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"Lunch Break" (the ninetieth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Lunch Break" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), Feb. 15, 2009 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Lunch Break By Michael michaelpelc@yahoo.com (Entry #6) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Numbers. Walter Willoughby loved
numbers. He loved them the way some men love a good cigar or a fine wine or
even a beautiful woman. Indeed, it could be said about Willoughby – and it
often was – that numbers were his life. And soon, they would also be his
death. Heading west on Route 27 out of Cedarville, Willoughby glanced down at his watch at the precise moment when the front wheels of his car were even with mile marker 117. Willoughby was a stickler for details of that sort. Always had been. It was what set him apart from the common man, earned him a handsome living as an efficiency expert, and annoyed the hell out of just about everybody who ever came into contact with him. Willoughby's watch said it was 11:43. If there was another watch somewhere in the state of Georgia that said differently, it was wrong. The Bobcat Diner was ten miles away. Willoughby did the math in his head. If he set the cruise control to forty-seven miles an hour, he could cover the distance in twelve minutes and forty-five seconds. He would then allow himself fifteen seconds for deceleration before turning into the parking lot, an adjustment which Willoughby was certain few others ever considered. That left exactly one minute to get out of his car, lock it, and walk to the door of the restaurant, which he calculated he needed to pull open at 11:57 so that he would have precisely three minutes to use the restroom and wash his hands before sitting down to eat. Willoughby liked to eat at noon. And noon, in Walter Willoughby's mind, did not mean 11:59, nor did it mean 12:01. The Matson boys – Ed, Charley, Tucker and Dave – had been spending the morning proving their manhood out on Coosa Farm Road where it intersects with Highway 27 just west of Justice Springs. A smidgeon of kudzu had set down its roots on the southeast corner out there some time back in the 80's or thereabouts, and now it looked as though someone had come along and draped a huge, velvety green blanket over all the trees and shrubs and bushes that were slowly being strangled to death beneath it. Kudzu that thick was impossible to see through, making the intersection of Route 27 and Coosa Farm Road a blind intersection, and the boys had been taking turns running the stop sign out there because that's the kind of thing Matson boys had always done to show the world that they were men. Coming down Coosa Farm Road at about ninety or so, which was as fast as Charley's heaper could do, even on a downhill, they prayed to all creation that, in the split second it would take to cross the intersection, they wouldn't piss in their pants or broadside some asshole who had the misfortune to be driving along on Highway 27. Ed, the oldest Matson boy, took his turn getting in the car. "Pray for the asshole!" he screamed as he popped the clutch and began his descent down Coosa Farm Road toward the highway. The boys that were left behind – Charley, Tucker and Dave – responded by lowering their heads, placing their hands over their hearts and saying in unison, "If'n you should die, we'll be sure to tell Ma you was a-prayin' when you did." It was a ritual they dared not violate. Trixie Calloway stubbed out her cigarette when she saw the gray-haired man in the three-piece suit sit down at booth number six. Men dressed like that, men in suits with little hankies sticking out of their breast pocket that matched their ties, did not stop at the Bobcat very often. Most of them preferred to keep on driving, saving their appetites and their tips for the big, fancy restaurants in Atlanta. She gave the man a few seconds to look over the menu, then hitched up her skirt, grabbed a set of utensils taped together inside a paper napkin, and went over to take the man's order. At forty-seven, Trixie was rightfully proud of the fact that she still had good-looking legs. She set down the utensils on the edge of the booth, smiled at the man and used the edge of her apron to wipe away some crumbs Arturo, the busboy, had missed. "What'll it be, Hon?" she asked. "The Number Five Special, does that come with slaw?" Of all the numbers there ever were, five was Willoughby's favorite, and catfish and hush puppies sounded good. "Sure does, hon." "All right then. I'll have the Number Five and a Pepsi," said Willoughby. He liked diners like this, little unpretentious, out-of-the-way places where a man could order a number and get a meal. Out on Coosa Farm Road, Charley had just returned from taking his turn running the stop sign. "Two down, two to go," he said as he climbed out of his car. He swaggered over to the cooler, pulled out a sixteen ounce can of PBR, downed half of it, belched, and tossed the keys to Tucker. He didn't say anything about the Ford pickup he'd just missed. To Willoughby's mind it was the perfect example of how people just didn't care about numbers. Either they didn't get them right in the first place, or if they did, then they didn't write them legibly. For, if they had, if people just took the time and made the effort, then he wouldn't be staring at a chili slaw dog with a side of fries, which was the Number Six Special, not the Number Five. Trixie, of course, because she didn't want to lose what might be a big tip, blamed the mistake on someone named Bobby, who Willoughby assumed was the cook. She said Bobby had mis-read the number, and she showed Willoughby the ticket from her order book to prove her point, but it didn't matter. The error had been made, the damage had been done. The order had to be sent back. Worst of all, Willoughby would now be behind schedule. Tucker Matson flew across the intersection of Coosa Farm Road and Route 27. He hadn't known a rush like that since he got caught skinny dipping with Mary Lou Turner out at Craig's Pond and old man Turner chased him stark bare-ass naked through the woods with a shotgun. Of course Ed, Charley and Dave didn't think running through the woods in your birthday suit and getting all scratched-up by briars and brambles and sticker bushes was all that great, but then they'd never seen Mary Lou Turner in the all-together. So it was understandable in a way that they should laugh at him and call him a pre-vert when Tucker climbed in through the back window in the middle of the night, naked as a jay-bird. Now everybody in Justice Springs knew right well that the one thing Tucker Matson couldn't tolerate above all else was being laughed at. And in their defense, the other Matson boys, seeing as how they were all brothers, probably figured that they would somehow be immune from having to endure any sort of comeuppance for their transgression. Now safely across the highway, Tucker slowed to a stop, turned the car around, and drove back to the intersection. But he didn't go across. Instead he pulled over to the side, set his size thirteen boots up on the dash, leaned back and lit himself a cigarette. His idiot brothers would just have to wait until he finished his smoke before finding out whether or not he was still alive. Arturo handed Trixie the thirty-two cents the man in the fancy suit had left on the table. She was sure the busboy was stiffing her, pocketing a portion of the tip for himself, maybe even most of it. She would have gotten in his face about it, too, except that the kid didn't speak any English, and the man was already pulling out onto the highway, so she couldn't verify anything with him anyway. She chalked it up to experience and told herself she'd have to watch the little thief more closely in the future. It being his car, after an intense discussion about brotherly responsibility and matters of that sort, it fell to Charley to start walking down Coosa Farm Road to see what had happened to Tucker, why he wasn't back yet. He hadn't gone but a couple hundred yards or so when Tucker whizzed on past him, kicking up dust and gravel and grinning from ear to ear. As a matter of general principle, Charley flipped him the bird. Underneath it all though, he was glad his brother was okay. He didn't want to be having to tell Ma that one of her boys was gone from this here earth. He had risked indigestion by eating his lunch faster than he would have liked – and Walter Willoughby was not the kind of man who tolerated a burp well – but he was back out on the highway and only two minutes behind schedule, and there was something to be said for that. The math was easy. Anyone could have done it. With the town of Beauregard thirty miles away and a speed limit of sixty, Willoughby could be back on schedule completely if he went just four miles an hour over the limit. "What'sa matter, boys? Worried 'bout somethin', were ya?" Tucker Matson got out of the car and tossed the keys to his brother, Dave. Willoughby didn't like the idea of going over the speed limit. Somehow it seemed to him that it was a violation of the sanctity of numbers. Still, there was that two minutes he needed to make up. Little Davey Matson, the youngest of the Matson boys, made a grab for the keys and missed. They bounced off his hand and landed on the ground. He bent down and picked them up. It only took him a second, maybe two at the most. Not that any of the Matson boys would have thought of such a thing, it being a rather complex matter and all, but in a universe that has existed for more than ten billion years, how much significance could there possibly be in a second or two? Willoughby did it. He didn't like it, but he did it. He set the cruise control to sixty-four miles an hour. He promised himself that it would be just this one time, and that as soon as he reached Beauregard he would go back to being a law-abiding, number-loving citizen, and that he would never again for the rest of his life exceed a legally posted speed limit. Davey Matson revved the engine and popped the clutch. "Pray for the asshole!" he screamed, and the old heaper took off down the hill towards Route 27. |
