Edward Davies's Blog, page 7
July 13, 2015
Short Story : Stuck!
Richard tripped as he ran for the elevator, stumbling and barely rescuing his camera equipment from crashing to the ground and smashing into a thousand pieces. If he lost his cameras, that would be the end of his busman’s holiday – a once in a life time trip to New York City! He’d always dreamed of going there and photographing the sights, and now that the UK newspaper he worked for had actually sent him over he was going to make the most of his time there, and get as many landscape photographs as he could. And now that he had a day to himself, he was going to get some skyline shots from one of New York City’s many observation decks.
The elevator doors were slowly closing as he stumbled between them, setting off the sensors and sending the doors slowly opening again. He gasped for breath as he readjusted the straps of his camera bag and stood up straight, facing the doors. Glancing to his left, he caught sight of a frustrated looking young woman. Clearly she was glaring at him for delaying her by a fraction of a minute, but he didn’t care. Choosing to ignore the woman’s stare, he pressed the button for the observation deck and waited for the doors to close.
Once the doors were closed, Richard quickly checked the time on his watch. It was a quarter to nine, so he should have plenty of time to get there before nine and get a sweet spot to set up his camera equipment. He couldn’t wait to see the panoramic view of New York from the top of one of its highest buildings.
As he smiled to himself, he heard a loud thumping noise and the elevator ground to a halt. The lights went out and the red emergency lights came on, flickering slightly as if they were on their last legs.
“What the hell was that?” the woman suddenly spoke up. Richard glanced over at her, seeing her gripping the hand rail with panic.
“Seems like a power cut?” Richard said, “Do you work in this building?”
“Yes,” the woman replied, “and there’ve been power outages before, but nothing that felt like that!”
“I’m sure they’ll have us out in no time at all,” Richard said calmly, “there’s no need to panic.”
“Who’s panicking?” the woman said in a panicky voice.
Richard looked her up and down, “Nobody?” he said flatly.
The woman tutted, then started looking around the elevator like she was trying to find a way out. She was quite pretty, Richard supposed, and her summery dress, though a little unseasonal for September, clung to her figure in all the right places. She turned to the emergency call intercom and started pressing the buttons, but all she got back was static. There was no-one on the other end.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Richard suggested, “We might as well rest our legs while we wait for the power to come back on.”
The woman stared at Richard, then delicately sat herself down on the elevator floor. Richard, in turn, did the same.
“You aren’t from round here, are you?” the woman observed.
Richard chuckled, not quite believing that he’d actually heard an American use that phrase, “No, I’m English,” he said, leaning towards her and offering her hand, “My name’s Richard.”
“Patricia,” the woman said, shaking Richard’s hand, “Pleasure.”
“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine,” Richard smiled pleasantly.
“No,” Patricia shook her head, “That’s my name – Patricia Pleasure.”
Richard bit his lip, trying not to laugh, “Is that your real name?”
“I know, right?” Patricia rolled her eyes, “I like to get telling it to people out of the way as soon as possible, that way it doesn’t come as a surprise later. It would have been bad enough growing up with the surname Pleasure without my parents giving me an alliterative first name to go with it.”
“You think that’s bad?” Richard shook his head, “My surname is Tracy.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Patricia looked confused, “Richard Tracy sounds okay.”
“Not if you shorten Richard to Dick,” Richard said.
Patricia mulled this over in her head, then realised what Richard was getting at, “Dick Tracy? Like the Warren Beatty movie?”
“Yep,” Richard smiled, “And the comic books before that!”
“That must have been rough,” Patricia commented.
“Not as rough as being Ms Pleasure,” Richard laughed.
“Some people used to call me Trixie for short,” Patricia noted.
Richard burst out laughing, “Trixie Pleasure?” he said between guffaws.
“Stop it,” Patricia said, but she couldn’t help smiling.
“So,” Richard said after he’d stopped laughing, “What do you do for a living, Trixie Pleasure?”
“I work for a bank,” Patricia told him, “pretty boring stuff, really. And stop calling me Trixie, Dick.”
“Sorry,” Richard apologised.
“What about you?” Patricia asked, “What brings you to New York City?”
“Work mainly,” Richard told her, “I’m a photographer for a newspaper. I’ve been here on business, but today I thought I’d get up early and take in the views. Maybe get some nice shots to blow up and put on my wall at home.”
“Sounds nice,” Patricia smiled, “What about your wife? Is she still at home with the kids?”
“Oh, I’m not married,” Richard smiled, showing her his ring-free fingers.
“Me either,” Patricia smiled back.
“Now, how can you still be single?” Richard asked, purposely oozing with charm.
“Probably because lesbianism is still frowned upon,” Patricia replied.
If Richard had have been drinking, he’d have done a spit take, “Come again?” he stammered.
“I’m kidding,” Patricia chuckled, then shrugged, “I guess I’m single because I never met the right guy,” she told him.
“That’s a shame,” Richard said, “about the lesbianism. I could have got right into that.”
“Oh, shut up,” Patricia smiled, punching Richard gently on the arm.
As she did so, there was another loud booming noise, this one sounding even closer.
“What the hell was that?” Patricia shouted, moving closer to Richard.
“Search me,” Richard said, looking at his watch. It was almost five past nine – they’d been trapped in the elevator for twenty minutes.
“Maybe it was the fire crew breaking into the elevator shaft,” Patricia suggested, then added, “God, I hope so.”
Richard looked at Patricia, taking her hand and giving it a comforting squeeze. As he did so, the red emergency lights suddenly went out, plunging the two of them into darkness.
Patricia started crying in the darkness, and Richard could feel her shaking as she gripped his hand tighter.
“It’s okay,” Richard told her, “have you got a phone? We can use the light from it to see.”
“The battery’s almost dead,” Patricia said, fumbling blindly in her bag, “I usually leave charging it until I get to work.”
Richard waited to see if Patricia’s phone light would come on. He didn’t have a phone with him; it didn’t work in the USA in any case, so he only kept it in his hotel room for looking up contact numbers and the like. As he wondered if he’d ever see anything again, a faint light came on, and he could see Patricia’s dimly lit face staring back at him in the darkness.
“The battery only has one bar,” she told Richard, “I don’t know how long the light will last.”
“That’s okay,” Richard told her, “if that was the fire service, I’m sure they’ll have us out of here in no time.”
Patricia nodded in agreement, but Richard didn’t think she looked too convinced.
“So,” Richard began, trying to think of something to take Patricia’s mind off their current situation, “What do you do in your spare time?”
“You mean other than getting trapped in elevators?” Patricia quipped.
Richard shrugged, “Yeah.”
Patricia smiled in the dim light from her phone, “Not much, really,” she admitted, “I guess I just work, go home, and go to bed.”
“Sounds like fun to me,” Richard smiled.
“I watch movies, if that’s the sort of thing you mean,” Patricia volunteered.
Richard perked up, “What kind of movies?” he asked.
A loud creak from above their heads tore Patricia’s attention away from the conversation. After a little while she answered, “Does it matter?”
Richard tilted his head, “I just thought that maybe we could catch a movie together after this, maybe go on a date tonight, if you like?”
Patricia started to chuckled a little, but there was no energy behind it, “Are you honestly trying to pick me up?” she asked.
Richard shrugged, “What better place to pick up girls than in a stuck lift?” he asked.
Patricia smiled, “I guess it couldn’t hurt to go on a date,” she said, “And I still haven’t seen Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.”
Richard pulled a face, Yuck! That looks like such a chick-flick!”
Patricia smiled, “You should just be grateful of my company, Dicky.”
Richard smiled, “Hey, I just noticed – together we could be Tricky Dicky!”
Patricia shuddered, “Oh, can you imagine? We’d make such a sickening couple. Wearing matching shirts and collectively calling ourselves Tricky Dicky! People would hate us.”
“I dunno,” Richard shrugged, “It might be nice.”
Patricia smiled and rested her head on Richard’s shoulder, “I hope they get us out soon,” she said.
“Not too soon,” Richard smiled, stroking her hair.
As the two relaxed into each other’s arms, a crackle came from the emergency intercom.
“Hello?” a voice spoke, “Is anyone in there?”
Patricia jumped to her feet, “Yes!” she shouted, pressing the speak button, “We’re trapped in here. How long until you can get us out?”
There was a silent pause, then the voice spoke again, “We’re not in the building,” the voice said. “The power went off when the first plane hit the North tower—“
“Plane?” Richard repeated, “What are you talking about?”
There was another pause, then the voice said, “A number of planes have been hijacked by terrorists. As I said, one hit the North tower, and a little while ago another flew into the South tower – the tower you’re in.”
“So, can you get us out?” Patricia asked, her voice shaking.
After another pause. The voice spoke again, quivering slightly, “We’re doing everything we can.”
