| 1 2 3 |
"Mr. Opportunity" (the eighty-fourth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
4 5 6 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Mr. Opportunity" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), Aug 15, 2008 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Mr. Opportunity By Ken Staley kstaley@gmail.com (Entry #6) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Me and Eddie were broke, no way
around it. The landlord was constantly on our butts and no way we had rent
money. Even stealing a stupid can of spam left us open because grocery stores
in town got hip to us months ago. No pot to piss in and people looking to cut
off our tally-whackers. Then we found the pawn shop. We’d hit all the regular pawn places in town - like I said, we were well known, on a first name basis in most of the owners, whose first words were likely to be “get the HELL outta here!” At All States Pawn, we could walk down the aisle and point out those things that once furnished our apartment. Eddie’s stereo, my portable TV, even the electric razor we shared. We knew every shop. We had that page of the phone book taped on the wall, even though the phone had been disconnected three months ago. The phone was an old dial up clunker or we’d have hocked it ages ago. Nobody wanted it any more, like us. We stepped into an alley in that part of town, a part we normally avoided because it was likely to be our next living arrangements after our pending eviction. Tenements of cardboard - of stolen construction plywood - of 8 mil black plastic - fought for room in burned out husks that were once somebody’s small business dream. Steam from the grates wafted the odor of urine…and worse…into the street. Derelicts of society lined the alley with whatever garbage they didn’t use or eat. While we could see our possible residences, we delayed stealing a shopping cart and looking for packing crates until necessity forced our hands. Three brass balls hung from a neat shop in the middle of this drek. “How long’s this place been here?” Eddie asked. We stopped - actually stared at the place. We thought we’d hit every pawn place we knew. “Dunno,” I said. “We don’t come down here. Remember?” Three bells twinkled above the door - that was the first thing I noticed. Each had a different tone. No security cameras, no bars on the windows or door - that was the second thing I noticed. Pawn shops had security measures that would make a bank blush. Most clerks had loaded weapons in plain sight as well. Not here. Wall to wall carpeting so rich and thick it felt like a garden path. No real merchandise to speak of, but holographs hung in mid air and spun lazily, a catalog of goods not to be ignored. From the simple to the stunning, this shop dripped quality goods. Suddenly, here he stood in front of us – just sort of materialized. “Gentlemen!” He cried and shook both our hands like a long lost relative. “I see you’re new here. Welcome to Mr. Opportunity!” “Uh – well,” I stammered. “We were in the neighborhood and - ah – just sort of looking around. We haven’t seen this place before.” “You never know when Opportunity is going to be in your neighborhood,” Silver hair, teeth that looked like pearls, hands with long, elegant, well tended fingers – and an expensive dress suit in dark blue. “Can I get your names, gentlemen?” “That’s Eddie,” I nodded as he’d wandered off again, mouth agape at what the shop held. “I’m Neil.” “Great to meet you both! Welcome!” He said as he shook hands with us again. ”That’s a joke, right?” Eddie sneered as he shook Mr. Opportunity’s hand. “We don’t joke here in Mr. Opportunity’s, Ed,” He said as he put an arm around our shoulder and led deeper into the shop. “That old saw about opportunity knocking is so much fairy dust. You have to seek your opportunity. You two lucky men have actually just walked into the opportunity of your lifetime. May I ask, do either of you use illicit narcotics?” “You a cop?” Eddie asked as he looked back towards the door. “Do I fit the physical requirements?” He smiled, let us go, and stood for our inspection. His $400 shoes and silk suit shot down that idea. “No, no, of course not, no cop dresses like that,” I stammered – always a good idea to be polite to people you wanted to tap for money. “No, we don’t do drugs.” Not our own, I should have added. Sometimes we could bum a hit there or a toke now and then, never really enough for a buzz. We didn’t do drugs because we couldn’t afford to eat, much less anything more exotic. Hell, we had a hard time just getting any meal on a regular basis. “That’s great news, great news!” He explained. “You fit the profile for Mr. Opportunity exactly. Of course, there will be tests, but we can do those once the contracts are in place. Actually, you won’t even be here when the tests occur! You’ll hardly notice them happening at all. “Why don’t we sit down over here and let me get you both some coffee. Coffee ok with your two? Great! Cream and sugar?” He returned with two delicate china cups and a tray of