| Lunch Break By glenlee10@sky.com (Entry #7) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Thomas pulled the thin blanket
tighter up under his chin. Dozing, he listened to his brother’s cradle
swinging and squeaking near the hearth while Mother stirred the breakfast
porridge. William snuffled his morning, baby noises and Thomas burrowed a
little deeper into the sweet pile of straw. The fire crackled and spat, doing
its job cheerfully. A wooden spoon scraped around the inside of the pan as his
mother worked to prevent the mixture burning. “Get up, boy. It’s five o’clock and there’s work to be done.” Jonas Freer snatched the blanket away, letting the chill dawn into the bed. Thomas’ dream disappeared and he rolled out of the way of the fist that usually followed at this point. His sister was still asleep so their father found a target and struck the girl on her head. “I want my breakfast, girl,” he growled. Thomas grabbed his jacket and ran out the door. He pee’d in the small shed at the back of the cottage. He thought about running away but where could a ten year old boy go without boots? It was May and there would soon be enough light to work by. It had been the creaking made by his father cleaning his loom that had woven itself into Thomas’ dream. The squeaky cradle had been put on the fire two months since, not long after Thomas’ mother had followed her baby into the grave. “Good morning, nephew.” His aunt’s voice boomed from the cottage next door where she lived alone. Thomas looked over his shoulder, finished what he was doing and backed from the shed. His aunt’s long, dark skirts brushed up dust. She threw the contents of her pot onto the night soil of Thomas’ family, like a dog marking its territory. He knew it was her way of letting him know she intended moving in with her widowed brother and family. Isabelle Freer, spinster of the parish, was a tall woman, with thick, bare arms like a navvy and the disgruntled air of a woman whom the world and its peoples conspired against. “Tell your father I’m coming to see him this evening. I want his answer.” She glared at her nephew, her lips thin and bloodless-beige. Thomas had never known his aunt to smile. As she so often said, “What have any of the likes of us got to smile about?” She stomped back to her own tiny cottage, her pot’s last few drops speckling the dust. Thomas decided not to give his father the message. A cuff on his head would probably be the response for being the messenger bearing bad news. In the cottage his sister was sweeping their straw bed into a pile in the corner. The straw had not been replenished since their mother had died. “New straw every few days is a needless expense!” their father had decided. Maggie was crying. She finished the chore and blew her snotty nose on the hem of her apron. Their father was at his loom already. “Clack, clack. Clack, clack,” it rattled as his hands flew over the machine. Without pausing, or turning his head, he shouted, “You’ll get no breakfast this morning, boy. Your wretch of a sister let the fire go out so you may as well start work.” “Clack, clack. Clack, clack.” “And you can stop your sniveling, girl, and get to your loom. It’ll be a lean enough week as it is without you slacking.” Thomas’ belly rumbled rebelliously but he knew better than to argue. He glanced at the cold porridge in the pot hanging over the fire’s ashes. He was tempted to trail a finger in the meal at least but if he was caught, it would be the last meal he’d have today. He’d tried it once when he was smaller and less hungry and even his mother’s calming presence hadn’t been able to prevent his father meting out his harsh judgment. Jonas had snatched Thomas from the sanctuary of his mother’s skirts and thrashed him hard with his belt and denied him food for the rest of the day. Like most of the younger children of the village, Thomas was a seamer. He pulled his little, three-legged stool from beneath the table, dragged it to his usual place in the room where the light was best, gathered his materials and the unfinished socks and began to work. He had been doing the work since he was six years’ old. His fingers were quick and his stitches neat and precise. His father and sister were framework knitters, as his mother had been too. Their one-roomed cottage was rectangular with large windows along the south facing wall to let in as much light as possible to lengthen the workers’ day. Two looms squatted beneath the windows, with space for a third in between. If trade picked up, Thomas would have his own loom in that space next year. If trade didn’t pick up though, the family would not be able to afford the shilling a week rent which would be payable whether there was work or not. The room also contained a table and two wooden chairs, a hearth in the centre of the wall opposite the windows, the children’s straw bed and Jonas’ thin mattress. There was no cupboard for clothes. With the exception of a second pinafore of Maggie’s and a ’best’ hat which Jonas wore to church for weddings and funerals, the family owned only the clothing they stood up in and went to bed in. Some pots and pans hung on nails on the whitewashed wall by the fireside and the plates and knives used at mealtimes were piled beside the hearth after Maggie had cleaned them at the communal pump. There was a black mark on the wall above the fire where the women of the house had leaned against it for half a century while lighting, or in Maggie’s case, attempting to light the fire, despite the draught down the chimney. Jonas, Maggie and Thomas were all skilled workers but even during good weeks their bellies were often half empty. It had been different when the children’s mother had been alive. Despite having all the household chores to do, she’d been able to cover the week’s rent on her loom and still earn enough to buy food and pay the penny a week for Thomas to attend the school run by the parish church five mornings a week. When she died, that luxury and the purchase of the odd bit of finery for Maggie stopped. Trade slumped and the Freer family existed hand to mouth. Jonas Freer had the same stocky build as his sister but though he was a dour man, his wife, Beth, had been able to coax him into good humour. When she died, all light and laughter disappeared from Jonas’ life; worse, he seemed to blame his two remaining children, for they had brought the sickness to his hearth. Thomas had caught the fever first, probably from another child at school, and then William and Maggie had succumbed. Finally, their mother caught the fever, exhausted by working all hours at her loom and nursing three sick children. When she found William dead in his cradle one morning after she’d been too tired to stay awake with him any longer, the distress and the guilt had been too much for her weakened and malnourished state and the two of them went to their rest together. For two hours, they worked steadily without speaking. The sun climbed higher, accompanied by the sounds of the two looms’, “Clackety-clack,” in counterpoint and Thomas’ occasional, very soft sigh. Then, “I gotta pee!” Thomas dropped the sock he’d just finished onto the pile and ran out the door. The rhythm of his father’s loom didn’t alter. Two minutes later, Thomas returned. As usual, Jonas grunted his displeasure at time lost. Thomas sat on his stool, grabbed the next sock to be worked and picked up his own work rhythm again. His mind soon wandered to memories of last year’s July Fair. Surely, he thought, Dad will let us have a half day off and a ha’penny to spend this year? Mam always did. School would be closed for the day after all. But Thomas suspected it might well be work as usual until late dusk and no money to spend on treats such as roast pork crackling or toffee apples. He sighed and scratched a flea bite on his ankle. His stomach, which had been quietly rumbling all morning, gurgled loudly. He looked across at the table where three mugs of water sat next to a plate containing three lumps of bread. They were the remains of a loaf half a week old. They’d have to be dunked in the water to soften them up for chewing. He swallowed the trickle of saliva the thought engendered and carried on working, and dreaming. Maggie’s loom stopped. “Gotta pee!” she said and stalked from the cottage. Thomas heard the clomping of the night-soil man’s horse approaching. Maggie might have seen him coming down the road from her vantage point by the window and decided to use the closet before he reached their house. She was still young enough to be embarrassed by the traces of her monthly bleeding but Thomas had seen the bucket of cold water outside and knew what was what. When Maggie returned, Jonas stopped working and turned to face her. “Where you been girl?” he growled. “For a pee, that’s where I’ve been,” she glared at him. “It only takes the boy two minutes to pee but you’ve been gone ten minutes or more. Why’d it take you so long? You been chatting up some lad, ain’t yah, and thought I wouldn‘t notice?” “I ain’t been chatting up nobody. Chance’d be a fine thing! I been to pee, that’s all.” “You defying me girl?” Jonas stood up. “No, I ain’t. But I can go for a pee when I want, can’t I? Or is that banned like everything else since Mam died?” The slap was quick and powerful. Maggie staggered backwards. Her face, already flushed with menstrual fever, was crimson. She covered her cheek with her hand. “Don’t you dare speak about your mother like that.” Jonas’ voice was harsh with anger. “She was worth ten of you.” Don’t say