, pull up and do it in the parking lot, bud. Ain’t got all day.” Wrong thing to say. Besides he’d been shorted. He felt devastated. “Pops, where’s the hell’s my ketchup?” he asked. “Can’t eat fries without ketchup. It’s un-American.” “Guess they forgot. Go park and come inside and get some. You’re holding up the line.” The man called Slim put the car in park. Pulled out his gun and shot the cashier between the eyes. Almost hit the hamburger clown standing next to him waving to the kiddies. “Well, at least somebody’s got some red stuff,” Slim remarked as the blood dripped onto the counter as the man collapsed. The clown ducked. People screamed. Slim calmly drove away from the drive-thru, dropping the gun into the open mouth of the clown trashcan at the exit. Drove a short ways down the street and pulled into a truck stop. Parked between two rigs. Unwrapped his hamburger and started to eat. Opened the glove box and got out a couple of packs of ketchup for his fries. The man called Slim popped a fry into his mouth. Shook his head. Why are people so dumb? # “Hey, buddy boy looks like we got us another one. This fax just came in from Philly PD.” “Another one what Alex?” Lance asked absentmindedly peering over the top of the morning paper he was reading. “Another twisted homicide, what else. Seems our boy’s been busy over the weekend. Harrisburg, PA, Williamsburg, VA, and now the Holmesburg section of the City of Brotherly Love. Guy’s got a thing for ‘burgs’ now. Six months ago it was the ‘villes’. Go figure.” “Maybe he got shorted a hamburger once when he was a kid,” John volunteered from the back of the room. “Got post traumatic stress disorder from it.” “Or maybe he got molested by that hamburger clown,” Mary commented. The room erupted in laughter. “What makes you so sure it’s the same person Alex?” Lance asked. “Everything fits. Same caliber and type of gun, a public place, an execution. He’s neat, polite, and the motives behind each one are equally insane; a bad meal, over the limit check-out, and now this –- no ketchup with his fries.” “Huh?” “You heard me. The one in Philly was the cashier in a fast-food drive-thru. Forgot to give the man his ketchup. One shot to the head. Missed that clown Ronald by inches.” “Too bad, he missed. I’ve always hated that guy,” Mary added with a laugh. “Oh, great,” Lance sighed. “Now we’ll be issuing alerts to Wendy’s, Burger King, and Carl’s Jr. to make sure they don’t forget the condiments. One thing though bothers me.” “What’s that?” “The description. Each one is different. We’ve got a perp between 5’ 10” to 6’ 4”, brown, green, or blue eyes, weighs 180 to 250, and has every hair color under the rainbow. A regular chameleon.” “Disguise?” Mary offered. “Perhaps, but each killing seems to be a spur of the moment thing. Done when the guy feels slighted about something. He certainly couldn’t predict when they would happen.” “But knowing human nature it’s inevitable someone will screw up sooner or later. Stuff that pisses off the average person makes this guy go bonkers,” added Alex. “Maybe he dresses up when he’s out cruising for the kill.” “Could be,” agreed Lance. Just then the door to the room opened and the supervisor of the special federal task force walked in. “Hey boss,” said Lance, “how was your weekend off?” “Oh, great, excellent in fact. Very relaxing. Got a lot done. Too bad the weekends are so short,” the man called Slim answered as he sat down at an empty desk. “What’s this, another one?” looking at the fax Alex had laid on top. “Yep, he’s been busy. A very bad boy,” said Lance. “What do you make of it boss?” The man called Slim leaned back in his chair. Propped his feet on the desk. Lit a cigar. Blew smoke rings. Paused before he spoke. “I think they’re a lot of plum crazies out there. That’s what I think.” |
|
| Balancing Act colin93050-acw@yahoo.co.uk |
#10 of
10 Winner |
| 475 words | |
| Even the endless wind seemed to stop to listen as the
young clansman led the horse into the court of the Dread Lord of the Great
Western Desert. Many secretly admired his brave bid for the hand in marriage of
the Great Lord's favorite daughter. Others saw only a common upstart soon to
get his comeuppance. "Dread Lord, allow me to make you this most unworthy gift," he said, all the while struggling to remember the carefully rehearsed requirements of court etiquette. It was a fine animal, more than the boy's family could easily afford. It drew admiring looks from those who understood horses and a modest smile from the Great Lord's daughter. This was the match she was hoping for, but in those far off days it was for her father to make such decisions. The Lord had risen to prominence as a leader of men who spent their lives in the saddle. He knew horses well and his inspection was careful. All the court listened in silence. He paused behind the beast gauging the strength of its hindquarters for carrying a man in full armor. It was then that the horse, itself perhaps as nervous as the young clansman, chose to pass wind loudly and very obviously in the direction of the Dread Lord. Still watching in silence, the courtiers, some with hands straying towards ever-ready sword hilts, looked towards their lord. Was this an affront that could be ignored? Surely the horse or the young clansman or both should be punished on the spot. First the Dread Lord looked steadily into the eyes of the now pale clansman to see what there was to read there. To his credit, the young lad kept his composure. Then he turned to his daughter and those who were close enough saw a depth of meaning in the glances they exchanged. Finally he turned to the horse and slapping it on the rear said in a voice loud enough for all to hear, "Well, it wasn't me this time." And so the silence was well broken as all the court dissolved in laughter for this was the humor of the warrior. The older and wiser heads who understood such things, noted with appreciation that their Lord had once again succeeded in balancing the needs of state with those of family. This was something they respected in a society where family ties and bonds of kinship mattered a great deal. And then of course there would be a wedding feast to look forward to. It had been a good day. Later when the court was dismissed, the Old Chancellor approached and said quietly, "A kindly and wise decision, my Lord. Your daughter seems so happy." "Yes old friend," the Great Lord replied, "and the boy's clan may be small and poor but it is so very well placed to control the mountain passes to the north." |
|
"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club