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"The Beard" (the eighty-third ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Beard" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), July 15, 2008 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| The Beard By matawheeze@gmail.com (Entry #1) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| "I think I'll grow a beard, dear."
"Hmmm? what did you say?" "I think I'll grow a beard, dear heart This fine hirsutian day." "What brought that to your mind, love?" My spouse said earnestly. "The whiskers on my cheeks and lips That so annoyeth me! "'Twill look a trifle odd. I know, But soon you'll grow to care As much as ever for my face Though now concealed with hair. "I've given this a bit of thought It isn't just a whim I'm sick and tired of tending to The growth upon my chin." "I'd love you angel, never fear," My darling mate replied. "With fur, or else without a hair On head, back, face or side. "So cease to pluck the stubble there I'll give a shout if able For the fuzzy, bristly, woolly face, Across the breakfast table. "Mustachioed, bewhiskered one Cease your worried strife You'll ever be, at least to me: My menopausal wife." |
| The Beard By chrischram@gmail.com (Entry #3) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Gentle Reader: This is an
autobiographical essay titled The Beard. It is a personal recollection
of the author's experiences and observations regarding hirsuteness. The
narrative is presented in a breezy, conversational style, that moves the story
along without dwelling on anything important. There is virtually no plot line,
therefore do not expect a surprising twist at the end. There is precious little
character development. There is a liberal sprinkling of four-letter words used
throughout, but the author has endeavored to also use many other words of
varying lengths. There are no untimely deaths in this piece, though many
occurred during the time period being discussed. Finally, the words "hirsute"
or "hirsuteness" are not used at all below this paragraph, but probably should
have been. Some of the worst mistakes of my life have been haircuts. - Jim Morrison I was born in the late 1940s, during what became known as the "Post-War Baby Boom." Maybe it was because all those returning servicemen had become accustomed to very short hair, maybe it was because Truman and Eisenhower didn't have much anyway, but short hair for men was the accepted style for many years to come. When I was a kid, my father would drag me to the barbershop for a "butch," or a "crewcut" or a "flat top." I was provided with a little jar of Butch Wax to make the slightly longer hair in front stand up. I'd use the goop in the jar once or twice, then purposely neglect my hair care as long as I could. When my hair started getting almost right, my parents could no longer ignore it and I'd be delivered back to the barbershop. Then the whole process repeated. By the way, very few boys in my peer group ever got through a whole jar of Butch Wax. Those who did were "strange" and risked being shunned by our miniature society. So things went until high school. In high school hair was a means of group-identity. In my school boys were either "surfers" or "greasers." Those strange few Butch Wax junkies I just mentioned must have devolved into Greasers. They heavily oiled their hair and combed a waterfall in front and ducktail in back. You wouldn't want to touch a greaser's hair, and he would hurt you if you did accidentally touch it. These guys hung out in the Industrial Arts building discussing the nuances of enhanced carburetion and constructing concealable weapons. Surfers, on the other hand used nothing stronger than water on their hair, if they used anything at all. Naturally I was in the surfer group, having years before abandoned Butch Wax for good . It has to be noted that surfers didn't surf, at least I never knew anyone who surfed. No ocean nearby. It was more of a reference to using water as a hair preparation. It also must be noted that oil and water don't mix, but that's a story for another time. The girls were also divided into two main hairstyle groups, combed and bobby pinned or teased and sprayed. I recall sitting behind Sue Jones in Social Studies. She must have had the highest hair in school, and it did look pretty good from the front. But from the back where I was, all I could see were all these little teased tangles that she could never manage to get brushed over smooth. On top of that, despite me being taller than average, I could barely see the blackboard through that massive blonde hedge of hers. That was the year I almost flunked Social Studies. Don't ask me any history questions from the Habsburg dynasty through World War II. From that year of high school to this day, I've always considered the combed look to be more practical and infinitely more attractive. Then came the Beatles. Some of us in the surfer group immediately sensed an opportunity. We'd let our dorky butch haircuts grow long, learn to play guitar, be cool, be boss, be popular. The possibilities were endless. As it turned out, some musical talent was required for the guitar part, but at least we'd lose those dorky butch haircuts. I for one had major experience growing hair. All that seemed necessary was to skip a few of those periodic barbershop trips. As it turned out, there arose a pretty major roadblock in my quest to become a cool surrogate Beatle: the Assistant Principal. Assistant Principals must have been put on this Earth to do all the school's dirty work, so the Real Principal could still be thought of as "a real swell guy whose door was always open if you just needed to talk." The hallway where some friends and I hung out before first period was just a few steps too close to the Assistant Principal's office. "You look effeminate with that long hair. You should get it cut very soon or you'll risk being suspended." (In retrospect he may have been right. I probably did look a little effeminate, having yet to develop sufficient masculine features.) I was outraged. I held up the front cover of my Learn to Play Guitar Like the Beatles book. "You think these guys look effeminate?" I countered. I was sure I had him