Then the intercom fell silent.
Patricia looked at Richard, “Can they get us out?” she asked him, sitting back down on the floor of the elevator.
Richard stared blankly for a moment, then smiled as best he could.
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” he said, though not believing it himself, “Anyway, they have to get us out of here. Otherwise I can’t take you on that date, can I?”
Patricia cheered a little, looking at Richard in the dim light that emanated from her cell phone. She nuzzled in next to Richard again, and sighed, “What time is it?” she asked.
Richard looked dimly at the screen of Patricia’s cell phone, choosing not to bother with his watch, “Almost ten o’clock,” he told her.
“I’m almost an hour late for work,” she smiled, “My bosses are going to kill me.”
“I’m sure they’ll understand,” Richard told her, and the two of them relaxed into each other’s arms, waiting for whatever would come next...
Originally Posted 13/7/2015
Result - Joint 3rd Place
The elevator doors were slowly closing as he stumbled between them, setting off the sensors and sending the doors slowly opening again. He gasped for breath as he readjusted the straps of his camera bag and stood up straight, facing the doors. Glancing to his left, he caught sight of a frustrated looking young woman. Clearly she was glaring at him for delaying her by a fraction of a minute, but he didn’t care. Choosing to ignore the woman’s stare, he pressed the button for the observation deck and waited for the doors to close.
Once the doors were closed, Richard quickly checked the time on his watch. It was a quarter to nine, so he should have plenty of time to get there before nine and get a sweet spot to set up his camera equipment. He couldn’t wait to see the panoramic view of New York from the top of one of its highest buildings.
As he smiled to himself, he heard a loud thumping noise and the elevator ground to a halt. The lights went out and the red emergency lights came on, flickering slightly as if they were on their last legs.
“What the hell was that?” the woman suddenly spoke up. Richard glanced over at her, seeing her gripping the hand rail with panic.
“Seems like a power cut?” Richard said, “Do you work in this building?”
“Yes,” the woman replied, “and there’ve been power outages before, but nothing that felt like that!”
“I’m sure they’ll have us out in no time at all,” Richard said calmly, “there’s no need to panic.”
“Who’s panicking?” the woman said in a panicky voice.
Richard looked her up and down, “Nobody?” he said flatly.
The woman tutted, then started looking around the elevator like she was trying to find a way out. She was quite pretty, Richard supposed, and her summery dress, though a little unseasonal for September, clung to her figure in all the right places. She turned to the emergency call intercom and started pressing the buttons, but all she got back was static. There was no-one on the other end.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Richard suggested, “We might as well rest our legs while we wait for the power to come back on.”
The woman stared at Richard, then delicately sat herself down on the elevator floor. Richard, in turn, did the same.
“You aren’t from round here, are you?” the woman observed.
Richard chuckled, not quite believing that he’d actually heard an American use that phrase, “No, I’m English,” he said, leaning towards her and offering her hand, “My name’s Richard.”
“Patricia,” the woman said, shaking Richard’s hand, “Pleasure.”
“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine,” Richard smiled pleasantly.
“No,” Patricia shook her head, “That’s my name – Patricia Pleasure.”
Richard bit his lip, trying not to laugh, “Is that your real name?”
“I know, right?” Patricia rolled her eyes, “I like to get telling it to people out of the way as soon as possible, that way it doesn’t come as a surprise later. It would have been bad enough growing up with the surname Pleasure without my parents giving me an alliterative first name to go with it.”
“You think that’s bad?” Richard shook his head, “My surname is Tracy.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Patricia looked confused, “Richard Tracy sounds okay.”
“Not if you shorten Richard to Dick,” Richard said.
Patricia mulled this over in her head, then realised what Richard was getting at, “Dick Tracy? Like the Warren Beatty movie?”
“Yep,” Richard smiled, “And the comic books before that!”
“That must have been rough,” Patricia commented.
“Not as rough as being Ms Pleasure,” Richard laughed.
“Some people used to call me Trixie for short,” Patricia noted.
Richard burst out laughing, “Trixie Pleasure?” he said between guffaws.
“Stop it,” Patricia said, but she couldn’t help smiling.
“So,” Richard said after he’d stopped laughing, “What do you do for a living, Trixie Pleasure?”
“I work for a bank,” Patricia told him, “pretty boring stuff, really. And stop calling me Trixie, Dick.”
“Sorry,” Richard apologised.
“What about you?” Patricia asked, “What brings you to New York City?”
“Work mainly,” Richard told her, “I’m a photographer for a newspaper. I’ve been here on business, but today I thought I’d get up early and take in the views. Maybe get some nice shots to blow up and put on my wall at home.”
“Sounds nice,” Patricia smiled, “What about your wife? Is she still at home with the kids?”
“Oh, I’m not married,” Richard smiled, showing her his ring-free fingers.
“Me either,” Patricia smiled back.
“Now, how can you still be single?” Richard asked, purposely oozing with charm.
“Probably because lesbianism is still frowned upon,” Patricia replied.
If Richard had have been drinking, he’d have done a spit take, “Come again?” he stammered.
“I’m kidding,” Patricia chuckled, then shrugged, “I guess I’m single because I never met the right guy,” she told him.
“That’s a shame,” Richard said, “about the lesbianism. I could have got right into that.”
“Oh, shut up,” Patricia smiled, punching Richard gently on the arm.
As she did so, there was another loud booming noise, this one sounding even closer.
“What the hell was that?” Patricia shouted, moving closer to Richard.
“Search me,” Richard said, looking at his watch. It was almost five past nine – they’d been trapped in the elevator for twenty minutes.
“Maybe it was the fire crew breaking into the elevator shaft,” Patricia suggested, then added, “God, I hope so.”
Richard looked at Patricia, taking her hand and giving it a comforting squeeze. As he did so, the red emergency lights suddenly went out, plunging the two of them into darkness.
Patricia started crying in the darkness, and Richard could feel her shaking as she gripped his hand tighter.
“It’s okay,” Richard told her, “have you got a phone? We can use the light from it to see.”
“The battery’s almost dead,” Patricia said, fumbling blindly in her bag, “I usually leave charging it until I get to work.”
Richard waited to see if Patricia’s phone light would come on. He didn’t have a phone with him; it didn’t work in the USA in any case, so he only kept it in his hotel room for looking up contact numbers and the like. As he wondered if he’d ever see anything again, a faint light came on, and he could see Patricia’s dimly lit face staring back at him in the darkness.
“The battery only has one bar,” she told Richard, “I don’t know how long the light will last.”
“That’s okay,” Richard told her, “if that was the fire service, I’m sure they’ll have us out of here in no time.”
Patricia nodded in agreement, but Richard didn’t think she looked too convinced.
“So,” Richard began, trying to think of something to take Patricia’s mind off their current situation, “What do you do in your spare time?”
“You mean other than getting trapped in elevators?” Patricia quipped.
Richard shrugged, “Yeah.”
Patricia smiled in the dim light from her phone, “Not much, really,” she admitted, “I guess I just work, go home, and go to bed.”
“Sounds like fun to me,” Richard smiled.
“I watch movies, if that’s the sort of thing you mean,” Patricia volunteered.
Richard perked up, “What kind of movies?” he asked.
A loud creak from above their heads tore Patricia’s attention away from the conversation. After a little while she answered, “Does it matter?”
Richard tilted his head, “I just thought that maybe we could catch a movie together after this, maybe go on a date tonight, if you like?”
Patricia started to chuckled a little, but there was no energy behind it, “Are you honestly trying to pick me up?” she asked.
Richard shrugged, “What better place to pick up girls than in a stuck lift?” he asked.
Patricia smiled, “I guess it couldn’t hurt to go on a date,” she said, “And I still haven’t seen Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.”
Richard pulled a face, Yuck! That looks like such a chick-flick!”
Patricia smiled, “You should just be grateful of my company, Dicky.”
Richard smiled, “Hey, I just noticed – together we could be Tricky Dicky!”
Patricia shuddered, “Oh, can you imagine? We’d make such a sickening couple. Wearing matching shirts and collectively calling ourselves Tricky Dicky! People would hate us.”
“I dunno,” Richard shrugged, “It might be nice.”
Patricia smiled and rested her head on Richard’s shoulder, “I hope they get us out soon,” she said.
“Not too soon,” Richard smiled, stroking her hair.
As the two relaxed into each other’s arms, a crackle came from the emergency intercom.
“Hello?” a voice spoke, “Is anyone in there?”
Patricia jumped to her feet, “Yes!” she shouted, pressing the speak button, “We’re trapped in here. How long until you can get us out?”
There was a silent pause, then the voice spoke again, “We’re not in the building,” the voice said. “The power went off when the first plane hit the North tower—“
“Plane?” Richard repeated, “What are you talking about?”
