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"Friendly Competition" (the 100th ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Friendly Competition" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), Dec 15, 2009 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Friendly Competition By Ken Staley kws1949@gmail.com (Entry #5) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| It’s 2:22, in blue. That was
Charlotte’s first thought. Glad that clock is blue and not red. 2:22 am,
ungodly on any day, but it felt worse a workday, even if it was Friday. She
sighed and snuggled deeper into her pillow. Her eyes snapped open. Jacque sat in the valet’s chair, grinning widely at her. Damn. “I win!” Jacks whispered. “It’s disgusting that you can still wear your letterman’s jacket,” Charlotte said. “I can’t believe you still have it.” “C’mon, I bet you still have yours,” Jacque said as she crossed to the closet. “Where is it?” “Mom’s basement,” Charlotte said as she sat up. “Go make coffee before Frank wakes up. He wouldn’t understand.” He never understood, she thought. Our bets and competitions escape him - always had. “Juvenile,” he snorted when the race to see who could lose ten pounds fasted kicked off last summer. “I thought you’d have left that behind in junior high.” “We didn’t meet until high school,” Jacque said. “Freshman year. Remember Char?” “Volleyball tryouts,” Charlotte raised her wine glass in a toast to her best friend. “Those first few days we could cheerfully have cut each other’s throats.” Frank knew nothing about most of their bets. Who would drive first; who would get drunk first; who would date more guys; who would marry first; the first kiss; the first to .... any number of things. Sometimes she won, sometimes Jacks won. After awhile, their competition was second nature. Almost anything triggered a bet. Nothing, until now, had been all that serious. They just kept Frank completely in the dark whenever possible. It wasn’t all that difficult. “Does Frank always snore so loudly?” Jacque smiled as she pushed a cup of steaming coffee across the counter. “Don’t you have to teach or something today?” Charlotte said. “I mean, don’t you have kids to test? Torment? Put on the rack?” “We never should have swapped keys,” Charlotte said. Jacks had a set of house keys, car keys – all. Likewise, a set of Jacks’ keys lay in her sock drawer upstairs. “I swear Frank would be sleeping on the couch if he snored that badly in my bed,” Jacque smiled. “How did you know we weren’t doing the do? Or that he wasn’t naked?” “Hey,” Jacque feigned pain but grinned widely. “I listened at the door. I was careful. I only hoped that Frank was bare assed.” “This really isn’t fair you know,” she snorted then blew gently across the steaming cup before sipping. “Since Richard bailed, you don’t really have anything that private.” This challenge, issued over one too many glasses of red last weekend, was simple enough: two weeks to see who could invade the most private part of the other’s life. Charlotte still had nine days. She sat sipping her coffee, silently musing about what Jacque had that was so private she didn’t already know. “Want to concede now?” “Not just yet,” Charlotte smiled with just a touch of wicked in her grin. “I still have nine days. I’ll find something.” “Good luck,” Jacque turned her face up a bit, smug confidence painted across her brow. “What are you smiling at?” “I had a flashback,” Charlotte’s grin grew wider. “To?” “Howie Longstreet,” she almost giggled in her coffee. Looking back as an adult with kid of her own, Charlotte realized that challenge was the most dangerous they’d made and, in many ways, most regrettable: Who could get laid first. “Oh my god,” Jacque moaned, then giggled. “Poor Howie. I haven’t thought of him in absolutely ages.” “At least you won,” Charlotte laughed. “Well, in a manner of speaking. But damn he was ugly.” Sometimes winning was worse than losing. “Oh but he wanted me,” Jacks smiled, then giggled herself. “Actually, truth be told, you won.” “How?” Charlotte demanded. “He never got in,” Jacks blushed a bit, then chuckled. “Blew his thing all over my stomach before he got close to the mark!” “No!! You mean, big Dave really was a winner? So to speak.” Neither guy garnered a second thought once the bet was settled. They’d double dated that night but taken separate cars home and called each other to compare notes later. Howie was first by a matter of a few minutes. Quiet filled the kitchen as memories danced. “How did your girls do tonight?” Charlotte changed the subject. While she gave up volley ball her junior year in high school, Jacks played all through high school, even into college until her knees finally gave out. Now she coached her own high school team. “Got them in four,” Jacks nodded. “Unbeaten still?” “Yep,” Jacks tried unsuccessfully to hide her pride. “What’s state look like?” Charlotte attended the games when she could maneuver time away from Frank and the two kids. With the onset of fall, her job began to pick up steam. Finding those free evenings became more and more of a challenge. Almost, she thought, as big a challenge as this bet. Her mind slipped back into the competition. What could she do to invade Jacks? They chatted for half an hour before Jacque left. Charlotte crawled back in bed and nudged Frank, who moaned, turned, and stopped snoring long enough for her to nod off again. “I need you to go down to Mountain State Bank and pick up the records they have for the Bondon Case,” Edward Riggins, lead assistant district attorney said as he stood in front of her desk, holding the subpoena. “I want a live body from my office. You’ll have to hand carry the subpoena with you,” he said as he slid it across the desk to her. “With everything riding on this case, I’d just as soon not use their courier. Take your time and have lunch first, but I need those papers this afternoon.” Mountain State occupied half a city block and rose seven stories, easily the largest building in town. Charlotte handed the subpoena to the assistant manager and perched in a chair at his desk as he retreated to the manager’s office. She glanced around the office, walnut panel and deep pile carpeting, it smelled conservative. Just outside the door the huge vault door stood open behind a waist high stainless steel fence barricade. Jacks does her banking here, was her first thought as she waited. She sat riveted to the chair as a thunder bolt struck her. Quickly, she donned her reading glasses and pushed them up her nose, hoping that the assistant manager wasn’t all that observant. She pulled her brown hair behind her in a tight bun and managed to gather herself before the man returned. ALL of her banking! Charlotte had her. She won and she knew it. All she had to do was pluck up the courage. What she was about to do was illegal and could – no – would cost her job if Jacque complained and word reached back to her office. Still, she couldn’t help but smile as she plotted her revenge. She wished she had a camera to catch Jacks’ expression. “Want to go with me Saturday?” Jacque asked on the phone that night. They called each other religiously at eight every night. “What’s Saturday?” Charlotte asked. “We play Arthur Day there,” Jacks replied with a sigh, naming her chief volley ball rivalry. “I’m not looking forward to a two hour bus trip with three teams of squealing hormone driven girls. We can get in an hour or two shopping while the frosh and JV play if you come.” Saturday! “I only wish I could, Jacks,” Charlotte grinned, glad that Jacks couldn’t see her smile. Mountain State kept hours on Saturdays. “I promised the kids I’d watch their soccer games. I’ll stop by and let Oscar out before he stains your carpet again if you want.” “Only if it isn’t any trouble,” Jacks said. “Don’t be silly. It’s no problem at all.” Jacque wore no jewelry to speak of, so Charlotte found her safe deposit box key in the first drawer of the small jewelry case. For the one hundredth time, she thanked all the powers that be that she and Jacque resembled each other so closely. Up close, the difference were obvious enough, but from a distance, even three feet, most strangers easily mistook one for the other. Charlotte spent most of Friday night and early Saturday perfecting Jacque’s signature. Until she actually signed the bank ledger, she hadn’t broken any laws. From her ten year tour of duty in the district attorney’s office, she knew that, unless Jacque pressed the issue, or the bank discovered her ruse, nothing else was likely to come of her invasion. Her nerves caught up with her as she approached the bank and actually caused her to stop up the block and take a deep breath. She still had time to back out she thought as she pretended to window shop. Acting on information gleaned from a previous case, she now possessed fresh false identification anointing her as Jacque Patricia Alder. Finally, she took a deep breath, patted her coat pocket where she carried a simple three by five card reading I win! and pushed the bank door open. “If there’s anything further you need, don’t hesitate to ask,” the teller said as he carried the small box towards a privacy cubicle. Charlotte wanted to tell him not to go; tell him that all she had to do was drop off this small note; to wait as she wasn’t going to be that long. Instead, her