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"A Sure Thing" (the ninety-fifth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "A Sure Thing" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), July 15, 2009 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| A
Sure Thing By Colin W. Campbell www.colincampbell.org (Entry #3) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Mitch made no attempt to conceal an
ever so smug grin as he said, "Shit Jason. How lucky can I get. Natural blond
probably, firm thighs, only child, daddy owns a brewery and he's ready to
retire." High on the hill, the two of them could look down on their hometown lights with pretty much the same detachment as they could look back at life from the last days of youth. It was a time for deep truths and another six pack. "So how do you know?" said Jason. "About the thighs? How do you think?" "No," said Jason reaching for another beer, "About the old guy retiring?" "He keeps talking about Bermuda and all the fun things he's going to do there," said Mitch. "Bermuda. That's an offshore jurisdiction." "Bull shit Jason. You're even getting to sound like an accountant these days." "Occupational hazard I guess," said Jason studying the name on the can. "Wrong can. We haven't developed our new brand loyalty yet. Better get a taste for the stuff before the wedding. And we'd better leave the cars here and walk back down." The wedding was a pretentious affair as befits the ruling dynasty of the largest local employer in a small town. Cliques of overdressed middle aged ladies mixed as well as they could with younger folks who were trying to appear cool but were still too young to realize they were trying too hard. The men were mostly interested in the free bar. They were not too surprised to find they could have anything they wanted, so long as it was beer, and there was only one brand. Jason did a good job as the best man for he had prepared carefully. So Mitch and Mary-Anne were well married and the old man left for Bermuda even before the honeymoon was over. All too soon, it was a rainy Monday morning at the brewery and Mitch and Mary-Anne were preparing to settle into their new unfamiliar Joint C.E.O. roles. "Well this little old office just so needs new blinds and a nice carpet," said Mary-Anne in her best pretend voice. "Oh my," said Mitch, "You play the poor little rich girl like you were made for it." "I was made for it. It's what you like about me," said Mary-Anne. "And I've been to Law School, so it looks like I get to do the contract stuff and you get to do all the rest." Mitch thought she looked a little awkward when she asked what she'd been asking all week, "Any word yet from Jason about coming to work here. I'm not so sure it's a good idea and anyway, you should have asked me first. You're too close." And we're not? Mitch thought, but he smiled and said, "No. If he was going to accept, he'd have said something by now. He's got a good job already." That night, Mitch went out on the pretence of a bowling evening with the boys. He met Jason on the hill where the two of them could look down on their hometown. The lights looked different now even though only a few weeks had passed since they had sunk the six packs. This time, Jason had a very sober accountant's look about him as he handed the brewery accounts back to Mitch. "You were right to be worried," said Jason. "The money's all stripped out. It's not even carefully covered up. Just a bunch of unconvincing invoices from a couple of shell companies." "In Bermuda?" said Mitch. "Yes, no surprises there," said Jason. "What about the property?" "All turned into cash a while back through a sale and lease back deal. You've got about enough overdraft facility left to pay the wages for a couple of weeks. After that, it wouldn't be a good idea to be in the office on payday." Jason looked even more serious when he added, " And you've got to understand my position. I've never seen these accounts. I've already done more than I should without involving the authorities." Mitch managed to keep the brewery gates open for a month or so for there was some cash flow. He did this on his own, for Mary-Anne had gone leaving him cast in the blame center role. He disappeared himself, just before the payday when there was no money. The story ran as headline news in the local newspaper for a while. Most folks eventually got bored with it all, but the older laid-off workers could never let it go. They got into a routine of gathering at the locked gates every Sunday lunchtime. It started as a dark joke with a bunch of flowers and a R.I.P. note. Soon the gates were festooned with flowers and old teddy bears, and all the other things that a good impromptu memorial should have. Cynics said most of the flowers were the same ones that went missing from the cemetery. However, everyone agreed it was a good way to keep the issue in the hearts and minds of the local politicians who liked to go on record at the gates with promises of favorable treatment for inward investment that would bring new jobs. Months passed before Jason heard anything from Mitch. Just a few lines on a postcard. Little more than a cheery Back together again. Having a great time. Wish you were here. That night when it was late and no one was around, Jason paid a visit to the brewery gates. He wondered how long it would be before someone noticed the postcard impaled on one of the spikes on top of the locked gates. A postcard with a nice picture of Bermuda. |