cookies. The strongest impulse to wolf them all down filled me. I managed to control my impulses – just. “The contract here in Mr. Opportunity’s is fairly simple,” the sales pitch was as smooth as the man explaining the details. “What are we selling?” I asked, wiping crumbs from my mouth. Looking around the room for a blood donor’s table, a plasma bench, I saw nothing to give me a clue. I’d seen or been in samples of most of the best and worst collection outfits. “At your age,” Mr. Opportunity stepped back and looked me over carefully, “absolutely nothing that you haven’t got a great deal of to spare. Your time.” “Hey,” Eddie spun back to the conversation, tearing himself away from the cache of cookies while looking for more coffee. Mr. Opportunity refilled our cups. “We aren’t looking for work here.” “I am not offering employment,” Mr. Opportunity said. “Time - like what kind of time?” “Mr. Opportunitys buys time in three minute blocks,” he explained. “Simply put, I buy a piece of your life, three minutes at a time.” “How much?” Eddie demanded. Me, I wanted to leave. Soon as Eddie discovered it wasn’t going to require any effort on his part, he was ready to deal. “Five thousand dollars a minute.” “FIVE!?” Eddie stammered. “Five thou? Really?” “Line sixteen of the contract discusses remuneration,” he said as he handed us both simple, one page contracts. “An hour, five K a block . . .” Eddie’s voice trailed off as he tried to calculate the total. “Sorry,” the dapper salesman said. “There is a fifteen minute limit.” We signed. What else could we do? Eddie went crazy after that and blew through twenty-five thou in less than a week. You name it, Eddie headed over that edge. New apartment – booze – he stayed away from drugs so he could sell more time, but a woman or two - a good car - all fit his immediate plan. With little effort on his part, twenty-five thou evaporated and he sold more, at least two different visits that I know of. I went back to school. I always managed to put off going back until the money was simply an insurmountable complication, then used that as an excuse. Until Mr. Opportunity, that is. The first event – the test he mentioned - happened in the middle of class. It wasn’t a big thing, just a sharp pain in the chest. It was over so quickly - less than 15 seconds - that I wondered if it occurred at all. The second event lasted a bit longer – say 35 seconds - enough time went by that I lost consciousness right in the middle of my history class. People gathered around, watching, waiting. A couple kids knelt beside me, but looked lost, like they hadn’t a clue what to do next. I mean, one minute – fine – not a care in the world but boring U. S History and the Civil War. Next minute – wham – flat on my ass in the aisle. Then, it was like waking up out of a really deep, dreamless sleep. Just – there on the floor. I heard the whispers from my classmates. “Drunk.” “Dope.” Lots of other things. “Is he ok?” “Is he breathing?” “Should we call someone?” I was fine. Most moved back out of my way when I opened my eyes and sat up, almost instantly. It shocked them, I think. Scared me. I mean, how in hell did I get there? On the floor? I was at my desk - and then - I wasn’t. Funny though, those tests invigorated me. I never felt better in my life. My cold disappeared instantly. I felt great, on top of the world, in fact – except. I went back to the pawn shop. Just once. Finding Mr. Opportunity’s shop again was no easy task. It took months. Before I managed to stumble across it one day, the last of my first time block was over. “Of course,” Mr. Opportunity said. “Of course we take your time. You sold us a block of your life - two in fact. Here, check the tally sheet.” There it was, in bright red letters. “Monday – 2: 45 pm 15 seconds; Wednesday 11:28 am 37 seconds; on and on the list went, recording my leaking life.” “No warning?” “No, no warning,” Mr. Opportunity pointed to line 27 of the contract. “…without prior notification…” in legalese jingoistic gobble-de-gook. “At Mr. Opportunity’s, we never know when a client in desperate need will just walk through the door.” “How? Why?” I didn’t need the explanation. I knew. There were people in this world - important people, influential people, powerful people, people of means and money - who needed just a few extra seconds, perhaps as much as a minute. Those precious seconds, painful to me, were priceless to them. And my pain, less than 1 minute, would drag through me like a knife. “But there is a set time limit,” he reminded me that table two, and line 53 stipulated how much time could be expended in one withdrawal by the shop. Up to three minutes. “You see, the mind begins to deteriorate after three minutes,” the old man smiled. “We need you healthy and active.” 15 more minutes to worry now. Poor Eddie. |
| Mr. Opportunity By Colin Campbell www.colincampbell.org (Entry #2) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Most of us have an opportunity
story. Some folks get lucky, others just look on as it all passes them by.