there. "Yes," he said. The argument was over just like that. It was back to the barbershop. But this time, no more butch cuts. Please! Funny, but a couple years after graduation I had some reason to visit my old high school, and much to my surprise many of the boys were wearing their hair much longer than I could have ever gotten away with. I guess they must have hired a new Assistant Principal. Remember how the title of this piece is The Beard? At some time in my later high school career my parents presented my with the gift of an electric shaver, presumably to remove the manly stubble from my face each morning. Sorry to say, but before that shaver died of old age, it only got a chance to remove a little soft peach fuzz now and then. OK, so my face was still learning how to grow a beard. Moving right along. The dawn of the '70s brought six changes to my life: I got married, finished college, got my first real job and we very soon had a little one on the way. But I also became able to grow facial hair that was visible from farther away than just a couple inches. And I paid my very last visit to a barbershop! Apparently the ability to give haircuts is a secret skill passed from mother to daughter, for I have known many men who have forsaken the barber's chair for the at-home equivalent. I could finally grow my hair any way I wanted, and you know what, when it got down past collar length it looked like crap, curling and flipping up in all kinds of strange, unpredictable ways. So I eventually had to dial it back to a relatively conservative early '60s Beatles look. I must say that to this day I envy those rockers with the long, long, straight, straight hair. OK, back to facial hair. I was able to manage a cute little mustache and longer sideburns. It was those sideburns that led me down the irreversible path to The Beard. You see, I could never quite manage to get those damn things even. Luckily for me, long muttonchop sideburns were in fashion, so all I needed do was lop them off even with my jaw line, and no one would ever guess I was shaving challenged. Well, one thing led to another, and before long the muttonchops had connected themselves up to that cute little mustache, making it a lot less cute, but at the same time, freeing me up from shaving a major swath of facial real estate. By the late '70s I'd given up on electricity and gone to blades, and all I was shaving was the area below my lower lip, down around my chin and my neck below the jaw line. It occurred to me that each day (yes, it did eventually became daily) I was shaving approximately one-third of what a clean-shaven man would shave. And I never did get over being shaving challenged, because I frequently nicked myself. It occurred to me that I was at a kind of a crossroads. One road saw me nearly clean-shaven with many little red-dotted bits of toilet paper stuck on my face. The other road had me tossing my razor in the trash. It was down to this: pain or pleasure. You've already guessed the choice I made. A hint for those who just tuned in: the title of this piece is The Beard. To quote Dr. Seuss totally out of context, "It started in low. Then it started to grow." By 1980 I was the man with The Beard, and I've been the man with The Beard for almost thirty years. My wife is still my personal barber, and tells me I have very attractive eyes and nose. That is my story as I choose to remember it. And now here I am, the sum of all the ages of my life, standing before my bathroom mirror, and staring back at me is this old gray-haired man. His hair is still a little too long, and it's getting really thin on top. But look at that luxurious beard, will you! |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #1 Second place: #3 Third place: #7 Fourth place: #5 Others receiving votes: #2, #4 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Beard matawheeze@gmail.com |
#1 of 7 Winner |
| 131 words | |
| "I think I'll grow a beard, dear." "Hmmm? what did you say?" "I think I'll grow a beard, dear heart This fine hirsutian day." "What brought that to your mind, love?" My spouse said earnestly. "The whiskers on my cheeks and lips That so annoyeth me! "'Twill look a trifle odd. I know, But soon you'll grow to care As much as ever for my face Though now concealed with hair. "I've given this a bit of thought It isn't just a whim I'm sick and tired of tending to The growth upon my chin." "I'd love you angel, never fear," My darling mate replied. "With fur, or else without a hair On head, back, face or side. "So cease to pluck the stubble there I'll give a shout if able For the fuzzy, bristly, woolly face, Across the breakfast table. "Mustachioed, bewhiskered one Cease your worried strife You'll ever be, at least to me: My menopausal wife." |
|
| The Beard Tina Morrison tinamorrison14@gmail.com |
#2 of 7 |
| 142 words | |
| Waiting and buried, stored up in the loft, A mask with one purpose, white curly and soft. Most unassuming, not worn in daylight, Sought after now for a magical night. Joined by another, a swatch of bright red, Which droopily perches atop a man’s head. And a button-down frock, red with white trim, Wasn’t made for a person alleged to be slim. From smooth-faced to scruffy, emerging to sight, His wife’s first reaction: a squeal of delight! Just like the packages under the tree, His presence elicits a childhood glee. The children, awakened by all the fanfare, Come see the commotion that makes them aware; The milk glass is empty, one cookie’s still there, Stockings with toys are arranged with great care. Overjoyed they look up, only to see, A glimpse of the man from last year’s memory . No traces of doubt, as their parents had feared, The belief was still there, with the help of the beard. |
|
| The Beard chrischram@gmail.com |
#3 of 7 Runner-up |
| 1570 words | |
| Gentle Reader: This is an autobiographical essay titled
The Beard. It is a personal recollection of the author's experiences and
observations regarding hirsuteness. The narrative is presented in a breezy,
conversational style, that moves the story along without dwelling on anything
important. There is virtually no plot line, therefore do not expect a
surprising twist at the end. There is precious little character development.
