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"A Change Of Plans" (the ninety-eighth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "A Change Of Plans" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), Oct 15, 2009 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| A
Change Of Plans By cathyvester@ymail.com (Entry #8) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Jerry was glad it was Friday. He was
even gladder that he was home early from work. It had been a stressful week at
the insurance office, where he had been employed the past twenty years, and
leaving early was a rare treat. Mary was in the kitchen preparing dinner when
he got home. The house seemed unusually quiet this afternoon, then he
remembered. His teenage daughter, Abby, had gone on some sort of field trip in
Springfield. There was nothing to do, he thought, that couldn't wait, so he
decided to have a cold beer and watch TV. It didn't get any better than this,
Jerry thought, as he relaxed in his Lazy-Boy recliner. Jerry sipped a 24 ounce can of Budweiser, while listening to the last half of Judge Judy. He could smell the scent of roast beef and freshly baked bread drifting through the room. He smiled. That meant there would also be mashed potatoes, gravy, and some sort of tolerable green vegetable. More importantly, it meant cherry cobbler for dessert. Jerry sighed with contentment as he inhaled the tantalizing aroma. He sat his beer down on the table next to his chair, reached for the remote, and browsed through several TV channels. Within minutes Jerry was snoring loudly, the remote still in his hand, resting on his round belly. "Jerry!" Mary yelled from the kitchen "Dinners ready". "I'll be there in a second, Dear," Jerry yelled back, his eyes snapping open at the sound of his wife's shrill voice. Just then a local news alert caught his attention. A school bus coming back from Springfield had crashed into a tractor trailer. Jerry, now fully awake, turned up the volume and listened intently. "No survivors have been located so far. We will release more information as it becomes available" echoed in Jerry's head. Surely it was not the same bus his daughter was on. It couldn't be, he thought. Wouldn't someone have called? No, it just couldn't be. Mary called out at her husband for the second time. "Jerry, dinner will be cold if you don't get your butt in here right now!" she shouted as she sat the freshly sliced bread on the table. I spend all afternoon in the kitchen and what thanks do I get, she thought to herself. He could at least act like he appreciated it. After all, this was his favorite meal. Well, nothing is wrong with my appetite! Mary was in the process of heaping a ladle of gravy over her mashed potatoes when Jerry stepped into the kitchen looking pale as a ghost. "Mary," Jerry said, "Something happened… The school bus… There was an accident. It was on the news. Abby….." Jerry ran his fingers through his short gray hair like he usually did when he was worried about something. "Oh Jerry, I am so sorry! I forgot to tell you. It completely slipped my mind. There was a change of plans, Dear. Abby wasn't riding the bus to Springfield. Kala's mom volunteered to help out on the field trip. Since she was going to stay and do some shopping in town, she was driving with the girls. Abby was going to spend the night at Kala's tonight. That’s terrible about the accident though. Was any one hurt?" Jerry opened his mouth to speak but the words did not come out. His face had gone from white to gray and large beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. He quickly grabbed for the nearest kitchen chair, feeling as if he might pass out. Slowly, Jerry absorbed what his wife had just said. The field trip had not been a total bore, Abby thought, remembering how Keith had looked at her when he asked her to sit next to him on the bus ride home. Now, she just had to come up with an excuse for Kala's mom as to why she wanted to ride back on the bus rather than with her and kala. Of course kala would know the real reason. Kala was very much aware Abby and Keith had been inseparable ever since they met at lunch. Well, could she blame her? Keith was just the most popular guy in school. While students rushed to catch their ride, Abby quickly made her excuse and joined the others boarding the bus. She immediately located the empty seat next to Keith near the back of the bus. Smiling, she squeezed through classmates and book bags and sat down next to the best looking guy on the bus. No one seemed to be aware of the freshly falling freezing rain splattering the windshield, except for the bus driver who was preparing to leave and praying to make it home before the road got any worse. Meanwhile, Jerry had finally begun to relax and enjoy his meal as he listened to Mary report the latest gossip from her sewing club. He was already on seconds of roast beef but still couldn't shake the ugly image from the news. All those poor children, he thought, as he chewed his food and nodded at whatever Mary had just said. Just as Mary dug into desert, the doorbell rang. "Now, I wonder who that could be," Mary said, setting her fork down. "I'm not expecting company, are you, Dear?" "No," Jerry replied, still in deep thought. Outside the front door, a lone police officer shivered in the cold as he waited to give his condolences to another unsuspecting family. He looked down at his list of addresses. It was going to be a long night. |
| A
Change Of Plans By glenlee10@sky.com (Entry #5) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| I wouldn’t be sitting here,
bored out of my skull if it hadn’t been Mavis’s birthday. As it was,
I wanted to throttle her. Only two things were stopping me. One, she was asleep
and two, there were two-hundred and fifty people in the hall, sitting between
me and escape. I nudged Mavis hard in the ribs with my elbow. She gasped and woke up. “Wha…! She exclaimed. “Oh,” she dithered. “Was I dozing?” “We should have gone to the pub like we’d planned,” I snapped. I wouldn’t have minded but I’d paid £5 each for the tickets as Mavis’s birthday present. Mavis rubbed her eyes and nodded her head in agreement. Meanwhile, at her podium on the stage, the speaker droned on and on and on. I’d been persuaded to come along to the village hall to listen to Mavis’s favourite author, Ruth Goodbody, giving a speech. We’d thought we’d hear all about the strange and wonderful world of writing, book publishing, the launching of that first novel and the like. So far, the speaker, who was still young enough to be attractive, unlike many of her mostly female audience, was in the throes of telling us when and how she’d become an author. She’d reached the age of five when I woke Mavis up. “I’m not sure how much more of this I can take,” I grumbled. The speaker continued into year six of her growing up. She obviously knew her subject well and her dreary monotone painted itself into every corner of the hall. I swear, it was so dull and leaden, it must even have slipped down the walls where fractured words and broken bits of sentences would be swept up eventually by the caretaker. I looked at the woman on my other side. She was fidgeting and had that, ‘for god’s sake, get me out of here look’. She had my full sympathy. But how could we escape? The hall was full, every seat taken and Mavis and I were backed up into a corner. Escape seemed impossible. “I need a drink,” I moaned. “I need a way out. I need someone to move all these people so that I can get outta here.” Mavis murmured. “A fire would clear this place pretty quickly.” She was obviously thinking along the same lines as me. “Do you smoke?” I asked somewhat sharply, knowing the answer. “No,” she said. “So you’ve not got a lighter with you?” “No.” “So we can’t set fire to the curtains then!” “Suppose not, no.” “And I can’t see this lot moving fast enough to let us through anyway,” I sighed. I looked round the hall. I could see the backs of heads, mainly white, grey or bald, around which the speaker’s voice slithered like a suffocating noose. Many of the heads were on the tilt, their owners obviously in the land of nod. Good for them, it was the best place to be. I saw several zimmer frames. “You could clear a path quite effectively with one of those,” I pointed out to Mavis. “We could scythe our way through the crowds if we could get our hands on a couple.” She grinned. We had no choice but to continue to listen to the speaker. She was getting into her stride now and her words were flung at us like heat-seeking missiles, attacking the soft flesh of our inner ears. She’d found an echo and her words scratched our minds before squeaking back at her. It was like being drunk and hearing double. I waved my hand in front of my face as though I was swatting annoying insects. It didn’t work. Her mosquito words relentlessly probed at my defenses. Her narrative had now reached seven years of age and the trauma of her cat dying under the wheels of her father’s car. My seat was uncomfortable. I wriggled. Mavis looked at me. “Patience,” she said. “Why?” “Because there’s nothing we can do, that’s why.” “Well, I don’t know,” I mused. “Fire is not an option. How about you pretending to be taken ill and then I can take you outside for a bit of fresh air?” “Why should I be the one to pretend to be taken ill?” Mavis asked. “Because you’re a better liar than I am.” “I beg your pardon. What exactly are you insinuating?” “Dear Mavis,” I cajoled her. “You are a creative writer and it therefore stands to reason that you have a good imagination. And,” I added, “I overheard that yarn you spun the manager at the supermarket last week when you took that frozen turkey back.” “Shh!” the man in front of us turned and glared. “Will you two ladies please stop chattering? I’m trying to listen to Miss.Goodbody.” I felt like telling him our conversation had to be more stimulating than the drivel that was draining in lumps of indigestible nonsense from the stage, but I was distracted when a mobile phone rang shrilly from under someone’s seat. The speaker kept going, relentlessly. The Chairman scowled and shuffled her chair, preparing to strike, (I knew her of old), as soon as she could locate the person who’d forgotten to switch off her phone. I chuckled. It had given me an idea. My