There was another pause, then the voice said, “A number of planes have been hijacked by terrorists. As I said, one hit the North tower, and a little while ago another flew into the South tower – the tower you’re in.”
“So, can you get us out?” Patricia asked, her voice shaking.
After another pause. The voice spoke again, quivering slightly, “We’re doing everything we can.”
Then the intercom fell silent.
Patricia looked at Richard, “Can they get us out?” she asked him, sitting back down on the floor of the elevator.
Richard stared blankly for a moment, then smiled as best he could.
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” he said, though not believing it himself, “Anyway, they have to get us out of here. Otherwise I can’t take you on that date, can I?”
Patricia cheered a little, looking at Richard in the dim light that emanated from her cell phone. She nuzzled in next to Richard again, and sighed, “What time is it?” she asked.
Richard looked dimly at the screen of Patricia’s cell phone, choosing not to bother with his watch, “Almost ten o’clock,” he told her.
“I’m almost an hour late for work,” she smiled, “My bosses are going to kill me.”
“I’m sure they’ll understand,” Richard told her, and the two of them relaxed into each other’s arms, waiting for whatever would come next...
Originally Posted 13/7/2015
Result - Joint 3rd Place
July 12, 2015
Poem : Midnight Feast
When I try to get some sleep
But feel my stomach start to churn
I clamber from my comfy bed
In search of that for which I yearn
I stumble through the corridor
Walk past the bathroom and the lounge
And wind up in the kitchen where
I search for something I can scrounge
I open up that magic door
That shines a light into the gloom
It holds a virtual smorgasbord
Which can be eaten with a spoon
I dive into what I can find
Leftovers from another meal
Some food that’s past its use by date
(Thank God for stomachs made of steel)
I sleepily begin to eat
To gorge, to masticate, to chew
To devour all that I see
Until all I need is to pooh
And so I leave that darkened room
And gently close that magic door
I’ll wonder in the morning where
All that food went, but now I snore.
Originally Posted 12/7/2015
Result - Joint 3rd Place
But feel my stomach start to churn
I clamber from my comfy bed
In search of that for which I yearn
I stumble through the corridor
Walk past the bathroom and the lounge
And wind up in the kitchen where
I search for something I can scrounge
I open up that magic door
That shines a light into the gloom
It holds a virtual smorgasbord
Which can be eaten with a spoon
I dive into what I can find
Leftovers from another meal
Some food that’s past its use by date
(Thank God for stomachs made of steel)
I sleepily begin to eat
To gorge, to masticate, to chew
To devour all that I see
Until all I need is to pooh
And so I leave that darkened room
And gently close that magic door
I’ll wonder in the morning where
All that food went, but now I snore.
Originally Posted 12/7/2015
Result - Joint 3rd Place
July 7, 2015
Short Story : The House On The Corner
Lucas and Mason had been best friends forever. Well, when you’re eleven years old, ten years can feel like forever. Ever since they met on their first say in day care, and Lucas had offered Mason his ball to play with, they had been inseparable.
Over the years they had found many interests to strengthen their bond, and the strongest of these was their fondness for horror. Ever since their first Halloween when Mason had dressed as Frankenstein’s Monster and Lucas had dressed as The Wolf Man, the two of them had shared their fondness for all things supernatural and macabre.
Even at their young age, they’d read all the classics; Frankenstein and Dracula, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, everything by Lovecraft and Poe, and they had an awesome knowledge of everything you could imagine that might keep you awake at night. They’d moved on to other more modern horror writers, like King and Koontz, but their personal favourite had always been Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House.
One evening, on their walk home from their first day at secondary school, they came across an abandoned house they had never passed by before.
“Look at that place,” Lucas smiled widely as the two of them stopped outside to stare at its gloriously scary exterior, “it look just how Shirley Jackson described in her book.”
“Do you think it’s actually haunted?” Mason asked, wide eyed at the idea that they might have found an honest to goodness haunted house.
“Don’t be silly,” Lucas laughed, “those book we read are all good fun, but there’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“Are you sure about that?” asked Mason.
“Of course I am,” Lucas scoffed.
“Would you place money on it?” Mason asked, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.
Lucas narrowed his eyes at him, “What would I have to do?” he asked.
“Spend the night in that old house,” Mason grinned, folding his arms across his chest.
Lucas stared at his friend, not sure whether he was joking or not, “What’s in it for me if I do?” he asked.
“Twenty pounds,” Mason told him triumphantly.
“Twenty pounds?” Lucas repeated in disbelief, “Where did you get twenty pounds from?”
“I saved it from my birthday money last month,” he told him, “So, what do you say?”
“What do we tell our parents?” Lucas asked, “I mean, we’re only eleven years old – they won’t let us stay out all night.”
“We say you’re staying at my place,” Mason shrugged, “It’s no big deal.”
“But what about you?” Lucas asked.
“I’ll be staying at my place,” Mason told Lucas, “I’m not saying at that house with you – you have to stay on your own.”
Lucas frowned, worried about staying the night in an old abandoned house. What if there were junkies, he asked himself, he’d have to hide from them if they started using the place as a shooting gallery...
...And what if the house really was haunted...
But there were no such thing as ghosts, right?
Plus, there was the twenty pounds to think about.
“Okay then,” Lucas spat into the palm of his hand and gestured with it to Mason, “You’re on.”
That night, after having told his parents he was staying at Mason’s for the night, Lucas trudged down the street to the old abandoned house, alone. He stared up at the windows that looked like eyes, and the doorway that looked like a gateway to hell, and he swallowed nervously.
He couldn’t say why, but Lucas was terrified.
As he stared at the house, his cell phone suddenly rang in his pocket, and his heart leapt into his throat. Scrabbling for the phone in his jacket pocket, he picked it up and answered.
“What do you want?” Lucas asked.
“I just wanted to see if you got in there okay,” Mason said from the other end of the line.
“I’ve only just arrived,” Lucas told him, “I haven’t even checked for any open windows yet.”
“Well, if there aren’t any, make sure you break in through the back door,” Mason advised.
“Break in?” Lucas repeated, “You never said anything about breaking in!”
“Well, you might have to break in if the doors are locked,” Mason said, “I mean, how often have you seen anyone just leave their front door open for any burglars to just waltz inside?”
“Never,” Lucas admitted, “You’re right. I’ll check the windows too, then give you a call back if I have to break in.”
Lucas ended the call on his phone and put it back in his jacket pocket before hoisting his backpack into a more comfortable position on his shoulders.
He trudged up the path to the front door and tried the handle. Just as Mason had predicted, it was locked tight, so Lucas was forced to walk round the side of the house and try the back door.
That too was locked.
Lucas stroked his chin. Maybe he was going to have to break in after all.
It was as he was considering his options that he heard a gentle banging noise. He looked over at where the noise was coming from and saw a small window rattling in the breeze. Cautiously he trod over to it, taking a look to see if he’d be able to get through.
The window was small, and close to the ground, and Lucas would never be able to get through with his backpack on, but if he pushed that through first...
Lucas took the backpack off and pressed down on it to make it as thin as possible, then started to squeeze it through the opening in the window. He pushed as hard as he could until, with a sudden pop, the backpack flew out from between his fingers and fell to the ground below. Lucas peeked through the window to see if he could make out where it had landed, but the room was too dark.
Swallowing nervously, Lucas checked he still had his cell phone in his pocket, then started to slowly lower his legs through the window. Once he was up to his waist, he tried to feel around with his feet, but he couldn’t feel the floor. Furrowing his brow and hoping that it wasn’t a big drop, Lucas edged the top half of his body through the gap until the only part of him that was still outside was his head and his arms. Bracing his hands either side of the window frame, Lucas managed to get his head through the gap, then let go of the frame.
His body fell about a foot; his heels hit his backpack and made him lose his balance in the dark. With no idea what he could grab onto for support, he flailed wildly, falling backwards onto the cold stone floor. With his landing he heard a sharp crack, and he groaned audibly.
He’d landed on his cell phone.
Still sitting in darkness, Lucas reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. He could feel that the screen was cracked, and he anxiously pressed the buttons that surrounded the phone to see if it would come to life. There was a brief flicker of light from the screen, before it died completely.
“Dammit!” Lucas cursed, realising he may have lost his only source of light.
Reaching around in the dark, Lucas located his backpack and hauled it onto his shoulders, then started slowly walking away from the window with his arms reaching out in front of himself. It was a little disconcerting, trying to find his way in the dark, but it didn’t take long for him to find the doorway, and the light switch.
Obviously, the lights didn’t work – Lucas was in an abandoned house, for crying out loud. You don’t get many of them with the electric left running for free. Realising that he had a choice of either sitting in the dark or using the matches he’d stashed in his backpack, Lucas carefully removed his backpack and tried to locate the matches by touch alone.