nerves threatened to take the legs from her completely and she staggered forward, using the chair for support as the teller set the box down and left. Her intention was to simply place the note in the box and leave, and later that night, when Jacque called, to drop a cryptic hint that Jacks should check her jewelry case. Along side the three by five card was a tag she could tie to the box key. Bright red. I Win! She slid her note from her pocket as adrenaline pounded through her. So this is the rush, she thought. This is why they rob banks. It has little or nothing to do with the money! She felt like the ultimate voyeur. A bank safe deposit box truly was the most personal place anyone could have. She wasn’t sure what to expect as she lifted the lid. How much could Jacque keep from her? They’d been closer than sisters now for almost twenty years. Charlotte saw her through both engagements and weddings. She’d been there to pick up the pieces when those marriages ended. They’d cried, shopped, lived and laughed together since they were fourteen. There wasn’t much in the box. She was determined not to snoop, to just drop the card and go, but temptation over ruled and a headline on a yellowed newspaper caught her attention. Auto accident claims one, leaves toddler in serious condition. Jacque hadn’t shared much of her past, only that her mother died when she was young, in a car accident. Charlotte wanted to put the article away, but habit from years of scanning legal briefs caught up with her. A paragraph early in the article caught her eye. The infant boy was thrown from the vehicle and required massive emergency reconstructive surgery. Although in serious condition at Children’s Care, doctors anticipate a full recovery. Jacque had a brother and she’d never told her. Shaking, Charlotte set the article aside and picked up another newspaper clipping that lay beneath the first. It was the picture that caught her attention. It captured a child, without question Jacque, as a small child in a wheel chair buried beneath stuffed animals and smothered in balloons. Her father pushed the chair and relatives surrounded them, some having a difficult time masking their grim faces. The caption chilled Charlotte’s blood. Jacque Alder, a victim in an auto accident that claimed the life of her mother, returns home with her father, to the cheers of other family members. Charlotte rummaged further. There wasn’t much left, just a simple legal envelope. She removed the top sheet: a hospital issued birth certificate. Jackson Patrick Alder. Not Jacque Patricia Alder. The following sheet was a simple court order changing the name. “Oh my god,” the words escaped her before she could stop herself. The impact drove her deeper into the chair. She hoped that her shock hadn’t carried through the open vault door. She’d slept in the same bed with Jacks on many occasions. Showered with Jacque – Jackson, seen her and been seen in various stages of dress. More, half the girls in high school paraded naked in front of Jacque - Jackson. And now, coach of a girl’s team. Suddenly, events in their lives crystallized. No children of her own, although Jacks loved kids and was godmother to Charlotte’s children. Two marriages filled with initial passion dissolved into screaming ashes. Jacks had kept all of this so private - so very secret. She replaced the newspapers and tried to match even the placement of each document, except the birth certificate and her own victorious note. She slipped both into her purse. She crossed to the bank of drawers and slid Jacque’s own box home with a bang. She left the bank, striding forward with purpose, her jaw set. There was only one path and she meant to take it – today. Sometimes, she thought, winning was worse than losing. |
| Friendly Competition By glenlee10@sky.com (Entry #8) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| I’d happily shoot the man who
invented football and decided it should be played throughout the winter; those
months of grey days, cold mists and downright dreariness. When I decided to be a physical education teacher I knew football might be part of the job but I preferred indoor sports like swimming and gymnastics. I’d hoped to start my career at a big school where I might have some choice about my timetable but times were hard and jobs were scarce so I took this job at Honderton village school, becoming a jack of all trades. It was September, Day One in my new job. I was summoned to the Head’s office. “Ah, John,” Mr.James jumped up, offering his hand across the desk. “Welcome. Welcome.” Letting go my hand, without giving me the chance to reply, he began to rummage in a desk drawer. “Mr.Davies drew up a timetable before he left us in July. Thought you might find it useful.” He thrust a rumpled piece of paper at me. I looked at the paper. “Monday,” I read. “Classes A and B - Double Football. 9.30 am.” “Yes,” Mr.James smiled. “Right after assembly, you’ll note. Mr.Davies believed football was a good way to rid the boys’ minds of their weekend cobwebs.” “And the girls? What will they be doing meanwhile?” “Don’t worry about the girls. Miss Hunter has them for Double Domestic Science; sewing and cooking and things like that.” I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. No inner city school would get away with such segregation. “Don’t the girls mind?” I asked. “Mind?” The Head looked surprised. “Why should they mind?” I shrugged and left it at that. It was a chilly day so maybe the girls wouldn’t mind not having to spend a couple of hours running around a muddy, sticky sports field. Double football was chaotic. Thirty-two eleven year old boys had to test the new teacher. I had to stamp my authority at once or lose any respect before I’d even earned it. With the exception of a couple of hardy souls, most of us didn’t want to be outside in the clammy mist that was trickling across the field from the direction of the river. We were therefore all a bit grumpy before we’d even started. I split the boys into two groups for a friendly ‘sixteen a side’ kick-about. The grounds man was doing some repair work to the goal mouths so we didn’t have a full pitch and the boys always seemed to be falling over each other. I had to separate several scraps and handed out three detentions. “You don’t hit the opposing goalie,” I told off a ginger-headed boy called Roderick, “just because he stopped you from scoring a goal. That’s his job.” “It’s my job to score a goal,” the boy remonstrated, “and it’s not my fault if he ran into my fist accidentally.” “It’s plain to see you don’t take Gary Lineker or David Beckham as role models,” I told him. “Nah, they’re sissies,” the lad grinned. “Thierry Henri’s my hero!” I learned later that the wannabe striker and the goalie were brothers, so there was probably more going on than just football. It was a long hour and a half before I could blow the whistle and usher the boys inside for a shower. “What’s the score, Sir?” one of the boys asked. I’d been so busy sorting out the spats that had kept cropping up like bush fires, I’d forgotten to keep score. “Ten goals each,” I lied. ”Now get inside and try and get some of that mud off your faces.” Netball with the girls was scheduled for Friday afternoon. Thank goodness it was only one and a half periods. They were much more trouble than the boys. Elbows were used just as often but generally it was when my back was turned and I had to sort out the aftermath and work out which one of two crying eleven year olds was the guilty one. A niggling voice at the back of my mind told me both were as guilty as hell. Just look at the crocodile tears, it added. Two weeks later, I was finding my feet. Then I was called to the Head’s office again. “Morning, Jon,” Mr.James was sorting through a pile a folders. “Damn thing’s gone walkabout again,” he muttered. “No matter.” He gave me a smile; one of those diffident smiles that appeal to your better nature and seem to beg you to go along with whatever daft scheme was being planned; one that left you no room for manoeuvre. “The Head Teacher at Whailby School has asked me to arrange a Friendly Football game between our boys.