mobile phone was in my bag. Surreptitiously I reached for it and tapped out a text. “Having fun?” it enquired. Then I sent it to five of my friends whom I’d spotted in audience. Then I switched my phone off. Four of the five phones I’d targeted rang out with the receipt of my message. There was a cheerful mixture of beeps, bleeps and the first lines to a Robbie Williams’ song. The necks of four of my friends turned a delightfully deep shade of pink. They all dived into their handbags for their phones. A murmur swept the room The Chairman struggled to her feet. The speaker, finally, thanks to the gods, stuttered to a halt. What a blessed respite! The Chairman stomped to the front of the stage. “How dare you be so rude?” her baleful eye had picked out the ‘culprits’, “as to bring those things in here and leave them switched on? This is no way to treat such a wonderful speaker.” She held the audience, unmoving, unspeaking for several seconds. “Will everyone else please make sure their phones are switched off before I allow Miss. Goodbody to continue.” People felt in their pockets and handbags and there was a chortling of mobile phones cheerily saying goodbye. The Chairman went back to her seat. Her back was ramrod, righteously straight. The speaker picked up the thread of what she had been talking about and plunged ahead, like a fishing boat braving a storm. “When I was eight and a half,” she said, “my grandmother died…” Someone in the audience groaned. What a lucky woman that grandmother was! I had a thought. It was worth a try. I switched my phone on again. Fortunately it was a cheap one and made very little noise. I’d remembered that I had the Chairman’s number stored from when we did a Women’s Institute stall together at the last Friday market. She’d not bothered to take my number. She’d made me do all the running about and the phoning. I owed her one. On the off chance, I sent her a text, and then switched off my phone. Her huge, scuffed, black leather handbag slumped next to her chair on the stage. Suddenly, The Ride of the Valkyries, burst from it. The bag seemed to sit up, proud of itself. There was pandemonium. All round the hall, merry laughter replaced the soggy prose. The speaker carried on talking but her words were not audible above the hubbub. She merely stood on the stage opening and closing her mouth like a puzzled goldfish. The Chairman sat as though rigor mortis had suddenly struck her. Some people stood up and stamped pins and needles from their feet. I noticed others slipping through the door to the kitchen and I doubted they’d gone to put the kettles on. Several more dived into the Ladies Toilets. I grabbed Mavis’ hand and pulled her to her feet. The unrest seemed to have given us just enough wriggle room. I barged through a knot of people who were on their feet, trying to see over the heads of the people in front. “Come on,” I instructed Mavis. She stopped. “We can’t go in there!” she insisted. I pushed open the door. “Of course we can. There’s nothing in here we haven’t seen before,” and I tugged her behind me into the Gents. Two men were standing at the urinals. “Evening Bob. Evening Jimmie,” I said and headed for the second door, the one that lead to the foyer. “Evening Cissie,” Bob said. Mavis squealed, a sound like a frightened baby pig. She followed though. She had little choice. We were at the pub within minutes. I bought Mavis a good stiff G & T, a double, and waited while she composed herself. She downed half of it in one gulp. She giggled. “I can’t believe how you just sailed through the Gents,” she said. “And had the gall to address the men who were using it. And I can’t believe how little it seemed to bother either of them. Did you think the place was empty when we went in?” I took a sip of my double whiskey, savoured the bite as it slipped down my throat. “Oh, no. I knew they were in there. I’d seen them both go in.” “Yet we still went in. You are brazen, Cissie.” I smiled. “I know. But we had no choice. Bob’s waiting for prostrate treatment and his wife, Ethel, tells me he can take up to ten minutes to have a pee…if he’s lucky. So we couldn’t wait or the opportunity to escape would have been lost. And Jimmie is away with the fairies most of the time Glenda tells me, so I doubt he’d have been bothered.” “Oh, you are awful, Cissie.” “I know, old girl.” I raised my glass, “but Happy Birthday anyway. Cheers!” |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #5 Second place: #8 Third place: #3 Fourth place: #2 Fifth place: #7 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| A Change Of Plans Nell Holland johnjan4@internode.on.net |
#1 of 9 |
| 2300 words | |
| I ran frantically, after the morning traffic slowed my
bus to a crawl, and I could only think what a bad way this was to start a work
experience stint in community radio, arriving hot and out of breath. I wanted a radio career and Mum said that the ethnic radio station sounded like a nice, friendly bunch of people. Perhaps all those different nationalities under one roof made them more tolerant than the norm. “Do you want something?” The harsh, female, Scottish voice assaulted me as I pushed through the main door, and before I’d got my breath back from the running. “I’m Peter Marchant from Trinity School.” I gasped, unable to see from where the voice came. “I’m supposed to meet David Evans about my work experience – today – news reading.” My voice got stronger at the thought of my moment of glory in a couple of hours time, and I could feel a glow spreading up from my feet. A glass screen was pushed back from a point about six inches from my head and the same voice snarled, “Well you’re late, and that’s not acceptable.” The hard voice had a hard face that glared at me with dislike. The glow was leaving me rapidly and I swallowed hard. “I do apologise. The bus….” I got no farther because “the face” suddenly interrupted with, “I’ve no time for that. Get into the main area and make yourself known to David. He’ll be there somewhere.” Before I had time to ask where ‘the main area’ might be found, the glass screen was closed with a finality that made pieces of paper on a nearby pin board rustle with fear. I can’t begin to tell you what it did to me. The small hallway was peppered with closed doors in all directions, so I might have stood there all day if a door hadn’t opened to my left and a small man holding a handful of CD’s made an appearance. “Hello.” A warm, heavily accented German voice welcomed me. “Can I do something for you?” “I’m Peter Marchant from Trinity School” I repeated, “I’m looking for David Evans.” “Oh, the work experience boy.” The man laughed, “David will be pleased to see you.” Somehow I felt there was just a little too much emphasis on the word ‘will’. “I’m Juergen and I run the station.” he introduced himself. “Have you spoken to my wife, Morag?” He smiled and bobbed his head towards the still reverberating glass that shielded me from the terror within. “Yes, yes,” I stuttered, amazed that such a nice man could be married to someone like Morag. “Go through there.” He bobbed again and looked towards one of the closed doors “David will be waiting.” The indicated door opened up into a bigger room filled with trestle tables and chairs. Some were empty and some had people sitting, reading papers and cutting out articles; drinking coffee and writing, or sitting at ease and apparently having a very sociable time. Around the walls were enormous windows and doors with red and green lights conspicuously flashing warnings. These were the studios! I felt on hallowed ground as I gazed through the glass and saw the consoles within, where people sat with headphones in place, sliding buttons up and down and moving around on swivel stools so they could access tape and CD machines. “They must be the producers.” I thought. A languid British voice interrupted my reverie. “If you are the work experience boy you’d better sit down and read through this.” He threw a sheaf of papers onto the table before me. “I don’t usually let you school children read the news but Micheline hasn’t turned up so you and I are it for the eleven-o-clock news unless she shows up in the next five minutes.” He moved away with the poise of a ballet dancer despite the fact that he was about 20 kilos over weight. I almost had to stop myself from bowing. I recognised the voice of David Evans, the newsreader. I’d listened to him frequently without having any idea of what he looked like and now he was going to let me actually read the news—with him! My feet were getting warm again, but before the tingle reached my kneecaps David turned in my direction and said “And for God’s sake get your pronunciation right. If I hear one more person make a mess of Srebrenica I’ll yank their tonsils out with my teeth. It is not and never has been SREB-REN-NICKER.” This was all delivered in a calm, but menacing manner, and followed by a rictus of a smile, showing canines that I had no doubt were well prepared for the first on air tonsillectomy. What had I let myself in for? I had thought this was going to be fun and that I’d get some tuition and sound advice. I grabbed the papers and sat down. These were a list of news reports and I was going to read them – with David Evans! My eyes raced over the words and immediately everything took on a rapid resemblance to scrambled eggs. The pages seemed filled with either Chinese or Middle Eastern News. I’d never seen so many foreign names in all my life! My palms started to become clammy and the constriction in my chest made my breathing tight and shallow. “You really are like a schoolboy now.” A heavily accented voice said gleefully. “What?” I said startled out of my panic. “You’re coming in short pants, when I thought we had a young man in long trousers with us.” Momentarily I was stunned, and then realised that the man was making a joke. “Oh yes; short pants; my breathing. That’s funny,” I said weakly. “No it’s not.” Said David, who had returned on silent feet “So keep out of it Frank. You Maltese just have to poke your nose in where it’s not wanted. I want this lad up and running with these news reports in half an hour, so leave him alone and don’t think that a few handy hints from a chocolate covered crunchy ball are going to add anything to his day.” My rapid breathing immediately