| A
Sure Thing By brigid@lorienwood.plus.com (Entry #1) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| This house is untidy- both dusty and cold, with clutters of papers, huge cobwebs of old. The crockery's chipped. Smashed floors are unswept, their surfaces stained where stray vermin have slept. The windows are broken, opaque and unclear. There's no mirrored surface reflecting you here! The curtains are torn. Faded pictures adhere to smoke-patterned walls. There's a stale stench of beer. If I peeked in that drawer by the tangle of string, a mess and a muddle are both a sure thing. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #3 Second place: #5 Third place: #4 Fourth place: #2 Fifth place: #1 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| A Sure Thing brigid@lorienwood.plus.com |
#1 of 5 Runner-up |
| 83 words | |
| This house is untidy- both dusty and cold, with clutters of papers, huge cobwebs of old. The crockery's chipped. Smashed floors are unswept, their surfaces stained where stray vermin have slept. The windows are broken, opaque and unclear. There's no mirrored surface reflecting you here! The curtains are torn. Faded pictures adhere to smoke-patterned walls. There's a stale stench of beer. If I peeked in that drawer by the tangle of string, a mess and a muddle are both a sure thing. |
|
| A Sure Thing Phil Peterson phildude@gmail.com |
#2 of 5 |
| 1138 words | |
| Everyone is a sinner—some more than others. We are
that some. The basement was cool and dank. The perfect blend of fear and joy, anxiety and peace filled the musty air. All ten of us circled the wooden alter, each of us bottling our exploding sighs of relief. We just had to wait a little while longer until we would be set free. The room was silent with the only noise coming from the heavy, blood-soaked breaths of Product 740, our Liberator. There are a lot of stories about Product 740, about who he is, where he comes from, and why he is doing this. From what I have heard, his actual body hasn’t been born yet. What we see, us sinners in the basement, the ten of us surrounding his sacrificial alter, are seeing his life energy. He comes from the future where pain is seen as an impure emotion that can be controlled through secret mediations. Product 740 has come back from the future to forgive our sins. We are all confident that sacrificing Product 740 will make us pure again. Breathing is nearly impossible inside a garbage bag. Each time you open your mouth, the plastic vacuums to your lips and you gag on the back of your tongue. I only lasted a few seconds before I blacked out into a dream-like world. I saw myself as a child, running through a field of orchids, only stopping to lick the sprouting blades. But this only lasted a few moments, because I was soon pushed back into reality via a bucket of ice water splashed on my face. I was now tied to a folding chair, naked and sitting in a musty-smelling basement. The salty-taste of duct tape kissed my lips, while the scratching grip of manila rope strangled my ankles and wrists. Where am I and who are these people surrounding me? There must be ten of them, each of them wearing green jumpsuits and red facemasks. They keep touching and pinching my shaking body as if I was some piece of meat. I try to break free, but the rope is too strong. Harder and harder I thrash, but the knots seem to get tighter, burning my already scared skin. I splash water in Product 740’s face and he awakes from his comatose. He looks scared and confused. It was perfect. We check him for impurities and find none. Just how we predicted it. His body is prime for the preparation—the mutilation. Little does he know the pain that awaits him. With one last yell for help, Product 740 collapses to the ground in a pool of his own blood and urine. Our deed was done and everyone starts to cheer. We start singing songs and dancing around the forgotten corpse. A wave of relief washes over my entire body like a warm autumn breeze. I am finally cleansed of my regretful past and am a new person. I have never felt better in my entire life. Our leader is the only one among us with a name. His name is Stanley and he tells us what has to be done. He tells us that we were nothing but sick and twisted individuals, who are no better than the dirt that we walk on. He says that everyone’s life was filled with sin and wrongdoings, that we were the reasons tornados kill the innocent and famine takes the weak. But he also says there was hope. Enter Product 740, a person that could eradicate our failings. A scapegoat that could act as our grieving piñata. If we put all of our frustrations and pains and shortcomings into this one person, this Product 740, we would be cured of our wickedness. Ten of us thought this was a good idea, a sure thing at turning our lives around. Now, all we needed was the right person. Someone who would be our wicker man. The cutting wasn’t that bad. Maybe it’s just me, but the feeling of stainless steel sliding down your back is quite pleasurable. It wasn’t until the group starting whipping me with what felt like iron wool lashings that I began to