anything more, Thomas pleaded silently. Maggie, hold your peace. Maggie looked down at her feet and slid onto her bench. She threw the shuttle across the face of the loom and for now, at least, she kept her peace. The clacking of the two looms quickly filled the small room again. Maggie seemed to be determined not to work in time with her father, preferring the discord that fully expressed her anger. Thomas was roused from his misery when his father gasped, “Umph!” Thomas looked up. His father had stopped working. Expecting trouble, Thomas carried on sewing. Every now and then he glanced across at his father who hadn’t started working again but hadn’t moved from his seat either. He looked at Maggie. She was still working but her pace had slowed. “Maggie,” Thomas whispered. “What’s wrong with Dad?” Maggie stopped. “Don’t know. Musta fallen asleep.” She said, “Dad?” When there was no response, she tried again, louder. “Dad?” “What’s up with him?” Dunno. Unless he’s dead!” Maggie crept to peep round her father’s loom. “Come and look.” Behind her, Thomas too looked at their father. Jonas Freer’s eyes were open and staring. Thomas found it hard to breath. “What should we do?” “Maybe he’s not really dead,” Maggie said. “Maybe he’s just asleep. Maybe grownups can sleep with their eyes open. Maybe we should just leave him be and get on with our work?” Thomas’ stomach rumbled long and loud. “I’m hungry.” They looked at the table where their lunch sat. “I suppose we could eat,” Maggie decided. They snatched their lunch and sat on their bed to eat. They studied their father’s back. “Are his eyes still open do you think, Maggie?” “How would I know? Do you want to go and find out?” Thomas’ answer was to dip his bread in the water and chew on the soggy bit. Their lunch was soon gone but it didn’t stop Thomas’ stomach from complaining. “I’d love some of that porridge,” he said, “what we never had for breakfast.” Maggie watched her father for signs of movement. There were none, so she nodded and quietly rose. The porridge was cold and lumpy but to the two hungry children it was better than pork scratching or toffee apples. They took turns to spoon the sticky mess into their mouths. Bolder now, Maggie crept to the table and carried Jonas’ bread and water back to the corner in which Thomas sat, as quiet as a mouse. “Hold these,” Maggie instructed, “while I get the stew.” “We can’t!” Thomas was horrified. “That’s for tonight!” “We’re hungry now, aren’t we?” “Well, yes. I s’pose we are, but…” “And Dad’s not stopping us?” “No…” “The stew’d be better warmed up but I think we should have it now.” Maggie handed him a bowl. She stood over him, brandishing a serving spoon. “Do you want any stew or don’t you?” Thomas nodded. “And we may as well eat Dad’s bread too…” “But what if he wakes up and catches us. He’ll give us both a good hiding.” “I’ll just tell him he ate it all in his sleep and left none for us.” Maggie’s defiance had returned. The stew was delicious. It contained the last few bits from the pound of meat Jonas had bought at the weekend and vegetables from his allotment. It didn’t matter that the meal was cold and the meat was tough and before long there was no food left in the house, not even a crumb had escaped their attention. “What’s going to happen to us?” Thomas wanted to know, “if Dad doesn’t wake up.” “Aunt Isabelle will move in and look after us, I expect,” Maggie looked sulky. “She’s been nagging at Dad ever since Mum died.” Remembering his aunt’s visit this morning, Thomas nodded. The sun had gone over its zenith and the afternoon was creeping on. “Should we start working again?” Thomas asked sleepily. They had never eaten so much in one go before. Maggie glanced at their father. He’d slumped and was leaning against the wall. “Soon,” she replied. “We’ll carry on working soon.” She curled up on the straw. Thomas joined her and within minutes the only sound in the small cottage was the buzzing of a curious fly inspecting the corpse that had once been Jonas Freer. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #7 Second place: #6 Third place: #3 Fourth place: #2 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Lunch Break magecon@gmail.com |
#1 of 9 |
| 584 words | |
| I had arranged for the night to subside to the edge of
sky so that I may achieve all that lay upon the horizon. One brief moment each
day, when the sun claims the northern point, but as in the ancient past with
the Red Sea, the eternal truth became apparent. All doors must close. So…
I am here at the closing sunset and I am watching the moon fade in through the
red sky. Storms will come again, I am sure, but it will never part as it did
before, and never for me. I'm sorry for the day, when I met the forceful tide
and subsided into the recess of the sand…. I had passed away the previous day with menial tasks. At lunch I was working, at the time with a sails company. That is to say I wasn't getting paid; I was being evaluated for the sales on sails. Quite an interesting prospect to me, then… not now…. But I wish, though wishing isn't quite enough. Sailing, since I was young, was of great interest to me. Not so much of personal interest, but parental. It was I suppose the guiding force in my progress. There was once, a person who described to me, the seas. I had options, as everyone does at one point or another. He commented I could, and indeed would have three prospects: Sailing was his first. Swimming was his next. And then, walking…. He was half psychotic, driven insane by the years. But there was truth in his artifice. You sail and when the ship capsizes, you swim to land. If then, you make it to land, you walk, and indeed as far as you can. So, as my parents wished, I sailed. I took lessons when I was still young, but I bargained, and was I suppose a little too regular. They spoiled my wealth with taking me to the shore. Ever afterwards I inherited their dream. And as all things do, it expanded into the realm of half psychotic and half genius. Well, I guess, since I never had any personal ambitions, I was quite unproductive. So, in excusing myself of this repertoire, I went to college and trained to sell sea sails. In their educating me, I adopted their belief as my own, but by then it was too late. And four years afterwards; after those years of progress and regress, I arrived… Work was tense the day before, and if at any moment I had paused to consider the consequences of my self leniency perhaps I would have noticed the unnerving requisition of my work, attempting to regain what was already lost. At lunch that day, I wasn't special, unique, but I worked for the distant hope of being near the sea. I prayed to God that there may be somehow, something beyond the horizon. The day was at noon, I was looking up to the sky, where the night had parted, given way. There was an invitation to a sailing competition on the desk at my office. Somehow I knew, but I left anyways. As I once heard myself say: "The nice thing about the walking island is that it never rains." Too bad I'll never know the feeling of immortality, where the strides are marked eternally in the ground that they are made. |
|
| Lunch Break Joan Haara jhaara@sbcglobal.net |
#2 of 9 |
| 2378 words | |
| Sheila had no idea why she stayed working at the
hospital after being demoted by the Administrator. She had been the Accounting Dept. Manager and had accidentally discovered that the Administrator had performed some illegal financial maneuvering. She had utilized the hospital’s anonymous Ethics Hotline to report his unethical behavior. Three weeks later, the Administrator announced he was leaving to take another job at another healthcare system. But the rumors were flying that the Board had asked him to either resign or get fired. She had never been contacted after the Hotline call, but heard that a sudden state financial audit had occurred just prior to the Administrator's resignation announcement. Over a month before calling the Hotline, Sheila had gone to her boss, the Chief Financial Officer, to tell him of her findings. The CFO had assured her that he would look into it. He even told her that he was “looking into a few other things” about the Administrator, himself. However, as a week rolled into a month after her disclosure to her boss, the CFO began not returning her calls and often avoided speaking with her during group meetings. Sheila knew the only right thing to do next was to utilize the hospital's Ethics Hotline, which supposedly protected employees who utilized it from retribution. However, shortly after calling the Hotline, she began being subtly harassed by the Administrator over almost every project she was involved in. He began unjustly complaining to her boss that her performance was slipping. Then, he followed this up with declaring that her position was no longer needed due to needed budget cutbacks and instructed the Human Resources department that Sheila needed to either be laid off or shifted into the collections department as a phone operator. Of course, with less pay. Needing the money, instead of out-right quitting, she stayed working in the demoted position. But it was obvious to Sheila what the real reasons were for the elimination of her former position and for the sudden scrutiny of her performance. She had told no one about her call to the Hotline except her boss, because she felt the information was highly confidential. She made the conscious decision not to try and fight the demotion, but was extremely hurt over the fact that no one else in Administration had stuck up for her on the grounds of her excellent past work history. Not to mention for doing the right thing. From the beginning of his employment, the Administrator began displaying questionable personal behavior. He had been the catalyst for many rumors circulating around the hospital. Several employees had recently left