stopped. I waited to see how Frank would react to this insult, likening him to a Malteser chocolate. To my surprise he rocked back in his chair and laughed heartily while wagging a finger at David. “Naughty man. You are very naughty man saying such things.” He dug into his pocket and came out with a white packet, which he thrust vaguely at both David and myself, “Have a peppermint.” He said, giving me a wink. “Take your bloody peppermints away Frank.” Said the irritated David “You know they make me cough when I’m reading. And before you give it any thought young man.” He swung in my direction “Just don’t. If you feel thirsty have water – but only a sip. The last time one of you work experience lot drank water before going on air, she spent the whole time burping. The mike picked it up and it sounded like Krakatoa going off.” He strode out of the room with the air of a Shakespearean actor and I could feel my confidence leaving me again as perspiration soaked my shirt. “This is ridiculous.” I thought, “I can read. English is my first language and I am at the ethnic radio station where most are struggling to understand my mother tongue. Just because people seem unhelpful and aggressive doesn’t mean I can’t do this.” I gave myself a psychological shake and returned to reading the news-sheet before me. I’d hardly got half way through before a bearded face was thrust before me and arms like tree trunks were planted either side of the papers I was scanning. “Are you reading the news today?” The whiskers asked, with a heavy accent I couldn’t place. “Yes, I think I am.” I replied, moving back in my chair to avoid a strong smell of garlic. “Well you’d better be sure.” He said, as he straightened up to an enormous height. “That Pommie bastard usually likes a woman in there with him.” He looked towards one of the recording studios as he spoke. “He won’t like having to put up with a boy like you. Unless of course, he’s putting you to read with Lithuanian Jerry and saving himself for the interviews.” He turned to call to a red-haired woman at the far end of the room. “Caterina! Who’s being interviewed today? Any good looking females?” “I do not know.” She replied, without raising her head from the newspaper in front of her. “I have my programme to organise. And don’t interrupt me again unless you are going to apologise for what you did last week. Whiskers gave a short, harsh laugh. “She’ll wait a long time for an apology from me.” He turned to a young dark skinned man sitting at the other end of the bench table, shrugged his shoulders and spread his arms wide. “How was I to know Argentineans have no sense of humour? When I made a joke about wigs I didn’t know that she wears one?” Caterina stiffened and her face began to resemble the colour of her hair as every person in the room, including myself, turned to look at her head. The dark young man said softly, “I think you should apologise Albin. You are Swiss and should remain neutral. Instead you are twice causing this lady discomfort.” “Hah!” Snorted Albin “Not likely. I’ll leave the apologising to you Gippos. And as for you.” The whiskered face turned back to me. “If they put you in with Jerry you’d better look out. Nothing he likes better than some new young flesh to letch over.” When Albin made his way to the back door, his leaving seemed welcomed by all. The tension left the atmosphere (or was it just the garlic?) and everyone tried to pretend they weren’t listening as Caterina hissed, “ Ignorant Swiss cuckoo!” Getting back to my pre ‘news reading’ I tried desperately to get my tongue around some of the words before me, muttering them softly under my breath. “You should a-go to the toilet.” An Italian voice told me. “What?” I asked. I hadn’t been told when to go to the toilet since I was five years old. “It’s a-the best-a place to study the words in a-peace and a-quiet.” He told me kindly. “I’m a-Luigi, and first-a time reading is a-hard. I remember. Toilets a-down there.” He pointed to one of the doors. “Thanks.” I said as I gathered up the papers and headed into the serenity of a toilet cubicle. I would never have thought of retreating here and I was grateful for Luigi’s kindness. Twenty minutes later I was feeling much more confident about what I was supposed to be saying. I was even sure that I’d got Srebrenica right and would be able to get home with my throat intact. “Where’s that boy with the news?” The unmistakable voice of David Evans shattered my veneer of calm and propelled me off the toilet seat with the ‘news’ tucked under my arm. “I’m here.” I called out as I returned to the main area. ‘And about time.” He said, ‘There’s been a change of plans.’ He deftly took my precious ‘news’ away from me and handed the papers to a slim, elegant woman at his side. “Here you are Micheline. This young lad has been keeping it warm for you. Just as well you are such a professional and can do the news without much of a pre-read before we go on air.” “Thank you David.” Her accent was warm and silkily French. “And thank you too.” She said graciously to me as they turned together to go into the recording studio. My heart must surely have stopped beating. All the adrenalin I had lost while trying to make sense of the news now, made me feel like a wet dishcloth. Did this really mean Micheline was going to read instead of me and what would Mum think? My shock was so great that I could only stare at their retreating backs as David guided her into the airlock space before the studio and asked, “ So why did you have a problem parking today.” The silky voice said “A Chinese man said I was in his parking spot at the front of the “Peking Duck Shop”. He shouted at me and threatened me with his cleaver so I had to move somewhere miles away.” As they turned through the doors into the studio she hissed to David, “I hate bloody ethnics.” Moments later I was like a child with nose pressed against the window of a candy shop, only this was the window to the ‘on air’ studio I was looking through, and I was still stunned by the rapidity with which my status had been reduced from possible media personality back to an ordinary citizen. The music faded and Micheline and David faced each other across a table with news sheets in their hands; the overhead light illuminated their spectacles with an orange glow as they spoke towards the central microphone. “Good morning.” The familiar deep voice rang out. “Its eleven o clock on Monday morning the fifth of December. I’m your news reader, David Evans and I’m joined today by Micheline Tissier.” A little pause while he flashed an appreciative smile in her direction and she coyly looked towards the papers I had been cherishing only moments before. “This is your local ethnic radio station bringing you up to date with the latest news from around the world, and as always -- promoting harmony throughout all the nations!” |
|
| A Change Of Plans Ken Staley kws1949@gmail.com |
#2 of 9 |
| 2489 words | |
|
(O, Come all ye faithful!) Christmas Day at Uncle Ed’s Store had all the trappings of a well choreographed dance. Momma showed up early Christmas morning and stoked the fire in the old Otter River stove, which sat on the back dock of Uncle Ed’s Store. He called his back loading dock his ‘summer kitchen’. Uncle Ed and the Aunties roasted chestnuts from October through the first of the year on the old stove. To chase the cold from the back porch, Momma left the firebox door open, risking the occasional pop from a tough old hickory knot. As the blaze roared the morning to life, Momma went to the walk in refrigerator in the back of Uncle Ed’s Store and gathered what she needed on his cart; a chicken, several quail, a goose, a duck and a dozen dove breasts, not to mention a big wild tom turkey. It took most of an hour for her preparations. Cleaning each bird carefully, she arranged the lot in roasters kept aside just for this day. She finished and waved good morning to Scooter Davis, whose Dodge 4 x 4 was busy pushing the fresh snow aside and who tooted his horn at her. She headed for home, tired but far too excited to think of returning to sleep. By the time we arrived a few hours later, the smell the roasting turkey from Uncle Ed’s Store over powered everything else. (Joyful and triumphant) Big Al’s job was the tree. That’s it. Nothing all year fired up Big Al like Christmas Day. Toby’s Custom Slaughter, domestic or wild game, your place or ours. Every Christmas morning, Big Al got out early, took the keys from above the visor of Toby’s big old Ford truck with it’s a-frame, drove a few miles back up the draw to the serious tree line. He cut the tree and dragged it from the woods and hoisted onto the a-frame, usually a place for hanging meat for slaughter. With a blast from the horn, Toby’s truck backed to the door. Big Al leapt from the out and worked the hand crank, carefully lowering his prize to the porch. “Keep them doors open wide you two,” Al ordered as he wrestled the pine into position in Uncle Ed’s Store. He dragged it to its corner and stepped out to the back of the truck, returning with a five gallon bucket filled with sand. Pine aroma soon wrestled with roasting turkey for attention. The Aunties took over from Big Al as soon as he stood the tree in its sand bucket and hung the last string of lights. They brought out very old, large carpet bags filled with magic. “Some of these was Mother’s mother’s things,” Ruth said as she gently, lovingly, removed each ornament and draped it carefully on the tree. “They seen more Christmases than anyone but Jesus.” (Come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem) The Aunties came and went all morning, shuttling bits and pieces from their small house into the store, disappearing to the summer kitchen to stir this or add that to one of several pots on that huge stove. Soon, freshly baked yeast breads and steam from still-warm pies added to the already heady aromas. Every mouth in the place watered and every stomach growled in hunger. Aunt Fenny came with Junie and Bobby Ray. She carried a large, steaming cauldron of her very special cranberry sauce. As she moved through the room, greeting each of us, the perfume of her special treat mixed with the special Christmas-only coffee, the incredible roasting turkey, yeast breads - the Christmas music – all meant that