As he searched, he heard a creaking noise coming from above him. The house was three stories high, and with him sitting in what he could only imagine was the basement, that left a lot of the house for the noise to have come from. Starting to get very scared, Lucas rummaged with more fervour through his bag until he heard the unmistakeable rattle of a box of matches.
Pulling them out, he placed the box carefully on the floor and levered his foot over it so he wouldn’t lose where it was, then slung his backpack back onto his shoulders. Once this was done he reached down for the box of matches, fumbled one out and struck it down the side of the box.
The room that suddenly became illuminated looked to Lucas like something out of a classic horror movie. There weren’t any corpses or instruments of torture – nothing as obvious as that – but it just had that feeling. A number of boxes lined the walls, and as Lucas wondered what might be in them, his match burned down to his fingertips, scolding his hand. Instinctively he threw the match to the ground, licking his fingers before trying to light another match.
With the second match lit, Lucas decided to try to find some candles, or maybe even a torch, so he wouldn’t have to go through the burning finger pain again, and also to preserve his matches. He started peering into the boxes that lined the room, but they only seemed to be filled with old clothes and unwanted books. He pulled out one of the books and looked at the cover. It didn’t look very interesting, so he put it back, throwing his match down to the ground before lighting a new one.
As he walked out into the hallway, he spotted a candlestick sitting on a table. This place really was old, he thought to himself, lighting the candle and picking it up. Not many modern houses would have candlesticks lying around the place – candles perhaps for bath time, but not actual candlesticks. Now that he had a light things shouldn’t be so spooky, though the flickering flame did create much more of a haunted house atmosphere than a simple battery operated torch would have done.
Bravely Lucas ventured up the stairs, each step creaking under his weight as he began to check out the rest of the house. When he reached landing, he glanced left and right, looking at the few rooms that were on this floor. One of them was clearly a bedroom, so he ventured inside to see if there was somewhere he could sleep for the night.
The room was completely bare except for a four poster bed in the middle of the room. The mosquito netting that hung down the sides billowed in a breeze that came from a cracked pane in the window and Lucas swallowed nervously as he walked towards the bed. What if there was someone in it, he thought, what if there was a dead body, or something worse...
Lucas reached out with his free hand and grasped a corner of the netting, counting to three in his head before pulling it back. As he did so something flew into his face, and he screamed, dropping the candle to the ground.
Thankfully it had only been flies, which had swarmed at him when they sensed new blood. He crouched down, picking up the extinguished candlestick and lighting it once more with another match.
He looked down at the bed, which thankfully was empty except for a strange stain in the middle of the sheets. It was hard to tell, but it could have been blood, though it was far more likely to have been faecal matter.
Lucas sighed. Well, he wasn’t going to be sleeping there, that was for sure, and it was pretty cold in there because of the broken window. With an air of resignation, Lucas started to check out the other room; there was a bathroom and what looked like had once been a study, but that was all. The staircase that led to the next floor was broken in places, and he didn’t care to risk trying his weight on the rickety looking steps, so he headed back down the stairs.
Lucas found himself in the living space of the house, and he sat down cross-legged on the floor, placing the candlestick next to him. There was no furniture other than a coffee table with a missing leg and a wardrobe that looked like it had seen better days. Why the wardrobe was in the living room was anybody’s guess, but at least there weren’t any junkies shooting up, threatening him with knives or even guns! And definitely no blood slash poop stains!
Taking off his backpack again, Lucas undid the zip and pulled out his Wolf Man lunchbox. He clipped the top open and pulled out a sandwich, taking a bite and putting it back. Then, taking a sip from his thermos, he breathed a heavy sigh.
It didn’t look like the house was haunted after all.
What an easy twenty pounds, he chuckled, pulling a thin blanket from his bag and pulling it round himself. Using his backpack as a pillow, Lucas tucked the blanket under his chin and slowly fell asleep.
*
The next morning Lucas woke up with a start. Sometime in the night the candle had burned out, so the morning light was all he had to help him see around the room. He could hear a noise coming from the direction of the front door, and he jumped to his feet with a start!
What if it was the owners? He’d get in so much trouble for breaking in!
Realising he only had a short time to spare, he grabbed his blanket and backpack and ran to the old wardrobe, clambering inside. As he pulled the door closed on the wardrobe, he heard the voices of two men speaking.
“They said they could see a light in here last night,” one voice said, “they think there might be squatters.”
“Well we better check, Terry,” the second voice spoke, “the last thing we want is squatters in here.”
Lucas held his breath as he heard the footsteps of the two men coming into the living room. If they found him, he was done for.
“Well, there’s your light source, anyway, Greg,” the man whose name appeared to be Terry spoke up, pointing at the candlestick Lucas had left in the middle of the room, “it was probably just some junkie using the place for the night. It looks like they’ve gone now, anyway.”
“Well, we better make sure,” the man called Greg said, “otherwise we might get in trouble.”
Lucas listened as the man started to check all the rooms in the house, and he bit his lip to stop himself from screaming. If they found him, his parents would never forgive him for lying to them. He pulled the blanket around his ears, hoping they didn’t look in the wardrobe.
“Is anyone here?” Greg called out, sounding like he was back near the front door, ‘this is your last chance.”
After a moments silence, Terry spoke up, “There’s no one here,” he said, “Let’s go back to the crane.”
Lucas breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the front door close. Now all he had to do was wait a few minutes to make sure the coast was clear, then he could make a break for it.
Sitting quietly in the wardrobe, Lucas thought about how he’d spend his money. Twenty pounds wasn’t much, but he could buy a couple of books with it, and anything left over he could put towards some chocolate bars. I should have brought some chocolate bars last night, he told himself, as he heard what he assumed was the engine of the vehicle belonging to the two men start up.
Then a loud crashing noise dragged Lucas out of his reverie as he felt something smash down on top of the wardrobe. The tiny space in which he hid toppled forward and sideways, and Lucas fell against the doors which were now trapped against the floor.
What had the two men said again – let’s go back to the crane?
Oh my God – they were a demolition crew!
Lucas listened on in terror as he heard rubble crashing down on the wardrobe that had now become his tomb. Maybe, if he was lucky, Mason would get here soon and let the demolition crew know what had happened...
He stared at the back of the wardrobe as it buckled under the weight of what he could only assume was the entirety of the building he’d just spent the night in.
Maybe he’d be okay?
Maybe...
Originally Posted 7/7/2015
Result - Joint 1st Place
Over the years they had found many interests to strengthen their bond, and the strongest of these was their fondness for horror. Ever since their first Halloween when Mason had dressed as Frankenstein’s Monster and Lucas had dressed as The Wolf Man, the two of them had shared their fondness for all things supernatural and macabre.
Even at their young age, they’d read all the classics; Frankenstein and Dracula, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, everything by Lovecraft and Poe, and they had an awesome knowledge of everything you could imagine that might keep you awake at night. They’d moved on to other more modern horror writers, like King and Koontz, but their personal favourite had always been Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House.
One evening, on their walk home from their first day at secondary school, they came across an abandoned house they had never passed by before.
“Look at that place,” Lucas smiled widely as the two of them stopped outside to stare at its gloriously scary exterior, “it look just how Shirley Jackson described in her book.”
“Do you think it’s actually haunted?” Mason asked, wide eyed at the idea that they might have found an honest to goodness haunted house.
“Don’t be silly,” Lucas laughed, “those book we read are all good fun, but there’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“Are you sure about that?” asked Mason.
“Of course I am,” Lucas scoffed.
“Would you place money on it?” Mason asked, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.
Lucas narrowed his eyes at him, “What would I have to do?” he asked.
“Spend the night in that old house,” Mason grinned, folding his arms across his chest.
Lucas stared at his friend, not sure whether he was joking or not, “What’s in it for me if I do?” he asked.
“Twenty pounds,” Mason told him triumphantly.
“Twenty pounds?” Lucas repeated in disbelief, “Where did you get twenty pounds from?”
“I saved it from my birthday money last month,” he told him, “So, what do you say?”
“What do we tell our parents?” Lucas asked, “I mean, we’re only eleven years old – they won’t let us stay out all night.”
“We say you’re staying at my place,” Mason shrugged, “It’s no big deal.”
“But what about you?” Lucas asked.
“I’ll be staying at my place,” Mason told Lucas, “I’m not saying at that house with you – you have to stay on your own.”
Lucas frowned, worried about staying the night in an old abandoned house. What if there were junkies, he asked himself, he’d have to hide from them if they started using the place as a shooting gallery...
...And what if the house really was haunted...
But there were no such thing as ghosts, right?
Plus, there was the twenty pounds to think about.
“Okay then,” Lucas spat into the palm of his hand and gestured with it to Mason, “You’re on.”