There is a liberal sprinkling of four-letter words used throughout, but the
author has endeavored to also use many other words of varying lengths. There
are no untimely deaths in this piece, though many occurred during the time
period being discussed. Finally, the words "hirsute" or "hirsuteness" are not
used at all below this paragraph, but probably should have been. Some of the worst mistakes of my life have been haircuts. - Jim Morrison I was born in the late 1940s, during what became known as the "Post-War Baby Boom." Maybe it was because all those returning servicemen had become accustomed to very short hair, maybe it was because Truman and Eisenhower didn't have much anyway, but short hair for men was the accepted style for many years to come. When I was a kid, my father would drag me to the barbershop for a "butch," or a "crewcut" or a "flat top." I was provided with a little jar of Butch Wax to make the slightly longer hair in front stand up. I'd use the goop in the jar once or twice, then purposely neglect my hair care as long as I could. When my hair started getting almost right, my parents could no longer ignore it and I'd be delivered back to the barbershop. Then the whole process repeated. By the way, very few boys in my peer group ever got through a whole jar of Butch Wax. Those who did were "strange" and risked being shunned by our miniature society. So things went until high school. In high school hair was a means of group-identity. In my school boys were either "surfers" or "greasers." Those strange few Butch Wax junkies I just mentioned must have devolved into Greasers. They heavily oiled their hair and combed a waterfall in front and ducktail in back. You wouldn't want to touch a greaser's hair, and he would hurt you if you did accidentally touch it. These guys hung out in the Industrial Arts building discussing the nuances of enhanced carburetion and constructing concealable weapons. Surfers, on the other hand used nothing stronger than water on their hair, if they used anything at all. Naturally I was in the surfer group, having years before abandoned Butch Wax for good . It has to be noted that surfers didn't surf, at least I never knew anyone who surfed. No ocean nearby. It was more of a reference to using water as a hair preparation. It also must be noted that oil and water don't mix, but that's a story for another time. The girls were also divided into two main hairstyle groups, combed and bobby pinned or teased and sprayed. I recall sitting behind Sue Jones in Social Studies. She must have had the highest hair in school, and it did look pretty good from the front. But from the back where I was, all I could see were all these little teased tangles that she could never manage to get brushed over smooth. On top of that, despite me being taller than average, I could barely see the blackboard through that massive blonde hedge of hers. That was the year I almost flunked Social Studies. Don't ask me any history questions from the Habsburg dynasty through World War II. From that year of high school to this day, I've always considered the combed look to be more practical and infinitely more attractive. Then came the Beatles. Some of us in the surfer group immediately sensed an opportunity. We'd let our dorky butch haircuts grow long, learn to play guitar, be cool, be boss, be popular. The possibilities were endless. As it turned out, some musical talent was required for the guitar part, but at least we'd lose those dorky butch haircuts. I for one had major experience growing hair. All that seemed necessary was to skip a few of those periodic barbershop trips. As it turned out, there arose a pretty major roadblock in my quest to become a cool surrogate Beatle: the Assistant Principal. Assistant Principals must have been put on this Earth to do all the school's dirty work, so the Real Principal could still be thought of as "a real swell guy whose door was always open if you just needed to talk." The hallway where some friends and I hung out before first period was just a few steps too close to the Assistant Principal's office. "You look effeminate with that long hair. You should get it cut very soon or you'll risk being suspended." (In retrospect he may have been right. I probably did look a little effeminate, having yet to develop sufficient masculine features.) I was outraged. I held up the front cover of my Learn to Play Guitar Like the Beatles book. "You think these guys look effeminate?" I countered. I was sure I had him there. "Yes," he said. The argument was over just like that. It was back to the barbershop. But this time, no more butch cuts. Please! Funny, but a couple years after graduation I had some reason to visit my old high school, and much to my surprise many of the boys were wearing their hair much longer than I could have ever gotten away with. I guess they must have hired a new Assistant Principal. Remember how the title of this piece is The Beard? At some time in my later high school career my parents presented my with the gift of an electric shaver, presumably to remove the manly stubble from my face each morning. Sorry to say, but before that shaver died of old age, it only got a chance to remove a little soft peach fuzz now and then. OK, so my face was still learning how to grow a beard. Moving right along. The dawn of the '70s brought six changes to my life: I got married, finished college, got my first real job and we very soon had a little one on the way. But I also became able to grow facial hair that was visible from farther away than just a couple inches. And I paid my very last visit to a barbershop! Apparently the ability to give haircuts is a secret skill passed from mother to daughter, for I have known many men who have forsaken the barber's chair for the at-home equivalent. I could finally grow my hair any way I wanted, and you know what, when it got down past collar length it looked like crap, curling and flipping up in all kinds of strange, unpredictable ways. So I eventually had to dial it back to a relatively conservative early '60s Beatles look. I must say that to this day I envy those rockers with the long, long, straight, straight hair. OK, back to facial hair. I was able to manage a cute little mustache and longer sideburns. It was those sideburns that led me down the irreversible path to The Beard. You see, I could never quite manage to get those damn things even. Luckily for me, long muttonchop sideburns were in fashion, so all I needed do was lop them off even with my jaw line, and no one would ever guess I was shaving challenged. Well, one thing led to another, and before long the muttonchops had connected themselves up to that cute little mustache, making it a lot less cute, but at the same time, freeing me up from shaving a major swath of facial real estate. By the late '70s I'd