| 1 2 3 4 |
"Just Kidding" (the ninety-fourth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
5 6 7 8 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Just Kidding" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), June 15, 2009 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Just Kidding By Colin W Campbell www.colincampbell.org (Entry #8) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| "Quiet now, don't let the little
jerk see us," Jake spoke softly, keeping well behind some partly finished
brickwork. "I've been playing tricks on the new apprentices for as long I can
remember, but this is the best ever." Another long wail broke the silence as the construction site slipped further into darkness. "Best I've ever heard of too. You are a wicked old man," said one of the other conspirators. The veins stood out on his temples as he struggled to keep the noise down while giggling like a schoolgirl. "And a clever one too, I'd never of though of getting him to leave his mobile phone behind on charge." "Or sending him down to the soft spot for a long wait," said another. "Can you hear me? Over here. I'm stuck in the mud. Help!" The apprentice waved his arms as he shouted. He shouted some more, then got back to wailing. Jake checked his watch and grinned, "He'll have company. They'll be letting the dogs run the site in a few minutes time. He'll soon find a way to slither his way out when he sees them coming. "What if he can't get out of the mud?" someone asked. "It's only a couple of feet deep. He can't come to any real harm," said Jake, "Time for us to get away home now. We'll hear his story in the morning." The next morning came bright and fresh to the site. Men arrived single and in little groups. These were days of short time working so no one came late, or forgot their tools, or admitted to nursing a hangover. But there was no sign of the apprentice. "Hey Jake, you don't think he might still be out there in the mud?" said someone. They all had a good laugh but soon went quiet. Without another word being said, they set off down the site, slowly at first then quicker and quicker. Jake was soon way out in front. As he got closer what he saw had him choking for breath and reaching out for something, anything to steady himself. "Stay back," he shouted to the others as they came up to where he had stopped, pale and shaking at the edge of the soft spot. And they did stay back, for no one had the stomach to go near where the dogs were grinding the bones and quarrelling over the few scraps of flesh that remained. They made a sad little procession as they headed off for the site offices. Jake thought over and over again of the empty, blood soaked overalls that had so recently carried the hopes and dreams of a new career. Someone spoke, mostly just to break the silence, "Jake, I'll get you a 'soap on a rope' so you don't have to bend down in the prison showers." But no one laughed. When they finally got to the offices, the site manager was waiting for them. Beside him was the new apprentice who called out to them all, "Came in real early today. I hope the dogs liked the bones I put out for them. Oh and by the way, I need a new set of overalls." |
| Just Kidding By glenlee10@sky.com (Entry #6) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| David Hobson was born in June 1942
and christened into the Church of England; because that was the normal thing to
do at the time. It also enabled his father, George, to send his young son to
Sunday School each week, while he and his wife, Gladys, enjoyed a bit of peace
and quiet. David’s upbringing was ordinary. He attended primary school from the age of five. He started to wear long pants at the age of eleven. He preferred football to homework. There were no surprises in his life; there was not even the birth of a brother or sister to spoil the calm pace of days in the Hobson household. Until George saw the light, that is. In October 1955, George bought his first car, a brand new, 6 cylinder, Vauxhall Velox. David loved that car, especially the bright silver streaks that ran down each side of the bonnet and each weekend, he helped his Dad clean and polish it. It was the first car in the street. David knew all his friends were envious of him as he polished its blue curves and its sparkling chrome. Everything changed for the Hobsons in January 1956, however, when George was coming home from work in a snow storm. He was driving down the High Street, peering through the cluttering flakes that whirled furiously against the windscreen. He was unaware of the Midland Red double-decker bus that seemed to loom out of nowhere, sliding across two lanes of the road to smack the Vauxhall head on. When the bus finally came to a halt, the car had been pushed backwards into a greengrocer’s shop window. Its front end looked as though an elephant had sat on it. Its back end was wrinkled like the same elephant’s hide. The car’s snub nose that David so enjoyed polishing was squashed like a boxer’s. The chrome grill and the silver streaks ended up in the slush in the gutter of the road. The big, red bus lost a little paint but was otherwise unharmed. George wasn’t so lucky. The whole engine block ended up round his feet and the Fire Brigade had to cut him free. The steering wheel column broke his sternum and his right wrist and he stopped breathing at least twice. A doctor who just happened to have nipped out to buy a pound of potatoes managed to pound George’s heart back to life on each occasion before the ambulance arrived. George was in a coma for a week. Gladys and David sat with him while he lay at death’s door. David didn’t say much. He didn’t know who to grieve for the most; his Dad, who might or might not survive, or the car, which had been taken to a scrap yard on the back of a lorry. Gladys swore they’d never have another car. “In future,” she said to the still form under the sheets, “there’ll be no more showing off. You’ll take the bus like normal people. This wouldn’t have happened if you’d been on the bus. I said that morning, first thing, you shouldn’t go in the car. I knew it was dangerous to go out in those conditions. But would you listen to me? Would you heck as like!” She chuntered at him for a week until George gasped and opened his eyes. He smiled at Gladys, who burst into tears. He smiled at his son. David smiled back, praying his Dad wouldn’t ask about the car. George didn’t ask about the car. He was too keen, as soon as he was able, to tell his family about his ‘vision’. “I saw God’s prophet,” he stated. “Pardon,” Gladys asked. “You saw who?” “God’s prophet.” “Oh.” “His name,” George said, “is Jubal and only through him can we know God.” Gladys refused to listen to any more of George’s nonsense and later told the doctor about it, but as the doctor said, “Although your husband stopped breathing, Mrs. Hobson, there was no evidence of any head injury so there’s nothing I can do for him. Maybe once he’s been discharged from hospital you should consider taking him to a psychologist?” And have the neighbours think her husband was mad? No thank you, Gladys decided and took George home as soon as possible. She thought his ‘vision’ must have been a dream and like most dreams, if not discussed, it would soon fade. Only George’s vision didn’t fade. Instead it took a stronger hold with each passing day. Gladys was unable to counter it and finally suggested he visit a psychiatrist. “I’m not mad, Gladys.” George smiled sweetly at his wife. “I have met God’s prophet and from now on we will live according to his rules. He and I had a long talk and I am convinced our lives will be more fulfilled if we live them according to his dictates. Our lives will be simpler. We will have fewer possessions. We will strive through hard work and prayer to be worthy of Jubal’s support in this life and a place in his house in the next, where we will wait until we are worthy to meet God.” And so it came to pass. When George bought the car, he’d also bought Gladys a washing machine with an electric motor. It was far superior to their old copper and hand-operated mangle. He had also bought a television set and David had sat for hours trying to stop the picture rolling so that he could watch his cowboy programmes. The washing machine and the television set were the first things to go. “David will help you with the washing,” George said as Gladys dragged the old copper and mangle from the garden shed and re-installed them in the kitchen. “And as soon as my convalescence is over, I’ll be able to help too.” David tried to tell his Dad how much