employment, which only fueled more rumors. The Administrator had dated several of the female physicians on staff. When it came to physician contract renewal time, it was well-known that the lady physicians he had dated fared much more lucrative contracts then their male counterparts. It was also rumored that the Administrator had made a contract with a former lover, which promised outrageous wages and perks if she would come and work on staff at his hospital. She accepted the contract, and from the moment she came on staff, her professional competence was not only questioned, but feared. The Risk Management Office had already received two lawsuits against this Doctor, and was having a difficult time defending the cases. Yet, no one at the hospital had questioned the Administrator's competence or judgment regarding this conflict-of-interest, or in his ethics. Until Sheila. Knowing the Administrator was going to leave in a few short weeks, Sheila swallowed her pride from getting her recent demotion and to get away from the stress, requested a week’s vacation. Surprisingly, it was granted. She had just gotten back from her vacation and on Sunday night, became very ill with a high fever and a hacking cough. She came to work on Monday morning, anyway. She didn’t want to be accused of slacking, especially after just having been demoted and then having been gone for a week's vacation. All her muscles felt hot and achy and she winced from the pain with every swallow. She fought chills off and on all morning. She picked up the phone and dialed her family doctor. His office was right next door to her office at the hospital. She hoped that by some miracle, he would have an opening today to see her on her lunch break. Dr. North came on the phone right away. “So sorry to hear you came back from your vacation with a bug. Of course I can squeeze you in. I can’t refuse a fellow employee, now can I? Especially one that helps get my patient’s insurance money to me so efficiently, right?” Sheila was too embarrassed to tell him that those job duties were no longer part of her job description, since her demotion. He obviously didn’t hear the latest from the rumor mill. He went on: “But I can’t do lunchtime, I have a damned meeting then. The Administration thinks the doctors have all kinds of time in their day for endless meetings, yet yell at us because our productivity of office visits are down. That is, unless you are one of his girlfriends. I’ll tell you one thing. I sure won’t miss this playboy Administrator, that’s for sure!” “Sorry, Sheila”, he continued. “But of course I am sure you understand. You live with it everyday. How about in about twenty minutes? Can you come over then?”, he asked. Surprised that Dr. North had shared such candid opinions with her, Sheila began laughing out loud, causing herself to get a coughing fit. “Thanks so much, Doc” she rasped between coughs. “I will get over there then.” She hung up the phone. Sheila glanced at her watch. “I’ll just have to take an early lunch” she thought. She punched in her boss’s voicemail code and left him a message telling him she’d be taking an early lunch to see her doctor. Sheila hated having to do this. She was used to her former management position of many years. Managers did not have “set” hours and could come and go to do their work on their own schedules, within reason. But, ever since she had reported this Administrator’s questionable activities, and had received the demotion, she was informed by the Human Resources Dept. that she would have to start “clocking in and out” on the time clock. “So much for the ‘no retribution’ part of the deal“, thought Sheila when she was informed of this new rule. But she did not want to make any more waves. Although she found it difficult to focus, she logged onto her computer and delved into the spreadsheet that popped up on her screen. After what seemed like a few minutes, she glanced down at her watch. “Crap!” Sheila mouthed. It was 5 minutes after eleven. She grabbed her purse under her desk and bolted down the hall to the lobby exit across from the clinic. She saw the Doctor, and as she suspected, he diagnosed her with strep throat. He gave her a prescription and told her to get it filled “as soon as possible”. “I’ll just skip lunch and run to the pharmacy”, Sheila thought to herself. Luckily, no one was in line at the pharmacy counter. “That will be $29.00, Miss”, said the smiley Pharmacist. Sheila handed him a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill along with a crisper ten. That pretty much emptied her entire wallet. As the Pharmacist was handing her back her one dollar in change, Sheila impulsively said: “You know what? Just give me one of those scratch-off lotto tickets instead.” The Pharmacist dutifully went straight over to the lotto display of rolls. “Which one?”, he asked. Sheila distractedly said, “Oh, any of them. You pick!” He pulled at the closest and fattest roll of tickets and handed one to her. “Good Luck, Miss. Hope you feel better!”, he quipped. Sheila wearily smiled and said: “I don’t know why I bothered. Luck hasn’t been much of a companion to me lately!” and shoved the ticket in her left pocket. Glancing again at her watch, she noted that she had been gone from her work desk for an hour and ten minutes. She rushed back into the hospital, went straight to the drinking fountain and gagged down one of her new antibiotic pills. As she was wiping off the dripping water from her lips, she saw Teresa from the Human Resources Department making a bee-line over to her. “Come with me!” Teresa tersely stated, grabbing Sheila by the elbow. Before Sheila could protest, she was being walked down the hall toward the H.R. office. “What is going on?” Sheila hastily asked. Inside the door was her boss and the Administrator that she had reported on the Ethics Hotline. No one gave her eye contact. Teresa declared: “You have been told that you have to now “punch in” and “punch out” on the time clock, is that not correct?” Sheila numbly nodded. Remembering that she had she rushed off to the Doctor’s office, it suddenly hit her that she had done neither. “Oh, geez. Is that what this is about? You know, I am still so used to not having to do that. You see, I felt ill today and got a last-minute Doctor’s appointment with Dr. North at eleven o’clock and just forgot to punch in or out.” Sheila turned to her boss. “I left a voicemail message for you that I was going to go to see the Doctor instead of taking my lunch break, didn't you get it?” Her boss did not acknowledge her question. Sheila continued: “I am so sorry. It’s just that I really wasn’t feeling very….” Glancing nervously over at the Administrator, Teresa then cut her off, stating: “I am sorry, Sheila. But we have given you a chance to be compliant with the rules we told you to follow. You refused to use the time clock when you left and again when you returned, and then, you were 10 minutes late. I am afraid that adds up to your third offense and therefore you have violated the terms of your demotion placement. I am afraid we will have to let you go.” Sheila was momentarily speechless. “I have given over 15 years of loyalty to this hospital!! You have got to be kidding! I am trying to explain to you the reason why I forgot. This is ridiculous!, Sheila incredulously exclaimed. I know the REAL reason for this.”, Sheila proclaimed, turning to face the Administrator. Smirking, he said to the group: “ I don’t think I am needed any longer in this meeting. Besides, I have a lot of packing to do in my office tonight.” Grinning, he stood up and left the office. Sheepishly, the others looked away from Sheila. “I will accompany you to the storeroom to get some boxes and then we will go to your office. You will have up to one hour to pack up your personal things and then I will escort you out of the building.”, said Teresa. Then she picked up the telephone and dialed. “Leo? This is Teresa. Please immediately change the password to Ms. Sheila Barch’s computer. Thank you.” She stood up and waited for Sheila to do the same. Stunned, Sheila numbly followed her out of the H.R. department and to her office. As she packed her belongings, the accounting staff began glancing nervously at each other. Sheila could hear whispering outside in the hallway. Teresa stood guard as Sheila packed her last office drawer with her belongings and took her family’s picture off the office wall. No words were spoken between them as she did this painful duty. Teresa walked her out of the the hospital’s exit door, asked her for her identification badge and without another word, turned on her heel to return to work. 2. The sun was bright in the parking lot. Squinting, Sheila carefully balanced the box on her car bumper as she unlocked her trunk to hoist it inside. Unknowing, a co-worker just coming in for her shift cheerfully waved at Sheila and yelled across the parking lot: “Hi Sheila! Did you have a great vacation? We sure missed you! It’s hell to come back after a great vacation, hey?” Sheila just nodded, still in shock over what had just occurred. She slid into the driver’s seat, feeling the warmth from the sun-soaked interior of the car envelope her. She shut the car door and took a deep breath. When she shut the door, her hand brushed her left pocket’s lump, which jarred her from her numbed state. She remembered the lotto ticket she purchased at the pharmacy. “Wouldn’t THAT be ironic!” she said to herself, opening her purse to get a penny out to scratch off the silver patches layering over the top of each of the ticket’s numbers. 3. Teresa had tears in her eyes by the time she got back to the Human Resources department. She quickly went into her now-empty office and shut the door, before any of the secretaries in the department saw her. “I hate this job!’ she muttered to herself. “If Sheila just could have hung in there one more day, he would have been gone and we could have given Sheila back her well-deserved former position. She had to make a mistake today, of all days! Damn him. He had to screw her on his last day here.” She glanced out her office window. Teresa saw Sheila pulling her car out of her parking spot, and observed a wide grin on her face, and a cell phone up to her ear. Sheila was practically glowing. “How odd!” Teresa thought. “I would be bawling my eyes out if I were her. She is one tough cookie!" " She is the lucky one, to be getting out of here!, Teresa mused. " I know I will never feel the same about myself over this. At least she stood up for herself and ethically reported the son-of-a-bitch. But she paid dearly for it.” |