friends and family had gathered. The hub-bub and chaos came to a general order as the Christmas cloth covered the plywood table and chairs of various shape and vintage found places. Fine china and salad bowls magically appeared as bowl after bowl of steaming wonder filled shelves cleared earlier for that very purpose. It all came together all at once it seemed. So did we. There was never any reason to call us to the table, we just sorta knew. When Momma disappeared with the Aunties to fetch the meat, the rest of us gathered together, bringing that gentle holiday dance to its logical end, each person finding their place at that special table. Of course we praised those who took such time to prepare the feast, but really, it was a praise for all of us; for surviving another year, for gathering together in love and peace and joy; to celebrate our large family one more time. And Uncle Ed, standing at the head of the table, rapped his water glass three times, it’s ring brought our already quiet conversations to a quick close. “It’s only fittin’ at such a wonderful time that we bow our heads in thanks,” he said. We all stood then and took the hand of our neighbor – how could we not -and waited quietly for Ed to say grace. (Come and behold him) Instead of a prayer, a distant wail broke the silence –ululating, mournful, painfully urgent and unremittingly awful. The entire world froze. “Oh dear God no,” each of the Aunties said at the same time. Momma buried her face in her hands and sobbed. “What is that?” Scooter demanded. “Mine,” Buster Jenkins said. “Been a cave in.” “Can’t be,” Aunt Fenny said. “They quit working that place thirty years ago. Heck Edwards is the only person there and he’s just the watchman.” Then the town fire alarm went off. Big Al and Scooter jumped from the table and hit the door before anyone could react. Big Al had Toby’s truck fired up and Scooter lifted the plow enough on his own rig to make for faster driving. As we poured out of Uncle Ed’s, Scooter had his CB radio on full. “Eddie Swallow fell down the vent shaft at Old Number Three!” The anxious voice screamed from the radio. “Get in!” Scooter demanded and Buster and Bobby Ray climbed aboard. We climbed aboard Toby’s truck before anyone could think to object. Powerful lights shown around the scene, focused on a very narrow tableau. Wisps of snow filtered down and softened the frenzied scene. For a brief moment, I thought that this is what the shepherds must have seen coming into Bethlehem. Trucks and cars darted into the light like summer flies and the smell of diesel filled the hollow. Fire trucks and police cars from various stations just added more confusion to the scene. Unlike the controlled chaos of Uncle Ed’s Store, the mess didn’t have any focus. People rushed here and there, issuing orders and counter orders. Arguments erupted over jurisdiction. Groups clustered here and there. In the middle of the circle Scooter, Buster, Uncle Ed and Bobby Ray listened intently to various arguments. “He’s sittin’ on a shelf,” Hector Edwards said. “Best as I can tell, he slid about 80 feet down the shaft and managed to catch up on one of the old leaving shelves.” “He say anything?” “He’s scared! Took his new rifle out without tellin’ anyone where he was goin,” Heck said. “I think his leg is bust. He says he can’t stand up on it and it hurts like hell when he moves it. Says he ain’t bleedin’ anywhere as far as he can see, just banged up some and his leg is bust.” “We gotta get him. Can’t wait for anyone else,” Bobby Ray said. “Can’t dig,” the state cop said. “That shaft wouldn’t take even a shovel without collapsing. Gotta wait for a rig.” “We got a rig,” Big Al said. “What?” “Where?” “What are you talkin’ about?” So many voices shouted at Big Al that he backed away, looking for someplace to run. Scooter lifted his hand for quiet and took Al by the shoulder. “You look at me now,” Scooter said, drawing Al’s focus to himself. “What you talkin’ about?” “There,” Big Al said, pointing at Toby’s a-frame. Big Al’s idea was simple and direct, the only way he knew: let someone down on the cable of Toby’s truck and pluck the kid out. They argued, all of them, each trying to poke a hole in it. They fought, almost for real when someone insisted that Big Al was too stupid to really understand what he was saying. “What does he know about nothin’?” Someone demanded. “He’s got the IQ of a turnip.” “You shut that up!” Buster, Bobby Ray and Uncle Ed said at the same time. They stepped forward and grabbed Scooter, preventing a real fight. Couldn’t be done, they argued. Too much stress on the line. Line wasn’t long enough. No one was light enough and they would not consider sending a woman down that hole. That was a hand crank, not a power winch line. No one was strong enough to withstand that much stress, lowering a man and the combined weight of the little kid. “I can too do it!” Big Al roared them into silence, as mad as I’ve ever seen him. He threw his jacket on the ground and rolled up his sleeves to show his massive forearms. “I’ll do it, too,” Bobby Ray said quietly, so quietly that most of the group didn’t hear him the first time. “I’ll go.” “Bob?” Uncle Ed said. “You sure?” “We gotta,” Bobby Ray demanded. “That kid can’t stay down there. He’s scared to death. I know about being scared to death. I’ll go.” Bobby had handed his prosthetic leg to Junie Wight just before he slipped over the edge, head first. “You hang on to this for me,” he said as he kissed her gently. “I’ll be back for it in a couple of minutes.” “You better be,” she said. Equipped with a miner’s light and a two way, his ear piece filled with so many voices he couldn’t tell who wanted what. “Stop!” He shouted and the cable came to an abrupt halt. “Ok, listen up! Time for you guys to shut the hell up! I want one person to talk to – just one so make it a good one.” “This any better?” Scooter said after the rest of the voices faded. “Much,” Bobby Ray said. “Ok, lower me some. I can see a shoe.” (O come, let us adore him) “Hey Eddie,” Bobby Ray said gently. “Hey.” Bobby Ray’s lamp tossed odd shadows in an already surreal setting. From below came the faint rush of water. He could smell coal dust in the air along with damp earth. Eddie Swallow sat with his back to the shaft, his right leg sticking out at an odd angle. Tears and mud streaked his face. He shivered as he sat, like he was waiting for a bus. “Better let me tell them upstairs and tell them I found ya,” Bobby Ray said as he reported topside. Even deep in the earth he heard the cheering. “About time to go home, don’t you think?” Eddie nodded but didn’t move. “Can you move?” Eddie nodded but still didn’t try. “What’s the matter?” “My gun fell. I heard it. It fired when it hit bottom. My Pa will kill me.” “We’ll worry about that later,” Bobby Ray said. “It’s a long, long way down, isn’t it?” “That’s what they tell me,” Bobby Ray nodded. “We got this harness to put you in. Big Al Davis said it’d hold him.” Eddie nodded and reached for the device. “It’s mine,” Scooter told him earlier as he sat on the lip of the shaft. “I’ve shortened and tightened all I can, but damn, that kid’s only ten. He could slip through any knot skinny as he is. Tie him in as best you can and hook him up to the wire then hang on. We’ll get him out.” “Ok, that one goes around your chest and under your arms,” Bobby Ray felt dizzy from all the blood pounding into his brain. His own harness bit him and threatened to cut off circulation. He focused on the boy, fighting to control his own shakes and panic. “That one goes around your legs and tightens like a belt. Just sort of hook your foot into it.” Eddie did the best he could, but his right leg hurt far too much to manage the stretch. He started to cry softly. “I don’t wanna’,” Eddie Swallow managed to fight off fear and panic long enough. Now that he had to move, everything threatened to undo him completely. New tears flowed. “Look at me!” Bobby Ray demanded, pushing aside his own rising panic. Eddie’s tears subsided into sniffles. “Scoot over here. Good. Now, hand me the hook on the front of your rig…just there.” He took his time, examining Eddie’s set up as best he could. The batteries in his light faded noticeably. “Ok, I want you should hold on to my belt and grab my leg as tight as you can. Don’t be afraid. I got you strapped to me now.” Eddie grabbed tight, crying out when his right leg slid from the shelf. Bobby Ray could feel the boy shake violently as arms wrapped around his waist. Eddie pressed his head against his knee and hung on. “You ready?” Bobby asked and felt Eddie shake his head against his knee. “Ok, Al get us the hell outta here,” he whispered into his mike and almost instantly felt the line grow taut. Big Al put all his life into lifting them towards the light, the only sounds in the whole place was the hum of generators, the grind of that over worked hand crank and Big Al’s coarse breathing. (O come, let us adore him) A crying mother mobbed Bobby Ray and a grateful father almost smothered him. The same ambulance that carried Eddie Sparrow down for examination carried Bobby Ray. I think he was at the end of his own rope by the time they finally cleared that hole. Big Al had sore muscles for almost a month from grinding on the crank. Of course the circus didn’t leave town for several days. Television wanted Bobby Ray in the worst way – a wounded combat veteran who came home to risk his life for an unknown child. Big Al was in demand, too, but I think Scooter did his very best to keep all the noise and to-do away from him. Heck, even Toby was mobbed, but all he did was back his truck over the vent shaft Of course, by the time we got back, dinner was stone cold…but no one really cared about all of that. The Aunties relit the stove and even warmed over, there never was such a dinner after all. O come, let us adore him, Christ the Lord! |
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| A Change Of Plans Julie Goolsby jcg5050@yahoo.com |
#3 of 9 |
| 1888 words | |
| It was a beautiful spring morning. The birds were
chirping and the sun was shining. The sky was a lovely pale blue filled with
massive white puffy clouds. The air was filled with children’s laughter as
they were skipping out to the bus stop. They were filled with excitement that