given up on electricity and gone to blades, and all I was shaving was the area below my lower lip, down around my chin and my neck below the jaw line. It occurred to me that each day (yes, it did eventually became daily) I was shaving approximately one-third of what a clean-shaven man would shave. And I never did get over being shaving challenged, because I frequently nicked myself. It occurred to me that I was at a kind of a crossroads. One road saw me nearly clean-shaven with many little red-dotted bits of toilet paper stuck on my face. The other road had me tossing my razor in the trash. It was down to this: pain or pleasure. You've already guessed the choice I made. A hint for those who just tuned in: the title of this piece is The Beard. To quote Dr. Seuss totally out of context, "It started in low. Then it started to grow." By 1980 I was the man with The Beard, and I've been the man with The Beard for almost thirty years. My wife is still my personal barber, and tells me I have very attractive eyes and nose. That is my story as I choose to remember it. And now here I am, the sum of all the ages of my life, standing before my bathroom mirror, and staring back at me is this old gray-haired man. His hair is still a little too long, and it's getting really thin on top. But look at that luxurious beard, will you! |
|
| The Beard Taryl French |
#4 of 7 |
| 2259 words | |
| With a name like Olaf, of course I thought of a Viking
– but it was the beard that clinched the image. And later on, after all
the commotion, I couldn’t remember for sure if he said his name was Olaf,
or Erik, or Sven. My name is Jimmy James O’Toole and I was tending bar at Lucky’s that night as the man came in and draped his nearly seven foot tall frame over a bar stool. I watched him snag his worn boot heels into the rungs of the stool and call for a Heineken. I didn’t bother to ask if he wanted a glass, but just slid a beer down the counter. The Lucky wasn’t that kind of place, nor did the large man seem like that kind of guy. I knew right away there was something about the man that made me distinctly nervous. He had these intense blue eyes, that were like the gas flame on the kitchen stove. They peered out from under a matted stack of yellow hair, and he had this crazy beard – all long, bushy, and thick. But those eyes, they seemed to see everything. I tried to keep busy on the other side of the bar, far away from those eyes. They gave me the willies. Then, the stranger called for another beer. “Where’s the man in charge?” The big guy spoke so abruptly that I nearly dropped his Heineken. “Huh?” I was hoping he wasn’t talking to me, though there was no one else nearby. “I asked you where the man in charge is. You know, the man who owns this place. I’m looking for Haunrieter.” The man said, tipping up his beer and swallowing half the bottle in one gulp. “Uh, he’s in the back. Is he expecting you?” I hated to bother Haunrieter without a good reason. He was a scary dude. “Tell him Olaf is here to see him.” The man showed his teeth, I think he considered it smiling. “Haunreiter will know who I am. He’s been expecting me for about 17 years,” the man flashed his teeth again and gulped the last of his beer. “I’ll be right back.” I could feel myself scurrying, but I couldn’t help it. Haunrieter was not a man to mess with, but that guy back at the bar had the look of murder in his eyes. I sort of fell though the opening beside the kitchen that led into a little hallway with two doors, the first one marked “Men”. I tapped on the second door, the one marked “Office”. I was half hoping Haunreiter had found a reason to leave early, and half hoping he was there to take care of this spooky business. “What?!” The man sounded a lot like a barky little mutt I’d had once. Shoot. I hadn’t thought how to say this. The boss hated to be interrupted. Said when we worked the bar, he shouldn’t have to come out front ‘less the place was on fire. I sure hoped this counted… “Um, boss, there’s this, um, guy-,” “Open the goddam door, idiot! I can’t hear damned thing you’re saying!” The voice yelled. I just knew I was going to lose my job, I was praying I wasn’t going to lose my lunch. Haunreiter had influence around this town… I pushed the door open and poked my head in anyway. I could barely see the boss, crammed in between liquor cases and piles of receipts. I stepped in front of his desk, so he wouldn’t have to stand to see me. “I don’t hear fire trucks, Jimmy James,” Haunreiter didn’t yell. It was worse, instead his voice got weird, all soft and whispery. “What is it that has your little pink panties in a bunch, boy? Can’t you see I’m a little busy here?” My voice sounded like that of an eight year old, “I-I,” harrumph, “uh, I didn’t want to interrupt, sir, but there’s this guy at the bar who is insisting that he needs to see you now,” I couldn’t see the boss’s eyes behind the glare from his reading glasses, but he didn’t respond, so I continued, “He says his name is Olaf.” For a moment, I think I saw the man beneath the mask. I was surprised to see Haunrieter’s jaw drop open and for just a moment, he looked seriously shocked. Then slowly, that hateful grin spread across his face. I’d seen that look a couple times before, and it was always right before someone in town mysteriously came up missing. Someone who got on the wrong side of Mr. Haunrieter. The boss set his glasses on the desk and heaved himself out of his leather office chair. He brushed past me and didn’t give me another look, and for that, I was very glad. I watched my fat old boss push himself out of the back room and step into the dim light of the front bar. He looked around, but his look slid past the man with the beard, dismissing him entirely. I found out later that Haunrieter was probably expecting a tall, skinny, blonde punk with glasses, and not the Conan the Barbarian type sitting right in front of him. “What the-? Jimmy James! Get your ass out here!” I heard Haunriter yell. So I stepped quick and jumped up to the boss’s side, thinking maybe he needed me to run for help or something. Instead, he turned that look on me, and I shivered. Softly, he asked, “well? Where exactly is the man who wanted to see me?” I pointed to the giant sitting at the bar, “Right there, s-sir.” “Wha--?” Haunrieter looked incredulous as the man stood and showed his full height. He towered over us by nearly a foot. “You’re not Olaf. Who sent you?” Haunrieter demanded, though his voice had a bluster I’d not heard before. “I AM the man, Haunrieter. I sent myself.” Olaf stated in a matter-of-fact tone, then adding, “you killed my mother.” Haunrieter stood staring up at the man and saw some resemblance of this giant to the skinny punk who lived in the apartment above the bar with his mother so many years ago. “Where’s your scar, boy?” Haunrieter sneered. “Do