he missed his television programmes. George understood. “Growing boys need their imaginations stimulating,” he agreed and went out and bought the ‘Works of William Shakespeare’. “We’ll read these after dinner each evening,” he told David. “It’ll be so much better for all of us.” George banned David from playing in the street with his friends so that his son would not be, “contaminated” and eventually he withdrew his family from most of its contact with the outside world. They lived on George’s sick pay from the government and Gladys went back to making all their clothes, to save money. David didn’t mind then about the ban. At thirteen years of age, going on fourteen, he didn’t want to be seen out wearing home made clothes. George talked so much about his conversation with Jubal that he finally convinced his family, who had little enough else to think about, other than Shakespeare, that is, of the truth of his conversion to Jubal-ism. It has to be said, the lives of the Hobsons seemed to be much quieter than those of their neighbours, who they could hear arguing, fighting and screaming at each other. In the Hobson household there were no slammed doors. Swearing was forbidden, but there was no need to swear anyway. What they had, they shared. What they didn’t have, “We obviously don’t need,” George said. So they did without. David gave up school and was educated by his parents. The outside world passed them by, leaving them tranquil. The worship of Jubal grew stronger. They knew nothing about the 1956 Suez Crisis or the detonation by the British of a hydrogen bomb on Christmas Island in 1957. In 1959, when David was walking through town to keep an appointment with the dentist, he saw the local, evening newspaper for sale outside a shop and read; He wondered what a hovercraft was, and then decided he didn’t really need to know. He had become a true follower of Jubal. In 1964, David married the girl next door. They were both 22 years of age and had known each other since they were infants. When Sylvie’s family decided to emigrate to Australia, shy Sylvie, by now a convert to Jubal-ism, was easily persuaded to stay behind. The family flourished. Contraception was not part of the Hobson lifestyle and Sylvie and David had ten children by 1978, including two sets of twins. As the house was soon bursting at the seams, the Hobsons moved to a larger house set in the middle of a field outside the town. There they found the peace they needed to live even closer to Jubal’s laws, as given to George in his vision. Time passed and the family grew. By the turn of the century, David was a granddad and George and Gladys had passed on, to live with Jubal in his house. By 2008, the sect numbered thirty, all of whom lived in the house in the field. Sunday prayers started at 10 am when every able person walked to the small graveyard behind the house to lay a flower on the graves of George, their Founder, Gladys, his wife and David and Sylvie’s twin boys who died aged six of meningitis. The remainder of the service was a long silence in which every member withdrew into their own thoughts and their own communion with Jubal, their prophet and through him, to God. When each person had finished their own communion, they wandered off to do their chores or to learn the lessons their Founder had written up before he died. In 2009, David passed on, aged 67. His body was prepared for burial by his sad family but there were no tears because they knew that David was travelling to meet Jubal, to live in his house while he prepared for his second journey to meet God. In David’s coffin, each member of the sect laid a letter addressed to Jubal. Even David’s great-great-granddaughter, a week old baby, had a letter written for her and placed by David’s naked body. “It would be good to see my Mother and Father again,” David had said in his last hours, “but I pray, nevertheless that they have moved on. I pray too that I quickly find the grace to journey after them. Meanwhile, I will carry your good wishes to Jubal on your behalf.” True to his beliefs, when David opened his eyes again, he was standing in the doorway of a room. The door closed behind him. It was a plain room in which he found himself. The air was pure and sweet smelling. There were no pictures on the walls and no carpets on the floors, as to be expected. Jubal-ism was an uncluttered sect. David’s heart soared. Clutching his family’s letters to his chest, he smiled at the man who stood in front of him. The man was tall, dark and dressed in a simple, red robe. He wore gold slippers on his feet. David was filled with awe. “Jubal?” he asked breathlessly. The man nodded. David sank to his knees and bowed his head. “Oh, do stand up,” the man said in a gruff voice. “We don’t do the worshipping bit here. It’s all too embarrassing.” David looked up, puzzled. “Pardon?” “I said, please stand up. You’ll only get splinters in your knees.” The man passed David a white, cotton cover-all garment. “I wish I hadn’t told George that you all had to come naked to me.” He turned to address someone who sat at a wooden table in the centre of the room. “I was only joking, you know.” David hadn’t noticed there were other people in the room. He stared past Jubal and saw George, dressed in a similar robe, though his was grubby, very grubby. His father was crumbling a piece of bread into tiny pieces onto the table in front of him. He looked unhappy, very, very unhappy. By his side sat an equally miserable looking Gladys. “I told him right at the start that he should see a psychiatrist. I knew I should never have let him talk me into all this mumbo-jumbo.” She chewed at her lump of bread. “It’s stale,” she grumbled, “as usual.” “I don’t understand,” David addressed Jubal. “Why are my parents still here? They did everything you asked of them. Why haven’t they moved on to live with God?” He spotted the twins playing quietly in the corner. “And why are these innocents still here?” Jubal blushed. “I never actually said I have God’s ear,” he tried to justify himself. “But this is the house where we wait for God, isn’t it?” David demanded. “Sort of,” Jubal whispered. “What do you mean, sort of?” “Well, it is a house.” “And?” “And that’s it. It is a house.” “And where, exactly, is this house?” David strode across the room to look out of the one window. There was no view. No Elysian fields, no Garden of Eden, no white clouds even. Just a grey blank wall of nothing. He turned away from the window and spoke to his father. “This is all a con, isn’t it? Our whole lives have been a sham, haven’t they?” George turned his head away, his face as red as Jubal’s had been a minute ago. “Your father misunderstood,” Jubal said. “I’m not a prophet. I’m just a simple trumpet player in God’s army. I doubt if I get to see God more than once in a millennium when there’s a big parade, but when I do I swear I’ll let him know there’s people waiting to see him.” David dropped the letters. He banged his fist on the table. The pile of crumbs in front of George bounced. “Explain,” he growled at Jubal. “Well, I was bored. Then one day your father popped up in front of me. I didn’t know what else to do with him so we had a long chat. And me and some of the blokes had been talking about this idea we had that people live in the after-lifes they’ve created for themselves and …” “You were bored!” “Yes, so I created this afterlife and your father believed me. I never thought he would … but when he did it was too late to change anything because he shot off back to his own world before I could …” “So this is just all a big joke is it? This is not really a place to wait for God? This is just an after life that you made up on the spur of the moment? Is that right?” Jubal grinned. “Yes,” he said sheepishly. “It was just a daft idea I had. I was just kidding. Honest!” |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #6, #8 (tie) Third place: #1 Fourth place: #3, #5 (tie) |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Just Kidding Noelle Campbell swampfaye@yahoo.com |
#1 of 8 |
| 755 words | |
| Their son was born deaf. The speaker had just finished
telling how she and her husband, following the advice of doctors and after a
great deal of her own research, decided to go ahead with the Cochlear Implant
for him. Parts of the Deaf Culture class were impressed, parts silently
horrified. After a semester of being told how hearing people were evil (I'm
paraphrasing of course) because they couldn't accept the Deaf or being deaf, it
was odd to see the DEAF PRIDE professor so supportive of a CI in this case.