This lady I know, I won't say her name, once pulled me aside and told me her story while we waited for her husband. She started by saying she had been a good looker in her younger days and that she was mentioning this not to be boastful but because it had a bearing on her story. I was inclined to believe her for it was easy to imagine what she might once have been. Anyway, years before she didn't say how many, she had worked out regularly in the gym at her local health club. One day in the fall a new member turned up at her health club. He created a good bit of interest for this was a small town club where the girls outnumbered the boys. She often saw him working out in the gym and they soon became quite friendly. He even asked her out a couple of times but she said no. She really liked him for his warmth and sense of humor but she had her reputation to think of. He was just about the same height as herself perhaps less with her high heels. He was a little overweight and wore thick spectacles. What's more if you looked closely, you could see he had some sort of skin problem on his face and neck. In this small town she had to be real careful about who she would be seen with. By the end of the year he had dropped out of the scene. Strange thing is, she said she never asked his name and he never volunteered it. Very soon afterwards, she found an altogether more acceptable partner and they were married within a month. He had the required good looks and some money besides. They could manage a good night out every week and even a grand occasion from time to time. It was on one such special outing that she saw her old friend from the health club again. It was styled as a black tie, gala charity dinner and came complete with entertainment and a few celebrities no doubt keen for some publicity. Tickets were hard to get but they had been lucky for they knew someone who worked with the caterers. She didn't recognize her old friend at first. Realization came gradually with answers to some of the questions from the pushy lady with the microphone. No, he had stopped wearing the fake glasses as he was getting recognized now whether he wore them or not. Yes the director had asked him to gain weight for his last film role, but he had worked it off in the gym. Yes, he had been troubled in the past with an allergy but now he knew what to avoid. And yes of course it was all right to ask if he was romantically linked with his current co-star, but of course he wouldn't answer. She wanted to go over to say hello but was pushed out of the way by a crowd of otherwise respectable society girls clamoring for his autograph. Some were trying to pass him telephone numbers on barely concealed slips of paper. He didn't see her in the crowd and she never saw him again except on television. I pressed her for his name but all she would say was he had been her Mr. Opportunity. Her husband arrived as she got to the end of her story. He was neatly dressed, overweight, with thick spectacles and a poor complexion. I guess they're happy enough but there was something in her eyes that time she was telling me her story. |
| 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: #2 Third place (tie): #4, #6 Fifth place: #5 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Mr. Opportunity Robert P. Herbst http://www.mountperry.com/ |
#1 of 6 |
| 1210 | |
| Once again it's time for the Annual Maine Clam
Festival. This year, in honor of our friends in the frozen State of Maine,
Yodar Hoopelhoffer, the Mount Perry town idiot, has come up with a "Full Race
Clam" to enter in Maine's annual clam race. This was to be the opportunity of a
life time for both Yodar and Dr. Gene Splicer. Our very own ace reporter, Badnews Hunter, has been dispatched by the Mount Perry Newspaper and Fish Wrap to give full coverage to this exciting event. As we all remember, the disaster during last year's clam race was caused when someone poured beer on the race track and the drunken clams went on a frenzied rampage among the cheering crowds of unsuspecting spectators. One can only imagine the excitement this year as the clams are positioned on the starting line and made ready for the race by their trainers. After all, this is an annual event and not likely to be put on twice in the same year, even in Maine. It takes months of hard work to get a clam to reach out of the shell on race day and expend all their effort to reach the finish line first. Certain, unscrupulous people have been known to take advantage of this situation and use illegal tactics to encourage their clams to extend their abilities beyond their physical endurance. This practice has been made illegal by the race officials. For instance, this year, no beer will be allowed within fifty feet of the race track to prevent just such a catastrophe from happening again. There will no doubt be far fewer spectators, but at least those who do show up will be sober. However, there is still the problem of just how to classify the entry of a clam in the annual race, when the clam was not borne and raised in the waters off the Maine Coast. Certain, short sighted people insist there be only clams born in Maine entered in the race. This, of course, leads to the question of, Just how does one determine where a clam was born? To exclude Canadian clams or clams from states to the South of Maine, might be considered discriminatory. This has caused Yodar some concern as he and Dr. Gene Splicer have invested a great deal of time and effort in the care, feeding and training of this clam to be the fastest clam on record in the Annual Maine Clam Festival. Naturally, there will be no clam chowder or clams on the half shell served anywhere in The State of Maine during the festival. Failure to comply with this law could see the perpetrator tied to a stake at low tide and left for the wild clams to feed on as the tide rises. The only clams harvested during the festival will be this used in the race and those used must be returned to the wild after the race. All clams will be tested for steroids, both before and after the big race. It should be noted: The use of any performance enhancing drugs by the competing clams is strictly prohibited. Fortunately, genetic manipulation seems to be a loophole forgotten by the race officials. At our little round up of coffee drinkers, here in the front of my little shop in the very center of Beautiful Downtown Mount Perry, Florida, Yodar is treating us to the first public viewing of his Full Race Clam. The clam appears on the outside to be a normal hard shell clam. A bit larger than usual at four inches across and maybe two inches from table top to the top