you do a comb over with your beard to hide the bald spot?” “Actually, it’s a fake.” “What’s fake? What the hell are you talking about?” Olaf slid his fingernails under the edge of the beard and scraped away adhesive. He peeled the whole shaggy thing away from his face in one easy motion, revealing a smooth, handsome jaw marred by a wide ugly scar running from his left cheekbone to his chin. Olaf casually tossed the beard at Haunrieter and the scraggly mat of hair landed on the bald man’s head. It looked like a cat had puked up a hairball on top of him. Haunrieter was enraged. He first turned beet red, then plum purple. “How DARE you show this kind of disrespect me in my own bar!” He screeched, swiping wildly at his head. The other patrons of the bar laughed, and Olaf smiled, but I started edging back. I’d never seen the boss so mad. “I’ve been been back in town for a while now, Haunrieter. I’ve been watching you. I see you haven’t changed a bit. You’re still the same nasty piece of work that you were when I was a kid. You got someone who lives in that upstairs apartment now? Of course you do.” Olaf spat out, his voice trembling a little with his anger. “I spoke to them yesterday. Her name is Maria and her son is Jorge, right? You gonna break her neck and throw her out the window, too? Sure, why not? It’s what you did to my mother. And will you give the boy a scar to match mine when he tries to protect her?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Haunrieter said indignantly, aware that the whole bar was listening. “I never did anything to your mother. I’ve never done anything to anyone! I’ve provided jobs to people who need them and have given this community a place to eat, drink, and be merry!” A sarcastic laugh rang out from the one of the dim corners of the bar. “Nice speech. Too bad it’s all a bunch of lies and I guess I’m not the only one here who knows it.” Olaf said quietly, his blue eyes never leaving Haunrieter’s face. “Get out of my bar!” Haunrieter roared. Except it sounded like a sort of squeaky roar, to my ear. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” Olaf said. He vaulted over the bar and came for Haunrieter. The fat man squealed and dove down to the end of the bar. Haunrieter grabbed for the shotgun that he kept near the cash register. He nearly had it, when he was grabbed up by the ankles, heaved across the bar and into the wall. Haunrieter sat dazed as Olaf leaned over him and snapped a pair of handcuffs onto him. “What the hell are you doing?” Haunrieter cried. “Just getting a little bit of justice,” Olaf replied casually as he yanked the man to his feet and began leading him towards the door. “You can’t do this to me! Help! HEY! Someone, help me! What’s wrong with you people? Can’t you see this guy is crazy?” Haunrieter yelled to the other people in the bar. The people didn’t move. They kept sipping their drinks and watched the action out of the corners of their eyes. No one much cared for Haunrieter, and none of them fancied getting pounded by a huge Swede with revenge on the brain. Olaf flung the fat man out the door and he landed in the dirt next to a huge mud covered Dodge pickup. Haunrieter tried to call out, but the words only came out in a whisper as Olaf dropped to his knees on the other man’s chest. There was a thin, but sturdy piece of chain coming out from under the bumper of the truck. Olaf grabbed the chain and secured it around the handcuffs on Haunrieter’s wrists. When he was satisfied it would stay attached to the cuffs, he got off of the fat man’s chest. He stood looking at the disgusting man at his feet whom he had alternately feared and hated for most of his life. “You made me the way I am,” Olaf said. “My mother only wanted to work hard and provide a life for me and her in this country. You took advantage of her and then threw her life away like so much trash. You think you’re bigger than any law because you’ve gotten away with what you did then and all you’ve done since. It’s time for justice to be served. Tonight it ends.” Haunrieter just glared at him and began to spit and curse as he struggled to his feet. Having said what he needed say, Olaf went forward and climbed up into the cab of the truck. I saw him lean forward to start the engine, and he caught my eye in the rearview mirror. I saw him glancing at the people from the bar, some staring out of the window, waiting for the drama to unfold. Though 17 years ago, I wasn’t much more than a boy myself, I remember the Sheriff we’d had back then. Not only did he have a tendency to be lazy, but everyone in town knew that he was in cahoots with Haunreiter and some other thugs. There were rumors that the boy, the man that called himself Olaf now, had gone to him when Haunreiter killed his mother. At that moment it occurred to me it was fortunate for that Sheriff that he had died five years ago. The townspeople and patrons of the bar may not have liked Haunrieter, but no one ever did anything to stop him. None of them had helped Olaf or his mother, or any of the other immigrants the Haunrieter had abused over the years, either. In fact, the current Sheriff was right now inside the bar, with his nose pressed against the window glass, the large gun on his hip conveniently forgotten. I, however, had run out back and jumped onto my bicycle. It wasn’t much for transportation, but it was efficient and fit for my needs. I pedaled around from behind the bar in time to see the giant man shrug his shoulders and gun the engine, wheels spinning gravel as he left the parking lot. At first Haunreiter tried to run, but the flying gravel pitted his face and he stumbled and fell, the truck dragging him into the street. From out of the distance I could hear his screams. After about five minutes the noise faded and there was silence. I biked my way out to the road and followed the dark trail splashed along the only highway out of town. At one point, I saw a battered silver belt buckle I recognized as Haunrieter’s lying in a dark stain, a few miles later, something dark and thick and wearing one boot was stuck to the center line in the road. I kept pedaling. Twenty miles later, I found the spot where Olaf must have pulled off to the side of the road and snipped the chain. He had dumped what was left of Haunreiter into the ditch, and already a few buzzards were coming in close to examine the dark, meaty thing. I stood there astride my bike, staring down the highway, and I swore I could hear a merry whistling sound coming from out of the west. |
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| The Beard glenlee10@sky.com |
#5 of 7 |
| 2441 words | |
| I was the next person to stand up. I’d never
spoken in public before. I was terrified. I rubbed my sweaty hands on my skirt
and collected my thoughts. The congregation understood and waited patiently.