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| Lunch Break brigid@lorienwood.plus.com |
#3 of 9 |
| 72 words | |
| Yummy, scrummy for my tummy I need some nutrition. Drooling pools, saliva rules, calories my ambition. My racing feet tear down the street. I search for the perfect place. To the right posh nosh, to the left, oh gosh my teeth will soon embrace a tasty banger, a cheerful chop, no cost to me at all as I sit in line looking cute and whine at the girl on the market stall. |
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| Lunch Break kamtaakash@yahoo.com |
#4 of 9 |
| 977 words | |
| The roads were a nightmare. The mall was worse. Every
Tom, Dick and Harry was on lunch, rushing to get as much as possible done in
the one hour allocated to them. The fast food stands were swarmed by hungry crowds, banks were crazy also. I rushed through the crowds with no particular purpose but to find some kind of respite from the stampeding humans. In the whole mall I noticed one quiet store, one place where I could just bask in the air-conditioned room and literally just waste my hour, well remaining forty-five minutes, away. I stepped into the store and was able to get as far as the perfume counters without any hassle. “Excuse me sir, would you like to try our new…” The clearly gay sales rep stopped me and although he probably mentioned some fancy name for some ridiculously expensive eu de toilet, all I heard was “please try this, overly priced, piss in a bottle so that I can get my commission”. I smiled and shook my head as always and was about to evacuate the vicinity until my eye caught sight of the vision behind the counter. There stood a tall, blonde goddess. Her hair pulled into a tight bun. Her black pinstriped suit curved to highlight each and every gorgeous contour. Her lips parted in a flirtatious smile. I had been staring and she noticed. It would be too stupid to walk away now, to gay as well especially since Elton John junior was right next to me. My testosterone demanded that I pursue this. I walked up too the counter and managed a hello through my ridiculous grin. “Good day Sir, looking for something more… err… feminine?” She asked turning around to the range of fragrances for woman, a cheeky smile on her face. The game was on. She knew she was hot. She knew that I had noticed and perhaps knew that she was the only reason I was even in that ridiculous section of the store. “I’m actually looking to get something for…” Crap, if I said mother I would have looked like a looser. Said wife and I was an asshole. Said girlfriend and I was a player. “…this girl I am trying to impress,” and added finally. “What would you recommend”? “Well that depends,” she answered. “How well do you know her? Is she just a friend? Is she your boss? Perhaps your girlfriend’s difficult sister or friend?” “None of the above. Let’s just say that I know nothing about her at all but would like to. So you choose something and I am pretty sure that would be perfect.” Her smile was electrifying. “Okay…” She picked a box of the counter, “This is my choice. It is quite expensive. You sure you want to get this for a girl you don’t know anything about?” “Sure, ” I replied. “If her smile is anything to go by then it’s all worth it.” She charged the purchase and placed the expensive bottle, of God knows what, into a shopping bag. She handed me the receipt and then walked away smiling. I watched her, all the time grinning like a silly schoolboy. When she was out of sight I finally looked down at the receipt to see how much this stupid flirtation cost. The price was ignored. More interesting then the price was the note on the reverse of the receipt. “Follow me, I’ll be waiting by the change rooms.” I was dumbfounded, was this for real? I walked around the counter to look at the change rooms. There she was laughing with one of her colleagues. She looked over at me, her eyes meeting mine. This was for real! I walked towards her. She noticed and said what looked like ‘chat later’ to her colleague, and walked to wards the exit. I followed as she instructed. When I got there she was gone. I had been duped. Crestfallen I rubbed my eyes, shook my head and turned to walk back. Just then a hand came out from the unnoticed side-door. I was grabbed by the hand and pulled into, what I discovered was, the employees lavatory. Her hands grabbed my head as she kissed me. I was a mere puppet and she was pulling all the right strings. She worked quickly. Her hands grabbed at my shirt yanking it out my pants. I removed her coat and undid her blouse as she fiddled with the buckle of my belt. She managed to undo it just as I hiked up her skirt. Still tongue locked I reached up and grabbed the top of her lacey thong. I pulled them down. She undid my zipper. My hands moved up to caress the soft creamy mounds of her breasts. I undid the clasp of her brassiere and set her free. Her dark pink nipples, stood erect at my touch. Her hands were doing work as well and soon her head tossed back. She was smooth end soft. My finger trailed her soft moist lips. I parted her legs gently. Sighs of delight escaped her perfectly voluptuous lips as we united. We were transformed into basic animals. Her red stilettos kicked the door. I felt her nails dig into my back and rake its way down. I grabbed her breasts, bit her neck and thrust deeper as our excitement heightened. When it was all over we turned our backs to each other, both suddenly shy. I picked my trousers up from my ankles and hurried to neaten up. When I turned to leave the door was already closing. I went to the taps to wash my face. The bag with the perfume was gone. In its place was a red, lace thong. I walked out the toilets praying that I don’t get caught and joined the rest of the populace as we returned to our respective offices. Lunch breaks may be short and sometimes lunch may not be very appetizing. On those occasions I think of perfume and red thongs. |
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| Lunch Break sj.swain@bigpond.com |
#5 of 9 |
| 1140 words | |
| “Hey Col?“ Casper smirked as he swung his
coat from the back of his chair and stood, “you staying in for lunch
today, mate?” I gave him the appropriate one finger response. Yesterday was May 5, the fifth day of the fifth month, a very strange day for me, some of which I had shared with him. While it was not unusual for my brain to be juggling numbers, I am, after all, a day trader with a city stock broker, never before had I experienced anything like I had experienced yesterday when I had risen early, at five A.M., sweating like I had woken from a nightmare. The number five, in practically every conceivable mix, was swimming around my head; fifty five, five hundred and five, five thousand and fifty five, five million five hundred and fifty thousand. And it had taken several mugs of coffee and CNN to inform me that the market had dropped again overnight, in Asia and in Europe, for it to finally wane to allow me to think of other things. By the time I left for work, my head was again clear and, even after jumping onto a number five bus from a five zone bus stop, the number did not reappear until around mid morning. An important client had called me then to instruct me to split his overseas share portfolio equally five ways. It was an unusual request and I queried it with him. He told me that the idea had come to him from out of the blue and that he liked to follow his hunches. That got me to thinking back. On my number five bus that morning, I had paid for my weekly ticket that had been four- seventy five for ages but this morning it had cost me five dollars. Five. I remembered getting to work five minutes early. Five. On my desk was my incoming correspondence, there were five letters. Five. No doubt about it, it was a five day. In our office we use server based software to trade. It’s okay, quite good actually except for the banner ads that can sometimes slow it down. Blazoned across the top of my screen was a flashing banner for a hotel chain. ‘Five star service always at any Five seasons hotel’ That was when I had confided in Casper. We had desks next to each other. At first he was sceptical, then intrigued and then, when he opened his newspaper to page five, he became downright interested. It was the form guide and, although there was only one race meeting in the country, in the fifth race there was a horse named Five Bells and what’s more it was number five. Five. “How much cash you got on ya?” he asked, lowering his head and whispering like we were discussing a state secret. I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and counted the notes. “I got forty-seven dollars here,” I said, then remembered the change in my fob pocket. I counted it and had exactly three more. Fifty dollars in all. “You reckon I should put it on that horse?” I asked. Casper was grinning, his eyes were twinkling that insider trader twinkle. Neither of us were gamblers, not really, not with our own money anyway. “I would.” “I wouldn’t know how.” He rolled his chair closer, to right next to me. “There’s a betting shop two blocks down and guess what it’s called?” “What?” “Five