of the shell when closed. We are assured, however, this is where the similarity stops. Dr, Gene Splicer, the eminent Genetics Expert, from Mount Perry's secret underground Genetic Experiment Station, indicates, this clam is the result of splicing the genes of the Maine Cohog Clam, with the Long Island Long Neck Clam and the North Florida, Bay Scallop, to create a true genetic marvel. Dr. Splicer assures us, this clam will be as fast on dry land as it is in the water. In an effort to prove this to us, he has asked us all to be very quiet and still as the clam rested on the table in the very center of our little group. Every effort was made to be sure there wasn't a drop of any kind of liquid on the table to corrupt the validity of the demonstration. We sat there holding our breath, hardly daring to breath as the clam slowly opened the two halves of it's shell. As the light gradually illuminated the interior, we could see a little red eye looking back at us from between the two halves of the shell. The clam sat there watching us for what seemed like hours before it moved again. Gradually, a long neck like appendage slipped out from the shell and began feeling the table top around itself. The red eye watching us never wavered as the neck felt about for any trace of water. Slowly and methodically, the clam checked every inch of table top within reach, before retracting the neck and closing the shell as if to consider the situation. We let out a collective breath of air as the demonstration seemed to have been concluded. However, Dr. Splices assured us, the demonstration had only just begun. We all quieted down again and began waiting for the next phase of the demonstration, which Dr. Splicer assured us was going to be quite dramatic. Slowly, the clam began to open again. Yodar leaned close to the clam and whispered the word "RACE" softly. The clam extended the neck again, but this time the neck remained stiff and rigid. Ever so slowly the calm opened even further and seemed to be swelling from the inside. This time however, the glowing red eye seemed to gradually turn to a watery blue as the clam continued to swell. It became readily apparent the clam was in extreme distress. The belly of the clam now extended out from between the two halves of the shell. This was not a happy looking clam. Formaldi Hyde, the Embalmer's daughter, unable to put off another cigarette, struck a match to light up. The clam, on seeing the light snapped shut expelling a noxious smelling gas which on contact with the lit match burst into flame, scorching the hair off all of our faces. Unfortunately, the clam did not snap shut fast enough and the flame managed to ignite the end of the neck, which in turn was drawn in between the two halves of the shell. There was a slight delay before the clam exploded like a live hand grenade, showering us all with bits of shell and minced clam. Dr. Splicer in a fit of rage leapt to his feet and yelled at Yodar, "OKAY, Mr. Opportunity, how many times do I have to tell you, NO BEANS WHEN THE CLAM IS IN TRAINING! I don't give a darn about your theories concerning jet propulsion and after burners!" |
|
| Mr. Opportunity Colin Campbell www.colincampbell.org |
#2 of 6 Runner-up |
| 625 | |
| Most of us have an opportunity story. Some folks get
lucky, others just look on as it all passes them by. This lady I know, I won't say her name, once pulled me aside and told me her story while we waited for her husband. She started by saying she had been a good looker in her younger days and that she was mentioning this not to be boastful but because it had a bearing on her story. I was inclined to believe her for it was easy to imagine what she might once have been. Anyway, years before she didn't say how many, she had worked out regularly in the gym at her local health club. One day in the fall a new member turned up at her health club. He created a good bit of interest for this was a small town club where the girls outnumbered the boys. She often saw him working out in the gym and they soon became quite friendly. He even asked her out a couple of times but she said no. She really liked him for his warmth and sense of humor but she had her reputation to think of. He was just about the same height as herself perhaps less with her high heels. He was a little overweight and wore thick spectacles. What's more if you looked closely, you could see he had some sort of skin problem on his face and neck. In this small town she had to be real careful about who she would be seen with. By the end of the year he had dropped out of the scene. Strange thing is, she said she never asked his name and he never volunteered it. Very soon afterwards, she found an altogether more acceptable partner and they were married within a month. He had the required good looks and some money besides. They could manage a good night out every week and even a grand occasion from time to time. It was on one such special outing that she saw her old friend from the health club again. It was styled as a black tie, gala charity dinner and came complete with entertainment and a few celebrities no doubt keen for some publicity. Tickets were hard to get but they had been lucky for they knew someone who worked with the caterers. She didn't recognize her old friend at first. Realization came gradually with answers to some of the questions from the pushy lady with the microphone. No, he had stopped wearing the fake glasses as he was getting recognized now whether he wore them or not. Yes the director had asked him to gain weight for his last film role, but he had worked it off in the gym. Yes, he had been troubled in the past with an allergy but now he knew what to avoid. And yes of course it was all right to ask if he was romantically linked with his current co-star, but of course he wouldn't answer. She wanted to go over to say hello but was pushed out of the way by a crowd of otherwise respectable society girls clamoring for his autograph. Some were trying to pass him telephone numbers on barely concealed slips of paper. He didn't see her in the crowd and she never saw him again except on television. I pressed her for his name but all she would say was he had been her Mr. Opportunity. Her husband arrived as she got to the end of her story. He was neatly dressed, overweight, with thick spectacles and a poor complexion. I guess they're happy enough but there was something in her eyes that time she was telling me her story. |
|
| Mr. Opportunity kounchour@yahoo.fr |
#3 of 6 |
| 420 | |
| Essay: Rome's living place Three years ago, rome
emigrated from Africa to the United states of America to continue his studies.