“I run the Greasy Spoon mobile café for truck drivers in the lay-by just outside town,” I explained, though most people knew that. “And Mr.Beard has been a visitor of mine every week for the last five years. He never missed a week. He turned up every Friday afternoon just as we were closing for the weekend.” There was a murmur of assent. Everyone knew how predictable Mr.Beard had been, which is why Mr.Lee had gone looking for him when he missed his Monday morning visit to the Chinese Restaurant on North Street. “He was a gentle man and I’ll miss him,” I finished. I sat down, thankful I’d managed to say my bit. My friend Maggie patted my arm. She knew what an ordeal it had been. Someone else stood and made their small speech in memory of the tramp we’d called Mr.Beard. And so it went on for nearly an hour. Many of the townsfolk had had dealings with him since he’d appeared on our doorstep, as it were, all those years ago. We’d grown used to seeing him ambling down our streets. He was as much a part of our town as any of us. Which is why we’d met today to bury one of our own. The general consensus was that there’d no pauper’s grave for our Mr.Beard. I remembered the first time I’d seen him. It was a wet September evening. The light was going fast. The last customer had gone. Maggie was tidying up inside the kiosk and I was collecting chairs from outside when an indistinct figure shambled from out of the gloom. He wasn’t a big man but he was grimy and dishevelled. I’d quickly climbed back inside the kiosk, putting the counter between us. I locked the door from the inside. He didn’t look at us, just stopped and scuffed the grit on the road with the toe of a very dilapidated shoe. I could smell his body odour, even from that distance. Nervously, for want of anything better to do, I said, “We’ve got a beef pie left. Do you want it?” I think he murmured, “Got no money.” If he did, it was the only thing he ever said to me. “Doesn’t matter,” I gabbled. “It’ll only go to waste.” And I thrust the pie across the counter. The poor man must have been starving. He didn’t snatch at it but gently picked up the pie, unwrapped it and bit into it. It was gone in four bites. “Here,” I gabbled. “Have some coffee to wash it down.” Again, his movements were slow and gentle as he picked up the plastic cup. I think he must have known we were frightened. He stepped back from the kiosk while he drank. When he had finished, he indicated the rubbish bin nearby. “Yes, yes,” I confirmed. “Just throw it away. We don’t use them again.” I expected him to go then. He did turn around, but he didn’t go far. Just to the end of the lay-by, then he started to pick up the litter. “You needn’t do that,” I said. If he heard me, he didn’t acknowledge the fact, and carried on picking up the litter and putting it in the bin. I’d never met such a hairy man. His hair hung well below his shoulders; long, wavy and greasy. It might have been yellow but seemed the colour of dirty straw. It was impossible to say where it finished and his moustache and beard began. Thick, grey, hairy eyebrows shaded his eyes and almost met in the middle across the top of a large, red and purple nose, which in turn shaded pearl-pink, very feminine lips. His beard was ginger and curly. It lay across his chest like a friendly rug. His mackintosh, black once maybe, but was green with age. The belt was knotted round his middle and his trouser legs were tied up with string. The sole of his left shoe had become detached and flapped as he walked. His shoulders were hunched and I thought of the abominable snowman from a children’s picture book I’d once owned. I watched him bending and straightening over the rubbish that I always meant to pick up but never had time for. When he’d finished, he nodded at us and walked away, towards the town. “Who on earth was that?” I said. “Ginger Santa?” Maggie replied. That was the first sighting of the man who came to be known as ‘Mr.Beard’ because of the startling vibrancy of his thick, ginger beard. Of course, the town’s business people didn’t immediately accept him. Mr.Lee at the Chinese Restaurant locked the back door when he saw Mr.Beard coming and the following day, Saturday, the tramp was chased away from Sally’s Sandwich Bar in the Market Square. She told me later, “I hadn’t got time to be bothered by some stinking, dirty old tramp. I’d got customers to see to.” It took a while, but eventually Mr.Beard was accepted. It was a case of mutual benefit. He made himself useful by doing those little jobs that never seem to get done. On Saturday nights, he stacked the crates at The Feathers pub and earned himself a beer and a bag of crisps. He breakfasted at the Chinese Restaurant on Monday morning when Mr.Lee would have a fresh cooked pot of rice for him, to accompany weekend leftovers. Mr.Beard swept the car park for his meal. Behind the library, he swept up the glass around the recycling facility. In no time our small town was immaculate and those businessmen who couldn’t provide a meal for Mr.Beard, paid for his services in other ways. Jack Arnold, the cobbler, gave him a good pair of boots that had been awaiting collection for two years. Mr.Beard pulled up all the weeds that grew along the front of the shop. He mended a window at the back of the Lady’s Outfitters and received a pair of pink gloves. Maisie, the seamstress told me he was, “thrilled to bits.” None of us ever discovered where Mr.Beard had come from or why he chose to stay in our community. He had a sweet smile but rarely spoke and then it was usually just, “Thank you,” and he’d turn away, embarrassed. He wouldn’t allow anyone to befriend him. The vicar tried but Mr.Beard would have none of it. He seemed to prefer to be alone. To this day I don’t know what colour his eyes were; he never made eye contact. He slept in an old barn at Top Field Farm and washed in a horse trough. Roy Richard, the farmer, claimed Mr.Beard must have been there for ages by the time he noticed he had a tenant, because the old barn was being done up and wasn’t nearly as ramshackle as it once had been. “And,” he said, “to have someone in that field is good security. There’ll be no rustling of my sheep while he’s around.” Five years later, he was still with us. Still keeping himself to himself but he was cleaner and well fed. His hair was greying and there were threads of silver in his beard. He wore stout boots and good, second-hand clothing. His needs seemed to be met and we were spoilt by having someone around to clean up after us. And at Christmas, when the primary school children drew pictures of Santa Claus, he’d have yellow hair and an orange beard. But despite everything, today we are laying an old friend to rest. There are many tears inside the church and I can hear a young child asking its mother why everyone is crying. His mother is trying to quieten her child yet, ‘Why?’ is the question in everyone’s mind. Why did Mr.Beard die? The post mortem was inconclusive. I think he died of a broken heart. What is worse is that we all stood by and watched it happen and did nothing. Is ignorance any excuse? Six months