That night, after having told his parents he was staying at Mason’s for the night, Lucas trudged down the street to the old abandoned house, alone. He stared up at the windows that looked like eyes, and the doorway that looked like a gateway to hell, and he swallowed nervously.
He couldn’t say why, but Lucas was terrified.
As he stared at the house, his cell phone suddenly rang in his pocket, and his heart leapt into his throat. Scrabbling for the phone in his jacket pocket, he picked it up and answered.
“What do you want?” Lucas asked.
“I just wanted to see if you got in there okay,” Mason said from the other end of the line.
“I’ve only just arrived,” Lucas told him, “I haven’t even checked for any open windows yet.”
“Well, if there aren’t any, make sure you break in through the back door,” Mason advised.
“Break in?” Lucas repeated, “You never said anything about breaking in!”
“Well, you might have to break in if the doors are locked,” Mason said, “I mean, how often have you seen anyone just leave their front door open for any burglars to just waltz inside?”
“Never,” Lucas admitted, “You’re right. I’ll check the windows too, then give you a call back if I have to break in.”
Lucas ended the call on his phone and put it back in his jacket pocket before hoisting his backpack into a more comfortable position on his shoulders.
He trudged up the path to the front door and tried the handle. Just as Mason had predicted, it was locked tight, so Lucas was forced to walk round the side of the house and try the back door.
That too was locked.
Lucas stroked his chin. Maybe he was going to have to break in after all.
It was as he was considering his options that he heard a gentle banging noise. He looked over at where the noise was coming from and saw a small window rattling in the breeze. Cautiously he trod over to it, taking a look to see if he’d be able to get through.
The window was small, and close to the ground, and Lucas would never be able to get through with his backpack on, but if he pushed that through first...
Lucas took the backpack off and pressed down on it to make it as thin as possible, then started to squeeze it through the opening in the window. He pushed as hard as he could until, with a sudden pop, the backpack flew out from between his fingers and fell to the ground below. Lucas peeked through the window to see if he could make out where it had landed, but the room was too dark.
Swallowing nervously, Lucas checked he still had his cell phone in his pocket, then started to slowly lower his legs through the window. Once he was up to his waist, he tried to feel around with his feet, but he couldn’t feel the floor. Furrowing his brow and hoping that it wasn’t a big drop, Lucas edged the top half of his body through the gap until the only part of him that was still outside was his head and his arms. Bracing his hands either side of the window frame, Lucas managed to get his head through the gap, then let go of the frame.
His body fell about a foot; his heels hit his backpack and made him lose his balance in the dark. With no idea what he could grab onto for support, he flailed wildly, falling backwards onto the cold stone floor. With his landing he heard a sharp crack, and he groaned audibly.
He’d landed on his cell phone.
Still sitting in darkness, Lucas reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. He could feel that the screen was cracked, and he anxiously pressed the buttons that surrounded the phone to see if it would come to life. There was a brief flicker of light from the screen, before it died completely.
“Dammit!” Lucas cursed, realising he may have lost his only source of light.
Reaching around in the dark, Lucas located his backpack and hauled it onto his shoulders, then started slowly walking away from the window with his arms reaching out in front of himself. It was a little disconcerting, trying to find his way in the dark, but it didn’t take long for him to find the doorway, and the light switch.
Obviously, the lights didn’t work – Lucas was in an abandoned house, for crying out loud. You don’t get many of them with the electric left running for free. Realising that he had a choice of either sitting in the dark or using the matches he’d stashed in his backpack, Lucas carefully removed his backpack and tried to locate the matches by touch alone.
As he searched, he heard a creaking noise coming from above him. The house was three stories high, and with him sitting in what he could only imagine was the basement, that left a lot of the house for the noise to have come from. Starting to get very scared, Lucas rummaged with more fervour through his bag until he heard the unmistakeable rattle of a box of matches.
Pulling them out, he placed the box carefully on the floor and levered his foot over it so he wouldn’t lose where it was, then slung his backpack back onto his shoulders. Once this was done he reached down for the box of matches, fumbled one out and struck it down the side of the box.
The room that suddenly became illuminated looked to Lucas like something out of a classic horror movie. There weren’t any corpses or instruments of torture – nothing as obvious as that – but it just had that feeling. A number of boxes lined the walls, and as Lucas wondered what might be in them, his match burned down to his fingertips, scolding his hand. Instinctively he threw the match to the ground, licking his fingers before trying to light another match.
With the second match lit, Lucas decided to try to find some candles, or maybe even a torch, so he wouldn’t have to go through the burning finger pain again, and also to preserve his matches. He started peering into the boxes that lined the room, but they only seemed to be filled with old clothes and unwanted books. He pulled out one of the books and looked at the cover. It didn’t look very interesting, so he put it back, throwing his match down to the ground before lighting a new one.
As he walked out into the hallway, he spotted a candlestick sitting on a table. This place really was old, he thought to himself, lighting the candle and picking it up. Not many modern houses would have candlesticks lying around the place – candles perhaps for bath time, but not actual candlesticks. Now that he had a light things shouldn’t be so spooky, though the flickering flame did create much more of a haunted house atmosphere than a simple battery operated torch would have done.
Bravely Lucas ventured up the stairs, each step creaking under his weight as he began to check out the rest of the house. When he reached landing, he glanced left and right, looking at the few rooms that were on this floor. One of them was clearly a bedroom, so he ventured inside to see if there was somewhere he could sleep for the night.
The room was completely bare except for a four poster bed in the middle of the room. The mosquito netting that hung down the sides billowed in a breeze that came from a cracked pane in the window and Lucas swallowed nervously as he walked towards the bed. What if there was someone in it, he thought, what if there was a dead body, or something worse...
Lucas reached out with his free hand and grasped a corner of the netting, counting to three in his head before pulling it back. As he did so something flew into his face, and he screamed, dropping the candle to the ground.
Thankfully it had only been flies, which had swarmed at him when they sensed new blood. He crouched down, picking up the extinguished candlestick and lighting it once more with another match.
He looked down at the bed, which thankfully was empty except for a strange stain in the middle of the sheets. It was hard to tell, but it could have been blood, though it was far more likely to have been faecal matter.
Lucas sighed. Well, he wasn’t going to be sleeping there, that was for sure, and it was pretty cold in there because of the broken window. With an air of resignation, Lucas started to check out the other room; there was a bathroom and what looked like had once been a study, but that was all. The staircase that led to the next floor was broken in places, and he didn’t care to risk trying his weight on the rickety looking steps, so he headed back down the stairs.
Lucas found himself in the living space of the house, and he sat down cross-legged on the floor, placing the candlestick next to him. There was no furniture other than a coffee table with a missing leg and a wardrobe that looked like it had seen better days. Why the wardrobe was in the living room was anybody’s guess, but at least there weren’t any junkies shooting up, threatening him with knives or even guns! And definitely no blood slash poop stains!
Taking off his backpack again, Lucas undid the zip and pulled out his Wolf Man lunchbox. He clipped the top open and pulled out a sandwich, taking a bite and putting it back. Then, taking a sip from his thermos, he breathed a heavy sigh.
It didn’t look like the house was haunted after all.
What an easy twenty pounds, he chuckled, pulling a thin blanket from his bag and pulling it round himself. Using his backpack as a pillow, Lucas tucked the blanket under his chin and slowly fell asleep.
*
The next morning Lucas woke up with a start. Sometime in the night the candle had burned out, so the morning light was all he had to help him see around the room. He could hear a noise coming from the direction of the front door, and he jumped to his feet with a start!
What if it was the owners? He’d get in so much trouble for breaking in!
Realising he only had a short time to spare, he grabbed his blanket and backpack and ran to the old wardrobe, clambering inside. As he pulled the door closed on the wardrobe, he heard the voices of two men speaking.
“They said they could see a light in here last night,” one voice said, “they think there might be squatters.”
“Well we better check, Terry,” the second voice spoke, “the last thing we want is squatters in here.”
Lucas held his breath as he heard the footsteps of the two men coming into the living room. If they found him, he was done for.
“Well, there’s your light source, anyway, Greg,” the man whose name appeared to be Terry spoke up, pointing at the candlestick Lucas had left in the middle of the room, “it was probably just some junkie using the place for the night. It looks like they’ve gone now, anyway.”
“Well, we better make sure,” the man called Greg said, “otherwise we might get in trouble.”
Lucas listened as the man started to check all the rooms in the house, and he bit his lip to stop himself from screaming. If they found him, his parents would never forgive him for lying to them. He pulled the blanket around his ears, hoping they didn’t look in the wardrobe.
“Is anyone here?” Greg called out, sounding like he was back near the front door, ‘this is your last chance.”
After a moments silence, Terry spoke up, “There’s no one here,” he said, “Let’s go back to the crane.”