school was coming to a close and summer was just around the bend. People in
suits were walking to their cars with a bounce in their step actually glad to
be heading to work. The happiness in the air was contagious. Everyone felt more
alive. They were pleased to be rid of the cold dead winter. Life was new,
filled with promise and hope. Well almost everyone was happy… Judy pushed the snooze button for the fifth time this morning. She had no energy. She had barely slept the night before. It wasn’t her fault though, her mind just wouldn’t stop racing with endless thoughts about her cruel mother. However, Judy finally decided to wake up. She had to go to class. It was Thursday and she had only been to one out of the eleven classes that she had during the week. She got out of bed which took almost all of her strength. She went to her window and opened the blinds. She took one look outside and plopped right back into bed. This kind of weather made her sick. Judy hated when people were happy. What she hated more was that she found it impossible to feel happy. Judy hated life but even more she hated herself. She decided to fall back asleep because it was the only way to escape the pain. Judy was five feet tall and 75 pounds overweight. She had a huge chest and butt. She had a very hard time trying to find anything to wear. Nothing that she tried on every looked halfway decent. Her hair was a mousy brown and she had countless pimples on her face. No guy had every found her attractive. She had been like this since high school and now she was a sophomore in college at Penn State. She lived on her own in an apartment off campus. Her roommate from the year before had thought she was a total loser and when Judy asked her if she had wanted to room together the next year she had laughed in her face. So she was all alone. She did not have one friend there which meant she had no social life. Not that it mattered though because Judy hated going out with people. She hated the whole atmosphere at Penn State. All the kids cared about were partying, drinking, and whose bed they would end up in the next morning. Judy had only come to Penn State because of their reputation as being a top of the line school for Biology, but she had even failed at that. She was now paying $30,000 a year to be an English major at a school that barley had any decent English professors. Judy had tried transferring to another school closer to her home in Maryland, but her grades were so poor that no one would accept her. Therefore, she was stuck at Penn State all alone. The night before Judy had called her mom like she did every night and argued with her for what seemed like hours. She begged her mom to come up and visit her at school. She said that she was lonely and depressed but her mom had shrugged her off like usual. “Mom I really need someone to come up and visit me. I am depressed; I don’t want to go to any of my classes. I can’t even get out of bed in the morning,” Judy had told her mom. Like usual her mom had replied with, “Judy, look, you need to get yourself together. You have been acting like this since high school and really it is quite pathetic. I am getting tired of you calling me every night and begging for me to visit. I came up two weekends ago. What more do you expect from me? I have offered trying to get you help, but you constantly refuse. I don’t know what else to do for you. I thought at first you really did have a problem but since you are not willing to seek any help, I honestly believe you are just being lazy.” “Mom, please stop!” “No I will not stop! Let me remind you that you were the one who wanted to live three hours away. We all said you wouldn’t be able to make it on your own. You have gotten yourself into this situation and you will just have to deal with it,” Judy’s mom said. “I hate you mom,” Judy shouted. “That’s just lovely dear. I really don’t need this! You are completely hopeless. Have a nice night,” said Judy’s mom and she slammed down her phone. Judy had already felt completely hopeless, and the last thing she needed was for her own mother to tell her that she was. She sat on her bed the rest of the night crying while she cut herself. She knew it was sick but she found relief when she felt her flesh open up and she could feel the warm red blood trickling out, running down her arms. It took her mind off the pain she was feeling for a little while and it meant that she was still alive even though she felt so dead inside. Judy woke up from her “nap” three hours later and attempted getting out of bed once again. She was successful. Judy then teetered into the next room and fell down on her couch. She thought to herself that was enough moving for right now. There was one thing that Judy really wanted, and that was to die. The only problem was she was afraid of death and what was to come afterwards. Being raised Catholic, Judy thought that she might end up in hell if she committed suicide, however; sometimes that seemed better than being alive on Earth. She felt that how in the hell could God exist if she felt this way. If He thought it was okay to make people this messed up then He must have a twisted mind and she really rather not spend all eternity with someone like that. As much as she thought this way about God she just couldn’t go through with killing herself. It made her feel like a coward because as much as she tried she could not go through with it. Recently, Judy had taken out an education loan, but she had used the money to purchase a gun instead. She had raised that gun a countless number of times to her head willing herself to just pull the trigger and to be done with it. Every time it ended with her lying as a heap on the floor crying. She would then get up and get her knife and begin to cut herself. She would tell herself that next time she would commit the deed. Judy decided to call her mom one more time and see if she would visit her the next weekend but her mother had declined the offer. Judy said, “Okay. I love you Mom,” and hung up the phone. She had reached a decision. The next day, a Friday, Judy actually did get up out of bed and go to class. She wanted to say goodbye to the world because she knew that tonight was the night. Judy had her mind made up. The pain was too much and she knew that cutting herself would no longer help her to cope. When she got home from class she ate a little dinner and for once Judy felt alive. She realized that the pain would soon be gone and what a relief it would be. She was happy to be taking matters into her own hands finally. It seemed hysterical to her to being feeling this way: happy, calm, and alive. She felt so peaceful. After she finished dinner, Judy sat down and wrote her suicide note. She found it a lot easier than she ever though it would be. Dear Mom and Dad, I am sorry for bringing you so much pain. I have tried for so long to bring this to your attention, but I do realize that this is my fault because I was too afraid to receive any help. Mom you were right I am completely hopeless. There is no reason for me to live in this life and maybe the afterlife will be different. I am finally at peace and rest. I can finally be happy. I love you and please do not blame yourselves. Your loving daughter, Judy She had picked a different way to kill herself than with the gun. Judy knew that no matter how hard she tried she would never find the courage within herself to pull the trigger, so she decided to take pills instead. It would be much slower but it would be easier for her to do. Judy took the pills. She did not cry; there were no tears left. She lied down on her bed and waited. The pills began to work as her heart beat and breathing were slowing down. Her cell phone went off all of a sudden on the table next to her. It was a text from her mom that said, “I changed my mind honey. I am leaving right now to come up and visit you. I love you and I have been treating you unfairly. When I get up there we are going to the hospital to get you some help right away. Hang in there.” Judy read this message and realized that she did want to live and she did want to receive help now that she saw her mom actually cared. She tried to reach for her phone to call 911 but she couldn’t move! She was unable to move her body, but her brain was yelling, “Wait! There has been a change of plans! I want to live!” The yelling in her brain became in even louder and it was shouting, “OH MY GOD! PLEASE! HELP ME! I WANT TO LIVE! I CHANGED MY MIND!” It was too late. Judy died. Three hours later her mom had arrived at her apartment and let herself in. She ran into Judy’s room excited to see her. All she wanted to do was hug her daughter and tell her how much she loved her. When she walked into the room Judy’s mom stopped dead in her tracks. She first saw the pill containers and then she saw Judy. She ran over to her daughter and prayed that it wasn’t too late. She kept shaking her begging that she was still alive. Judy’s head kept lolling about as a rag doll. Her mom realized that Judy was gone. She hugged her daughter with all her might and sat there shaking and crying. All she could think was if I had only planned on her helping her when she first asked for it this never would have happened. She wished she had changed her mind sooner then maybe she could have changed her daughter’s plans. |
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| A Change Of Plans brigid@lorienwood.plus.com |
#4 of 9 |
| 85 words | |
| We painted out the nursery a delicate azure blue. The scan had been decisive that not only one, but two would grace us with their presence in the following weeks to come. I chose their tiny out-fits. While out shopping with my Mum a sudden twinge alerted me. To hospital we raced. 'Oh-oh,' my husband whispered, 'There's a problem to be faced. Our baby plans are compromised.' He gave a cheeky wink. 'We'll have to repaint half the room a softly blushing pink!' |
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| A Change Of Plans glenlee10@sky.com |
#5 of
9 Runner-up |
| 1727 words | |
| I wouldn’t be sitting here, bored out of my skull
if it hadn’t been Mavis’s birthday. As it was, I wanted to throttle
her. Only two things were stopping me. One, she was asleep and two, there were
two-hundred and fifty people in the hall, sitting between me and escape.