ago another stranger came to our village. A stray dog raced past my kiosk on dinner-plate paws. It was an Afghan hound; a beautiful animal with a coat of long, silky hair, blonde on its legs and golden on its back. Its muzzle was long, as dark as rich earth and its long ears flapped as it ran. “Someone’s lost a valuable dog,” I commented to Maggie. She looked up from her sandwich making. “What a beautiful creature,” she said as it disappeared down the road towards town. Cynics said the dog was attracted to the tramp by the old man’s smell but whatever the reason, within seconds of them meeting, Mr.Beard and Silky were friends. They shared everything; pies, chips and even beer. They probably shared a bed in the old barn too, who knows? One thing they didn’t share though, was water. Apart from drinking it, Silky wouldn’t go near it and his coat was soon matted and rough. Maisie left a brush out for Mr.Beard but though the tramp’s hair was well brushed, the dog’s hair stayed snarled and unkempt. “Maybe that’s why he ran away in the first place,” Maisie commented when I went into her shop to buy tights. “Couldn’t stand all the brushing he must have had every day.” For six months the two were inseparable. Maggie and I always had two pies left over on Mr.Beard’s days and I heard that George, the butcher, had fallen in love with the dog and tried to buy its affection with bones. It made no difference to the dog. It stayed by Mr.Beard’s side. Until just over a week ago, that is. It was Saturday morning. I was browsing round the market, looking for cooking apples when I saw a police car pull up and park. A uniformed officer and a skinny, balding man got out. I hadn’t noticed Mr.Beard sitting near the fountain on the opposite side of the road but the skinny man obviously had. “There!” the skinny man squealed. “There’s my dog! I knew some tramp had stolen it!” He set off towards the fountain. The policeman caught his arm. “Now, Sir,” he said, bringing the man to a half. “Let’s not be too hasty, shall we. Your wife said the dog merely ran off. There was no mention of it being stolen.” The man snatched his arm free. “It makes no difference. That’s still my dog.” He started across the road. “Prince,” he called. “Here, boy!” Silky was sniffling round the base of the fountain. When he heard the man call, he stopped what he was doing. The man called again. “Prince. Come on. Come here.” He took a dog collar from his pocket. Without a backward glance at his companion, Silky trotted, tail wagging, towards the man, sniffed his crotch, whined and jumped up to lick his face. The man fixed the collar round the dog’s neck then pushed him down and clipped a lead to the collar. “Are you sure this is your dog, Sir?” the policeman asked. “Of course it is. How many stray Afghan hounds do you suppose there could be in the area? This is Prince Regent de Montfort the Fourth. Most definitely.” Mr.Beard had stumbled to his feet by this time and was watching the reunion between the dog and the skinny man. He moaned but seemed frozen to the spot. By this time business in the market had ceased. Everyone’s eyes were on the tableau. “I’d best just check with this gentleman,” the policeman said. “Please stay here, Sir.” He went to speak to Mr.Beard. “Is this your dog, Sir?” The old man could only stare at his boots. Speech seemed to be beyond him. One of us should have intervened; should have spoken on his behalf; should have said it was Mr.Beard’s dog but Silky was sniffing at the skinny man’s shoes and didn’t seem concerned one way or the other. I knew who the owner was in law. I could tell who loved the dog the most. But we did nothing except watch the policeman drive away with the skinny man and the dog. Mr.Beard watched until the car turned into Church Street and out of sight. Then he howled as though the gates of Hell had opened up and he’d seen what was on the other side. Perhaps he had. George, the butcher, who’d been parking his car and saw everything went up to the old man and reached out to him. Mr.Beard flinched as though George was the Devil himself. Then he realised we were all watching him and he turned and shuffled away, still keening in a low voice, from deep in his throat. And that was the last we saw, or heard, of him. When he didn’t turn up at the Chinese Restaurant on Monday morning as usual, Mr.Lee sent his cousins out to look for him. The truth was, we were all worried about Mr.Beard and when we heard that he wasn’t at his barn, Maggie volunteered to help with the search while I manned the kiosk on my own. She was back within the hour. “They’ve found him, “she sobbed. I made her a good, strong cup of tea and added plenty of sugar. “He was sitting down by the river, his back to a tree. We thought he was all right, even when he didn’t answer us but then Mr.Lee went round in front of him and said he was dead. The police are down there now. Mr.Lee called them out when he wasn’t at the barn. They think he probably had a heart attack.” I handed her the mug. “And the worst thing of all,” she cried, “he’d been crying. His face was dirty but his tears had made clean, wiggly streaks down his cheeks.” All I could do was hug her and cry along with her. And now the vicar has asked us to stand and sing the last hymn before Mr.Beard is taken to be interred in the churchyard. “Hymn No.573,” he said. “All things bright and beautiful.” The singing was ragged. I couldn’t sing but tried to follow the words in the hymnbook through my own tears but when we came to, The rich man in his castle, The poor man at his gate, God made them high or lowly, And order’d their estate, I broke down too and sobbed. We were all guilty. We’d had great affection for an old man who’d wanted so little. He’d trusted us. We’d let him down and now, following the coffin from the church, I understand the depth of his loss. When both the dog and the townspeople deserted him, he died of a broken heart. It was as simple as that. |
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| The Beard lyk_omg_gf@yahoo.com |
#6 of 7 |
| 150 words | |
| I am lying face-down on his bed. He is bigger than I am, and he is lying next to me and I am way too tired to do anything, so I’m just running my hand through his beard. It’s not clean; it’s filled with little scraggles everywhere. And he’s half-asleep, so he’s lying almost completely still while I feel his beard. The coffee-brown hairs are stiff and crisp, but still scraggly and long, each one entangled in another (or five) and here or there they’ve gotten into little knots. Occasionally I can feel tiny pot-seeds and bits of debris, and it’s like an expedition through unexplored beard-territory. He’s not completely asleep, and when my hand flits near his chin he giggles in a breath. My hand is becoming entangled in the knots, and I’m not sure if I can get up. I lay my head on his chest and sleep. | |
| The Beard Colin Campbell www.colincampbell.org |
#7 of 7 |
| 1381 words | |
| First light was struggling through the tall trees when
Todd woke up to a metallic chorus. It was a sound that should not be there and