ways to win” I smiled, sort of laughed. “You’re kidding?” “Nope.” He shook his head. “I think it means you can bet on the horses, dogs, footy and another couple of things. . .” “Okay,” I said, dragging the newspaper to me, “I think I will.” I tore away half of page five and studied it again. Interestingly the race was at 1255, five to one. Five to win, I thought. I crushed the paper into my pocket. Casper suggested that I should keep the five sequence intact, that I should leave the office five hours exactly after starting. I thought it was a good idea. Our lunch break normally was from twelve to one if we chose to take it. We were paid on commission so usually most of us didn’t. Certainly I preferred to work through it. But today I would take it, at least some of it. I hadn’t arrived at the office until seven-twenty five, I stayed until exactly twelve-twenty five then left for the betting shop. It was a gaudy place, old boxing posters plastered against most of its windows. As I entered I looked up. Above the door was a brass number five. I grinned. There were several people inside looking up at television screens high on the walls. It was dim and smoky. I made my way to a glass window where a bored young lady looked up from counting money. “Hi,” I said. “Yes.” I pulled the piece of newspaper from my pocket and smoothed it open. “I want to bet on this horse.” I slid the newspaper beneath the glass. She pushed it back and followed it with a pink slip with numbers and little tick squares on it. “Um. . .” She took pity on me then, I was clearly a fish out of water, she slid her hand beneath the glass and took back the pink slip and the piece of newspaper. “Which one?” she asked. “Um Five Bells. . . It’s number five in the fifth race.” “Each way?” “Umm. . .” I was tempted to throw her the ‘what? there and back?’ line, but knew she would have heard it a thousand times. She seemed to appreciate that and looked up. A light smile flickered on her face. “You wanna bet on a win and a place or just to win?” “Um.” I knew what ‘each way’ meant. “Just to win please.” She ticked a couple of the boxes. “How much?” “Fifty dollars.” Her smile widened. “Are you sure?” I smiled back. “Why?” “It’s a rank outsider. . . Although if it does win you’ll do well.” She ducked her head a little to look out at one of the TV screens. “At the moment it’s fifty to one.” Of course it is , I thought to myself as I confidently handed over the fifty dollars, change an all. She counted my money then stamped the pink slip in some sort of franking machine, then passed it and the crumpled piece of newspaper back to me beneath the window. Looking at me with almost sympathetic eyes, she gave me a number that I could call to hear the race run. “Thanks.” I said. I listened to the race on my mobile phone, on the street, just outside our building and was back at work a few minutes after one, everyone else had returned from lunch. I sat and looked to my left at Casper who had one eyebrow raised. I scowled at him, the eyebrow lowered. Five bells, of course, had come in fifth. |
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| Lunch Break Michael michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#6 of 9 Winner |
| 1872 words | |
| Numbers. Walter Willoughby loved numbers. He loved them
the way some men love a good cigar or a fine wine or even a beautiful woman.
Indeed, it could be said about Willoughby – and it often was – that
numbers were his life. And soon, they would also be his death. Heading west on Route 27 out of Cedarville, Willoughby glanced down at his watch at the precise moment when the front wheels of his car were even with mile marker 117. Willoughby was a stickler for details of that sort. Always had been. It was what set him apart from the common man, earned him a handsome living as an efficiency expert, and annoyed the hell out of just about everybody who ever came into contact with him. Willoughby's watch said it was 11:43. If there was another watch somewhere in the state of Georgia that said differently, it was wrong. The Bobcat Diner was ten miles away. Willoughby did the math in his head. If he set the cruise control to forty-seven miles an hour, he could cover the distance in twelve minutes and forty-five seconds. He would then allow himself fifteen seconds for deceleration before turning into the parking lot, an adjustment which Willoughby was certain few others ever considered. That left exactly one minute to get out of his car, lock it, and walk to the door of the restaurant, which he calculated he needed to pull open at 11:57 so that he would have precisely three minutes to use the restroom and wash his hands before sitting down to eat. Willoughby liked to eat at noon. And noon, in Walter Willoughby's mind, did not mean 11:59, nor did it mean 12:01. The Matson boys – Ed, Charley, Tucker and Dave – had been spending the morning proving their manhood out on Coosa Farm Road where it intersects with Highway 27 just west of Justice Springs. A smidgeon of kudzu had set down its roots on the southeast corner out there some time back in the 80's or thereabouts, and now it looked as though someone had come along and draped a huge, velvety green blanket over all the trees and shrubs and bushes that were slowly being strangled to death beneath it. Kudzu that thick was impossible to see through, making the intersection of Route 27 and Coosa Farm Road a blind intersection, and the boys had been taking turns running the stop sign out there because that's the kind of thing Matson boys had always done to show the world that they were men. Coming down Coosa Farm Road at about ninety or so, which was as fast as Charley's heaper could do, even on a downhill, they prayed to all creation that, in the split second it would take to cross the intersection, they wouldn't piss in their pants or broadside some asshole who had the misfortune to be driving along on Highway 27. Ed, the oldest Matson boy, took his turn getting in the car. "Pray for the asshole!" he screamed as he popped the clutch and began his descent down Coosa Farm Road toward the highway. The boys that were left behind – Charley, Tucker and Dave – responded by lowering their heads, placing their hands over their hearts and saying in unison, "If'n you should die, we'll be sure to tell Ma you was a-prayin' when you did." It was a ritual they dared not violate. Trixie Calloway stubbed out her cigarette when she saw the gray-haired man in the three-piece suit sit down at booth number six. Men dressed like that, men in suits with little hankies sticking out of their breast pocket that matched their ties, did not stop at the Bobcat very often. Most of them preferred to keep on driving, saving their appetites and their tips for the big, fancy restaurants in Atlanta. She gave the man a few seconds to look over the menu, then hitched up her skirt, grabbed a set of utensils taped together inside a paper napkin, and went over to take the man's order. At forty-seven, Trixie was rightfully proud of the fact that she still had good-looking legs. She set down the utensils on the edge of the booth, smiled at the man and used the edge of her apron to wipe away some crumbs Arturo, the busboy, had missed. "What'll it be, Hon?" she asked. "The Number Five Special, does that come with slaw?" Of all the numbers there ever were, five was Willoughby's favorite, and catfish and hush puppies sounded good. "Sure does, hon." "All right then. I'll have the Number Five and a Pepsi," said Willoughby. He liked diners like this, little unpretentious, out-of-the-way places where a man could order a number and get a meal. Out on Coosa Farm Road, Charley had just returned from taking his turn running the stop sign. "Two down, two to go," he said as he climbed out of his car. He swaggered over to the cooler, pulled out a sixteen ounce can of PBR, downed half of it, belched, and tossed the keys to Tucker. He didn't say anything about the Ford pickup he'd just missed. To Willoughby's mind it was the perfect example of how people just didn't care about numbers. Either they didn't get them right in the first place, or if they did, then they didn't write them legibly. For, if they had, if people just took the time and made the effort, then he wouldn't be staring at a chili slaw dog with a side of fries, which was the Number Six Special, not the Number Five. Trixie, of course, because she didn't want to lose what might be a big tip, blamed the mistake on someone named Bobby, who Willoughby assumed was the cook. She said Bobby had mis-read the number, and she showed Willoughby the ticket from her order book to prove her point, but it didn't matter. The error had been made, the damage had been done. The order had to be sent back. Worst of all, Willoughby would now be behind schedule. Tucker Matson flew across the intersection of Coosa Farm Road and Route 27. He hadn't known a rush like that since he got caught skinny dipping with Mary Lou Turner out at Craig's Pond and old man Turner chased him stark bare-ass naked through the woods with a shotgun. Of course Ed, Charley and Dave didn't think running through the woods in your birthday suit and getting all scratched-up by briars and brambles and sticker bushes was all that great, but then they'd never seen Mary Lou Turner in the all-together. So it was understandable in a way that they should laugh at him and call him a pre-vert when Tucker climbed in through the back window in the middle of the night, naked as a jay-bird. Now everybody in Justice Springs knew right well that the one thing Tucker Matson couldn't tolerate above all else was being laughed at. And in their defense, the other Matson boys, seeing as how they were all brothers, probably figured that they would somehow be immune from having to endure any sort of comeuppance for their transgression. Now safely across the highway, Tucker