She asked for questions. "I think I heard that you can't be converted to Orthodox Judaism if you can't hear," one guy says. You know this guy. He's in every class. He makes statements that are completely off topic and gets so far off the point, even the instructor looks at him like he's grown two heads. "It's because the Orthodox don't accept Yiddish Sign Language," I said. The class laughed, because that's what they REALLY want to do every time this guy asks a question. "They do have Jewish Sign Language," the instructor says through the interpreter. I wanted to ask what schmuck was in Yiddish sign language, since that's what we all thought of the guy who made the comment. Maybe meshuginah would have been just as good in the context. It didn't matter if there really was a Yiddish sign language or not. It was funny thinking that it would be required to know Yiddish Sign Language to become an Orthodox Jew. You picture them kvetching over how you had to put your fingers juuuuussssst so if you were signing 'drek' and how it was completely different than 'poop.' How the Hebrew sign language should be used for scripture and Yiddish only for conversation in the home. That men with curls and beards would wave their hands in the air, signing while bobbing their head up and down in prayer, trying to hold onto the Torah while they got the sign EXACTLY right. The picture is what makes a joke so funny, at least it is to the hearing. Nevermind that Jewish and Yiddish are two different things, since many Jews don't speak any Yiddish at all, let alone the language differences for deaf Jews. But now that I think of it, that would be an awesome name for a band: "Deaf Jews." Anyway, I think the class just wanted to laugh at the guy who was always making completely non-sequitur comments during class. I know that jokes are an important part of Deaf Culture. I learned in and out of class, that the Deaf love to tease, joke and have fun with one another. Maybe mine wasn't funny to the professor because I wasn't Deaf. So I explain: "It was a joke." "No," the instructor says. "There really is a book on Jewish Sign Language. I have a friend who wrote a book on it." The professor seems to know everyone who is anyone in the Deaf community. Through the interpreter, she gives the impression they are all close friends. I think this is yet another translation problem. The interpreter can't figure out that the sign for friend is also the sign for 'acquaintance.' You and I would understand that just because you go to the Star Trek convention every year and meet Bill Shatner, get his autograph and say a few things to him, doesn't mean you are friends. But, I'm willing to accept that maybe the term 'friends' means something different to the deaf or at least to interpreters for the deaf. "Essay" means something completely different in East LA than it does on the campus of any community college. I'm down with that. I realize that communication is breaking down and it's just getting worse. Not only has "Yiddish" been translated to mean "Hebrew" somehow, 'It's a joke' has been interpreted incorrectly, even if it has been translated precisely. Maybe she would have understood if I had signed it myself, or if she saw the entire class laughing. Either way, it was clear my professor didn't get it. It was yet another blow to integration. More proof to some that cross culture communication doesn't work. "I was just kidding," I told her and decided that from that point forward, I should keep my jokes out of earshot of interpreters. I would go home later and tell the entire thing to my husband. He would laugh too. I guess he knows that Yiddish might be Jewish, but it isn't Hebrew. Maybe he was imagining the sign for 'schmaltzy.' But he isn't 'Deaf' with a big d. He's just someone trying to deny he is really deaf by trying to fit in the hearing world, marrying a hearing wife and using things like hearing aids and CI's. I wonder if those things make Yiddish Sign language jokes funnier... |
|
| Just Kidding Linda.L.Rucker: Author@Large www.lindalrucker.com |
#2 of 8 |
| 1197 words | |
| Martin’s life revolved around practical jokes and
bullying. In school, he had followers he mistakenly thought were his friends,
but in reality, no one really liked him. He made anyone and everyone the butt
of his jokes and of his bullying, even Marie Claire. Marie Claire was his steady girl. They met in kindergarten and now twelve years later, she was still the love of his life; but of course, Martin being Martin even that was made fun of. Nothing or no one, including Marie Claire was off limits. BMOC, that was Martin and no one dared challenge him for the title, at least not until the day Elliott Beeson arrived. Elliot was a tall, thin young man, quiet, soft-spoken, unassuming; he quickly became Martin’s favorite target. In P.E. Martin delighted in tripping Elliott up during basketball and popping him on the ass with a wet towel after showers. Lunch time usually found Elliott with a lapful of whatever culinary delight the cooks had prepared for the day, unless he wisely chose to bring his lunch and sit out on the patio with the other so-called losers of Whitmire High School. But, Elliott never fought back, never complained and rarely commented on Martin’s pranks and bullying. It wasn’t his style. And that infuriated Martin. Anyone he chose to mess with always provided him with the singular satisfaction of whining, crying or storming out in anger, but not Elliott. One day, just a few short weeks from prom, Elliott shyly approached Marie Claire. Swallowing convulsively, he quietly stammered, “Ma-Marie, would you go with me to prom?” She stared at him for a long time, saying nothing and Elliott could feel the crimson of embarrassment flushing his cheeks. He dropped his eyes, shifting nervously from foot to foot, half expecting her to laugh in his face, but she didn’t. Instead she replied, “You know I’m Martin’s girl don’t you?” Elliott nodded mutely. Marie Claire said nothing, and Elliott raised his eyes to hers. She greeted him with a dazzling smile, perfect white teeth seemingly gleaming in the bright sunlight. “You know, I think I would like to go to prom with you.” Her reply stunned Elliott, but the grin that split his face gave lie to his surprise. “You will?” he asked. She nodded. “Yes, I will,” then turned and walked away, leaving Elliott to wonder if anything that had just transpired really did. ***** By midweek, everyone in school knew that Elliott was a dead man walking. Martin had been out of school for three days with the flu, but he was made aware of Elliott’s stupid play for Marie Claire and even worse of her betrayal by accepting the invitation to prom. Things were going to be very bad for Elliott and the school was a buzz with excitement and tension. Elliott was well aware of the whispers and stares, the looks of pity and the looks of promise by his fellow students, but it didn’t seem to faze him. He kept to himself as he always did and even shyly nodded to Marie Claire when they passed in the halls. Of course, these little instances did not go un-noticed or un-reported to Martin, and only added fuel to the fire that was Martin’s rage. On Thursday, Martin returned to school. He and his gang of hangers on idled on the front steps, waiting for Elliott. Around the school hung an air of anticipation, as the other students lounged out front on the broad lawn, whispering. Some were even placing bets on the outcome of the coming face-off. When Elliott stepped off the bus, he was greeted by an eerie silence, as collectively the student body held its breath. Without hesitation, he walked up the sidewalk to the foot of the steps, and raised his head, his green eyes locking with Martin’s angry blue ones. “You got a death wish, Smelliott?” Martin’s