Since then, he has lived in Gaither which is a town located in the state of
Maryland. In the town, he rented a room in a house in which, he lives alone
along with his neighbor located in the next door. In the following sentences,
we will describe the place where rome lives. Gaither is a town located in the state of Maryland right between two other towns. Coming from Washington D.C, you go through the town Rockville before reaching Gaither. Gaither is a town full of long roads and high bridges. There are are plenty of stores gathered in different areas of the town. Unlike cities like New-York, Gaither is not full of people walking across the streets. People in Gaither are from diverse backgrounds and races but they do not necessarily live in the same neighborhood. In the morning and throughout the day, there are a lot of noises of driving cars because almost everybody drive in the town. The house where rome lives is located in the right corner of the parker street. In order to get there, a car must drive 5 miles from the entrance of Gaither up to the required street. Rome's place is a beautiful house surrounded by nice flowers and many birds singing on top of trees specially in the morning. Looking at the place, you can feel a sense of calm and peace. Rome lives in a room located in the base main. The base main which is half side inside the ground causes the room to remain cold frequently whether in summer or winter season. The cold gather in the ground and then is rejected into the room; it causes then the room to be more cold in winter. Inside the room, there is a mess; a lot of books are spread all over the table, clothes are dislocated in the closet, shoes do not quite match each other. What would we expect ? Rome is a single student. He sleeps in a little tiny bed, he also possess es a desktop computer that he uses for his several school projects. Although rome's room is messed up, it is a clean place with a nice flower odor all over. Although rome's place is not perfect, it seems to be a nice, quiet place to live in. a student in particular needs a quiet environment which will enhance his thinking process. |
|
| Mr. Opportunity glenlee10@sky.com |
#4 of 6 |
| 1901 | |
| Had Delia not been such a silly, little girl,
Graham’s life might have turned out completely differently. With
hindsight, Graham always thought she was to blame. Every afternoon, Mrs.Beeston would tinkle a little silver bell at 2 o’clock and the children at the playgroup would have a nap for an hour. Until that time, the infants played happily. On the first day of the rest of his life, Delia was holding a tea party for her Teddy and her rag doll, Gloria, while Graham was brooming his truck nearby. Delia had a jellybaby, which she gave to Teddy, and then she looked away to pour out a pretend cup of tea for Gloria. Graham’s truck skittered across the carpet and ended up near Teddy. Graham saw the jellybaby that was stuck to Teddy’s face. It had only been sucked once and even had its head still. Graham took the opportunity, snatched the jellybaby and popped it into his mouth. Delia turned round. “Oh, Teddy,” she exclaimed. “You are a greedy bear! You’ve eaten up all of the jellybaby and saved none for Gloria.” She snatched the bear from its chair. “I must give you a smack for that!” Teddy, fortunately, was saved by the bell. That afternoon, as Graham dozed on his cot, he sucked the jellybaby until there was nothing left but a sweet taste on his tongue, a bit of sticky fur on his fingers and the memory, tucked in the back of his mind, of how easily the sweet had fallen into his hands. Graham hated cabbage but by the time he was seven years’ old, he’d learnt that his five-year-old sister could save him from having to eat the detested vegetable. It was cheap and ‘good for you’, so their Mother cooked it often. Graham pretended to eat his but as soon as she left the room to serve up the pudding, Graham would take the opportunity to shovel the hated greens onto his sister’s plate. He’d convinced her that, “Cabbage makes your hair curly and only little girls should have curly hair, not big boys.” Jenny adored him and ate the cabbage. “You’re not eating your cabbage,” Mother would say as she returned to the dining room to put a bowl of ice cream or jam roly-poly pudding or steaming apple pie and custard in front of Graham. “No pudding for you, my girl, till you’ve eaten up all your dinner.” And Jenny would munch her way through her second helping of the dark-green, boiled to within an inch of its life, brassica. Later, during her teenage years, Jenny had beautifully clear skin, unlike her spotty brother. Graham was a young man of average intelligence and he decided to go into journalism as a career. At school, Media Studies, involved watching films and it was following a screening of ‘Dead Poets’ Society’ with Robin Williams in the lead role that he discovered Carpe Diem. Yes! he thought and immediately adopted Seize the Day as a personal philosophy and lifestyle choice. It paid dividends. When they were all eighteen, Graham’s best mate Carl dumped his girlfriend Louisa. Graham was on hand to offer his sympathy and understanding to the distraught, young and pretty blonde. One thing led to another and within the space of a week, an encouraging pat on the arm led to Graham losing his virginity with Louisa and getting a thump on the nose from Carl. On later reflection, Graham thought, a little blood had been a small enough price to pay, especially as Louisa was very concerned and showed her concern in the time-honoured manner. They’d been dating for two months when Graham began to feel he needed a fresh challenge and he considered chatting up the redhead at the Tesco Supermarket checkout. As if on cue, Carl began to sniff around Louisa again and Graham was able to take the opportunity to start a row with her. He blamed Louisa for Carl’s renewed interest, refused to listen to her pleas of innocence and dumped her. The redhead fell into his arms the following Saturday when he bought a packet of Polo mints from Tesco and asked