scream. Torture screams that you think about when someone drives a nail into your cheek. Plasma-chilling shrills of agony when your toenails are being ripped out with pliers. Hair-splitting cries when your eyes are branded with white-hot needlepoints. Prostate-cramping shouts when your urethra is forced out of your scrotum. My vision starts to go blurry, turning the basement and my abductors into the same moving mirage. Everyone was laughing and jeering at my lifeless body. They took turns slashing my face and stomach with what felt like a sickle—perfectly pointed at its tip with a razor sharp arch. 740, 740, 740 they screamed as they lifted my mashed potato body. By this time, I wasn’t even feeling pain. It was as if all of my hurt had evolved into an emotion. Like happiness or sadness, I could control what I was feeling. Then, on the other hand, maybe I was just swimming back and forth between black outs. We raised the limp Product 740 onto the alter. (I think this is where our story started—at the end.) His heavy breaths misted the ten of us with blood. All of us compared this to a sacred spray of Windex. Stanley, our leader, stood above us all on the alter, cradling our Liberator on his shoulder and holding the Blessed Sickle in his hand. I couldn’t quite make out everything he was saying. It was something like, “Our time has come friends. May Product 740’s sufferings expunge all of our grief.” With this, our leader jabbed the Blessed Sickle into our Liberator’s abdomen and with a swift twist, the holy alter was dressed in a colorful mixture of consecrated intestines and gore. I heard on the news that some local police officers had come across a tragic scene in a park a few nights ago. Apparently, a small religious cult had kidnapped a bunch of 2nd graders for a bizarre holocaustic offering. Their small, naked and lifeless bodies had been arranged into geometric figures, circling nearly a half-acre of land, each one with the number 740 written on it in blood. All of this taking place in the orchid field a few blocks from my house. Our city’s police chief and my family’s neighbor, Stanley Marshall, ordered a mandatory curfew for our city. He said to be on the look out for any peculiar activity and report anything that seems suspicious. When asked at an interview concerning the incident, if this cult would be brought to justice, he looked up grinning and simply said, “They will be caught. It’s a sure thing.” |
|
| A Sure Thing Colin W. Campbell www.colincampbell.org |
#3 of 5 Winner |
| 954 words | |
| Mitch made no attempt to conceal an ever so smug grin
as he said, "Shit Jason. How lucky can I get. Natural blond probably, firm
thighs, only child, daddy owns a brewery and he's ready to retire." High on the hill, the two of them could look down on their hometown lights with pretty much the same detachment as they could look back at life from the last days of youth. It was a time for deep truths and another six pack. "So how do you know?" said Jason. "About the thighs? How do you think?" "No," said Jason reaching for another beer, "About the old guy retiring?" "He keeps talking about Bermuda and all the fun things he's going to do there," said Mitch. "Bermuda. That's an offshore jurisdiction." "Bull shit Jason. You're even getting to sound like an accountant these days." "Occupational hazard I guess," said Jason studying the name on the can. "Wrong can. We haven't developed our new brand loyalty yet. Better get a taste for the stuff before the wedding. And we'd better leave the cars here and walk back down." The wedding was a pretentious affair as befits the ruling dynasty of the largest local employer in a small town. Cliques of overdressed middle aged ladies mixed as well as they could with younger folks who were trying to appear cool but were still too young to realize they were trying too hard. The men were mostly interested in the free bar. They were not too surprised to find they could have anything they wanted, so long as it was beer, and there was only one brand. Jason did a good job as the best man for he had prepared carefully. So Mitch and Mary-Anne were well married and the old man left for Bermuda even before the honeymoon was over. All too soon, it was a rainy Monday morning at the brewery and Mitch and Mary-Anne were preparing to settle into their new unfamiliar Joint C.E.O. roles. "Well this little old office just so needs new blinds and a nice carpet," said Mary-Anne in her best pretend voice. "Oh my," said Mitch, "You play the poor little rich girl like you were made for it." "I was made for it. It's what you like about me," said Mary-Anne. "And I've been to Law School, so it looks like I get to do the contract stuff and you get to do all the rest." Mitch thought she looked a little awkward when she asked what she'd been asking all week, "Any word yet from Jason about coming to work here. I'm not so sure it's a good idea and anyway, you should have asked me first. You're too close." And we're not? Mitch thought, but he smiled and said, "No. If he was going to accept, he'd have said something by now. He's got a good job already." That night, Mitch went out on the pretence of a bowling evening with the boys. He met Jason on the hill where the two of them could look down on their hometown. The lights looked different now even though