voice was thick with suppressed rage. “Not particularly.” Elliott’s reply stunned the student body, and took Martin aback. “What’d you say?” “I said, not particularly,” Elliott replied, standing his ground. Clenching his fists, Martin took a step toward Elliott. “That’s far enough, Martin.” The voice halted Martin in his tracks and he turned to find Principal Emerson standing in the open doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “There will be no fighting on school property, and you know it.” Martin nodded, then turned back to Elliott, “Tonight, Beardall Park, eight o’clock, you and me.” Elliott smiled and replied, “You sure you want to do that?” “Be there,” Martin said, then turning, he and his posse sauntered in through the front door. “Man, you got a death wish,” someone said to Elliott. “We’ll see,” he said. ***** By eight o’clock, the park was nearly full of students. Word of the showdown between Martin and Elliott had spread through the school like an epidemic of measles. People were placing bets on the outcome with the odds on favorite being Martin, but a few brave souls put their money on Elliott. When Martin arrived, he was swaggering. He’d never lost a fight in his life and he knew tonight would be no exception. He outweighed Elliott by a good thirty pounds, he was taller by two inches and he had something that Elliott seemingly lacked, the anger and the muscle to back it up. The crowd milled around, restless, ready for the spectacle. “He’s coming,” someone shouted, and the crowd fell still, collectively holding their breath as Elliott walked into the clearing. Martin winked at Marie Claire, who glared at him. She had tried for hours to talk him out of this, but he wouldn’t budge, informing her that no one and especially some skinny freak ever tried him, or went after what was his, to which she’d replied that she belonged to no one. “So, you really are asking for it, hunh?” Martin sneered at Elliott, who kept his head bowed as he walked toward Martin. “I am,” Elliot said, his voice calm. No one spoke as Elliott came within swinging distance of Martin, then stopped. “Let me tell you something, freak,” Martin began, but Elliott held up a hand, as if to silence him. “No, let me tell you something,” Elliott spoke softly, his voice reaching only the ears of his adversary. “Man, you don’t get to tell me shit, I tell you,” Martin growled and drew back a fist; “I’m about to beat the shit outta you, freak.” Elliott raised his head, his eyes, glowing eerily red in near dark, bored into Martin’s . “Go for it,” he said. Martin, his fist falling limply to his side, took two steps back and the crowd gasped. Elliott stood quietly, eyes boring into Martin’s. “Hey man,” Martin said. He tried to smile, but his face felt frozen, his heart raced in his chest. “Hey man, I was just kidding, you know. Hell, you want the bitch, she’s yours.” Marie Claire choked back an angry retort, and Elliott said nothing, just stared. “Hey man, c’mon, I was just kiddin, ya know.” “I’m not,” Elliott replied, growling softly as the full moon peeked over the horizon. |
|
| Just Kidding Phil Peterson phildude@gmail.com |
#3 of 8 |
| 1793 words | |
| Even as we drove home from the hospital, my parents
kept asking me the same vague question, “Are you serious”—as if
they cared. And to this day, I still have no idea. No answer. What happened
such a long time ago has become nothing more than a scattered dream. Something
you hang on to without conscious effort. A nightmare that slowly becomes apart
of your everyday life, feeding off you like a parasite until you can’t
tell where it begins and you end. Maybe it really did happen, or maybe I am
just making it all up, like a sick joke. Something I can get everyone to cry
about and then, right as they are pulling for another tissue, say just kidding.
I still have no idea. I have always loved my grandmother and up until that day, I know she loved me. So what happened? She was always such a nice lady. Very reserved and proper. A stereotypic “Church Grandma.” Her gray knee-high stockings were always hidden behind a neutral dress and covered by orthopedic shoes. Her arthritis kept her slow, but she got around. She is the lady you see hunched over the steering wheel, trying to drive her 1997 Buick Le Saber to the grocery store for prune juice and carrots. The lady at church who always sits up front, back straight, eyes forward, hymn note in hand, not moving even to itch, that’s her too. Her only shortcoming is her ailment. Dementia. And when she doesn’t take her meds, she isn’t really herself. So what happened? It was a Saturday when my then normal family and I were visiting Grandma’s house. What a day. Everyone was gone that afternoon. Apparently the town’s legion baseball team was having a home game—a big event for a small town. This left me at the house by myself. I had told everyone that I wasn’t feeling well and just wanted to sleep. I can’t remember if I was truly sick or not. I don’t think I was. I do remember however that I was extremely horny. I was eleven years old at the time and had just discovered the art of self-pleasure, something which quickly became my own personal national pastime. I think I just wanted to stay home, so I could do some of my own “batting practice.” I am eleven years old, horny, and alone in my Grandma’s house, an entire afternoon of self-gratification ahead of me. But where to do it, I thought. I was a pro at doing it in the bedroom and wanted something different. The kitchen seemed too public. And the bathroom seemed too unsanitary. And then it hit me like a fastball—Grandma’s room—the risk of it sweeping through me high and inside like. I have never done it there I thought, as I ran downstairs, remembering how soft and comfortable her bed was. The light smell of lilac kissing each sinful, heavy breath you take. The soft jazz music can faintly be heard coming from her radio in between the throbbing heartbeat in your ear and sloshing of your hand. This will be great. So there I was, naked and horny, staining my Grandmother’s comforter with my sweaty ass. I held an old issue of National Geographic in one hand and a greasy, four-inch dick in the other. It was perfect. Me sitting there, toes curled, back arched, invisible asteroids covering my eyes. The feeling of warmth wraps through you as your heart skips beats and prostate convulses. I never wanted it to end. But here it comes. I can feel it. My fist clenches around the magazine as the garage door rises. I bite my lower lip in ecstasy as muddy shoes are left at the door. My eyes shut as footsteps approach my sanctuary. And I release as Grandma’s door opens with a slow squeak. What a day. If anyone ever tells you that having a deranged, strung out, angry, Grandmother with dementia who forgot to take her pills walk in on you after you just get done ejaculating into a rare National Geographic magazine isn’t that bad, think again. I wish I could have done something different. But I couldn’t. So this is how it went down in my memory. I will do my best, but I have to warn you, I have tried to erase most of it. Family consoling can only go so far on a reluctant mind. Grandma opened that door with an empty bottle of twice-a-days in one hand and a gun in the other—the Dirty Harry model. Her once pulled-back bun had been hit by an onslaught of ripping fingers, leaving a dirty, gray spider web. Her dress was ripped at the hem and her socks groped bloody ankles. Both of her blue eyes, eyes that once marked the beginning of spring, were red with veins. And other than the musty smell of sperm, a waft of alcohol and smoke filled the air, killing the unseen lilacs. She didn’t say anything even as she stumbled toward her nightstand, passing my still naked body sitting paralyzed