Lucas breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the front door close. Now all he had to do was wait a few minutes to make sure the coast was clear, then he could make a break for it.
Sitting quietly in the wardrobe, Lucas thought about how he’d spend his money. Twenty pounds wasn’t much, but he could buy a couple of books with it, and anything left over he could put towards some chocolate bars. I should have brought some chocolate bars last night, he told himself, as he heard what he assumed was the engine of the vehicle belonging to the two men start up.
Then a loud crashing noise dragged Lucas out of his reverie as he felt something smash down on top of the wardrobe. The tiny space in which he hid toppled forward and sideways, and Lucas fell against the doors which were now trapped against the floor.
What had the two men said again – let’s go back to the crane?
Oh my God – they were a demolition crew!
Lucas listened on in terror as he heard rubble crashing down on the wardrobe that had now become his tomb. Maybe, if he was lucky, Mason would get here soon and let the demolition crew know what had happened...
He stared at the back of the wardrobe as it buckled under the weight of what he could only assume was the entirety of the building he’d just spent the night in.
Maybe he’d be okay?
Maybe...
Originally Posted 7/7/2015
Result - Joint 1st Place
July 5, 2015
Poem : That Claustrophobic Sensation
That claustrophobic sensation
That crawls inside your spine
That sinking feeling in your gut
That tells you that it’s time
The horror of the lonely dark
The fear of the unknown
The closing in of six tight walls
The knowing you're alone
A smell of dank and dirty air
A taste of soil and earth
A sensation of nothing good
A feeling of unbirth
That knowledge this might be the end
That thought you won’t survive
That terror no-one knows your here
Slowly buried alive!
Originally Posted 5/7/2015
Result - Joint 4th Place
That crawls inside your spine
That sinking feeling in your gut
That tells you that it’s time
The horror of the lonely dark
The fear of the unknown
The closing in of six tight walls
The knowing you're alone
A smell of dank and dirty air
A taste of soil and earth
A sensation of nothing good
A feeling of unbirth
That knowledge this might be the end
That thought you won’t survive
That terror no-one knows your here
Slowly buried alive!
Originally Posted 5/7/2015
Result - Joint 4th Place
June 29, 2015
Short Story : Love Is Blind
Greg was not a handsome man. In fact some would go so far as too call him ugly. He had a broken nose from a fall as a child, crooked teeth due his parents being unable to afford proper dentistry, and his hair was so greasy you could scrape it off and use it to fry your breakfast. He was also only five foot four, which didn’t help in a world when any man under five foot ten is considered by most women to be a midget! He may not have been Peter Dinklage or Warrick Davis, but in the eyes of any woman he fancied, he might as well have been.
Oh, and he had bad skin.
And he was fat.
Basically, Greg was not attractive.
Every day at school he was inundated with insults from his peers, ranging from simple things like grease ball, fatty or wonky nose, to more considered insults such as Sloth – not because he was lazy, but in reference to the character from The Goonies. Greg had to look that one up as it was from before his time, but once he had he soon realised why some of the kids shouted out “Hey you guys!” when he walked past.
Greg hated every day at school.
One afternoon, in biology class, Greg was sat on his own as usual, testing the acidity of potatoes with litmus paper, when an announcement came from his teacher.
“Class,” she said, “I’d like to introduce you to a new exchange student, Summer Meadows. She’s come from one of the schools on the other side of town, but don’t hold that against her.”
The class chuckled, and Greg glanced up at the girl. She stood next to the teacher, wearing dark glasses for some reason. Greg frowned – she obviously thought she was really cool, and would be yet another kid who didn’t want anything to do with him other than to use him as a sounding board for their latest batch of insults. Plus she was really good looking, which didn’t help. He looked back down at his potato.
“Can I sit here?” a voice spoke from next to Greg, and he almost dropped his vegetable on the floor. He looked around to see Summer standing next to him.
“Sure,” Greg said, going back to his potato.
“So what are you doing?” Summer asked, encroaching on Greg’s work space.
“I’m experimenting,” Greg said.
“What with?” Summer asked.
Greg rolled his eyes, “Potatoes,” he groaned, “What. Are you stupid or something?”
“No,” Summer replied, “just blind.”
Greg looked at Summer again, this time more carefully. On closer inspection he noticed that she had some sort of bandaging across her eyes, and was also carrying a stick.
Oh brother.
“I’m sorry,” Greg apologised, “I didn’t realise.”
“It’s okay,” Summer smiled, “it’s only temporary. I had to have laser surgery to remove a cataract and my eyes need to be protected from direct light. It’s a bit over the top, I know, but the doctor thought bandaging them up might speed up the process.”
“I’m not sure if that’s how it works,” Greg said, “I’m Greg, by the way.”
“I’m Summer,’ Summer said, holding out her hand to shake Greg’s.
“I know,’ said Greg, “so, why didn’t you wait until your eyes were better before coming to a new school?”
“I didn’t want to miss any more classes,” Summer said, “I’m already a few weeks behind with having changed school, and now with this...”
“Yeah,” Greg said, “playing catch up can be a real pain.”
As the class carried on, Greg and Summer chatted away, finding they had a lot in common. Greg found himself enjoying school for the first time in a long time, and he really liked Summer. She was funny and charming and knew all about his favourite past times and television shows.
When class ended, as did the school day, Summer asked Greg, “So, what do you do after school?”
“Not much,” he replied, “I usually just go home, or head to the comic shop.”
“Oh you have to show me where the comic shop is,” Summer smiled, “I just love comic books.”
“How do you read them?” Greg asked.
Summer chuckled, “Hey, I haven’t always been blind you know. In fact. It won’t be that long before I can sit down and read them again.”
Greg raised his eyebrows. Wow, a good looking girl who liked comics, he thought to himself, that’s almost as rare as a fish with a bicycle, although far more useful.
“I’ll take you to the comic shop now if you like,” he told her, and they headed to the shops.
“I’d like that,” Summer beamed, linking her arm in Greg’s.
*
A few weeks passed, and Greg and Summer had become inseparable. They hung out in class, in the cafeteria, and after school as well.
All the other kids didn’t quite understand their friendship, but seeing as Greg was such a dweeb and Summer was blind they didn’t really interfere.
Until Summer was due to get her eyes checked.
“Do you want to come with me?” Summer asked after telling Greg her exciting news, “It would be awesome to finally see you after all these weeks?”
Greg didn’t know what to do. He’d enjoyed his new found friendship with Summer, but was worried what might happen once she got her eyesight back and actually saw him for the first time.
“Do you really want me there?” Greg asked, “Wouldn’t you prefer it to be just your parents and family?”
“You’ve become like family over the past few weeks,” Summer said, “it’s weird, all the other kids at school seem to just ignore me because I’m blind, but you... you’ve been really nice to me.”
Summer grasped Greg’s hand, and he blushed.
“Okay then,” he said, “I’ll come along, but don’t run away when you see what I look like.”
“Why would I do something like that?” Summer asked.
“Well, I’m not the best looking guy in class,” Greg admitted.
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” Summer smiled, but Greg couldn’t bring himself to do the same.
“Hey,” someone suddenly called from across the hall, “hey, Sloth. What do you think you’re doing?”
“Who’s Sloth?” Summer asked.
“I don’t know,” Greg lied.
“Hey Sloth,” one of the jocks from the football team shouted, punching Greg in the shoulder, “do you wanna Babe Ruth?”
“No thank you,” Greg said quietly.
“Who are you calling Sloth?” Summer asked the jock.
The jock stared at Summer for a few seconds, then waved her hand in front of her eyes. He laughed.
“Is this the best you can do, Sloth?” the jock cried out, “You’re having to go out with blind chicks just so they don’t throw up when they see your face?”
“Go away, Troy,” Greg mumbled.
“What did you say?” Troy the jock growled.
“Hello, Troy is it?” Summer suddenly interrupted, not realising that Troy was about to punch Greg in the face.
Troy looked at Summer. Even though she was blind she was still incredibly attractive, and he stopped in his tracks.
“Yeah,” he said, “and who are you?”
“Your worst nightmare,” Summer replied. Using the sound of his voice to locate where he was, Summer swung her cane into the side of his head, knocking him to the ground.
“Don’t mess with Greg, you hear me?” she shouted, spitting in Troy’s general direction, “he’s not taking any more of your shit, understand?”
“Okay, okay,” Troy cowered on the floor, just leave me alone you crazy woman!”
Greg looked at Summer as she stood over Troy, her stance one of great anger, and he smiled.
*
The following weekend was Summer’s appointment to have her eyes checked. If all went well she wouldn’t need to wear her sunglasses or bandages any longer.
But that’s what worried Greg.
What if she sees me and realises how ugly I am? He thought to himself as his mum drove him to the hospital, What if she doesn’t want to be my friend any longer?