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a small scrap of paper. “I’ve got their gym teacher’s number here. It’s for next Saturday afternoon with a 2 pm kick-off on our ground.” He gave me the piece of paper. “Set it up please. I’ll be putting the details in the newsletter that’ll go out to our parents tonight.” The Whailby School’s gym teacher was Miss Bohn. I telephoned her during break. She sounded bored. “I’m looking forward to meeting you,” I tried to charm her. “We’ll lick the pants off you,” she countered with more aggression than I thought was seemly, considering it was only a friendly we would be playing, not the F.A. Cup Final. Saturday was a glorious day; one of those cold but clear days that manages to expel the grey heaviness of an English winter. There’d been a frost but though the surface of the football pitch was hard, I judged it wasn’t dangerous and at 10 o’clock I declared the game could go ahead. My boys, eleven players and three substitutes, had all arrived by 1pm. Roderick had turned out to be a surprisingly good goalie. Occasionally he forgot his position though so I warned him, “You are not a centre forward. Guard your goal.” His brother, Eric, always the joker in the pack, grinned. “Tell us about the offside rule again, Sir.” The other boys groaned. The little swine. He was probably winding me up but just in case, I repeated what I’d told them dozens of times already. “It’s not an offence to be offside. It is an offence if you are offside and, at the moment the ball touches or is played by one of your team, you are, in the opinion of the referee, involved in active play. That is, if you interfere with play or with an opponent or you gain an advantage by being in that position. It’s not an offence to receive the ball directly from a goal kick, a throw-in or a corner kick. If there’s an offside offence, the referee will award an indirect free kick to the other team from the place where the offence occurred.” We all knew what was coming next. Roderick tried to gag his brother and a scuffle ensued but Eric managed to evade him and asked, “Yes, but how do I know when I’m offside, Sir?” I had to go through with the charade. “You’re offside when you’re nearer their goal line than both the ball and the second last opponent. You’re not offside when you’re in your own half of the field and level with the second last opponent and he is level with the last two opponents.” Eric drew breath but Steve, the tall, thin midfielder, managed to outflank him. “Who’s the ref?” “Some chap from Bromfield called Ted Hughes.” “And the linesmen?” “Miss Bohn and me!” “The X Factor it ain’t!” chuckled Eric. I heard a coach arrive and decant the chattering opposition onto the school car park. “I’d better go and welcome Miss Bohn and her boys,” I said. “Behave!” “Good luck, Sir,” shouted Roderick. “You’re going to need it!” Eric chipped in. Miss Bohn turned out to be a stocky lady of indeterminate years. She had the leathery-look skin that indicates years of being outside in all weathers. Her hair was grey at the temples. She reminded me of my first gym teacher; the one who insisted on my school reports that I’d never be worth much. I hesitated to go over to Miss Bohn but she’d spotted me and lumbered across on tree trunk thighs. I wasn’t fooled. I’ll bet you can shift when you need to I thought. “Miss Bohn,” I smiled and stuck out my hand. “Good to meet you.” Her grip was masculine. She didn’t smile. I’d sooner be cleaning the oven than standing in the cold talking to a fool, her expression seemed to say. “My boys are ready. It’s almost time,” she growled. “Shall we get started?” It was a good turnout. The pitch was lined with parents, mostly Dads but there was a sprinkling of Mums too. The referee blew his whistle. We were off. No one had told me there was a long standing ‘history’ between our two schools and that what I had been told was a ‘Friendly’ was, in fact, a grudge match. It was something to do with a game played during the War. It was something that had been fought over many times in matches played in the following half century. It was something the watching Dads talked about in the pub. It was something that everyone had forgotten to tell me about. I’d like to say that Whailby played dirty and that my boys were innocent bystanders but that would be a lie. At times there were more boys rolling around in the penalty areas, clutching parts of their anatomy while their mates cried, “Foul, ref! Foul!” than there were boys standing. At first, the referee was patient but after the game had been stopped for the fifth time while he sorted out these tangles, he started to produce his yellow card. From behind my position on the line I heard the Dads muttering. The language was foul and though I’d been warned at college about aggressive parents, I was still amazed with some of the things they were saying. At college we’d done some role-playing to prepare us for pushy parents but not one of us had been inventive enough. My hair stood on end. Thank goodness the referee blew his whistle for half time just as I was about to remonstrate with one Dad who was walking onto the pitch to, “Sort out that ginger-headed little tyke!” The score was 0 : 0. Back in the changing room I handed out the quarters of orange. “What did I tell you Roderick about staying near your goal? You were all over the place!” “Sorry, Sir. It’s just that…” “No excuses! You defend your goal at all times. I don’t care if one of their players does call you a little bastard. You don’t go and thump him in the middle of a game.” “So it’s OK to do it after the game?” the little tyke grinned. “If the ball had gone into the net while you were otherwise engaged, I’d have thumped you after the game,” I told him. “Sir! That would be child abuse!” Modern children have all the answers, it seemed. The second half was even more fraught than the first. The crowd needed goals. Play was as dirty as before but the volume of the instructions from the spectators rose frighteningly. I wanted to protect my back and I found it hard to concentrate. Miss Bohn on the other side of the field was charging up and down, as vociferous as any of the parents. What a woman! A boy was down in the penalty area. It was one of mine. The referee flashed a red card at one of theirs. A Dad stepped onto the pitch. Three or four followed him. Two Dads belonging to the opposition stepped round Miss Bohn. I called my Dads to come back. They were deaf to my pleas. The referee glared at me as though I should stop them. Hey mate, I thought, you’re in charge. You do something. The Dads kept on walking. Towards each other. Like dogs they kept their eyes on the enemy. More Dads and one or two Mums followed them onto the pitch. I pulled my whistle from my pocket. I blew it hard. “Honderton! Come here! Now!” My boys heard but seemed reluctant to remove themselves from the field of battle. “Now!” I screeched. Even Miss Bohn, somewhat tardily, I thought, did the same and called her boys off the pitch. I managed to collect all my players and substitutes. Roderick was the most difficult to get away from the mayhem that was building up, as Dads took off their jackets and rolled up their sleeves. When he finally came up to me he said. “But, Sir. You told me not to leave my goal, so I didn’t.” There are times, I thought, when child abuse seems very attractive. I led my boys from the field but I couldn’t get them inside the building. They gaggled around the changing room door but wouldn’t go inside. “That’s our Dads,” Nigel the centre forward simply said. Miss Bohn had the sense to take her boys to the other side of the car park and they gathered in front of their coach to watch the rumble. I was horrified but nobody else seemed to be. No one called the police but the press was on site. On Monday, the local weekly paper was full of pictures, which told their own tale. “RAMPAGE” the headline screamed. “FOOTBALL HOOLIGANISM IS NOT DEAD.” On Monday, I didn’t wait to be called to the Head’s office. I knocked on his door at 9am, sharp. “Ah. Good morning, Jon. What a lovely day it is.” I didn’t want to discuss the weather. “About Saturday,” I started. “Yes, a good match spoiled by a bit of bother at the end,” the Head chuckled. “Nothing unusual in that, though.” “But…” “Don’t worry about it,” he said reassuringly. “It happens from time to time. The Dads can get a bit hot under the collar but no real harm was done…” “No ‘real harm was done?’” I spluttered. The paper said there were three broken noses, two dislocated shoulders, five sprained ankles and one torn ear. And you say ‘no real harm was done’?” “Goodness me,” Mr.James looked concerned. “That’s nothing. In 1998 one of the Dads had a stroke and died but the family didn’t sue. They accepted it was just one of those things. Now,” he changed the subject. “Some of the Mums have approached me about starting up a girls’ football team. What do you think?” |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #5 Second place: #8 Third place (tie): #1, #7 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Friendly Competition brigid@lorienwood.plus.com |
#1 of 8 |
| 104 words | |
| My Granny likes police men. She likes to take their hats! My Grandpa loves warm fires got by setting fire to flats! My Bruv's covered in tattoos. Rap music is his 'thing'. He wears an ASBO anklet to match his gold skull ring. My Sister loves the wild life- squirrelled toast a tasty dish! Her Hell's Angel boyfriend has more hair than you would wish. Dad's always out round houses with jemmy and swag bag. I haven't seen his face, even when he smokes a fag! Mum goes to church, and mutters "this war of attrition has been caused by our cousins' 'friendly' competition!" |
|
| Friendly Competition auram5386@satx.rr.com |
#2 of 8 |
| 51 words | |
| Your voice intoxicates me driving me to madness. The sweet chaos of your fingerprints against the imperfect grooves and moves of my skin; I cant even stand it. You send signals of disperity and I cant help but take advantage. I see the way she yearns for you. It excites me. |
|
| Friendly Competition s614840@gaggle.net |
#3 of 8 |
| 603 words | |