I nudged Mavis hard in the ribs with my elbow. She gasped and woke up. “Wha…! She exclaimed. “Oh,” she dithered. “Was I dozing?” “We should have gone to the pub like we’d planned,” I snapped. I wouldn’t have minded but I’d paid £5 each for the tickets as Mavis’s birthday present. Mavis rubbed her eyes and nodded her head in agreement. Meanwhile, at her podium on the stage, the speaker droned on and on and on. I’d been persuaded to come along to the village hall to listen to Mavis’s favourite author, Ruth Goodbody, giving a speech. We’d thought we’d hear all about the strange and wonderful world of writing, book publishing, the launching of that first novel and the like. So far, the speaker, who was still young enough to be attractive, unlike many of her mostly female audience, was in the throes of telling us when and how she’d become an author. She’d reached the age of five when I woke Mavis up. “I’m not sure how much more of this I can take,” I grumbled. The speaker continued into year six of her growing up. She obviously knew her subject well and her dreary monotone painted itself into every corner of the hall. I swear, it was so dull and leaden, it must even have slipped down the walls where fractured words and broken bits of sentences would be swept up eventually by the caretaker. I looked at the woman on my other side. She was fidgeting and had that, ‘for god’s sake, get me out of here look’. She had my full sympathy. But how could we escape? The hall was full, every seat taken and Mavis and I were backed up into a corner. Escape seemed impossible. “I need a drink,” I moaned. “I need a way out. I need someone to move all these people so that I can get outta here.” Mavis murmured. “A fire would clear this place pretty quickly.” She was obviously thinking along the same lines as me. “Do you smoke?” I asked somewhat sharply, knowing the answer. “No,” she said. “So you’ve not got a lighter with you?” “No.” “So we can’t set fire to the curtains then!” “Suppose not, no.” “And I can’t see this lot moving fast enough to let us through anyway,” I sighed. I looked round the hall. I could see the backs of heads, mainly white, grey or bald, around which the speaker’s voice slithered like a suffocating noose. Many of the heads were on the tilt, their owners obviously in the land of nod. Good for them, it was the best place to be. I saw several zimmer frames. “You could clear a path quite effectively with one of those,” I pointed out to Mavis. “We could scythe our way through the crowds if we could get our hands on a couple.” She grinned. We had no choice but to continue to listen to the speaker. She was getting into her stride now and her words were flung at us like heat-seeking missiles, attacking the soft flesh of our inner ears. She’d found an echo and her words scratched our minds before squeaking back at her. It was like being drunk and hearing double. I waved my hand in front of my face as though I was swatting annoying insects. It didn’t work. Her mosquito words relentlessly probed at my defenses. Her narrative had now reached seven years of age and the trauma of her cat dying under the wheels of her father’s car. My seat was uncomfortable. I wriggled. Mavis looked at me. “Patience,” she said. “Why?” “Because there’s nothing we can do, that’s why.” “Well, I don’t know,” I mused. “Fire is not an option. How about you pretending to be taken ill and then I can take you outside for a bit of fresh air?” “Why should I be the one to pretend to be taken ill?” Mavis asked. “Because you’re a better liar than I am.” “I beg your pardon. What exactly are you insinuating?” “Dear Mavis,” I cajoled her. “You are a creative writer and it therefore stands to reason that you have a good imagination. And,” I added, “I overheard that yarn you spun the manager at the supermarket last week when you took that frozen turkey back.” “Shh!” the man in front of us turned and glared. “Will you two ladies please stop chattering? I’m trying to listen to Miss.Goodbody.” I felt like telling him our conversation had to be more stimulating than the drivel that was draining in lumps of indigestible nonsense from the stage, but I was distracted when a mobile phone rang shrilly from under someone’s seat. The speaker kept going, relentlessly. The Chairman scowled and shuffled her chair, preparing to strike, (I knew her of old), as soon as she could locate the person who’d forgotten to switch off her phone. I chuckled. It had given me an idea. My mobile phone was in my bag. Surreptitiously I reached for it and tapped out a text. “Having fun?” it enquired. Then I sent it to five of my friends whom I’d spotted in audience. Then I switched my phone off. Four of the five phones I’d targeted rang out with the receipt of my message. There was a cheerful mixture of beeps, bleeps and the first lines to a Robbie Williams’ song. The necks of four of my friends turned a delightfully deep shade of pink. They all dived into their handbags for their phones. A murmur swept the room The Chairman struggled to her feet. The speaker, finally, thanks to the gods, stuttered to a halt. What a blessed respite! The Chairman stomped to the front of the stage. “How dare you be so rude?” her baleful eye had picked out the ‘culprits’, “as to bring those things in here and leave them switched on? This is no way to treat such a wonderful speaker.” She held the audience, unmoving, unspeaking for several seconds. “Will everyone else please make sure their phones are switched off before I allow Miss. Goodbody to continue.” People felt in their pockets and handbags and there was a chortling of mobile phones cheerily saying goodbye. The Chairman went back to her seat. Her back was ramrod, righteously straight. The speaker picked up the thread of what she had been talking about and plunged ahead, like a fishing boat braving a storm. “When I was eight and a half,” she said, “my grandmother died…” Someone in the audience groaned. What a lucky woman that grandmother was! I had a thought. It was worth a try. I switched my phone on again. Fortunately it was a cheap one and made very little noise. I’d remembered that I had the Chairman’s number stored from when we did a Women’s Institute stall together at the last Friday market. She’d not bothered to take my number. She’d made me do all the running about and the phoning. I owed her one. On the off chance, I sent her a text, and then switched off my phone. Her huge, scuffed, black leather handbag slumped next to her chair on the stage. Suddenly, The Ride of the Valkyries, burst from it. The bag seemed to sit up, proud of itself. There was pandemonium. All round the hall, merry laughter replaced the soggy prose. The speaker carried on talking but her words were not audible above the hubbub. She merely stood on the stage opening and closing her mouth like a puzzled goldfish. The Chairman sat as though rigor mortis had suddenly struck her. Some people stood up and stamped pins and needles from their feet. I noticed others slipping through the door to the kitchen and I doubted they’d gone to put the kettles on. Several more dived into the Ladies Toilets. I grabbed Mavis’ hand and pulled her to her feet. The unrest seemed to have given us just enough wriggle room. I barged through a knot of people who were on their feet, trying to see over the heads of the people in front. “Come on,” I instructed Mavis. She stopped. “We can’t go in there!” she insisted. I pushed open the door. “Of course we can. There’s nothing in here we haven’t seen before,” and I tugged her behind me into the Gents. Two men were standing at the urinals. “Evening Bob. Evening Jimmie,” I said and headed for the second door, the one that lead to the foyer. “Evening Cissie,” Bob said. Mavis squealed, a sound like a frightened baby pig. She followed though. She had little choice. We were at the pub within minutes. I bought Mavis a good stiff G & T, a double, and waited while she composed herself. She downed half of it in one gulp. She giggled. “I can’t believe how you just sailed through the Gents,” she said. “And had the gall to address the men who were using it. And I can’t believe how little it seemed to bother either of them. Did you think the place was empty when we went in?” I took a sip of my double whiskey, savoured the bite as it slipped down my throat. “Oh, no. I knew they were in there. I’d seen them both go in.” “Yet we still went in. You are brazen, Cissie.” I smiled. “I know. But we had no choice. Bob’s waiting for prostrate treatment and his wife, Ethel, tells me he can take up to ten minutes to have a pee…if he’s lucky. So we couldn’t wait or the opportunity to escape would have been lost. And Jimmie is away with the fairies most of the time Glenda tells me, so I doubt he’d have been bothered.” “Oh, you are awful, Cissie.” “I know, old girl.” I raised my glass, “but Happy Birthday anyway. Cheers!” |
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| A Change Of Plans Marcus Bird marcusbird@gmail.com http://marcusbird.wordpress.com |
#6 of 9 |
| 2439 words | |
| A humming noise that sounded like a whining cat stuck
between slightly sound proofed walls pierced the night air. Blake pressed the
start button again, and heard the same noise. “Guy, what`s going on?” came the voice of Kay, sitting in the back. He was fiddling with a small handheld device that projected a small image of a man running and hitting objects on an obstacle course. “ I think the afts are out.” Blake said, staring at the console. They were sitting in Blake`s Odyssey, a car that had all the works for life in their world; flight, inertial dampeners and Sirius Generation X radio. “I`m not sure what`s happening, I think all these downloads have been clogging up my memory banks.” Not only could the Odyssey fly, do complex turns and play Sirius generation X radio, it also had a partially adaptable nanofilm surface that could be modified to adjust its appearance in the human visual spectrum. The Odyssey could change colour. “Listen guy, we need to go. It’s that party tonight, and there are no transports pushing off after twenty three hundred.” They were near a canyon near what used to be Texas. In the distance, the bright lights of New Texas city shone like massive ice crystals, with high rise buildings and the scrolling shapes of flying vehicles moving through the air as little blobs of light. Blake and Kay came here sometimes, to hang out and drink Q-Beer before they went out. Nowadays transport was simple, and no one ever had problems with their vehicles, even if they missed a few maintenance checks. Blake never had one done. The problem with these cars wasn`t fuel, (that changed ever since the German fellow worked out the whole cold fusion thing) but data. If you overloaded your car with hot updates, stressed the nanofilm or did too much freespeeding in high winds, stuff stops working. In fact, these cars weren`t even supposed to go off-road. A flying car sounds like a ticket to anywhere, but there`s nothing worse that dust getting into your cryo-filters and causing a mid-air stall. It