only a few weeks had passed since they had sunk the six packs. This time, Jason had a very sober accountant's look about him as he handed the brewery accounts back to Mitch. "You were right to be worried," said Jason. "The money's all stripped out. It's not even carefully covered up. Just a bunch of unconvincing invoices from a couple of shell companies." "In Bermuda?" said Mitch. "Yes, no surprises there," said Jason. "What about the property?" "All turned into cash a while back through a sale and lease back deal. You've got about enough overdraft facility left to pay the wages for a couple of weeks. After that, it wouldn't be a good idea to be in the office on payday." Jason looked even more serious when he added, " And you've got to understand my position. I've never seen these accounts. I've already done more than I should without involving the authorities." Mitch managed to keep the brewery gates open for a month or so for there was some cash flow. He did this on his own, for Mary-Anne had gone leaving him cast in the blame center role. He disappeared himself, just before the payday when there was no money. The story ran as headline news in the local newspaper for a while. Most folks eventually got bored with it all, but the older laid-off workers could never let it go. They got into a routine of gathering at the locked gates every Sunday lunchtime. It started as a dark joke with a bunch of flowers and a R.I.P. note. Soon the gates were festooned with flowers and old teddy bears, and all the other things that a good impromptu memorial should have. Cynics said most of the flowers were the same ones that went missing from the cemetery. However, everyone agreed it was a good way to keep the issue in the hearts and minds of the local politicians who liked to go on record at the gates with promises of favorable treatment for inward investment that would bring new jobs. Months passed before Jason heard anything from Mitch. Just a few lines on a postcard. Little more than a cheery Back together again. Having a great time. Wish you were here. That night when it was late and no one was around, Jason paid a visit to the brewery gates. He wondered how long it would be before someone noticed the postcard impaled on one of the spikes on top of the locked gates. A postcard with a nice picture of Bermuda. |
|
| A Sure Thing glenlee10@sky.com |
#4 of 5 |
| 127 words | |
| Jones moved in circles that brought the greatest
financial gain and thanks to his highly paid accountants, he paid minimal tax.
He bought the largest of houses, all over the world. His toys were fast and sleek and expensive. He was received by governments and by crowned heads of state. He was fawned upon by stars and starlets. There are two things in life, they say, from which there’s no escape; death and taxes. But there is one other sure thing; God has a sense of humour. Every dinner, every corporate lunch, every steak and every scotch, slowly, invidiously narrowed his arteries .The blockage was sudden. As Jones sat straining on the toilet, trousers round his ankles, pain struck. And his last thought, forever, was, “Oh, shit!” |
|
| A Sure Thing rkamath1202@yahoo.co.in |
#5 of 5 |
| 1466 words | |
| There was a certain time when the three of us used to
play ‘princess’. It was our all-time favorite game where we would
pretend to be fairy tale princesses and make up our own stories of what
happened after the ‘happily ever after’. Daphne was Briar Rose from
Sleeping Beauty, Cheryl was Cinderella and I was Rapunzel. We were all of ten
so our stories weren’t very intricate. Daphne, being sleeping beauty, was supposed to be beautiful beyond imagination. So beautiful that some people wanted her beauty. They charmed her and took her into a deep forest and put a hex on her which caused her to sleep for a long time. She lay in that forest for years, until her prince charming came in to find his lady love, kissed her and revived her from her long slumber. He then took her back home and they both lived happily ever after. That was Daphne’s story. Cheryl was Cinderella. She was tortured by her evil stepmother and stepsisters. She didn’t have a moment of peace at all and was forced to agree to her stepmother’s every will and command. Then one day she decided to run away. She went to a far away city and started teaching dancing lessons to young girls. One of her students had an older brother who fell in love with her beauty. He asked her if she would accompany him to a ball where the most graceful dancing couple was to be crowned and she agreed. They practiced night and day to be the perfect dancing couple and soon Cinderella found herself to be falling in love with her prince charming as well. And then came the big day. Of course, they were crowned the most graceful dancing couple. And in that manner they too lived happily ever after. Finally, my story about Rapunzel. Though she had the long hair Rapunzel’s main intention wasn’t to get out of the prison she was kept in. No, because her jail wasn’t a high tower. It was a huge castle with every possible comfort in it. The only condition was that she wasn’t to step out of the castle. She was happy there and could concentrate on her writing. She was happy in her castle but then one night she gets this dream that she is in a beautiful city and she is famed as a writer. So she has to pass through a lot of difficulties but finally reaches her dream city and achieves her dream. After all, it is a fairy tale. But then Rose, Cinderella and Rapunzel would vanish, and the three of us would go inside to eat. Daphne always insisted that we would come back to finish the game and all three stories would merge in the end. But we never did. As the years passed, I always wondered, ‘where did that game end??’ I remember asking Daphne when we would complete our game, but her only reply would be,” Oh come on Ann! Lighten up. Its not like we’re going to die tomorrow or anything, we have time to complete it later. Whatever else does or does not happen, this game will end. It’s a sure thing.” But it never did. Because none of us ever had time to go back to being ten years old. No one but me. Because I still read my first diary sometimes. So we grew up, and Daphne sort of drifted apart. Because she was pretty and strong-minded, she soon made new friends and moved on. Sure, she still visited us sometimes, but it was like we lived in two separate worlds that clashed just once in a blue moon. Cheryl and me were together all through high school. We were in the same college too, but she got into microbiology and I got into journalism. As close as we were, I didn’t have the least idea that she was interested in microbiology. Of course she was never really interested in anything, but I didn’t even dream of microbiology. Soon college got over and we went our own separate ways. I got a job of a reporter in our local newspaper. Life took me through many ups and downs. I got married to Hank, had three sons and my life was like a huge roller coaster. But I soon learned that my ride hadn’t even started. Because one summer when I was 35, Joe was 7, Mark was 5 and Nick was 2, Daphne turned up at my door. With a running nose and four suitcases, she was in a horrible state. She said her friends and boyfriend had all cheated on her. She was friendless and helpless, until she remembered me. She wanted to restart her life and this time do it the right way. After a long talk and with a lot of help in getting her a job, she finally calmed down. We spent a lot of time talking about our childhood and we decided to call Cheryl here for a vacation. When we finally found her number we couldn’t get through, because she was always busy. But we learnt that she was a successful surgeon in New York. I suppose she transferred her major somewhere in college. But we really missed her and decided that she couldn’t be busy enough to avoid us. We planned a trip to New York to visit her. When we finally got there it was a completely different person we found. Somewhere down the line we had lost our quiet, calm Cinderella. This Dr.Cheryl was always busy, always stressed out. We hardly saw her on our stay there. But I did learn a lot when she wasn’t around. I learnt that as a reporter I had a lot of options and that I can choose any of those as my career. I had learned to expand my horizons. I returned home a different person, a woman with a vision of what she wanted to do. I quit my job and tried to find a better job. I soon learned that I was better off at my old job. But I couldn’t just go back there, so I stayed at home and started to write my own novel. After a few months we received a mail from Cheryl saying that she would be coming here for Christmas. But she didn’t seem exactly happy about it. She sounded-as always- stressed out. I didn’t want to put too much pressure on her so I let the matter slide. That Christmas was wonderful. Daphne was her old chatty self, Cheryl seemed calm again and I was just plain happy. That night we had a long talk. After seeing how happy we were with our lives, Cheryl admitted that she wasn’t happy with hers. 16 years after we finished college she finally told me that she was never interested in medicine. Her mother, who always wanted to be a doctor, had pushed her into it. Though it took us a long time, we finally convinced her that it wasn’t too late to start her life again. She gave in only about 7 months later when she felt that she couldn’t handle the stress any longer. She too shifted closer to home and started a dance studio. Within a year we saw the difference in her. She was back to her calm and reserved ways. It was in the studio that she met George and they now stay a little away from town with their daughter Maquelin and son Fred and run the studio togeher. Today is Daphne’s wedding day. She is getting married to my brother Andrew. And me? I published my novel 4 months ago which is why I now have my own column in this magazine. This is my first edition. So at the end of the day, sleeping beauty woke up to her true self (though the prince came in much later). Cinderella broke free from the bonds that were holding her back and did what was closest to her heart. And rapunzel realized that she needn't be happy in her castle and boldly stepped into the outside world. Yes Daphne, we came a full cycle, and though we turn 40 this year, we have completed the game we played when we were 10. So maybe, we all are fairytale princesses in our own ways. Maybe our little games mean more in our lives than a means of killing our boredom. And that, is a sure thing. |
|
"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club