in a cocktail of fear and uncertainty. He feet tripped over air and dead semen. Her hands were being pulled by a puppeteer’s strings, making that gun even scarier. And I still couldn’t move, even as she reached in her cabinet and pulled out what looked like a piece of candy. It was wrapped in a thin layer of plastic and was no wider than a few pieces of paper. I figured she was giving me a treat to make my pseudo-sickness go away. What a loving Grandmother. She catches me whacking off and still gives me candy. Then she said, “Put it on.” How do you “put on” a piece of candy, I thought. Wait. This isn’t candy, I thought, as I opened the package. It was a “raspberry-banana flavored condom.” A condom? Looks more like a balloon to me. I managed to squeeze out a faint, “what do you mean grandma?” She turned and looked at me. Those unfamiliar eyes looking at me like I had just killed someone. She didn’t say anything. She was always a woman of few words, who thought actions speak louder than anything you could say. So taking her own advice, she shoved that smooth piece of machinery against my temple, the cool metal feeling great against my skin, and put the balloon on my flaccid penis. I suddenly forget about the cold chamber perched on the side of my head. I guess these things tend to happen when your Grandmother with dementia forgets to take her pills and drinks too much at a legion baseball game. I wonder who’s winning? The next thing I remember is opening my eyes to a part of Grandma I have never seen before. I am not sure what I am looking at, something I have never even seen in a National Geographic. All she tells me to do is shut my eyes and don’t cry. So I shut my eyes, sandbagging a flood of tears. Wet flapping. Leathery scrapping. Wrinkled rubbing. Calloused grinding. Raw throbbing. Soft beating. All of these sensations are felt rubbing against a soft balloon. But what could I do? She had that gun shoved so far inside me it destroyed any lingering memories of fastballs. I couldn’t move even if I tried. Now she starts yelling. I am not sure at what. Angry yells. Pain yells, like she cut herself sewing my Christmas sweater. I hate that sweater, but mom makes me wear it anyway. I am now sucking on that familiar piece of metal. My only friend at this point despite it tasting like yesterday’s dinner. Grandma’s famous meatloaf. Maybe she will make some more tonight? I don’t know where Grandma is anymore; I can only feel her gyrating body. Her cracked and chapped abdomen is placed on my cheek. My eyes are still shut, still serving as dam. Something Hover would be proud of. And then, just as long as it started, it was over. Finally. I opened my eyes once again to Grandma, or the demon trapped in Grandma’s skin, standing near an open window. Her naked body was hunched over the sill, looking over the backyard. Probably thinking about what vegetables to grow. The gun was still in her hand and was now pushed against her cranium. It twinkled in the late-afternoon light, creating a second sun. I blink. And quicker than you can say rutabaga, Grandma hit the floor in a pool of sangria. Then nothing. I was found two hours later, passed out, naked, with a broken balloon on my penis, lying on Grandma’s bed. She was found too, just a few feet away from me with her gun and empty bottle of meds. Apparently, Grandma had been depressed for the last few years after Grandpa died. She had been using the cover of dementia as a means to deal with her pain. She explained it all in one of her journals. All of this would later be told to me, thus further confusing the already confused. So here I am today, seven years later, driving home with my parents from the hospital. Maybe psychiatrist’s office is a better title. And all they can keep asking me is, “Are you serious.” And to this day, I still have no idea. What really happened all of those years ago? In the real world, the world that normal people like you see every day, my Grandma is still alive. In your world, I went to that legion game that day. In reality, I have never even held a National Geographic. But what does this mean? Where does this leave us? Maybe this is all just a sick joke, something I made up in order to get attention. Something I tell to head shrink’s in order to get sympathy, get love. But in my mind it was real. I wish I could say, “just kidding,” and have it all be over, but I can’t. I have to live with it. |
|
| Just Kidding brigid@lorienwood.plus.com |
#4 of 8 |
| 116 words | |
| They say... .................there's global warming and the ice cap's going to melt; that a mighty meteor flung from Mars is going to hit a celt! The Earth may stop rotating, so you'd best get innovating before the Devil's cards of death are dealt. They say... .................that Mother Nature is abandoning our Earth as we concrete every surface for the 'value' it is worth! The forest fires are blazing, the smoke signal's amazing; warning aliens to give us a wide berth! They say... .................the mighty oceans are polluted and unclean, as wars wage between nations- children dying inbetween. The forecast is forbidding. (Don't think that I'm just kidding.) It matters how YOU shout and dream and scheme! |
|
| Just Kidding Tom Campbell thomassbcampbelll@hotmail.com |
#5 of 8 |
| 1166 words | |
| Robert Larkin had finished his final reconnaissance and
was headed home to meet the boys. Usually a small time operator this was the
big one, he thought as he climbed the one flight of stairs that looked like
they had been used for a motorcycle rally. This one could set him up. His living room was furnished in what one might call early garage sale and there were three men already sitting around it watching the yellowed corners of wall paper trying to escape and talking. Bud, the driver, was sprawled on a threadbare yellow couch that nearly matched the once white wall paper. Lefty Gomez was smoking a thin cigar and lolling way back on the only decent armchair, knowing he’d have to brush some stuffing off his ass when he got up. Wilbur Beauregard Simms, the electronics man, perched on a crinkly old kitchen chair in a floral pattern as dim as the light that came from the few tasseled lamps, a leftover from one of Larkin’s exes. They were not a bit nervous like a good crew would be, and under discussion was Texas football. “What’s with the name Baylor Bears?” drawled Will. “You ever seen a bear in Texas?” “There’s a drawing of one in the Dancing Bare,” added Lefty. “You see a lot of bare boobs in there.” “I think the boobs are the ones that pay all that money for lap dances,” said Bud with a laugh which no one joined in on. “We done got off sports, boys. They’d be ok except for that singing of the Natural Anthem. It ain’t natural for ants to wear skirts.” “It’s national,” said Will, “like the bank we’re about to visit.” “Yeah. You don’t go to no Natural Bank but you play the National Anthem, even though no one can sing the fucking thing.” Robert came in with Lone Star beer for everyone and sat in the remaining armchair, his. He liked it because he could see the door and the television. TV for him just went in one ear and out the other, like conversation from a mother-in-law, but he did hate to have his back to a door. He spoke. ‘I’ve decided we’ll go in at 9:30, just after dark when there’s still a few people on the streets so we’ll blend in. Bud, you have to get us a car.” “No problem. Rental?” “You know better. We don’t want a paper trail. Steal one.” “Make me happy. I know just where to look.” “No problem with the alarms, Will?” “Seen ‘em before. Gimme five minutes. Another beer?” “Just one. We got us some work to do. You can drink Cuervo tokillya out of a stripper’s navel tonight if everyone does their job.” “What if she…” “Focus here, boys. Work first