happened to Blake four times already. He stepped out of the car into the night, feeling the comfortable crunch of the desert sand under his boots. Behind him, Kay stepped out of the car as well, still playing the video game. Without looking up, Kay spoke. “Guy, I need to go to the party and you do too, after what happened with the Stone from the other night.” “She didn`t mean anything.” Blake growled. “She didn’t? That`s not true man, that stone was heavy guy, very heavy.” The Stone was Merla, a hot rodder he met at the last Air Pop, a party on the new Hilton express air village. Hot rodders were like bikers of the past, but not really. They were women who all had genetic modifications, so they were all tall and resembled Heidi Klum, but also had an odd predilection for dangerous sports and life threatening activities. Hot Rod Mods they were called. Merla didn`t even own a Flare, as the air bikes were called. She owned the Odyssey Two, much to Blake`s chagrin. The night air was chilly, as it was all year round but Blake didn’t feel it. He touched a panel on his palm, creating a soft glow in the darkness of the night. In his head he could hear a voice. It sounded happy and alert, with an odd vocal inflection. Probably bad A.I. “ New Texas Trans help. How may I help you mister Andrews?” “Need a pickup transport. I think my afts are off and I need a maintenance check.” “No problem mister Andrews. The next transport coming to that location will be at oh one hundred.” “Oh one hundred? Guy, that`s like two hours from now!” “Mister Andrews,” the voice said, cheery as ever. “You are in zone Q438, outside the New Texas Rim. You car requires a transport that can handle the terrain, we apologize for the delay, and suggest you watch something informative until the transport arrives.” Blake pressed the palm of his hand and the communicade faded. “I told you not to burn out going at such high altitude man. “ Kay said. “The car can`t take it.” “Whatever. So what do we do now? We can`t get to the village hub in time for the last transport. Dammit!” “Maybe we can go to New Vegas later.” “Screw Vegas Kay. I`m tired of the droids there.” “They give us free beer.” “It`s not enough, but maybe we—“ A loud noise echoed in the Canyon below. In the distance, a brilliant light flashed, glowed dimly, then disappeared. Kay stood near the edge of the precipice the Odyssey was parked on. “Wow, what was that?” Kay said, his attention off the game. Blake took a pair of glasses from his jacket and slipped them on. He tapped a small panel near the left lens and the night shifted from black to a soupy green-white. In the distance, he saw what looked like a small box, and around it, moving shapes. They glowed white in the lenses. One of them paused and looked directly at Blake and pointed. “Kay I don`t know what`s going on but I think we have to get out of here.” Blake said, taking the glasses off. “How, we are on top of a canyon off the grid somewhere, and I don`t want to fall off a ledge somewhere. I don’t have a grav-pack!” “Well what do you suggest we do?!” Blake said. “Listen GUY—“ Kay pressed a finger heavily on Blake’s chest. “If you weren’t such a horrible driver, we wouldn’t be in this position!” Blake was about to say something when a soft, familiar whirring sounded beneath them. Springing up from below the cliff face, four bodies flew up in mid-air, dangling gently in the nighttime breeze. They were in full black complete with masks and each had a small device like strapped to their backs. These were Grav-packs, or Hoverbags. But nobody ever called them the latter. Blake cursed. “Aw Christ, just what we need.” Blake said. Kay still had his finger on Blake’s chest and hastily removed it. “Coke dealers.” Kay said in the same voice. In a world where the average life expectancy was now one hundred and ten years, the idea of health and nutrition had drastically changed. Fast food had been outlawed for centuries, and the horribly tampered genetic food known as “snacks” in the past were replaced by modified foods that tasted similar but were much better for you. Until a few years ago, when a bunch of Rodders found the remnants of an abandoned vending machine company in Old Berlin. Story goes, a few thousand properly preserved cans of Coke were down there and the Rodders spent the next few months on a Coke high, drinking so much that they all came down with something called Diabetes, a disease of the old world. Smugglers pinched some of the Coke before the health board destroyed it, and now it was a huge international enterprise. People wanted something to drink that was sweet, rotted your teeth, vaporized rust and generally made you feel giddy after a while. These days anyone caught drinking coke would immediately be sent to a detox camp and be forced to eat copious amounts of green leafy vegetables. Now, Coke dealers had gone back to the old ways of smuggling. In dark places like deserts, occasionally underwater, and sometimes in outer space. Blake squirmed uncomfortably with his back pressed against a wall. The entire surface of the cliff wall was smooth except for where his hip and buttocks me the ground. A long, carrot shaped stone was forcing its way between his butt cheeks. “Guy, stop squirming.” One of the men in the masks said. Blake sighed. The masked men moved with quiet precision as they loaded the coke. About twenty feet away, large grav-boxes (no one called them hoverboxes) floated quietly into a room sized trailer suspended quietly in the shadows. There were three of them. “That`s a lot of coke.” Kay said. One of the masked men approached. His voice was high and nasal. “Nice car you got, guy.” “Odyssey.” “Rich kid eh? Well listen guy, standard procedure for this is to give you some fake memory engrams. Won`t know what the hell happened.”he chuckled. “Of course.” Blake knew about this. In some circumstances best friends suddenly became lovers (male, female, man, dog), people had nightmares about dolphins, and many people (mostly the Hot Rod Mods) left their boyfriends and married random guys who were seemingly jobless. Kay winced. “I don’t want some weird engram man. Remember what happened to Billy?” Kay said. Blake nodded, and rolled his eyes, trying to edge his buttocks away from the carrot shaped rock which seemed to be moving more than he was. Billy was a friend from school who apparently, had run into some Coke dealers. He came to school thinking he was someone named Britney Spears, with his hair bleached blonde and started singing horrible songs at lunch time. Doctors eventually repaired the engram damage, but after that everyone called him Britney, even his father. Blake watched the men work quietly, as the last big crate was loaded into the trailers. Someone barked an order and they trailers moved noiselessly into the distance, enveloped by the shadows of the canyon. The masked man by Blake and Kay reached into a small (but stylish) bag attached to his hip. He pulled something out. It looked like a small gun with the bullet chamber exposed. The chamber was made of clear plastic, with a bright green liquid visible. The chamber ended at the base of a long needle. “Okay guys, who goes first?” came the same high pitched nasal voice. No one raised a hand, even though this was technically impossible. Kay mumbled. “What’s that guy?” the masked man said. “I was saying it sucks that we were supposed to go to the Air Village tonight and instead we’ll be stuck in the desert thinking we are homing pigeons or something.” The mask man, who was crouched in a slightly menacing way with the gun, stood up and titled his jaw to the left a few degrees. You could almost see the surprise on the face of the man behind the mask. “The air village? Really...” the man said. “Yes, and tonight his Hot Rod Mod night. So after a few Q-Beers things get crazy. Plus they always have coke at those parties.” The masked man shifted his weight again, giving Blake and Kay the image of a man who has discovered something he eagerly wants to discuss, but is afraid of losing his composure. “You guys have handkets?” he said. Blake said yes. A handket was like a ticket, but ever since scalping was outlawed, people got handkets, a 128 bit encrypted ticket based on your hand size and the arrangement of your skin cells on your palm. Someone behind the mask man growled, the other masked men were leaving. “Let’s make a deal guys. I want to go to the Air Village. You take me with you, and I give you some free Coke.” “I don’t need any Coke. “ Blake said. “Plus, my car is dead and a transport is coming to pick it up in another hour or two.” “We can take my car.” The man in the mask said. “What? Are you crazy?” Kay asked. “No, but if I go to this party and you guys try to screw me over, then I’ll just pay each of you a visit and you’ll think you are dogs in heat with you—“ he pointed at Blake “Being a Great Dane, and you—“ he pointed at Kay “Being a female Chihuahua. Get the idea?” Both men sighed. The masked man ( who would later introduce himself as K ) squirted a few drops of the liquid onto the desert sand. The guys groaned in fake agony. Soon, a taller, muscled man came over. “These guys got the engrams?” the he said. “Yes.” K replied. “Okay, get them back to their car and head back to point A.” the man said. He pressed a panel on his wrist, hovered in the air for a few seconds and flew in the direction of the transports, disappearing in the shadows. “Hold on guys.” K said. He held each man under his arm socket and Blake and Kay made frightened whimpers as they felt weightlessness under them. In a few seconds, they were back beside the Odyssey at the top of the mountain. “Be back in thirty.” The man said, then flew away. Interesting situation we’ve got ourselves in.” Kay said, listfully looking at the sky. “I guess.” Blake said, fingering his jeans pockets. Kay started playing his video game again, and Blake idly turned the color of the Odyssey on and off. Thirty minutes later, a whoosh sounded behind them, and a hover car appeared from the shadows. At the helm was a slim man, with pale skin and red hair. “Get in. “he said, in the nasal voice they heard before. Both men reluctantly stepped into the hovering vehicle. The doors shut and the car rose vertically, up and away from the Canyon. Blake looked at the black dot of his car. He’d get it at the transport depot later. “So…. ‘K’, what’s that, a nickname for Kyle? “ Kay say with a chuckle. The hovercar lurched to a stop. The man at the front looked at Kay with wide open eyes. “What? How did you know that?” “First name that came to mind.” Kay said. “One second.” The man said, reaching into his glove compartment. He turned back to Kay, and with in a swift movement, pressed something on his arm. It was a smaller version of the gun they had seen earlier. “Owwwww! What was that for?” Kay said, rubbing his arm. “Now you’ll think my name is Karl.” The man said with a smile. “Karl? Not a big switch from Kyle if you ask me.” Blake said. Blake too felt a sharp stinging pain in his arm, then a sudden clarity, like stepping out of a hot tub into cold night air. “So Karl, you ready to go to this party?” Kay said, smiling brilliantly. “Yes, and I have gifts for you.” He pressed a button, and out of two panels recessed into driver and passenger seats emerged with a hiss. In a small grooves carefully made to match their outlines, were two small red cans, with white writing on them.. “Wow man you have coke!” Kay said, grabbing his can. “Where’d you get it?” Kay said, opening with a pop. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.” K said. Blake grabbed his coke(he suddenly felt unusually happy) and popped it open as well. “ To the air village!” |