Greg sniffed back a tear as his mum pulled the car into the hospital car park and he clambered out of the passenger seat.
“Will you be okay on your own?” she asked.
“I’ll be fine,” he told her, “I’ll call if I need you to pick me up.”
“Okay then,” his mother said before driving away.
Greg looked up at the hospital building and swallowed nervously. He still wasn’t sure why he was going ahead with this. He just knew that, once the bandages came off, Summer wouldn’t want anything to do with him.
Slowly Greg headed towards the lift after having asked at reception what room Summer was in. He pressed the button for the relevant floor and then waited nervously as the life climbed the building towards what could very well be the end of his happy little world.
When the lift stopped and didn’t plummet to the ground below, Greg stepped out onto the floor where Summer was having her eyes checked. He walked into her room, where her mum was standing with her by the bed.
Mrs Meadows was every bit as attractive as her daughter. She had the same complexion, the same hair, and her eyes sparkled in the bright hospital light. Greg was not surprised that Summer was the product of such superior stock.
“You must be Greg,” Mrs Meadows smiled, holding out her hand for Greg to shake, “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“All good, I hope,” Greg replied nervously.
“Of course,” Mrs Meadows said, trying not to laugh, “and I’d like to thank you for making Summer’s transition to her new school such an easy one.”
“That’s no problem,” Greg nodded, putting his hands in his pockets and shuffling his feet, “So, where’s the doctor?”
“He’ll be here soon,” Summer said, “this shouldn’t take too long.”
Greg nodded, for his own benefit, “S. Where’s your dad?” he asked.
“He’s just getting us some coffee,” Mrs Meadows replied for her daughter, “he shouldn’t be long.”
As she spoke, Summer’s doctor walked into the room, “So, how is everyone today?” he asked.
“Fine,” Summer replied, grinning.
“And how have your eyes been?” the doctor continued, “They haven’t been itching at all?”
“Nope,” Summer grinned, “They’re fine. Can I take these bandages off yet?”
“I don’t see why not,” the doctor quipped, lowering the lights in the room. Greg wondered if he realised he just made an eyesight joke – he probably did, he probably made the same ones all the time.
The doctor slowly began to cut through the side of the bandages, unwrapping the loose pieces from around Summer’s head. Summer continued to smile as the bandages came away from her eyes and she blinked repeatedly.
Greg was terrified.
Summer’s eyes looked red around the edges, but otherwise she seemed okay. He pupils were a little small, but that was to be expected. She blinked tears out of her eyes, then looked at her mum and smiled. Then she turned to Greg...
...And smiled even wider.
“So that’s what you look like?” Summer beamed, “I thought you said you were hideous?”
Greg stared at the beautiful girl in disbelief, “I am.” He said simply.
“I don’t think you are,” Summer replied, sitting back on her bed.
“I got your coffee,” a voice spoke from the doors, snatching Greg’s attention away from Summer. He turned to see a man standing there, his thin greasy hair plastered back on his fat head. The man smiled, revealing rows of crooked teeth, then wiped the back of his hand across his crooked nose.
“Hey dad,” Summer smiled, “it’s good to see you.”
“Hey, honey,” Mr Meadows replied, handing one of the coffees to his wife, then turned to look at Greg, “and who might this handsome man be?”
Greg looked at Summer’s dad, then at Summer, then he burst into fits of laughter.
Originally Posted 29/6/2015
Result - 1st Place
Oh, and he had bad skin.
And he was fat.
Basically, Greg was not attractive.
Every day at school he was inundated with insults from his peers, ranging from simple things like grease ball, fatty or wonky nose, to more considered insults such as Sloth – not because he was lazy, but in reference to the character from The Goonies. Greg had to look that one up as it was from before his time, but once he had he soon realised why some of the kids shouted out “Hey you guys!” when he walked past.
Greg hated every day at school.
One afternoon, in biology class, Greg was sat on his own as usual, testing the acidity of potatoes with litmus paper, when an announcement came from his teacher.
“Class,” she said, “I’d like to introduce you to a new exchange student, Summer Meadows. She’s come from one of the schools on the other side of town, but don’t hold that against her.”
The class chuckled, and Greg glanced up at the girl. She stood next to the teacher, wearing dark glasses for some reason. Greg frowned – she obviously thought she was really cool, and would be yet another kid who didn’t want anything to do with him other than to use him as a sounding board for their latest batch of insults. Plus she was really good looking, which didn’t help. He looked back down at his potato.
“Can I sit here?” a voice spoke from next to Greg, and he almost dropped his vegetable on the floor. He looked around to see Summer standing next to him.
“Sure,” Greg said, going back to his potato.
“So what are you doing?” Summer asked, encroaching on Greg’s work space.
“I’m experimenting,” Greg said.
“What with?” Summer asked.
Greg rolled his eyes, “Potatoes,” he groaned, “What. Are you stupid or something?”
“No,” Summer replied, “just blind.”
Greg looked at Summer again, this time more carefully. On closer inspection he noticed that she had some sort of bandaging across her eyes, and was also carrying a stick.
Oh brother.
“I’m sorry,” Greg apologised, “I didn’t realise.”
“It’s okay,” Summer smiled, “it’s only temporary. I had to have laser surgery to remove a cataract and my eyes need to be protected from direct light. It’s a bit over the top, I know, but the doctor thought bandaging them up might speed up the process.”
“I’m not sure if that’s how it works,” Greg said, “I’m Greg, by the way.”
“I’m Summer,’ Summer said, holding out her hand to shake Greg’s.
“I know,’ said Greg, “so, why didn’t you wait until your eyes were better before coming to a new school?”
“I didn’t want to miss any more classes,” Summer said, “I’m already a few weeks behind with having changed school, and now with this...”
“Yeah,” Greg said, “playing catch up can be a real pain.”
As the class carried on, Greg and Summer chatted away, finding they had a lot in common. Greg found himself enjoying school for the first time in a long time, and he really liked Summer. She was funny and charming and knew all about his favourite past times and television shows.
When class ended, as did the school day, Summer asked Greg, “So, what do you do after school?”
“Not much,” he replied, “I usually just go home, or head to the comic shop.”
“Oh you have to show me where the comic shop is,” Summer smiled, “I just love comic books.”
“How do you read them?” Greg asked.
Summer chuckled, “Hey, I haven’t always been blind you know. In fact. It won’t be that long before I can sit down and read them again.”
Greg raised his eyebrows. Wow, a good looking girl who liked comics, he thought to himself, that’s almost as rare as a fish with a bicycle, although far more useful.
“I’ll take you to the comic shop now if you like,” he told her, and they headed to the shops.
“I’d like that,” Summer beamed, linking her arm in Greg’s.
*
A few weeks passed, and Greg and Summer had become inseparable. They hung out in class, in the cafeteria, and after school as well.
All the other kids didn’t quite understand their friendship, but seeing as Greg was such a dweeb and Summer was blind they didn’t really interfere.
Until Summer was due to get her eyes checked.
“Do you want to come with me?” Summer asked after telling Greg her exciting news, “It would be awesome to finally see you after all these weeks?”
Greg didn’t know what to do. He’d enjoyed his new found friendship with Summer, but was worried what might happen once she got her eyesight back and actually saw him for the first time.
“Do you really want me there?” Greg asked, “Wouldn’t you prefer it to be just your parents and family?”
“You’ve become like family over the past few weeks,” Summer said, “it’s weird, all the other kids at school seem to just ignore me because I’m blind, but you... you’ve been really nice to me.”
Summer grasped Greg’s hand, and he blushed.
“Okay then,” he said, “I’ll come along, but don’t run away when you see what I look like.”
“Why would I do something like that?” Summer asked.
“Well, I’m not the best looking guy in class,” Greg admitted.
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” Summer smiled, but Greg couldn’t bring himself to do the same.
“Hey,” someone suddenly called from across the hall, “hey, Sloth. What do you think you’re doing?”
“Who’s Sloth?” Summer asked.
“I don’t know,” Greg lied.
“Hey Sloth,” one of the jocks from the football team shouted, punching Greg in the shoulder, “do you wanna Babe Ruth?”
“No thank you,” Greg said quietly.
“Who are you calling Sloth?” Summer asked the jock.
The jock stared at Summer for a few seconds, then waved her hand in front of her eyes. He laughed.
“Is this the best you can do, Sloth?” the jock cried out, “You’re having to go out with blind chicks just so they don’t throw up when they see your face?”
“Go away, Troy,” Greg mumbled.
“What did you say?” Troy the jock growled.
“Hello, Troy is it?” Summer suddenly interrupted, not realising that Troy was about to punch Greg in the face.
Troy looked at Summer. Even though she was blind she was still incredibly attractive, and he stopped in his tracks.
“Yeah,” he said, “and who are you?”