her out. For the next few years, Graham strolled through life always looking for the main chance and always finding it. He became a journalist as planned and by keeping his ear to the ground or to half-open doors, he was able to scoop most of his colleagues and bring home the best stories. “Seize the day,” he winked when one of them asked, “How on earth do you do it?” “Mr.Opportunity,” they called him. He was not the most popular member of staff but he was one of the most highly paid. But Graham had a character flaw; he was light-fingered. Throughout his childhood he took sweets from the newsagent’s counter when the assistant was busy elsewhere. He always chose a shop with a young and generally inexperienced assistant. And he never stole from any shop in his own neighbourhood He was never greedy. If, during his working life he found a purse or wallet sitting unattended in an office, he wouldn’t empty it. He’d only take half the contents; leaving the owner puzzled as to why he or she hadn’t as much money as they’d thought, without realising they’d been robbed. Graham rarely bought small items. While he was buying a digital camera, he was able to purloin both the batteries he needed and an SD card, when another customer in the camera shop accidentally bumped into a fitting and almost sent it flying. The shop assistant and the customer were so relieved that Graham managed to stop it from toppling over that they didn’t notice the items sliding into his pocket; the large, inner pocket of his jacket. Seize the day, he thought as he tucked them safely away, unnoticed. Smiling, he said he’d buy the camera and slotted his credit card into the machine on the counter. “You’ll be needing batteries, Sir?” the assistant asked before he completed the electronic transaction. “No thanks,” Graham replied. “I already have some.” The redhead, Suzanne, was still around and by the time she and Graham were both twenty-five, her thoughts turned to marriage. Graham wasn’t sure but as City were playing away that fateful Saturday, he agreed to go up town with her and look at the engagement rings in a few jewellers’ windows. He didn’t think he’d have to actually go into any shops, not at this stage. It was a rainy afternoon in November and the city was grey and gloomy. The contrast between the day and the warmth of the brightly lit and gleaming jewellers’ windows was overwhelming. Suzanne, of course, found just the ring she wanted. It nestled on black velvet in a deep-red box, in the centre of the window. The solitaire diamond glinted underneath a cleverly placed spotlight. “I can’t see the price.” Graham commented. Suzanne grabbed his hand. “The man in the shop will tell us,” and before he knew what was happening, Graham stood inside next to Suzanne and the jeweller was taking the ring from the window. Graham should have been concentrating on how to get out of the fix he found himself in but he was distracted and his mind skittered all over the place. He daren’t ask the price and as the jeweller was sliding the ring onto her finger, it didn’t seem the right time to ask. “There, Madam. How does that feel?” The jeweller stepped back, giving Suzanne space to stare in rapture at her hand and the diamond ring that fit just right. She turned towards Graham. He took a step back, knocking into a display of cheap watches on a small table. He put out a hand to steady himself. He gasped but the assistant quickly reassured him. “Don’t worry, Sir,” he said. “We often have nervous young men in here doing that.” Suzanne ignored the fuss. She gazed at the ring then looked imploringly at Graham. “Oh, it’s so beautiful,” she said softly. “How much is it?” Graham mouthed to the assistant. The assistant brought his hand out from under the counter. “Two thousand five hundred pounds,” he said. Graham went white. Wisely though, he kept his mouth shut. The shop door jingled open and a thickset, dark-haired man entered the shop. A bald-headed man, equally as big and muscled, came through the door at the back of the shop. Graham was surrounded though he didn’t at first realise it as he sought to find the words to tell Suzanne that he couldn’t afford the ring. The assistant nodded towards Graham. The thickset man put his huge hand on Graham’s arm. “Would you care to follow me, please, Sir?” he guided Graham, none too gently towards the rear of the shop. “Wha…?” was all Graham had time to splutter before finding himself in a small, bare room. The two huge men filled what was left of the room. The dark-haired man closed the door behind them. “Please empty your pockets, Sir,” the bald-headed man said, holding out a wooden tray that had been leaning against the wall. Graham looked round bewildered. On the other side of the door, he heard Suzanne crying and the murmur of the assistant who was obviously trying to calm her down. “How dare you, treat me this way?” Graham said. He tried to sound angry but it came out more as a frightened squeak. “Your belongings,” Bald Head insisted, nudging Graham’s stomach with the tray. Slowly, Graham started to empty his pockets. He put his wallet, a handkerchief and a handful of loose change onto the tray. “And the rest, Sir,” Bald Head urged. “There is no more,” Graham whined. “Oh, but I think there is, Sir.” The dark-haired man grabbed Graham’s arm and twisted it behind his back. He only needed one hand to do this and with the other, he searched through Graham’s pockets, including the deep, inner pocket of his jacket. He found a cheap watch, a packet of razor blades with a Boots’ price tag, a pen with the Thistle Hotel logo along the side, a penknife in a hard plastic wrapper with the price still attached, and a lipstick in a gold case. Dark Hair let Graham go and knocked on the door. He dropped the items onto the tray. Bald Head looked at the lipstick. “Hmm. Doubt it’s your colour, Sir.” The shop assistant responded to the knock. Bald Head held out the tray. He pointed to the watch. “Thought so,” the assistant nodded. “Call the police please, Cyril.” Dark haired Cyril left the room to do as instructed. The