| Dear Diary: Today I met my Prince Charming. I went to the mall with my friends like I do every weekend to shop, get testers, and eat loads of junk food. We all met in Macy’s and spent ample time smelling perfumes and trying on shoes. When leaving I saw him. Our eyes met and time froze. I know that sounds cliché but Diary, it’s oh so true. There he stood, tall and gorgeous. His face was strong with deep set eyes. They were a comforting brown masked with mystery. His jaw was hidden with a small goatee. His skin was the perfect shade of hazelnut and desirably smooth. His body toned and masculine was barely hidden beneath the fitted t-shirt and jeans he wore. I smiled a glistening beam of confidence, I’m assuming he found it welcoming because he followed me out of Macy’s and into the courtyard. He tapped me on the shoulder, a touch Diary that almost made me faint. “I couldn’t help but notice,” he began in a deep hypnotic voice, “that you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.” My body went limp. My friends nudged me to respond. But what do I say in response to that. I couldn’t simple say thank you. I’m pretty sure I looked idiotic in the few awkward seconds that followed while I searched my mind for a response. A-HA! I then found something clever. “Well you must not have seen many girls in your lifetime,” I replied in a flirty smile. Diary I understand that this wasn’t the best response but it sparked conversation and was better than a shy thank you. “Beautiful what is your name?” he asked me. I went back into the idiotic silence. Yes I forgot my name. I searched my brain. There was nothing. These two minutes of my life were the strangest I’ve ever experienced. I had never been this way because of a boy. But then again he was no ordinary boy, he was a man. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” I finally replied to buy me time. “George. If you don’t tell me yours I’ll be forced to only call you Beautiful,” he replied with a grin. He had a smile so warm it could have melted all the icecaps. If he smiled like this everyday, Diary maybe he is the reason for global warming. “My name is Chanel,” I replied with a just as charming smile. Then he turned to my friends and asked if he could have me for the day. He promised to take good care of me and return me safely. Like little school girls they giggled and handed me off to him. He asked me what my favorite thing to eat was. Quickly I replied with ice cream. He then led me down into the courtyard and ordered an ice cream bowl for us to share. George sat looking into my eyes. He then began to ask me a series of questions while we stuffed our faces with mint chocolate chip flavored ice cream. Diary this was a scene from a movie or that a girl only dreams of. By the end of the day I could have sworn I was in love. But Diary, reality hit me. I had a boyfriend, whom I thought was the man of my dreams. You know him well Diary, I’ve spent pages and pages describing my love for him. Now this makes me question… is love really this fickle and only based on attraction. |
|
| Friendly Competition |
#4 of 8 |
| Removed by the web master. | |
| Friendly Competition Ken Staley kws1949@gmail.com |
#5 of 8 Winner |
| 2250 words | |
| It’s 2:22, in blue. That was Charlotte’s
first thought. Glad that clock is blue and not red. 2:22 am, ungodly on any
day, but it felt worse a workday, even if it was Friday. She sighed and
snuggled deeper into her pillow. Her eyes snapped open. Jacque sat in the valet’s chair, grinning widely at her. Damn. “I win!” Jacks whispered. “It’s disgusting that you can still wear your letterman’s jacket,” Charlotte said. “I can’t believe you still have it.” “C’mon, I bet you still have yours,” Jacque said as she crossed to the closet. “Where is it?” “Mom’s basement,” Charlotte said as she sat up. “Go make coffee before Frank wakes up. He wouldn’t understand.” He never understood, she thought. Our bets and competitions escape him - always had. “Juvenile,” he snorted when the race to see who could lose ten pounds fasted kicked off last summer. “I thought you’d have left that behind in junior high.” “We didn’t meet until high school,” Jacque said. “Freshman year. Remember Char?” “Volleyball tryouts,” Charlotte raised her wine glass in a toast to her best friend. “Those first few days we could cheerfully have cut each other’s throats.” Frank knew nothing about most of their bets. Who would drive first; who would get drunk first; who would date more guys; who would marry first; the first kiss; the first to .... any number of things. Sometimes she won, sometimes Jacks won. After awhile, their competition was second nature. Almost anything triggered a bet. Nothing, until now, had been all that serious. They just kept Frank completely in the dark whenever possible. It wasn’t all that difficult. “Does Frank always snore so loudly?” Jacque smiled as she pushed a cup of steaming coffee across the counter. “Don’t you have to teach or something today?” Charlotte said. “I mean, don’t you have kids to test? Torment? Put on the rack?” “We never should have swapped keys,” Charlotte said. Jacks had a set of house keys, car keys – all. Likewise, a set of Jacks’ keys lay in her sock drawer upstairs. “I swear Frank would be sleeping on the couch if he snored that badly in my bed,” Jacque smiled. “How did you know we weren’t doing the do? Or that he wasn’t naked?” “Hey,” Jacque feigned pain but grinned widely. “I listened at the door. I was careful. I only hoped that Frank was bare assed.” “This really isn’t fair you know,” she snorted then blew gently across the steaming cup before sipping. “Since Richard bailed, you don’t really have anything that private.” This challenge, issued over one too many glasses of red last weekend, was simple enough: two weeks to see who could invade the most private part of the other’s life. Charlotte still had nine days. She sat sipping her coffee, silently musing about what Jacque had that was so private she didn’t already know. “Want to concede now?” “Not just yet,” Charlotte smiled with just a touch of wicked in her grin. “I still have nine days. I’ll find something.” “Good luck,” Jacque turned her face up a bit, smug confidence painted across her brow. “What are you smiling at?” “I had a flashback,” Charlotte’s grin grew wider. “To?” “Howie Longstreet,” she almost giggled in her coffee. Looking back as an adult with kid of her own, Charlotte realized that challenge was the most dangerous they’d made and, in many ways, most regrettable: Who could get laid first. “Oh my god,” Jacque moaned, then giggled. “Poor Howie. I haven’t thought of him in absolutely ages.” “At least you won,” Charlotte laughed. “Well, in a manner of speaking. But damn he was ugly.” Sometimes winning was worse than losing. “Oh but he wanted me,” Jacks smiled, then giggled herself. “Actually, truth be told, you won.” “How?” Charlotte demanded. “He never got in,” Jacks blushed a bit, then chuckled. “Blew his thing all over my stomach before he got close to the mark!” “No!! You mean, big Dave really was a winner? So to speak.” Neither guy garnered a second thought once the bet was settled. They’d double dated that night but taken separate cars home and called each other to compare notes later. Howie was first by a matter of a few minutes. Quiet filled the kitchen as memories danced. “How did your girls do tonight?” Charlotte changed the subject. While she gave up volley ball her junior year in high school, Jacks played all through high school, even into college until her knees finally gave out. Now she coached her own high school team. “Got them in four,” Jacks nodded. “Unbeaten still?” “Yep,” Jacks tried unsuccessfully to hide her pride. “What’s state look like?” Charlotte attended the games when she could maneuver time away from Frank and the two kids. With the onset of fall, her job began to pick up steam. Finding those free evenings became more and more of a challenge. Almost, she thought, as big a challenge as this bet. Her mind slipped back into the competition. What could she do to invade Jacks? They chatted for half an hour before Jacque left. Charlotte crawled back in bed and nudged Frank, who moaned, turned, and stopped snoring long enough for her to nod off again. “I need you to go down to Mountain State Bank and pick up the records they have for the Bondon Case,” Edward Riggins, lead assistant district attorney said as he stood in front of her desk, holding the subpoena. “I want a live body from my office. You’ll have to hand carry the subpoena with you,” he said as he slid it across the desk to her. “With everything riding on this case, I’d just as soon not use their courier. Take your time and have lunch first, but I need those papers this afternoon.” Mountain State occupied half a city block and rose seven stories, easily the largest building in town. Charlotte handed the subpoena to the assistant manager and perched in a chair at his desk as he retreated to the manager’s office. She glanced around the office, walnut panel and deep pile carpeting, it smelled conservative. Just outside the door the huge vault door stood open behind a waist high stainless steel fence barricade. Jacks does her banking here, was her first thought as she waited. She sat riveted to the chair as a thunder bolt struck her. Quickly, she donned her reading glasses and pushed them up her nose, hoping that the assistant manager wasn’t all that observant. She pulled her brown hair behind her in a tight bun and managed to gather herself before the man returned. ALL of her banking! Charlotte had her. She won and she knew it. All she had to do was pluck up the courage. What she was about to do was illegal and could – no – would cost her job if Jacque complained