and remember the Alamo!” “Now what the hell does that mean? Besides, it’s a fucking car rental company now.” They departed one at a time so as not to attract attention. A thin twilight found Bud sitting in a Toyota which Larkin had said was too damn small for his long legs. Lefty was on the corner as a lookout while Larkin and Will strolled to the rear entrance. If anyone came down that street Lefty would sing a few bars of “The Yellow Rose of Texas” while the other pair would pick up their brown bagged bottle and pretend to be winos. After Larkin shot out the surveillance camera with a silencer, Will had the alarm dismantled in under five minutes as promised. It was no big deal for Larkin to pick the lock on the door. In they went pulling black nylon stockings over their heads. It made them look like two large asparagus that had been in the fridge too long. While Simms rummaged around, Larkin went to the desk where they kept large sums of money for real estate transactions. Only today he seen a large package put in the bottom drawer, maybe $30,000. He pulled out his tools and sat on the edge of the chair which quickly shot backwards on its rollers leaving him to go whump on the floor. Closer to eye level now and grimacing, he decided to stay where he was. The drawer was opened in no time and he pulled out a large briefcase. There was no $30,000 in it - more like $100,000! “Let’s go, Will. This’ll do.” “I found some securities.” “Great,” but before they had taken two steps a large crash sounded above them from the ceiling and two men thumped to the floor. They got up, groaning and covered in debris from the ceiling they had just cut through, and drew guns. Larkin and Simms never carried them for the plain fact they didn’t want to ever have to use one. Besides AR was a much longer stretch than burglary. “What the hell are you guys doing here?” They all said simultaneously. “Just leaving,” said Will. “No you’re not. What have you got there?” ”My lunch.” “Er… my lunch too.” “Hand ‘em over.” The new burglars looked inside the ‘lunches’ and apparently forgetting any other plans they had, skidded out the front door, setting off the alarms. Robert and Will hotfooted it out the way they had come, trying to look like normal pedestrians as they quickly walked away. "Will, the stocking." "Oops," he said as he yanked it off and stuffed it into a dumpster. “Just our fucking luck,” grumbled Larkin. “Those two cowboys have to break in the same night we do.” “You think they were gonna try for the vault?” “Who knows what those numbnuts were going to do. All I know is they took our fucking money” “Technically it wasn’t ours. They…” “Shut up.” Not wanting to be remembered hailing a taxi in that neighborhood, they walked down to the subway, a place Larkin hated. All that noise, the oily smell, the crush of unwashed people. They bought two tokens from a platinum blond woman in a booth who looked like she had applied her lipstick during an earthquake and forty minutes later found them back at Larkin’s apartment. There they found Bud and Lefty already sitting there with a bottle of Cuervo and a beer. “Howdy boys. Glad you made it. I’ll get a couple of glasses,” said Bud. “And I’ll grab a couple of beers. We didn’t know if you were coming back.” “You saw those two guys running out of the bank, I guess,” Larkin said. “Yeah. They tossed a couple of bags in the trunk and took off. We didn’t see you so we followed them. “They stopped at a light,” Bud said, “and Lefty went up to ask them directions, you know as a diversion.” “Right. Then Bud snuck up to the car, jimmied the lock, took out the suitcase and bag just before they zoomed off.” “No kidding,” said Larkin in amazement. “We wouldn’t joke about that,” said Lefty in mock stiffness, and he and Bud reached under the table and produced the bag and suitcase. “Damn,” said Larkin. “Looks like a little of my luck is still there. Lefty, hand me that bottle of Jose you pig humper.” |
|
| Just Kidding glenlee10@sky.com |
#6 of 8 Runner-up |
| 2446 words | |
| David Hobson was born in June 1942 and christened into
the Church of England; because that was the normal thing to do at the time. It
also enabled his father, George, to send his young son to Sunday School each
week, while he and his wife, Gladys, enjoyed a bit of peace and quiet. David’s upbringing was ordinary. He attended primary school from the age of five. He started to wear long pants at the age of eleven. He preferred football to homework. There were no surprises in his life; there was not even the birth of a brother or sister to spoil the calm pace of days in the Hobson household. Until George saw the light, that is. In October 1955, George bought his first car, a brand new, 6 cylinder, Vauxhall Velox. David loved that car, especially the bright silver streaks that ran down each side of the bonnet and each weekend, he helped his Dad clean and polish it. It was the first car in the street. David knew all his friends were envious of him as he polished its blue curves and its sparkling chrome. Everything changed for the Hobsons in January 1956, however, when George was coming home from work in a snow storm. He was driving down the High Street, peering through the cluttering flakes that whirled furiously against the windscreen. He was unaware of the Midland Red double-decker bus that seemed to loom out of nowhere, sliding across two lanes of the road to smack the Vauxhall head on. When the bus finally came to a halt, the car had been pushed backwards into a greengrocer’s shop window. Its front end looked as though an elephant had sat on it. Its back end was wrinkled like the same elephant’s hide. The car’s snub nose that David so enjoyed polishing was squashed like a boxer’s. The chrome grill and the silver streaks ended up in the slush in the gutter of the road. The big, red bus lost a little paint but was otherwise unharmed. George wasn’t so lucky. The whole engine block ended up round his feet and the Fire Brigade had to cut him free. The steering wheel column broke his sternum and his right wrist and he stopped breathing at least twice. A doctor who just happened to have nipped out to buy a pound of potatoes managed to pound George’s heart back to life on each occasion before the ambulance arrived. George was in a coma for a week. Gladys and David sat with him while he lay at death’s door. David didn’t say much. He didn’t know who to grieve for the most; his Dad, who might or might not survive, or the car, which had been taken to a scrap yard on the back of a lorry. Gladys swore they’d never have another car. “In future,” she said to the still form under the sheets, “there’ll be no more showing off. You’ll take the bus like normal people. This wouldn’t have happened if you’d been on the bus. I said that morning, first thing, you shouldn’t go in the car. I knew it was dangerous to go out in those conditions. But would you listen to me? Would you heck as like!” She chuntered at him for a week until George gasped and opened his eyes. He smiled at Gladys, who burst into tears. He smiled at his son. David smiled back, praying his Dad wouldn’t ask about the car. George didn’t ask about the car. He was too keen, as soon as he was able, to tell his family about his ‘vision’. “I saw God’s prophet,” he stated. “Pardon,” Gladys asked. “You saw who?” “God’s prophet.” “Oh.” “His name,” George said, “is Jubal and only through him can we know God.” Gladys refused to listen to any more of George’s nonsense and later told the doctor about it, but as the doctor said, “Although your husband stopped breathing, Mrs. Hobson, there was no evidence of any head injury so there’s nothing I can do for him. Maybe once he’s been discharged from hospital you should consider taking him to a psychologist?” And have the neighbours