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| A Change Of Plans Colin W Campbell colin93050-stories@yahoo.co.uk |
#7 of 9 |
| 614 words | |
| "What you looking at boy? Want to see if I've been
dealt a full hand?" Two-Fingers Finnegan spat blood, warm and salty on the
snow, and pulled off his heavy gloves. Young Tom didn't get too close. Old Two-Fingers may be hurt and pinned down under a rock-fall, but he remembered a most fearsome reputation for evil doing. "See, I still got my ten fingers, handy that," said Two-Fingers. He reached deep inside his winter furs to pull out a stub of a pencil and a cigarette pack to draw a map on. "And lucky you came along, what with me pinned under a rock and you lost and going round in circles." "I wasn't very lost. So where did you get the name then?" said Tom, pulling his scarf tighter against the sting of the wind-driven snow. "Cos I'm not afraid to do this to the whole world." Tom grinned as the old man held up two fingers to the world, to his injured legs, to everything. "Take this, it's all I've got," said Tom, but he bit off half the chocolate for himself first. After all, even with scribbled directions from someone who may or may not be reliable, he would still need his strength to fight his way back down through the winter weather. "Don't go away," said Tom. He grinned at his own joke as he set off down the valley. Two-Fingers shouted after him. "Don't get lost, you got a map now. Just get back on the trail and stay on it this time. And remember boy, you got to come back for me." Daylight was almost gone as Tom stumbled off. He was glad to have the moon to light the swirling snow. His cold fingers clutched tight onto the lifeline of Two-Fingers' cigarette-packet map. He cursed the cold; he cursed the snow, but most of all he cursed himself for coming out here on his own and getting lost. He thought of finding old Two-Fingers, alone in the wilderness, injured and helpless and depending on a young lad to get help. This ought to make the papers, perhaps even the TV. The boy saw the lights of the logging camp first. Then he caught the smell of wood-smoke carried along in the wind. He quickened his pace throwing up a flurry of light drift-snow with every forced step. And then he was safe and warm. "Tom, don't talk, just rest. Thank God you're safe. We've just heard 'bout the escape on the radio." The logger's voice sounded far away and dreamlike. "Escape?" said Tom. "Yes, Two-Fingers Finnegan escaped. They know he used to live 'round here before he got locked up, so the word is he might be heading back to familiar territory." "But ..." Young Tom started to speak and what a story he had to tell. "But nothing. He's dangerous. By the way, don't suppose they ever told you 'bout Skip?" Tom pretended it was the smoke from the wood-burning stove that was bringing a tear to his eye. The mention of his old dog brought the memories flooding back. Memories of a loyal childhood companion found bruised, bloodied, and dying in the snow all these years ago. "What about Skip?" said Tom. "They reckoned it was Two-Fingers. Got drunk that night and kicked old Skip to death. Don't suppose you bumped into him out there?" Tom got to his feet and dropped an old cigarette packet into the stove. Slowly, he went over to the window and held up two fingers in the direction of the winter wilderness." "Two-Fingers," said Tom. "No didn't see him. Just snow, lots of snow." |
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| A Change Of Plans cathyvester@ymail.com |
#8 of 9 Winner |
| 981 words | |
| Jerry was glad it was Friday. He was even gladder that
he was home early from work. It had been a stressful week at the insurance
office, where he had been employed the past twenty years, and leaving early was
a rare treat. Mary was in the kitchen preparing dinner when he got home. The
house seemed unusually quiet this afternoon, then he remembered. His teenage
daughter, Abby, had gone on some sort of field trip in Springfield. There was
nothing to do, he thought, that couldn't wait, so he decided to have a cold
beer and watch TV. It didn't get any better than this, Jerry thought, as he
relaxed in his Lazy-Boy recliner. Jerry sipped a 24 ounce can of Budweiser, while listening to the last half of Judge Judy. He could smell the scent of roast beef and freshly baked bread drifting through the room. He smiled. That meant there would also be mashed potatoes, gravy, and some sort of tolerable green vegetable. More importantly, it meant cherry cobbler for dessert. Jerry sighed with contentment as he inhaled the tantalizing aroma. He sat his beer down on the table next to his chair, reached for the remote, and browsed through several TV channels. Within minutes Jerry was snoring loudly, the remote still in his hand, resting on his round belly. "Jerry!" Mary yelled from the kitchen "Dinners ready". "I'll be there in a second, Dear," Jerry yelled back, his eyes snapping open at the sound of his wife's shrill voice. Just then a local news alert caught his attention. A school bus coming back from Springfield had crashed into a tractor trailer. Jerry, now fully awake, turned up the volume and listened intently. "No survivors have been located so far. We will release more information as it becomes available" echoed in Jerry's head. Surely it was not the same bus his daughter was on. It couldn't be, he thought. Wouldn't someone have called? No, it just couldn't be. Mary called out at her husband for the second time. "Jerry, dinner will be cold if you don't get your butt in here right now!" she shouted as she sat the freshly sliced bread on the table. I spend all afternoon in the kitchen and what thanks do I get, she thought to herself. He could at least act like he appreciated it. After all, this was his favorite meal. Well, nothing is wrong with my appetite! Mary was in the process of heaping a ladle of gravy over her mashed potatoes when Jerry stepped into the kitchen looking pale as a ghost. "Mary," Jerry said, "Something happened… The school bus… There was an accident. It was on the news. Abby….." Jerry ran his fingers through his short gray hair like he usually did when he was worried about something. "Oh Jerry, I am so sorry! I forgot to tell you. It completely slipped my mind. There was a change of plans, Dear. Abby wasn't riding the bus to Springfield. Kala's mom volunteered to help out on the field trip. Since she was going to stay and do some shopping in town, she was driving with the girls. Abby was going to spend the night at Kala's tonight. That’s terrible about the accident though. Was any one hurt?" Jerry opened his mouth to speak but the words did not come out. His face had gone from white to gray and large beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. He quickly grabbed for the nearest kitchen chair, feeling as if he might pass out. Slowly, Jerry absorbed what his wife had just said. The field trip had not been a total bore, Abby thought, remembering how Keith had looked at her when he asked her to sit next to him on the bus ride home. Now, she just had to come up with an excuse for Kala's mom as to why she wanted to ride back on the bus rather than with her and kala. Of course kala would know the real reason. Kala was very much aware Abby and Keith had been inseparable ever since they met at lunch. Well, could she blame her? Keith was just the most popular guy in school. While students rushed to catch their ride, Abby quickly made her excuse and joined the others boarding the bus. She immediately located the empty seat next to Keith near the back of the bus. Smiling, she squeezed through classmates and book bags and sat down next to the best looking guy on the bus. No one seemed to be aware of the freshly falling freezing rain splattering the windshield, except for the bus driver who was preparing to leave and praying to make it home before the road got any worse. Meanwhile, Jerry had finally begun to relax and enjoy his meal as he listened to Mary report the latest gossip from her sewing club. He was already on seconds of roast beef but still couldn't shake the ugly image from the news. All those poor children, he thought, as he chewed his food and nodded at whatever Mary had just said. Just as Mary dug into desert, the doorbell rang. "Now, I wonder who that could be," Mary said, setting her fork down. "I'm not expecting company, are you, Dear?" "No," Jerry replied, still in deep thought. Outside the front door, a lone police officer shivered in the cold as he waited to give his condolences to another unsuspecting family. He looked down at his list of addresses. It was going to be a long night. |
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| A Change Of Plans A. Wyatt Crain crain.adam@gmail.com |
#9 of 9 |
| 302 words | |
| the words are hushed, lets not get busted. follow the plan. we need to run swiftly, fast. lets get out of here. we are stronger than this, stronger than them. dont talk. you saw the map, followed it in your mind. why do you turn wrong now? dont go that way, that way is wrong. ill leave you then. hungry, tired. dont look at me. i will leave, i will escape. dont mock me. there, are you happy now? they are coming. i ran away, faster than i had before. i heard them. dont scream now, they've already found you. i dont feel remorse. they drag you, i sit quietly observing. you make eye contact. i shake my head, cursing you in my mind. i told yo to be quiet. they drag you back, discover im gone. they know. i run past them, through the open door. fresh air. keep running, mantra in your head. theyre following. lungs open, legs cramp. shit. dont stop, keep running. nausea. dont, dont. please, dont. dont. cant. wont. run child, escape them. pain. you can do this, you can. newfound strength. you see the end in sight, child. i do. there it is, what you have waited for. oh no. there you are, with them. surrender. you are taking me prisoner now, i am yours. betrayal. you did not escape, you became them. never will i. you try to corrupt me, but i prevail. you will not trap me. keep a rhythm, keep chanting. you will not get me. keep chanting, through the pain. you will not harm me. breathe, child. no. breathe, child! no. end is in sight, child. i know. you gave up child, you gave up. no. you gave up, child. no. what have you done, child? no. child, please. please, child. no. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club