and word reached back to her office. Still, she couldn’t help but smile as she plotted her revenge. She wished she had a camera to catch Jacks’ expression. “Want to go with me Saturday?” Jacque asked on the phone that night. They called each other religiously at eight every night. “What’s Saturday?” Charlotte asked. “We play Arthur Day there,” Jacks replied with a sigh, naming her chief volley ball rivalry. “I’m not looking forward to a two hour bus trip with three teams of squealing hormone driven girls. We can get in an hour or two shopping while the frosh and JV play if you come.” Saturday! “I only wish I could, Jacks,” Charlotte grinned, glad that Jacks couldn’t see her smile. Mountain State kept hours on Saturdays. “I promised the kids I’d watch their soccer games. I’ll stop by and let Oscar out before he stains your carpet again if you want.” “Only if it isn’t any trouble,” Jacks said. “Don’t be silly. It’s no problem at all.” Jacque wore no jewelry to speak of, so Charlotte found her safe deposit box key in the first drawer of the small jewelry case. For the one hundredth time, she thanked all the powers that be that she and Jacque resembled each other so closely. Up close, the difference were obvious enough, but from a distance, even three feet, most strangers easily mistook one for the other. Charlotte spent most of Friday night and early Saturday perfecting Jacque’s signature. Until she actually signed the bank ledger, she hadn’t broken any laws. From her ten year tour of duty in the district attorney’s office, she knew that, unless Jacque pressed the issue, or the bank discovered her ruse, nothing else was likely to come of her invasion. Her nerves caught up with her as she approached the bank and actually caused her to stop up the block and take a deep breath. She still had time to back out she thought as she pretended to window shop. Acting on information gleaned from a previous case, she now possessed fresh false identification anointing her as Jacque Patricia Alder. Finally, she took a deep breath, patted her coat pocket where she carried a simple three by five card reading I win! and pushed the bank door open. “If there’s anything further you need, don’t hesitate to ask,” the teller said as he carried the small box towards a privacy cubicle. Charlotte wanted to tell him not to go; tell him that all she had to do was drop off this small note; to wait as she wasn’t going to be that long. Instead, her nerves threatened to take the legs from her completely and she staggered forward, using the chair for support as the teller set the box down and left. Her intention was to simply place the note in the box and leave, and later that night, when Jacque called, to drop a cryptic hint that Jacks should check her jewelry case. Along side the three by five card was a tag she could tie to the box key. Bright red. I Win! She slid her note from her pocket as adrenaline pounded through her. So this is the rush, she thought. This is why they rob banks. It has little or nothing to do with the money! She felt like the ultimate voyeur. A bank safe deposit box truly was the most personal place anyone could have. She wasn’t sure what to expect as she lifted the lid. How much could Jacque keep from her? They’d been closer than sisters now for almost twenty years. Charlotte saw her through both engagements and weddings. She’d been there to pick up the pieces when those marriages ended. They’d cried, shopped, lived and laughed together since they were fourteen. There wasn’t much in the box. She was determined not to snoop, to just drop the card and go, but temptation over ruled and a headline on a yellowed newspaper caught her attention. Auto accident claims one, leaves toddler in serious condition. Jacque hadn’t shared much of her past, only that her mother died when she was young, in a car accident. Charlotte wanted to put the article away, but habit from years of scanning legal briefs caught up with her. A paragraph early in the article caught her eye. The infant boy was thrown from the vehicle and required massive emergency reconstructive surgery. Although in serious condition at Children’s Care, doctors anticipate a full recovery. Jacque had a brother and she’d never told her. Shaking, Charlotte set the article aside and picked up another newspaper clipping that lay beneath the first. It was the picture that caught her attention. It captured a child, without question Jacque, as a small child in a wheel chair buried beneath stuffed animals and smothered in balloons. Her father pushed the chair and relatives surrounded them, some having a difficult time masking their grim faces. The caption chilled Charlotte’s blood. Jacque Alder, a victim in an auto accident that claimed the life of her mother, returns home with her father, to the cheers of other family members. Charlotte rummaged further. There wasn’t much left, just a simple legal envelope. She removed the top sheet: a hospital issued birth certificate. Jackson Patrick Alder. Not Jacque Patricia Alder. The following sheet was a simple court order changing the name. “Oh my god,” the words escaped her before she could stop herself. The impact drove her deeper into the chair. She hoped that her shock hadn’t carried through the open vault door. She’d slept in the same bed with Jacks on many occasions. Showered with Jacque – Jackson, seen her and been seen in various stages of dress. More, half the girls in high school paraded naked in front of Jacque - Jackson. And now, coach of a girl’s team. Suddenly, events in their lives crystallized. No children of her own, although Jacks loved kids and was godmother to Charlotte’s children. Two marriages filled with initial passion dissolved into screaming ashes. Jacks had kept all of this so private - so very secret. She replaced the newspapers and tried to match even the placement of each document, except the birth certificate and her own victorious note. She slipped both into her purse. She crossed to the bank of drawers and slid Jacque’s own box home with a bang. She left the bank, striding forward with purpose, her jaw set. There was only one path and she meant to take it – today. Sometimes, she thought, winning was worse than losing. |
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| Friendly Competition Luciano Bogran lbogran05@hotmail.com |
#6 of 8 |
| 2333 words | |
| “Oww!” screamed Damien, cupping his right
breast with stinging pain. He was sucking his teeth from just being given a
reverse purple nurple, “Why did you have to do that, bro?” “Why not? After all, you twisted my nipples earlier today and they are still burning red from it,” I remarked with a sinister laugh and menacing grin. “What are you complaining about anyway? I barely touched you!” “What!? You grabbed my entire breast and twisted it as though it was playdoh!” shouted Damien, offended from my remark. He took a deep breath and sighed, “Man, this horseplay is getting too painful. We should do something else; I can’t handle this anymore my nipples are turning to mush.” “Hahaha,” I laughed with delight at Damien’s expense. “You just can’t handle the pain. What a wuss! I doubt you can handle anything else, bro.” Damien’s eyes open wide and his breath cut short to a stop. He gasped loudly, sucking in all the air which made his chest puff up filled with oxygen. “What!? I can so handle anything you throw to me. In fact, remember last time when you ate cheese and your stomach got upset during history? I lasted the whole period suffering by your toxic gasses without one squeak!” He paused for a few seconds, taking a breath while he shuffled his papers aside. “How about we make a bet. You versus me, by the end of today let’s see who can wipe up the worst prank to the other!” Surprised from what I heard, I paused to think of some pranks I could possibly pull. I looked down from Damien’s face to the desk between us. Blank school rule pages with the sides ripped along the spiral lay between my hands. I stared blankly at the paper for a few seconds, wondering about the bet that Damien just proposed. After all, the morning had just started and we were in third period with a whole day available to goof around. At this thought, I lifted my head back and look Damien in the eye, lowering my eyebrows and fixing them together trying to intimidate him. “Damien,” I paused for dramatical effect, “you’re on!” “Ha! So what should be the rules?” “I don’t know bro. Just, no rules; whatever you can dish out and the other can’t handle” “So, how do we know when the other has had enough?” I was caught off guard and didn’t know how to respond. “ I guess,” I paused and hesitated, leaving my reply short. “I guess the YOU just got to give up” I responded, raising my voice enough to make my threat clear. “In your dreams, bro!” laughed Damien holding his right hand to his stomach just below the sternum while raising a pointing finger at me. “It’s you who’s going to be crying ‘Uncle!’ by the end of lunch” growled Damien with his left eye squinted and right eyebrow raised enough to show his large dark brown eyes. The bell rang. Damien and I remained seated while the bell blared and the classroom shuffled sudden with life. We each rose slowly from the table still watching each other carefully with a watchful eye. Damien picked up his backpack and swung it around his shoulder uttering a soft “Oomph” from the heaviness of the backpack as it sunk and dragged his shoulder downward. “I’ll see you at lunch, bro” he said as he walk pass by towards the door without looking back. I quickly gathered all my loose papers and blank pages together and stuffed them inside my back pack, not caring where they were shoved in. I grabbed the right strap and lifted my backpack while swiftly walking out of the classroom, slithering between people as I sped by. My class room was just across the hallway, but I wanted to be early so I can sit down and plot. The door read B218a. I walked through the doorway and made my way to my assigned computer station just at the end of the first row or computers. The room was empty, the A/C hummed softly above and the chattering of the hallways fell in volume to a distant cacophony. I dropped my bag to the computer table’s front legs with a loud thump, pulled the chair out and sat down. I was fixed in thought. I stared at my screen saver without really seeing the windows logo bounce to every edge of the screen. I thought of stealing Damien’s possession and hide them throughout the school, perhaps the girl’s restroom or spill steaming hot chocolate on him or tripping him along the halls. I realized these pranks were childish and nothing mischievous that would emasculate Damien enough for him to submit. The bell rang. Shockingly the classroom was already filled with bickering students, conversing about previous classes and school topics while others stroll across the room finding their way to their seats. The class had started and the teacher was shouting above the noise addressing today’s assignment and signaling everybody to start working. “Alright, everybody quiet down. Quiet down. Finish what you left off from yesterday and turn it in by the end of the class period. I have a very important phone call to make; so, please quiet it down” said the teacher, backing up towards her desk and turning around to focus on her work while everyone else instantly began typing away against their keyboards. The room at this point, echoed with loud clicking from the keyboards and the humming sounds from each computer as it tried to cool itself down from the rapid use. My screen still had the windows logo bouncing and remained silent among the other roaring computers. The person next to me nudges my elbow and asked, “Dude, what are you doing?” Alarmed, I reacted confusedly to my surroundings; making sudden gestures and sharp body turns trying to see what had caught me off guard. “Dude! You alright? What are you doing?” I looked to my left to see little Damien starring back at me with a worried look. “Oh, nah its nothing. I was just thinking,” I replied with a slow drowsy tone. “It’s just that Black Damien and I made a bet to see who can prank who by lunch.” “Nah uh!” replied little Damien with a sudden bright aura to his expression. “So, what are you going to do to him?” I looked away from little Damien and back to the screen and logo.“That’s what I was thinking about, I don’t know. I can’t think of anything bad that I could easily pull by next period,” I shamefully answered. “Do you have any ideas, Damien?” He paused and looked at his hands. He had a scarlet ribbon between his hands that he was overlapping each other, one strand on top the other continuously. His lips were slightly opened but said nothing. “I don’t mean to distract you, bro…” “No, no” said little Damien sharply, interrupting my comment short. “I just thought it was funny. You and Damien are usually scooping or twisting each other and everybody else’s nipples or starting a mosh among the guys, even farting aloud during silent reading in English. Yet, you can’t think of anything BAD to do to each other. Just funny.” He didn’t look away from his hands, his fingers were moving all around the ribbon which was close to running out of loose strands. I didn’t reply at once, but waited until he had finished with his ribbon. The last strand went over the other which made a long, roughly edge spring with two small tails at the end. With his right hand he grabbed the outermost tail and slowly pulled the strand towards him. The spring engulfed itself inward and made it through all the levels, leaving behind multiple wrinkles and crescent edges that closely resembled the petals of that of a rose. “I know right. I just can’t think of something that would be just good enough that even Damien wouldn’t be able to top, just don’t know what.” Little Damien, pleased with his rose looked up at me and replied with a beaming smile, “Well, you might wanna figure something out quick because the bell is going to ring soon.” I looked up from his hand to his face and noticed, out of the corner of my eye, the swift and clamoring of the people around us. I turned away to see people rushing across the room and putting away their belongings inside their backpacks with quick pace. Alarmed, I sharply turned back to look at my screen from which the logo bounced from the top right corner down to the bottom. I had nothing out on my desk, nor had touched anything that was already there. The bell rang. Little Damien shot up from his chair and punched me slightly on the shoulder, “Come on, lets go!” He was still smiling, holding his scarlet rose on his right hand. I grabbed my bag and quickly followed little Damien out the door and into the hallway. We zigzagged through the crowd and made it to the parking lot where the rest of our friends awaited to go out to eat to local fast food restaurants. In the far end of the second row of cars was a slightly large group of guys in a clustered circle conversing loudly while pushing each other around. Little Damien and I, made our way towards them and greeted each person with punch to the shoulder or an exaggerated bear hug. “So, where we going to eat guys?” asked Adrian, the smallest yet brightest person in the group. “Were wasting time here acting like a bunch of goof balls, let’s get in the cars and go somewhere, Subway” demanded Adrian with a high voice. With this said everyone clamored inside the cars and continued their horseplay from the back seat. I, along with two other friends, drove in another car and sped our way towards Subway. Little and black Damien were in the other car, silently laughing from behind the other window. I was alone in the backseat, still thinking of how I can beat Damien at his own bet. Pantsing or spoiling his food was the only options that appeared in my mind. I gave up, I had nothing prepared for Damien, but awaited what he had prepared for me. We arrived at Subway, a little before one o’clock. Everyone clamored out of the car and rushed to the entrance of Subway, shoving and pushing each other from their way. Adrian was pushed all the way to the back of the group and thus, the line. “Guys, GUYS!” yelled Adrian with a noticeable quiver in his voice. “We only have a few minutes to get our food and go. We wasted too much time messing around in the parking lot. We’re going to be late!” Adrian was concerned, timing and school has always been important to him. “Alright, alright. Let’s get our subs to go and eat during class,” said little Damien loudly, smiling cheerfully behind his light mustache. I asked the other guys to order me a sandwich matching theirs and waited for them in the car. I didn’t enter the car. I leaned against it, looking out in front of watching a dirty, old truck with a shattered back window and a missing hubcap pass by. It was ten minutes pass one and the bell rings in about six minutes. I chuckled. I imagined Adrian becoming angrier and more frustrated with each passing second that they haven’t left Subway that they will be late. Shortly after, I heard Adrian’s voice loud among the snickering of the guy’s and saw the group walking towards the car. I opened the door and crawled inside. The other soon entered. We were driving down the road, alongside each other. The first light turned red, time was still ticking and Adrian was violently throwing his hands inside the other car, cursing everybody for making him late to class. I noticed black Damien was in the passenger seat next to the driver’s and was looking straight at me. Hesitantly, I looked for something to flash back at him and finally thought of something. The light turned green and I urged for the driver to slowly pass by the other car, with Damien inside. I unbuckled my seat belt along with the button of my pants. I pulled my blue jeans and boxer shorts just below my ass line and pressed it against the window. The other car swerved a little off to the left and everyone was laughing as well as pretending to puke as they saw the lightly brown ass pressed against the window mocking them straight in the face. I turned around quickly to see Damien bursting with laughter, holding his sides and squinting his eyes as he howled. I pulled back up my shorts and pants and noticed that everyone in the other car was at the window flashing signs and gestures back in dislike of what they had just witnessed. I chuckled at their reaction and looked forward towards Damien’s window and read his body language which was a symbol for his submit and my victory. The car chase against time to school, kept on but my victorious win over a friendly competition remained entirely whole. |
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| Friendly Competition Tom Campbell thomassbcampbelll@hotmail.com |