slowed to a stop, turned the car around, and drove back to the intersection. But he didn't go across. Instead he pulled over to the side, set his size thirteen boots up on the dash, leaned back and lit himself a cigarette. His idiot brothers would just have to wait until he finished his smoke before finding out whether or not he was still alive. Arturo handed Trixie the thirty-two cents the man in the fancy suit had left on the table. She was sure the busboy was stiffing her, pocketing a portion of the tip for himself, maybe even most of it. She would have gotten in his face about it, too, except that the kid didn't speak any English, and the man was already pulling out onto the highway, so she couldn't verify anything with him anyway. She chalked it up to experience and told herself she'd have to watch the little thief more closely in the future. It being his car, after an intense discussion about brotherly responsibility and matters of that sort, it fell to Charley to start walking down Coosa Farm Road to see what had happened to Tucker, why he wasn't back yet. He hadn't gone but a couple hundred yards or so when Tucker whizzed on past him, kicking up dust and gravel and grinning from ear to ear. As a matter of general principle, Charley flipped him the bird. Underneath it all though, he was glad his brother was okay. He didn't want to be having to tell Ma that one of her boys was gone from this here earth. He had risked indigestion by eating his lunch faster than he would have liked – and Walter Willoughby was not the kind of man who tolerated a burp well – but he was back out on the highway and only two minutes behind schedule, and there was something to be said for that. The math was easy. Anyone could have done it. With the town of Beauregard thirty miles away and a speed limit of sixty, Willoughby could be back on schedule completely if he went just four miles an hour over the limit. "What'sa matter, boys? Worried 'bout somethin', were ya?" Tucker Matson got out of the car and tossed the keys to his brother, Dave. Willoughby didn't like the idea of going over the speed limit. Somehow it seemed to him that it was a violation of the sanctity of numbers. Still, there was that two minutes he needed to make up. Little Davey Matson, the youngest of the Matson boys, made a grab for the keys and missed. They bounced off his hand and landed on the ground. He bent down and picked them up. It only took him a second, maybe two at the most. Not that any of the Matson boys would have thought of such a thing, it being a rather complex matter and all, but in a universe that has existed for more than ten billion years, how much significance could there possibly be in a second or two? Willoughby did it. He didn't like it, but he did it. He set the cruise control to sixty-four miles an hour. He promised himself that it would be just this one time, and that as soon as he reached Beauregard he would go back to being a law-abiding, number-loving citizen, and that he would never again for the rest of his life exceed a legally posted speed limit. Davey Matson revved the engine and popped the clutch. "Pray for the asshole!" he screamed, and the old heaper took off down the hill towards Route 27. |
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| Lunch Break glenlee10@sky.com |
#7 of 9 Runner-up |
| 2386 words | |
| Thomas pulled the thin blanket tighter up under his
chin. Dozing, he listened to his brother’s cradle swinging and squeaking
near the hearth while Mother stirred the breakfast porridge. William snuffled
his morning, baby noises and Thomas burrowed a little deeper into the sweet
pile of straw. The fire crackled and spat, doing its job cheerfully. A wooden
spoon scraped around the inside of the pan as his mother worked to prevent the
mixture burning. “Get up, boy. It’s five o’clock and there’s work to be done.” Jonas Freer snatched the blanket away, letting the chill dawn into the bed. Thomas’ dream disappeared and he rolled out of the way of the fist that usually followed at this point. His sister was still asleep so their father found a target and struck the girl on her head. “I want my breakfast, girl,” he growled. Thomas grabbed his jacket and ran out the door. He pee’d in the small shed at the back of the cottage. He thought about running away but where could a ten year old boy go without boots? It was May and there would soon be enough light to work by. It had been the creaking made by his father cleaning his loom that had woven itself into Thomas’ dream. The squeaky cradle had been put on the fire two months since, not long after Thomas’ mother had followed her baby into the grave. “Good morning, nephew.” His aunt’s voice boomed from the cottage next door where she lived alone. Thomas looked over his shoulder, finished what he was doing and backed from the shed. His aunt’s long, dark skirts brushed up dust. She threw the contents of her pot onto the night soil of Thomas’ family, like a dog marking its territory. He knew it was her way of letting him know she intended moving in with her widowed brother and family. Isabelle Freer, spinster of the parish, was a tall woman, with thick, bare arms like a navvy and the disgruntled air of a woman whom the world and its peoples conspired against. “Tell your father I’m coming to see him this evening. I want his answer.” She glared at her nephew, her lips thin and bloodless-beige. Thomas had never known his aunt to smile. As she so often said, “What have any of the likes of us got to smile about?” She stomped back to her own tiny cottage, her pot’s last few drops speckling the dust. Thomas decided not to give his father the message. A cuff on his head would probably be the response for being the messenger bearing bad news. In the cottage his sister was sweeping their straw bed into a pile in the corner. The straw had not been replenished since their mother had died. “New straw every few days is a needless expense!” their father had decided. Maggie was crying. She finished the chore and blew her snotty nose on the hem of her apron. Their father was at his loom already. “Clack, clack. Clack, clack,” it rattled as his hands flew over the machine. Without pausing, or turning his head, he shouted, “You’ll get no breakfast this morning, boy. Your wretch of a sister let the fire go out so you may as well start work.” “Clack, clack. Clack, clack.” “And you can stop your sniveling, girl, and get to your loom. It’ll be a lean enough week as it is without you slacking.” Thomas’ belly rumbled rebelliously but he knew better than to argue. He glanced at the cold porridge in the pot hanging over the fire’s ashes. He was tempted to trail a finger in the meal at least but if he was caught, it would be the last meal he’d have today. He’d tried it once when he was smaller and less hungry and even his mother’s calming presence hadn’t been able to prevent his father meting out his harsh judgment. Jonas had snatched Thomas from the sanctuary of his mother’s skirts and thrashed him hard with his belt and denied him food for the rest of the day. Like most of the younger children of the village, Thomas was a seamer. He pulled his little, three-legged stool from beneath the table, dragged it to his usual place in the room where the light was best, gathered his materials and the unfinished socks and began to work. He had been doing the work since he was six years’ old. His fingers were quick and his stitches neat and precise. His father and sister were framework knitters, as his mother had been too. Their one-roomed cottage was rectangular with large windows along the south facing wall to let in as much light as possible to lengthen the workers’ day. Two looms squatted beneath the windows, with space for a third in between. If trade picked up, Thomas would have his own loom in that space next year. If trade didn’t pick up though, the family would not be able to afford the shilling a week rent which would be payable whether there was work or not. The room also contained a table and two wooden chairs, a hearth in the centre of the wall opposite the windows, the children’s straw bed and Jonas’ thin mattress. There was no cupboard for clothes. With the exception of a second pinafore of Maggie’s and a ’best’ hat which Jonas wore to church for weddings and funerals, the family owned only the clothing they stood up in and went to bed in. Some pots and pans hung on nails on the whitewashed wall by the fireside and the plates and knives used at mealtimes were piled beside the hearth after Maggie had cleaned them at the communal pump. There was a black mark on the wall above the fire where the women of the house had leaned against it for half a century while lighting, or in Maggie’s case, attempting to light the fire, despite the draught down the chimney. Jonas, Maggie and Thomas were all skilled workers but even during good weeks their bellies were often half empty. It had been different when the children’s mother had been alive. Despite having all the household chores to do, she’d been able to cover the week’s rent on her loom and still earn enough to buy food and pay the penny a week for Thomas to attend the school run by the parish church five mornings a week. When she died, that luxury and the purchase of the odd bit of finery for Maggie stopped. Trade slumped and the Freer family existed hand to mouth. Jonas Freer had the same stocky build as his sister but though he was a dour man, his wife, Beth, had been able to coax him into good humour. When she died, all light and laughter disappeared from Jonas’ life; worse, he seemed to blame his two remaining children, for they had brought the sickness to his hearth. Thomas had caught the fever first, probably from another child at school, and then William and Maggie had succumbed. Finally, their mother caught the fever, exhausted by working all hours at her loom and nursing three sick