think her husband was mad? No thank you, Gladys decided and took George home as soon as possible. She thought his ‘vision’ must have been a dream and like most dreams, if not discussed, it would soon fade. Only George’s vision didn’t fade. Instead it took a stronger hold with each passing day. Gladys was unable to counter it and finally suggested he visit a psychiatrist. “I’m not mad, Gladys.” George smiled sweetly at his wife. “I have met God’s prophet and from now on we will live according to his rules. He and I had a long talk and I am convinced our lives will be more fulfilled if we live them according to his dictates. Our lives will be simpler. We will have fewer possessions. We will strive through hard work and prayer to be worthy of Jubal’s support in this life and a place in his house in the next, where we will wait until we are worthy to meet God.” And so it came to pass. When George bought the car, he’d also bought Gladys a washing machine with an electric motor. It was far superior to their old copper and hand-operated mangle. He had also bought a television set and David had sat for hours trying to stop the picture rolling so that he could watch his cowboy programmes. The washing machine and the television set were the first things to go. “David will help you with the washing,” George said as Gladys dragged the old copper and mangle from the garden shed and re-installed them in the kitchen. “And as soon as my convalescence is over, I’ll be able to help too.” David tried to tell his Dad how much he missed his television programmes. George understood. “Growing boys need their imaginations stimulating,” he agreed and went out and bought the ‘Works of William Shakespeare’. “We’ll read these after dinner each evening,” he told David. “It’ll be so much better for all of us.” George banned David from playing in the street with his friends so that his son would not be, “contaminated” and eventually he withdrew his family from most of its contact with the outside world. They lived on George’s sick pay from the government and Gladys went back to making all their clothes, to save money. David didn’t mind then about the ban. At thirteen years of age, going on fourteen, he didn’t want to be seen out wearing home made clothes. George talked so much about his conversation with Jubal that he finally convinced his family, who had little enough else to think about, other than Shakespeare, that is, of the truth of his conversion to Jubal-ism. It has to be said, the lives of the Hobsons seemed to be much quieter than those of their neighbours, who they could hear arguing, fighting and screaming at each other. In the Hobson household there were no slammed doors. Swearing was forbidden, but there was no need to swear anyway. What they had, they shared. What they didn’t have, “We obviously don’t need,” George said. So they did without. David gave up school and was educated by his parents. The outside world passed them by, leaving them tranquil. The worship of Jubal grew stronger. They knew nothing about the 1956 Suez Crisis or the detonation by the British of a hydrogen bomb on Christmas Island in 1957. In 1959, when David was walking through town to keep an appointment with the dentist, he saw the local, evening newspaper for sale outside a shop and read; He wondered what a hovercraft was, and then decided he didn’t really need to know. He had become a true follower of Jubal. In 1964, David married the girl next door. They were both 22 years of age and had known each other since they were infants. When Sylvie’s family decided to emigrate to Australia, shy Sylvie, by now a convert to Jubal-ism, was easily persuaded to stay behind. The family flourished. Contraception was not part of the Hobson lifestyle and Sylvie and David had ten children by 1978, including two sets of twins. As the house was soon bursting at the seams, the Hobsons moved to a larger house set in the middle of a field outside the town. There they found the peace they needed to live even closer to Jubal’s laws, as given to George in his vision. Time passed and the family grew. By the turn of the century, David was a granddad and George and Gladys had passed on, to live with Jubal in his house. By 2008, the sect numbered thirty, all of whom lived in the house in the field. Sunday prayers started at 10 am when every able person walked to the small graveyard behind the house to lay a flower on the graves of George, their Founder, Gladys, his wife and David and Sylvie’s twin boys who died aged six of meningitis. The remainder of the service was a long silence in which every member withdrew into their own thoughts and their own communion with Jubal, their prophet and through him, to God. When each person had finished their own communion, they wandered off to do their chores or to learn the lessons their Founder had written up before he died. In 2009, David passed on, aged 67. His body was prepared for burial by his sad family but there were no tears because they knew that David was travelling to meet Jubal, to live in his house while he prepared for his second journey to meet God. In David’s coffin, each member of the sect laid a letter addressed to Jubal. Even David’s great-great-granddaughter, a week old baby, had a letter written for her and placed by David’s naked body. “It would be good to see my Mother and Father again,” David had said in his last hours, “but I pray, nevertheless that they have moved on. I pray too that I quickly find the grace to journey after them. Meanwhile, I will carry your good wishes to Jubal on your behalf.” True to his beliefs, when David opened his eyes again, he was standing in the doorway of a room. The door closed behind him. It was a plain room in which he found himself. The air was pure and sweet smelling. There were no pictures on the walls and no carpets on the floors, as to be expected. Jubal-ism was an uncluttered sect. David’s heart soared. Clutching his family’s letters to his chest, he smiled at the man who stood in front of him. The man was tall, dark and dressed in a simple, red robe. He wore gold slippers on his feet. David was filled with awe. “Jubal?” he asked breathlessly. The man nodded. David sank to his knees and bowed his head. “Oh, do stand up,” the man said in a gruff voice. “We don’t do the worshipping bit here. It’s all too embarrassing.” David looked up, puzzled. “Pardon?” “I said, please stand up. You’ll only get splinters in your knees.” The man passed David a white, cotton cover-all garment. “I wish I hadn’t told George that you all had to come naked to me.” He turned to address someone who sat at a wooden table in the centre of the room. “I was only joking, you know.” David hadn’t noticed there were other people in the room. He stared past Jubal and saw George, dressed in a similar robe, though his was grubby, very grubby. His father was crumbling a piece of bread into tiny pieces onto the table in front of him. He looked unhappy, very, very unhappy. By his side sat an equally miserable looking Gladys. “I told him right at the start that he should see a psychiatrist. I knew I should never have let him talk me into all this mumbo-jumbo.” She chewed at her lump of bread. “It’s stale,” she grumbled, “as usual.” “I don’t understand,” David addressed Jubal. “Why are my parents still here? They did everything you asked of them. Why haven’t they moved on to live with God?” He spotted the twins playing quietly in the corner. “And why are these innocents still here?” Jubal blushed. “I never actually said I have God’s ear,” he tried to justify himself. “But this is the house where we wait for God, isn’t it?” David demanded. “Sort of,” Jubal whispered. “What do you mean, sort of?” “Well, it is a house.” “And?” “And that’s it. It is a house.” “And where, exactly, is