#7 of 8 |
| 999 words | |
| “The enemy is coming! Or is it, the enemy are
coming?” Sheesh, thought the King, and this knave is my second in command? “Well?” “Well what?” “Well where are they coming from? I assume it’s those cursed Visigoths again.” “Yes, M’Lord. It’s not a sure thing yet but we have captured a prisoner and ve haff vays to make him talk.” Noting the black glare he added, “Just kidding.” “Yeah write that down and save it so someone can use it for a bad movie several centuries from now. Let’s go see him.” They traipsed off from the ornate throne room down to the dank gloomy dungeon ( there is no other kind ). The knave kept stepping on the King’s robe, following so closely was he, until a mighty buffet to the head sent him sprawling. “What are you, my shadow? Stay ten paces back.” It was one of the better cells where the sun filtered in, the hanging chains were so low a man could rest his feet, and the mice had their own cheese buffet. In the center of which sat a less than grumpy man in a comfy chair smoking a cigar. “You call this torture?” roared the King. “Well,” the knave stammered, “since he’s used to sitting on rocks and dirt we thought the comfy chair would like freak him out. And you know our cigars are made out tree bark since tobacco hasn’t been discovered yet.” “Well this one says Havana on it,” spoke the prisoner. “The guard sold it to me for a gold Caesar.” “Hmm,” the knight mused. “Those coins have been out of date for centuries. Still, gold is gold.” In an aside, the prisoner said to a mouse, “Actually, it’s bronze.” “Would you two nitwits desist from prattling about coinage,” the King roared even louder with a roar that frightened the little children and had them looking about them for lions, even though the nearest lions were safely a thousand miles away in Africa. “I need to know where your army will attack.” “Over the river and through the woods.” “Which woods?” “Which wooed wood would you think?” “Enough you toad. You think you’re Shakespeare?” “Uh, he hasn’t been born yet, Sire.” “Whatever.” The King straightened up and coughed up some stale air and fungus spores right at the prisoner. “I say, old chap.” The prisoner whined out of the mist. “ Didn’t your mother tell you to cover up your mouth when…” "Well we could make him watch MTV 24 hours a day,” said the knave, “but the Geneva convention would probably frown on that." "What in the world is... ? Never mind. I don't even want to know about the Godiva Confection or empty fees, which reminds me, have you seen the treasurer lately?" "Uh, no my Lord. What if we tried boiling oil on this venomous varlet?" "That would take to long, and besides the women have been using the oil to cook poultry. He might come out smelling so good someone would eat him." The King sighed. "Only one method of torture is left and I'm afraid we need to use it. Bring my daughter, Elspeth!" The squire paled like the color of an Appaloosa's rump and staggered back. He was about to say, but wise enough not to, 'Not that, anything but that', but instead he took a deep breath which he promptly coughed out ( they we still in the dungeon after all ) , and tacked off to do as he was bidden. Now Elspeth was a large girl, possibly of the pachyderm family, and she was possessed of a large voice, the type that shatters goblets and such, and could be heard for miles around. This might have worked out fine for her only she couldn't carry a tune. Her 'musical' output rather resembled what one might hear if all the animals on Noah's Ark were simultaneously goosed. When informed her presence was requested she wailed in long accordance with everyone of her sex, "I haven't a thing to wear." The knave bit his tongue lest something like 'How about that pavilion tent?' popped out, and merely murmured, "You look fine, M'Lady, and besides, time is of the excrescence." When they reached the dungeon they saw the prisoner had been prepared; arms tied by his side and hair pulled back exposing his ears. Elspeth stood in the doorway ( no amount of duck grease would get her through it ) and commenced a cacophony of caterwauling that would have brought Dante to his knees - had he been born yet. “Aaiiee!” cried the prisoner. “make her stop, in God’s name. I’ll tell you anything.” “You’d better not be telling me a pack of lies, you swine, or… Did I mention that Elspeth can do a whole Greek chorus?” “They will be coming from the east, over the river and through the woods, as I already told you,’ smirked the prisoner. “What do you think, knave?” “Well, M’Lord. We could station archers on the other side and deploy our sulphur bombs…” “No about him.” He said pointing to the cowering prisoner who had somehow worked a hand loose and was picking shrapnels of wax out of his ears. He’s a prevaricating pernicious pustule. I say they will come from the north. Get all of our knights and bowmen and varlets and vermin and furmen and defend the north wall. We will annihilate them by sheer forceps.” A blood roar came from the enemy and it came from the south. “Oops,” spake the King. Change of plans.” “But M’Lord, we cannot move all of those men in time.” “I don’t need them. This is not a friendly competition we have here.” “So…what will..?” “Bring me Elspeth!” |
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| Friendly Competition glenlee10@sky.com |
#8 of 8 Runner-up |
| 2451 words | |
| I’d happily shoot the man who invented football
and decided it should be played throughout the winter; those months of grey
days, cold mists and downright dreariness. When I decided to be a physical education teacher I knew football might be part of the job but I preferred indoor sports like swimming and gymnastics. I’d hoped to start my career at a big school where I might have some choice about my timetable but times were hard and jobs were scarce so I took this job at Honderton village school, becoming a jack of all trades. It was September, Day One in my new job. I was summoned to the Head’s office. “Ah, John,” Mr.James jumped up, offering his hand across the desk. “Welcome. Welcome.” Letting go my hand, without giving me the chance to reply, he began to rummage in a desk drawer. “Mr.Davies drew up a timetable before he left us in July. Thought you might find it useful.” He thrust a rumpled piece of paper at me. I looked at the paper. “Monday,” I read. “Classes A and B - Double Football. 9.30 am.” “Yes,” Mr.James smiled. “Right after assembly, you’ll note. Mr.Davies believed football was a good way to rid the boys’ minds of their weekend cobwebs.” “And the girls? What will they be doing meanwhile?” “Don’t worry about the girls. Miss Hunter has them for Double Domestic Science; sewing and cooking and things like that.” I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. No inner city school would get away with such segregation. “Don’t the girls mind?” I asked. “Mind?” The Head looked surprised. “Why should they mind?” I shrugged and left it at that. It was a chilly day so maybe the girls wouldn’t mind not having to spend a couple of hours running around a muddy, sticky sports field. Double football was chaotic. Thirty-two eleven year old boys had to test the new teacher. I had to stamp my authority at once or lose any respect before I’d even earned it. With the exception of a couple of hardy souls, most of us didn’t want to be outside in the clammy mist that was trickling across the field from the direction of the river. We were therefore all a bit grumpy before we’d even started. I split the boys into two groups for a friendly ‘sixteen a side’ kick-about. The grounds man was doing some repair work to the goal mouths so we didn’t have a full pitch and the boys always seemed to be falling over each other. I had to separate several scraps and handed out three detentions. “You don’t hit the opposing goalie,” I told off a ginger-headed boy called Roderick, “just because he stopped you from scoring a goal. That’s his job.” “It’s my job to score a goal,” the boy remonstrated, “and it’s not my fault if he ran into my fist accidentally.” “It’s plain to see you don’t take Gary Lineker or David Beckham as role models,” I told him. “Nah, they’re sissies,” the lad grinned. “Thierry Henri’s my hero!” I learned later that the wannabe striker and the goalie were brothers, so there was probably more going on than just football. It was a long hour and a half before I could blow the whistle and usher the boys inside for a shower. “What’s the score, Sir?” one of the boys asked. I’d been so busy sorting out the spats that had kept cropping up like bush fires, I’d forgotten to keep score. “Ten goals each,” I lied. ”Now get inside and try and get some of that mud off your faces.” Netball with the girls was scheduled for Friday afternoon. Thank goodness it was only one and a half periods. They were much more trouble than the boys. Elbows were used just as often but generally it was when my back was turned and I had to sort out the aftermath and work out which one of two crying eleven year olds was the guilty one. A niggling voice at the back of my mind told me both were as guilty as hell. Just look at the crocodile tears, it added. Two weeks later, I was finding my feet. Then I was called to the Head’s office again. “Morning, Jon,” Mr.James was sorting through a pile a folders. “Damn thing’s gone walkabout again,” he muttered. “No matter.” He gave me a smile; one of those diffident smiles that appeal to your better nature and seem to beg you to go along with whatever daft scheme was being planned; one that left you no room for manoeuvre. “The Head Teacher at Whailby School has asked me to arrange a Friendly Football game between our boys.