children. When she found William dead in his cradle one morning after she’d been too tired to stay awake with him any longer, the distress and the guilt had been too much for her weakened and malnourished state and the two of them went to their rest together. For two hours, they worked steadily without speaking. The sun climbed higher, accompanied by the sounds of the two looms’, “Clackety-clack,” in counterpoint and Thomas’ occasional, very soft sigh. Then, “I gotta pee!” Thomas dropped the sock he’d just finished onto the pile and ran out the door. The rhythm of his father’s loom didn’t alter. Two minutes later, Thomas returned. As usual, Jonas grunted his displeasure at time lost. Thomas sat on his stool, grabbed the next sock to be worked and picked up his own work rhythm again. His mind soon wandered to memories of last year’s July Fair. Surely, he thought, Dad will let us have a half day off and a ha’penny to spend this year? Mam always did. School would be closed for the day after all. But Thomas suspected it might well be work as usual until late dusk and no money to spend on treats such as roast pork crackling or toffee apples. He sighed and scratched a flea bite on his ankle. His stomach, which had been quietly rumbling all morning, gurgled loudly. He looked across at the table where three mugs of water sat next to a plate containing three lumps of bread. They were the remains of a loaf half a week old. They’d have to be dunked in the water to soften them up for chewing. He swallowed the trickle of saliva the thought engendered and carried on working, and dreaming. Maggie’s loom stopped. “Gotta pee!” she said and stalked from the cottage. Thomas heard the clomping of the night-soil man’s horse approaching. Maggie might have seen him coming down the road from her vantage point by the window and decided to use the closet before he reached their house. She was still young enough to be embarrassed by the traces of her monthly bleeding but Thomas had seen the bucket of cold water outside and knew what was what. When Maggie returned, Jonas stopped working and turned to face her. “Where you been girl?” he growled. “For a pee, that’s where I’ve been,” she glared at him. “It only takes the boy two minutes to pee but you’ve been gone ten minutes or more. Why’d it take you so long? You been chatting up some lad, ain’t yah, and thought I wouldn‘t notice?” “I ain’t been chatting up nobody. Chance’d be a fine thing! I been to pee, that’s all.” “You defying me girl?” Jonas stood up. “No, I ain’t. But I can go for a pee when I want, can’t I? Or is that banned like everything else since Mam died?” The slap was quick and powerful. Maggie staggered backwards. Her face, already flushed with menstrual fever, was crimson. She covered her cheek with her hand. “Don’t you dare speak about your mother like that.” Jonas’ voice was harsh with anger. “She was worth ten of you.” Don’t say anything more, Thomas pleaded silently. Maggie, hold your peace. Maggie looked down at her feet and slid onto her bench. She threw the shuttle across the face of the loom and for now, at least, she kept her peace. The clacking of the two looms quickly filled the small room again. Maggie seemed to be determined not to work in time with her father, preferring the discord that fully expressed her anger. Thomas was roused from his misery when his father gasped, “Umph!” Thomas looked up. His father had stopped working. Expecting trouble, Thomas carried on sewing. Every now and then he glanced across at his father who hadn’t started working again but hadn’t moved from his seat either. He looked at Maggie. She was still working but her pace had slowed. “Maggie,” Thomas whispered. “What’s wrong with Dad?” Maggie stopped. “Don’t know. Musta fallen asleep.” She said, “Dad?” When there was no response, she tried again, louder. “Dad?” “What’s up with him?” Dunno. Unless he’s dead!” Maggie crept to peep round her father’s loom. “Come and look.” Behind her, Thomas too looked at their father. Jonas Freer’s eyes were open and staring. Thomas found it hard to breath. “What should we do?” “Maybe he’s not really dead,” Maggie said. “Maybe he’s just asleep. Maybe grownups can sleep with their eyes open. Maybe we should just leave him be and get on with our work?” Thomas’ stomach rumbled long and loud. “I’m hungry.” They looked at the table where their lunch sat. “I suppose we could eat,” Maggie decided. They snatched their lunch and sat on their bed to eat. They studied their father’s back. “Are his eyes still open do you think, Maggie?” “How would I know? Do you want to go and find out?” Thomas’ answer was to dip his bread in the water and chew on the soggy bit. Their lunch was soon gone but it didn’t stop Thomas’ stomach from complaining. “I’d love some of that porridge,” he said, “what we never had for breakfast.” Maggie watched her father for signs of movement. There were none, so she nodded and quietly rose. The porridge was cold and lumpy but to the two hungry children it was better than pork scratching or toffee apples. They took turns to spoon the sticky mess into their mouths. Bolder now, Maggie crept to the table and carried Jonas’ bread and water back to the corner in which Thomas sat, as quiet as a mouse. “Hold these,” Maggie instructed, “while I get the stew.” “We can’t!” Thomas was horrified. “That’s for tonight!” “We’re hungry now, aren’t we?” “Well, yes. I s’pose we are, but…” “And Dad’s not stopping us?” “No…” “The stew’d be better warmed up but I think we should have it now.” Maggie handed him a bowl. She stood over him, brandishing a serving spoon. “Do you want any stew or don’t you?” Thomas nodded. “And we may as well eat Dad’s bread too…” “But what if he wakes up and catches us. He’ll give us both a good hiding.” “I’ll just tell him he ate it all in his sleep and left none for us.” Maggie’s defiance had returned. The stew was delicious. It contained the last few bits from the pound of meat Jonas had bought at the weekend and vegetables from his allotment. It didn’t matter that the meal was cold and the meat was tough and before long there was no food left in the house, not even a crumb had escaped their attention. “What’s going to happen to us?” Thomas wanted to know, “if Dad doesn’t wake up.” “Aunt Isabelle will move in and look after us, I expect,” Maggie looked sulky. “She’s been nagging at Dad ever since Mum died.” Remembering his aunt’s visit this morning, Thomas nodded. The sun had gone over its zenith and the afternoon was creeping on. “Should we start working again?” Thomas asked sleepily. They had never eaten so much in one go before. Maggie glanced at their father. He’d slumped and was leaning against the wall. “Soon,” she replied. “We’ll carry on working soon.” She curled up on the straw. Thomas joined her and within minutes the only sound in the small cottage was the buzzing of a curious fly inspecting the corpse that had once been Jonas Freer. |
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| Lunch Break Robert “Mack” Adams AdamsRM@mmcs.army.mil |
#8 of 9 |
| 345 words | |
| Working all day from seven to seven without any time
for a break, Gets so hard to handle and in many cases is more than I can take. Through the twelve hour day I continue working without getting a break, But if time would ever allow me to eat, it wouldn’t have to be steak. The days in Iraq grow longer and longer each and every day, And sometimes I think if this pace keeps up, I wonder how can I stay. I sit at my computer typing from morning until night without any break, And do it seven days a week, twelve hours and know this tour I must make. A lunch break is needed so badly at some point during the day or night, Or do they just want me to continue to work with getting even one little bite. There’s always a mission to accomplish and there is never a doubt, I need to rest my hands a few minutes, but know I must be stout. We continue to work like dogs throughout the days and the weeks, And you’d think a lunch break would be deserved so at least I could eat. The weeks turn into months and then one day a break finally arrives, And I go to the mess hall and wonder how many men have lost their lives. My lunch break goes fast as I look around and wonder how they feel, Then I remember back to my Army times and begin to get the chills. I’ve been complaining about not getting a lunch break day after day, And when I ask the soldiers how they’re doing, not a word do they say. It seems at the time that my complaining is so minor and unjust, Because for these soldiers, going without a break is sometimes a must. I finish my meal and walk back to assume my own personal role, And wonder during my journey what soldier might today give his soul. The war is so cruel and seems it will go on forever and ever, But this mission must succeed and I must not quit, no not ever. |
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| Lunch Break tom_raconteurr@yahoo.com |
#9 of 9 |
| 132 words | |
| I float to the ceiling and lose my mind Look down to see they're all my kind Kind is kind and might is might If Gabriel calls it's still not right Billowy pillows resting my head Familiar dreams swirl through my head Head for the girl, head for the guy Ersatz bliss not enough for I Astride my chariot, wheels awhirl Sweating, whipping, and I'm just a girl Behemoth monsters lurk in the night Ebony eyes laugh at my plight Cocoanut jambles, brain slightly scrambled Staggering, panting, through thorn and bramble Time after time after time after time Feared, revered, oft sublime Minescule molecules make up my being They do the work, I do the seeing Luscious landscapes somewhere out there I should leave the metropolis, breathe fresh air Quill to papyrus baring my soul Buried within my own little hole Self introspection and pity I slake Must rest myself now, on a lunch break |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club