police came and Graham was arrested. Suzanne went home, without a ring and without a potential fiancé. That evening, at the police station, Graham said to his solicitor. “I never stole the watch. I don’t know how it got into my pocket. I was distracted. It must have fallen in by accident when I bumped the display.” “And the rest of the items?” his solicitor wanted to know. “From the other shops?” “Well, yes. Maybe I took them. They were just little, unimportant things,” he complained, “It’s just a silly habit I have. But I never stole the watch, I swear it.” A month later, the judge was unimpressed by Graham’s plea of, “Not guilty”, and sentenced him to prison. “There has been too much petty theft in this town recently,” he intoned, “so I. have no choice but to take this opportunity to make an example of you.” He paused. “Three months’ detention,” he said and banged his gavel on his desk, hard. |
|
| Mr. Opportunity chrischram@gmail.com |
#5 of 6 |
| 222 | |
| When Mister Opportunity comes knocking, It seems that all he cares about is mocking, You wish he'd leave his card, Or stay out in the yard. When Mister Opportunity comes knocking. When Mister Opportunity comes knocking, If you can't get the door just keep on walking, Don't be taking out the trash, Or you"ll miss his bag of cash, When Mister Opportunity comes knocking. When Mister Opportunity comes knocking, Be mindful of the options you are blocking, Don't be sitting on the john, Where you can't leave until you're done, When Mister Opportunity comes knocking. When Mister Opportunity comes knocking, It won't do any good your stealthy stalking, It is best to stay alert, Open up and start to flirt, When Mister Opportunity comes knocking. When Mister Opportunity comes knocking, To your ideas people won't be flocking, He doesn't use the phone, He's here. He's gone. You're on your own, When Mister Opportunity comes knocking. When Mister Opportunity comes knocking, The speed at which he disappears is shocking, He's not a patient guy. You get no second try, When Mister Opportunity comes knocking. When Mister Opportunity comes knocking, Get back into the race and quit your squawking, He taps lightly just one time, If you miss him it's a crime, When Mister Opportunity comes knocking. When Mister Opportunity comes knocking, A verse is nothing more than rhythmic talking, Don't let a chance to rhyme Stop reason leaving one more time, When Mister Opportunity comes knocking. Rhyme dot poetry dot com is restocking A lot of gerunds that all rhyme with "knocking." |
|
| Mr. Opportunity Ken Staley kstaley@gmail.com |
#6 of 6 Winner |
| 1908 | |
| Me and Eddie were broke, no way around it. The landlord
was constantly on our butts and no way we had rent money. Even stealing a
stupid can of spam left us open because grocery stores in town got hip to us
months ago. No pot to piss in and people looking to cut off our tally-whackers.
Then we found the pawn shop. We’d hit all the regular pawn places in town - like I said, we were well known, on a first name basis in most of the owners, whose first words were likely to be “get the HELL outta here!” At All States Pawn, we could walk down the aisle and point out those things that once furnished our apartment. Eddie’s stereo, my portable TV, even the electric razor we shared. We knew every shop. We had that page of the phone book taped on the wall, even though the phone had been disconnected three months ago. The phone was an old dial up clunker or we’d have hocked it ages ago. Nobody wanted it any more, like us. We stepped into an alley in that part of town, a part we normally avoided because it was likely to be our next living arrangements after our pending eviction. Tenements of cardboard - of stolen construction plywood - of 8 mil black plastic - fought for room in burned out husks that were once somebody’s small business dream. Steam from the grates wafted the odor of urine…and worse…into the street. Derelicts of society lined the alley with whatever garbage they didn’t use or eat. While we could see our possible residences, we delayed stealing a shopping cart and looking for packing crates until necessity forced our hands. Three brass balls hung from a neat shop in the middle of this drek. “How long’s this place been here?” Eddie asked. We stopped - actually stared at the place. We thought we’d hit every pawn place we knew. “Dunno,” I said. “We don’t come down here. Remember?” Three bells twinkled above the door - that was the first thing I noticed. Each had a different tone. No security cameras, no bars on the windows or door - that was the second thing I noticed. Pawn shops had security measures that would make a bank blush. Most clerks had loaded weapons in plain sight as well. Not here. Wall to wall carpeting so rich and thick it felt like a garden path. No real merchandise to speak of, but holographs hung in mid air and spun lazily, a catalog of goods not to be ignored. From the simple to the stunning, this shop dripped quality goods. Suddenly, here he stood in front of us – just sort of materialized. “Gentlemen!” He cried and shook both our hands like a long lost relative. “I see you’re new here. Welcome to Mr. Opportunity!” “Uh – well,” I stammered. “We were in the neighborhood and - ah – just sort of looking around. We haven’t seen this place before.” “You never know when Opportunity is going to be in your neighborhood,” Silver hair, teeth that looked like pearls, hands with long, elegant, well tended fingers – and an expensive dress suit in dark blue. “Can I get your names, gentlemen?” “That’s Eddie,” I nodded as he’d wandered off again, mouth agape at what the shop held. “I’m Neil.” “Great to meet you both! Welcome!” He said as he shook hands with us again. ”That’s a joke, right?” Eddie sneered as he shook Mr. Opportunity’s hand. “We don’t joke here in Mr. Opportunity’s, Ed,” He said as he put an arm around our shoulder and led deeper into the shop. “That old saw about opportunity knocking is so much fairy dust. You have to seek your opportunity. You two lucky men have actually just