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a small scrap of paper. “I’ve got their gym teacher’s number here. It’s for next Saturday afternoon with a 2 pm kick-off on our ground.” He gave me the piece of paper. “Set it up please. I’ll be putting the details in the newsletter that’ll go out to our parents tonight.” The Whailby School’s gym teacher was Miss Bohn. I telephoned her during break. She sounded bored. “I’m looking forward to meeting you,” I tried to charm her. “We’ll lick the pants off you,” she countered with more aggression than I thought was seemly, considering it was only a friendly we would be playing, not the F.A. Cup Final. Saturday was a glorious day; one of those cold but clear days that manages to expel the grey heaviness of an English winter. There’d been a frost but though the surface of the football pitch was hard, I judged it wasn’t dangerous and at 10 o’clock I declared the game could go ahead. My boys, eleven players and three substitutes, had all arrived by 1pm. Roderick had turned out to be a surprisingly good goalie. Occasionally he forgot his position though so I warned him, “You are not a centre forward. Guard your goal.” His brother, Eric, always the joker in the pack, grinned. “Tell us about the offside rule again, Sir.” The other boys groaned. The little swine. He was probably winding me up but just in case, I repeated what I’d told them dozens of times already. “It’s not an offence to be offside. It is an offence if you are offside and, at the moment the ball touches or is played by one of your team, you are, in the opinion of the referee, involved in active play. That is, if you interfere with play or with an opponent or you gain an advantage by being in that position. It’s not an offence to receive the ball directly from a goal kick, a throw-in or a corner kick. If there’s an offside offence, the referee will award an indirect free kick to the other team from the place where the offence occurred.” We all knew what was coming next. Roderick tried to gag his brother and a scuffle ensued but Eric managed to evade him and asked, “Yes, but how do I know when I’m offside, Sir?” I had to go through with the charade. “You’re offside when you’re nearer their goal line than both the ball and the second last opponent. You’re not offside when you’re in your own half of the field and level with the second last opponent and he is level with the last two opponents.” Eric drew breath but Steve, the tall, thin midfielder, managed to outflank him. “Who’s the ref?” “Some chap from Bromfield called Ted Hughes.” “And the linesmen?” “Miss Bohn and me!” “The X Factor it ain’t!” chuckled Eric. I heard a coach arrive and decant the chattering opposition onto the school car park. “I’d better go and welcome Miss Bohn and her boys,” I said. “Behave!” “Good luck, Sir,” shouted Roderick. “You’re going to need it!” Eric chipped in. Miss Bohn turned out to be a stocky lady of indeterminate years. She had the leathery-look skin that indicates years of being outside in all weathers. Her hair was grey at the temples. She reminded me of my first gym teacher; the one who insisted on my school reports that I’d never be worth much. I hesitated to go over to Miss Bohn but she’d spotted me and lumbered across on tree trunk thighs. I wasn’t fooled. I’ll bet you can shift when you need to I thought. “Miss Bohn,” I smiled and stuck out my hand. “Good to meet you.” Her grip was masculine. She didn’t smile. I’d sooner be cleaning the oven than standing in the cold talking to a fool, her expression seemed to say. “My boys are ready. It’s almost time,” she growled. “Shall we get started?” It was a good turnout. The pitch was lined with parents, mostly Dads but there was a sprinkling of Mums too. The referee blew his whistle. We were off. No one had told me there was a long standing ‘history’ between our two schools and that what I had been told was a ‘Friendly’ was, in fact, a grudge match. It was something to do with a game played during the War. It was something that had been fought over many times in matches played in the following half century. It was something the watching Dads talked about in the pub. It was something that everyone had forgotten to tell me about. I’d like to say that Whailby played dirty and that my boys were innocent bystanders but that would be a lie. At times there were more boys rolling around in the penalty areas, clutching parts of their anatomy while their mates cried, “Foul, ref! Foul!” than there were boys standing. At first, the referee was patient but after the game had been stopped for the fifth time while he sorted out these tangles, he started to produce his yellow card. From behind my position on the line I heard the Dads muttering. The language was foul and though I’d been warned at college about aggressive parents, I was still amazed with some of the things they were saying. At college we’d done some role-playing to prepare us for pushy parents but not one of us had been inventive enough. My hair stood on end. Thank goodness the referee blew his whistle for half time just as I was about to remonstrate with one Dad who was walking onto the pitch to, “Sort out that ginger-headed little tyke!” The score was 0 : 0. Back in the changing room I handed out the quarters of orange. “What did I tell you Roderick about staying near your goal? You were all over the place!” “Sorry, Sir. It’s just that…” “No excuses! You defend your goal at all times. I don’t care if one of their players does call you a little bastard. You don’t go and thump him in the middle of a game.” “So it’s OK to do it after the game?” the little tyke grinned. “If the ball had gone into the net while you were otherwise engaged, I’d have thumped you after the game,” I told him. “Sir! That would be child abuse!” Modern children have all the answers, it seemed. The second half was even more fraught than the first. The crowd needed goals. Play was as dirty as before but the volume of the instructions from the spectators rose frighteningly. I wanted to protect my back and I found it hard to concentrate. Miss Bohn on the other side of the field was charging up and down, as vociferous as any of the parents. What a woman! A boy was down in the penalty area. It was one of mine. The referee flashed a red card at one of theirs. A Dad stepped onto the pitch. Three or four followed him. Two Dads belonging to the opposition stepped round Miss Bohn. I called my Dads to come back. They were deaf to my pleas. The referee glared at me as though I should stop them. Hey mate, I thought, you’re in charge. You do something. The Dads kept on walking. Towards each other. Like dogs they kept their eyes on the enemy. More Dads and one or two Mums followed them onto the pitch. I pulled my whistle from my pocket. I blew it hard. “Honderton! Come here! Now!” My boys heard but seemed reluctant to remove themselves from the field of battle. “Now!” I screeched. Even Miss Bohn, somewhat tardily, I thought, did the same and called her boys off the pitch. I managed to collect all my players and substitutes. Roderick was the most difficult to get away from the mayhem that was building up, as Dads took off their jackets and rolled up their sleeves. When he finally came up to me he said. “But, Sir. You told me not to leave my goal, so I didn’t.” There are times, I thought, when child abuse seems very attractive. I led my boys from the field but I couldn’t get them inside the building. They gaggled around the changing room door but wouldn’t go inside. “That’s our Dads,” Nigel the centre forward simply said. Miss Bohn had the sense to take her boys to the other side of the car park and they gathered in front of their coach to watch the rumble. I was horrified but nobody else seemed to be. No one called the police but the press was on site. On Monday, the local weekly paper was full of pictures, which told their own tale. “RAMPAGE” the headline screamed. “FOOTBALL HOOLIGANISM IS NOT DEAD.” On Monday, I didn’t wait to be called to the Head’s office. I knocked on his door at 9am, sharp. “Ah. Good morning, Jon. What a lovely day it is.” I didn’t want to discuss the weather. “About Saturday,” I started. “Yes, a good match spoiled by a bit of bother at the end,” the Head chuckled. “Nothing unusual in that, though.” “But…” “Don’t worry about it,” he said reassuringly. “It happens from time to time. The Dads can get a bit hot under the collar but no real harm was done…” “No ‘real harm was done?’” I spluttered. The paper said there were three broken noses, two dislocated shoulders, five sprained ankles and one torn ear. And you say ‘no real harm was done’?” “Goodness me,” Mr.James looked concerned. “That’s nothing. In 1998 one of the Dads had a stroke and died but the family didn’t sue. They accepted it was just one of those things. Now,” he changed the subject. “Some of the Mums have approached me about starting up a girls’ football team. What do you think?” |
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