it was cold, very cold. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and found he was
outside the tent. All around the rain was pinging down on empty beer cans. His
head hurt. Camping alone made it easier to get out of wet clothes. He struggled as they clung to cold wet skin but soon had them all thrown onto a bush outside the tent. "Get them later," he said as he dived inside. He had taken to talking to himself out here in the woods. A good rub down with a rough towel and some dry clothes soon had him feeling better. "Looks like it serves me right," he said as he finished off a couple of soluble aspirins. There seemed to be something not quite right about his reflection in the bottom of the stainless steel mug. But that could wait until the aspirins had worked their magic on the pounding in his head. He promised himself never again to drink on an empty head. Todd lit his little camping stove taking care to let some air into the tent. He enjoyed its warmth as he made coffee. Further comfort came from remembering that caffeine made aspirin work better. As his head cleared, Todd's thoughts returned to the strangeness of the reflection. The mirror in the traveling set offered a much clearer image. The late-teenage face looking back had a rough outdoor look as might be expected after a week or so camping out. But there was something different about it, something that shouldn't be there. Todd was surprised by how long it took him to work out what was wrong. It was his own face all right but the last time he looked he didn't have a beard and the way he remembered it, the last time he looked was just the day before. What's more, this was no overnight stubble but a proper beard. "Oh shit, this must have taken a week to grow. How can I have lost a whole week?" Todd thought back, searching his memory for an answer. He had stopped smoking just before his solitary trip and now he was wishing he had stopped drinking too. Taking some time out on his own, miles away from life's little stresses, was a cornerstone of his strategy for stopping smoking. He had also invested his hopes in nicotine patches and several sessions with a hypnotist his brother had told him about. They were just a year apart and alike in so many ways but while Todd had followed his peers into smoking and drinking, his brother had gotten himself something of a reputation as a ladies man. Todd remembered thinking it would be quite enough to give up one vice at a time. He hadn't brought any cigarettes but his camping supplies had included enough six packs of beer to settle his pick-up down on its springs. He regretted this now as he checked the date on his watch to see how much time he had really lost. And this is where a strange story got stranger for his watch said he hadn't lost any days at all. Then he remembered it was one of those proper watches with moving parts and real jewels that wound itself when he moved. "That's it," he said reaching for his mobile phone but it gave the same date and so did the timepiece in his digital camera. Todd now began to feel a cold sweat that had little to do with his soaking. He was getting a very bad feeling about all this as he brought up the photos on his camera. He soon found what he wanted. It was one of himself taken at arms length for he had never figured out how to work the timer. He doubled checked the date. He recognized the shirt he had been wearing. There was no doubt; this photo had been taken just the day before and there was no beard. He went outside again. The rain streamed down his face and over the beard as he shouted over and over again at the trees, "Why this. Why me." Todd was now desperate to get away from that place but an even stronger urge overcame him first. He had a loathing for this thing on his face. This evil thing that should not be there. He dived for his battery razor and soon the beard was no more. This done, he threw the tent and his gear into the back of his pick-up. As his last act in this now sinister place he turned to the empty beer cans. He felt a need to tidy up partly from long-known habits of civic duty but also with some sense of atonement as if he might somehow have offended the creatures of the forest. What he saw next had him gasping for breath. The beer cans were not as they had been just moments before. Now they were arranged in a neat circle and something was happening around them. Todd struggled to make out what this was. He knew there was movement but nothing was clear. Then he realized he was not seeing something that was there but something that wasn't there. Still heavy, the rain was hitting off and revealing vague, ghostly shapes that were moving in and out of the ring of cans. All at once, the invisible entities stopped in their tracks. This let Todd see their forms more clearly as the rain ran down the outside of the spaces their unseen forms occupied. They were human-like but small, perhaps four feet tall and they were turning slowly to look in his direction. This was too much for Todd who stumbled towards the pick-up. His hands were shaking as he struggled to get the key into the ignition. Then he was off as fast as he could go but he was in no condition to drive and soon slid off the wet forest track. Todd's friends didn't quite know what to make of his calls for help. Cell-phone reception wasn't too good where he was at but more than this he seemed to have lost the ability to put words together properly. They dropped what they doing and set out to find him. Todd was in poor shape when his rescuers arrived but he insisted in taking them back to show them where it had all happened. They were not convinced. One of them summed up what they were all thinking. "OK Todd we know you've had a bad experience but look at it from our point of view. You've got this weird story but all you've got to show us is a circle of empty beer cans and a beard that isn't there any more." So they reckoned the beer cans had a pivotal role in the story if not the one Todd was telling them and got him safely back. They dropped him off at his parents' house. Todd's mother was upset but less concerned about her son's condition than the story she had to tell. The words came tumbling out. "Your brother's run off with that hypnotist's wife. We had the husband round here an hour ago. He didn't know we had two sons. He thought it was you. Said you had a cheek to come round to him for treatment. He seemed completely off his head. Said something about teaching you a lesson you'll never forget. Take care he might try to do you some harm." Todd thought about it all for a moment or two then laughed and laughed until the tears rolled down his face over where the beard might have been. Looking back on it all now, Todd doesn't blame the hypnotist. He just says, "Everyone has to fight back any way they know." Todd never touched cigarettes or beer again but he did develop quite an interest in the ladies. He says if he's going to get all the blame he might as well have all the fun. But he still sometimes slips back to that place in the woods and wonders about it all. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club