walked into the opportunity of your lifetime. May I ask, do either of you use illicit narcotics?” “You a cop?” Eddie asked as he looked back towards the door. “Do I fit the physical requirements?” He smiled, let us go, and stood for our inspection. His $400 shoes and silk suit shot down that idea. “No, no, of course not, no cop dresses like that,” I stammered – always a good idea to be polite to people you wanted to tap for money. “No, we don’t do drugs.” Not our own, I should have added. Sometimes we could bum a hit there or a toke now and then, never really enough for a buzz. We didn’t do drugs because we couldn’t afford to eat, much less anything more exotic. Hell, we had a hard time just getting any meal on a regular basis. “That’s great news, great news!” He explained. “You fit the profile for Mr. Opportunity exactly. Of course, there will be tests, but we can do those once the contracts are in place. Actually, you won’t even be here when the tests occur! You’ll hardly notice them happening at all. “Why don’t we sit down over here and let me get you both some coffee. Coffee ok with your two? Great! Cream and sugar?” He returned with two delicate china cups and a tray of cookies. The strongest impulse to wolf them all down filled me. I managed to control my impulses – just. “The contract here in Mr. Opportunity’s is fairly simple,” the sales pitch was as smooth as the man explaining the details. “What are we selling?” I asked, wiping crumbs from my mouth. Looking around the room for a blood donor’s table, a plasma bench, I saw nothing to give me a clue. I’d seen or been in samples of most of the best and worst collection outfits. “At your age,” Mr. Opportunity stepped back and looked me over carefully, “absolutely nothing that you haven’t got a great deal of to spare. Your time.” “Hey,” Eddie spun back to the conversation, tearing himself away from the cache of cookies while looking for more coffee. Mr. Opportunity refilled our cups. “We aren’t looking for work here.” “I am not offering employment,” Mr. Opportunity said. “Time - like what kind of time?” “Mr. Opportunitys buys time in three minute blocks,” he explained. “Simply put, I buy a piece of your life, three minutes at a time.” “How much?” Eddie demanded. Me, I wanted to leave. Soon as Eddie discovered it wasn’t going to require any effort on his part, he was ready to deal. “Five thousand dollars a minute.” “FIVE!?” Eddie stammered. “Five thou? Really?” “Line sixteen of the contract discusses remuneration,” he said as he handed us both simple, one page contracts. “An hour, five K a block . . .” Eddie’s voice trailed off as he tried to calculate the total. “Sorry,” the dapper salesman said. “There is a fifteen minute limit.” We signed. What else could we do? Eddie went crazy after that and blew through twenty-five thou in less than a week. You name it, Eddie headed over that edge. New apartment – booze – he stayed away from drugs so he could sell more time, but a woman or two - a good car - all fit his immediate plan. With little effort on his part, twenty-five thou evaporated and he sold more, at least two different visits that I know of. I went back to school. I always managed to put off going back until the money was simply an insurmountable complication, then used that as an excuse. Until Mr. Opportunity, that is. The first event – the test he mentioned - happened in the middle of class. It wasn’t a big thing, just a sharp pain in the chest. It was over so quickly - less than 15 seconds - that I wondered if it occurred at all. The second event lasted a bit longer – say 35 seconds - enough time went by that I lost consciousness right in the middle of my history class. People gathered around, watching, waiting. A couple kids knelt beside me, but looked lost, like they hadn’t a clue what to do next. I mean, one minute – fine – not a care in the world but boring U. S History and the Civil War. Next minute – wham – flat on my ass in the aisle. Then, it was like waking up out of a really deep, dreamless sleep. Just – there on the floor. I heard the whispers from my classmates. “Drunk.” “Dope.” Lots of other things. “Is he ok?” “Is he breathing?” “Should we call someone?” I was fine. Most moved back out of my way when I opened my eyes and sat up, almost instantly. It shocked them, I think. Scared me. I mean, how in hell did I get there? On the floor? I was at my desk - and then - I wasn’t. Funny though, those tests invigorated me. I never felt better in my life. My cold disappeared instantly. I felt great, on top of the world, in fact – except. I went back to the pawn shop. Just once. Finding Mr. Opportunity’s shop again was no easy task. It took months. Before I managed to stumble across it one day, the last of my first time block was over. “Of course,” Mr. Opportunity said. “Of course we take your time. You sold us a block of your life - two in fact. Here, check the tally sheet.” There it was, in bright red letters. “Monday – 2: 45 pm 15 seconds; Wednesday 11:28 am 37 seconds; on and on the list went, recording my leaking life.” “No warning?” “No, no warning,” Mr. Opportunity pointed to line 27 of the contract. “…without prior notification…” in legalese jingoistic gobble-de-gook. “At Mr. Opportunity’s, we never know when a client in desperate need will just walk through the door.” “How? Why?” I didn’t need the explanation. I knew. There were people in this world - important people, influential people, powerful people, people of means and money - who needed just a few extra seconds, perhaps as much as a minute. Those precious seconds, painful to me, were priceless to them. And my pain, less than 1 minute, would drag through me like a knife. “But there is a set time limit,” he reminded me that table two, and line 53 stipulated how much time could be expended in one withdrawal by the shop. Up to three minutes. “You see, the mind begins to deteriorate after three minutes,” the old man smiled. “We need you healthy and active.” 15 more minutes to worry now. Poor Eddie. |
|
"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club