this house?” David strode across the room to look out of the one window. There was no view. No Elysian fields, no Garden of Eden, no white clouds even. Just a grey blank wall of nothing. He turned away from the window and spoke to his father. “This is all a con, isn’t it? Our whole lives have been a sham, haven’t they?” George turned his head away, his face as red as Jubal’s had been a minute ago. “Your father misunderstood,” Jubal said. “I’m not a prophet. I’m just a simple trumpet player in God’s army. I doubt if I get to see God more than once in a millennium when there’s a big parade, but when I do I swear I’ll let him know there’s people waiting to see him.” David dropped the letters. He banged his fist on the table. The pile of crumbs in front of George bounced. “Explain,” he growled at Jubal. “Well, I was bored. Then one day your father popped up in front of me. I didn’t know what else to do with him so we had a long chat. And me and some of the blokes had been talking about this idea we had that people live in the after-lifes they’ve created for themselves and …” “You were bored!” “Yes, so I created this afterlife and your father believed me. I never thought he would … but when he did it was too late to change anything because he shot off back to his own world before I could …” “So this is just all a big joke is it? This is not really a place to wait for God? This is just an after life that you made up on the spur of the moment? Is that right?” Jubal grinned. “Yes,” he said sheepishly. “It was just a daft idea I had. I was just kidding. Honest!” |
|
| Just Kidding magecon@gmail.com |
#7 of 8 |
| 634 words | |
| Once upon a time there was a village, a large village
with a lot of villagers and a lot of land to go around. None of it was special,
but the most northern field was perhaps the most fabled amongst the children of
the day. A long time ago there was a boy who cried wolf. The story begins when he had just crossed the fork in the road, half way to his house, not by turning left or right but by walking straight through the center of those two trails. His family had once owned this plot of land, but they had gone to the wolves a long time ago. He had no family and only one friend, and even with that one friend was quite lonely without a family. That is why on the 9th of that month he went to the town center and cried wolf: “Help! Help!” and ol’Billy came to his rescue. Now here’s where the story gets interesting. See this boy who cried wolf saw a wolf, just not on the 9th, but on the 8th and 7th. However, by the time he got the villagers to where his sheep were some of the herd was gone and the wolves along with them. But, not noticing the disappearance of the livestock the town’s people walked away, commenting maybe tomorrow. You see, the villagers who had known this child since birth were liable to play along with his schemes, but by the end of the 8th day they were becoming flustered. “What should we do with him? We know he’s lonely an’all, but he can’t keep being a child, and we can keep pretending that he is one.” “But what if he’s telling the truth?” “Well than we’ll just have to send someone along with him every time he calls wolf”. “What about ol’billy?” “Seams sensible, they get along well. It’s settled ol’billy it is”. So on the 9th day with the boy being who he was had a pattern to the wolves’ eating habits. With this he cried wolf once again to the town’s folk, just a little earlier then usual. But to the little boy’s surprise only ol’Billy came. So off they went and sure enough the wolves were still eating, concentrating so attentively on the sheep that they didn’t notice the two boys walking by. So, they went back to the town and the little boy proclaimed, “I was right! You tell them ol’Billy”, but Billy to the boy`s surprise shook his head. “What are you saying! I know you saw them!”. “Your pranks are getting old, you shouldn’t act like a child anymore.” Ol’Billy declared to the village. The little boy was met with scorn. Later that evening the children talked about what happened. “How could you betray me like that?”. “I was just joking” whispered ol’Billy and the little boy believed that he wouldn`t do it again, after all he was his only friend. Suffice to say ol’Billy was as immoral character and for the next few days continued to trick the little boy, until on the 13th that child finally set out to prove it to the villagers himself. He’d bring back a chewed collar that he had put on one of his sheep the day before, being as clever as he was. But, when he arrived at the field all the sheep were gone, the wolves still there and still hungry, still looking for food and maybe just maybe a child was desert. There were of course some screams, but they only lasted a few seconds and besides why would anyone believe them…. Except for ol’Billy, poor ol’Billy. |
|
| Just Kidding Colin W Campbell www.colincampbell.org |
#8 of 8 Winner |
| 535 words | |
| "Quiet now, don't let the little jerk see us," Jake
spoke softly, keeping well behind some partly finished brickwork. "I've been
playing tricks on the new apprentices for as long I can remember, but this is
the best ever." Another long wail broke the silence as the construction site slipped further into darkness. "Best I've ever heard of too. You are a wicked old man," said one of the other conspirators. The veins stood out on his temples as he struggled to keep the noise down while giggling like a schoolgirl. "And a clever one too, I'd never of though of getting him to leave his mobile phone behind on charge." "Or sending him down to the soft spot for a long wait," said another. "Can you hear me? Over here. I'm stuck in the mud. Help!" The apprentice waved his arms as he shouted. He shouted some more, then got back to wailing. Jake checked his watch and grinned, "He'll have company. They'll be letting the dogs run the site in a few minutes time. He'll soon find a way to slither his way out when he sees them coming. "What if he can't get out of the mud?" someone asked. "It's only a couple of feet deep. He can't come to any real harm," said Jake, "Time for us to get away home now. We'll hear his story in the morning." The next morning came bright and fresh to the site. Men arrived single and in little groups. These were days of short time working so no one came late, or forgot their tools, or admitted to nursing a hangover. But there was no sign of the apprentice. "Hey Jake, you don't think he might still be out there in the mud?" said someone. They all had a good laugh but soon went quiet. Without another word being said, they set off down the site, slowly at first then quicker and quicker. Jake was soon way out in front. As he got closer what he saw had him choking for breath and reaching out for something, anything to steady himself. "Stay back," he shouted to the others as they came up to where he had stopped, pale and shaking at the edge of the soft spot. And they did stay back, for no one had the stomach to go near where the dogs were grinding the bones and quarrelling over the few scraps of flesh that remained. They made a sad little procession as they headed off for the site offices. Jake thought over and over again of the empty, blood soaked overalls that had so recently carried the hopes and dreams of a new career. Someone spoke, mostly just to break the silence, "Jake, I'll get you a 'soap on a rope' so you don't have to bend down in the prison showers." But no one laughed. When they finally got to the offices, the site manager was waiting for them. Beside him was the new apprentice who called out to them all, "Came in real early today. I hope the dogs liked the bones I put out for them. Oh and by the way, I need a new set of overalls." |
|
"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club