“Your worst nightmare,” Summer replied. Using the sound of his voice to locate where he was, Summer swung her cane into the side of his head, knocking him to the ground.
“Don’t mess with Greg, you hear me?” she shouted, spitting in Troy’s general direction, “he’s not taking any more of your shit, understand?”
“Okay, okay,” Troy cowered on the floor, just leave me alone you crazy woman!”
Greg looked at Summer as she stood over Troy, her stance one of great anger, and he smiled.
*
The following weekend was Summer’s appointment to have her eyes checked. If all went well she wouldn’t need to wear her sunglasses or bandages any longer.
But that’s what worried Greg.
What if she sees me and realises how ugly I am? He thought to himself as his mum drove him to the hospital, What if she doesn’t want to be my friend any longer?
Greg sniffed back a tear as his mum pulled the car into the hospital car park and he clambered out of the passenger seat.
“Will you be okay on your own?” she asked.
“I’ll be fine,” he told her, “I’ll call if I need you to pick me up.”
“Okay then,” his mother said before driving away.
Greg looked up at the hospital building and swallowed nervously. He still wasn’t sure why he was going ahead with this. He just knew that, once the bandages came off, Summer wouldn’t want anything to do with him.
Slowly Greg headed towards the lift after having asked at reception what room Summer was in. He pressed the button for the relevant floor and then waited nervously as the life climbed the building towards what could very well be the end of his happy little world.
When the lift stopped and didn’t plummet to the ground below, Greg stepped out onto the floor where Summer was having her eyes checked. He walked into her room, where her mum was standing with her by the bed.
Mrs Meadows was every bit as attractive as her daughter. She had the same complexion, the same hair, and her eyes sparkled in the bright hospital light. Greg was not surprised that Summer was the product of such superior stock.
“You must be Greg,” Mrs Meadows smiled, holding out her hand for Greg to shake, “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“All good, I hope,” Greg replied nervously.
“Of course,” Mrs Meadows said, trying not to laugh, “and I’d like to thank you for making Summer’s transition to her new school such an easy one.”
“That’s no problem,” Greg nodded, putting his hands in his pockets and shuffling his feet, “So, where’s the doctor?”
“He’ll be here soon,” Summer said, “this shouldn’t take too long.”
Greg nodded, for his own benefit, “S. Where’s your dad?” he asked.
“He’s just getting us some coffee,” Mrs Meadows replied for her daughter, “he shouldn’t be long.”
As she spoke, Summer’s doctor walked into the room, “So, how is everyone today?” he asked.
“Fine,” Summer replied, grinning.
“And how have your eyes been?” the doctor continued, “They haven’t been itching at all?”
“Nope,” Summer grinned, “They’re fine. Can I take these bandages off yet?”
“I don’t see why not,” the doctor quipped, lowering the lights in the room. Greg wondered if he realised he just made an eyesight joke – he probably did, he probably made the same ones all the time.
The doctor slowly began to cut through the side of the bandages, unwrapping the loose pieces from around Summer’s head. Summer continued to smile as the bandages came away from her eyes and she blinked repeatedly.
Greg was terrified.
Summer’s eyes looked red around the edges, but otherwise she seemed okay. He pupils were a little small, but that was to be expected. She blinked tears out of her eyes, then looked at her mum and smiled. Then she turned to Greg...
...And smiled even wider.
“So that’s what you look like?” Summer beamed, “I thought you said you were hideous?”
Greg stared at the beautiful girl in disbelief, “I am.” He said simply.
“I don’t think you are,” Summer replied, sitting back on her bed.
“I got your coffee,” a voice spoke from the doors, snatching Greg’s attention away from Summer. He turned to see a man standing there, his thin greasy hair plastered back on his fat head. The man smiled, revealing rows of crooked teeth, then wiped the back of his hand across his crooked nose.
“Hey dad,” Summer smiled, “it’s good to see you.”
“Hey, honey,” Mr Meadows replied, handing one of the coffees to his wife, then turned to look at Greg, “and who might this handsome man be?”
Greg looked at Summer’s dad, then at Summer, then he burst into fits of laughter.
Originally Posted 29/6/2015
Result - 1st Place
June 28, 2015
Poem : Nobody’s Perfect
Some people think the perfect man
Has muscles that can ripple
Is able to cut solid glass
With but a single nipple
Can bench press near one thousand pounds
And barely break a sweat
And still possess a chiselled jaw
And nary a regret
Some people think the ideal girl
Is one whose waist does taper
With breasts that never sag at all
And breath like minty vapour
Whose lips are full and kissable
With bottom tight and perky
And features most symmetrical
And never ever quirky
But now we have a shifting view,
An ideal form distortion,
A woman can be beautiful
And not be in proportion
A man can still be handsome if
His jaw line isn’t square
And if he hasn’t perfect abs
Well, some folk wouldn’t care
So just ignore popular views
And stick with what you like
Even if they’re an elephant
Or on a hunger strike
Beauty is in the eye of those
Who look at what they see
And that can be quite different
We’ll often disagree.
Originally Posted 28/6/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
Has muscles that can ripple
Is able to cut solid glass
With but a single nipple
Can bench press near one thousand pounds
And barely break a sweat
And still possess a chiselled jaw
And nary a regret
Some people think the ideal girl
Is one whose waist does taper
With breasts that never sag at all
And breath like minty vapour
Whose lips are full and kissable
With bottom tight and perky
And features most symmetrical
And never ever quirky
But now we have a shifting view,
An ideal form distortion,
A woman can be beautiful
And not be in proportion
A man can still be handsome if
His jaw line isn’t square
And if he hasn’t perfect abs
Well, some folk wouldn’t care
So just ignore popular views
And stick with what you like
Even if they’re an elephant
Or on a hunger strike
Beauty is in the eye of those
Who look at what they see
And that can be quite different
We’ll often disagree.
Originally Posted 28/6/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
June 22, 2015
Short Story : TAG, You're It
Professor Gurudeva Mahajan had spent decades trying to recreate the human genome, and all of his peers thought he was crazy to even try. His experiments had led to nothing but abject failure, with none of his creations ever reaching term, and many of them just disintegrating in their test tubes before they could even start to develop.
But those decades had not been spent in vain, not in Professor Mahajan’s eyes, for in his thirty-eighth years of experimentation, he had finally found success when, after nine months of careful nurturing, he was rewarded with a healthy, almost human little girl.
He named her Aja, which meant unborn in his native tongue. An appropriate name as she had indeed not been born but instead created in a laboratory, though the rest of the scientific community chose to call her Tag, a name which stuck with her throughout her life, though Mahajan always called her Aja. Tag was a much more scientific name as, of the four nucleobases of DNA, she only possessed three; thymine, adenine, and guanine, and did not possess cytosine. Professor Mahajan had found that the pairing of cytosine and guanine had led to instabilities in the embryos development and more often than not the cytosine strand had mutated into uracil, a side effect which he had not been able to correct. So, by excluding cytosine from the cell structures and replacing it with a double dose of thymine, he had been able to bypass this issue and eventually reproduce a viable embryo, thereby completely recreating the very building blocks of creation.
This difference made Aja unique as far as humanity was concerned, and that unique quality may well have spelled her downfall if it hadn’t been for one tiny little thing...
She was amazing.
Even at a young age, everyone who came into contact with her was entranced by her personality and enthralled by her looks. She was a beautiful child who learned to speak full sentences in her first six months, and even more impressive had been able to walk after less than six weeks out of her incubator. Professor Mahajan could not have been prouder of his work.
Or of his daughter, as he preferred to call her.
Professor Mahajan encouraged Aja to interact with children of her own age, but by the time she was two years old she had already far surpassed them in terms of maturity and knowledge. No one in the scientific community could explain quite why she was so intelligent, but Mahajan was just happy that her intelligence had come with an empathy for others that remained childlike throughout her youth.
At the tender age of six, Aja was intelligent enough to attend university, having already surpassed her peers and those more than a decade her senior. For most children it would have looked strange for a six year old to be attending university, but Aja had grown tall in her short time, and although she still had a child’s physique and a child’s biology, she had the height of a slightly below average teenager. Though flat chested and yet to go through puberty, this simply made her appear lithe and athletic to her peers, with many of her tutors encouraging her to take part in athletic events such as gymnastics and long distance running. Obviously, being the prodigy that she was, she excelled in every sport she tried.
And obviously, being as beautiful and athletic as she was, she drew attention from those that didn’t understand just how young she truly was.
A boy named Troy Templeton set his sights on Aja. As the captain of the University football team, and with Aja having used her gymnastic abilities to rise to the top of the cheerleading squad amongst other more competitive groups, their coupling should have been as natural as anything. But Troy was eighteen, and in spite of appearances Aja was still only six years old. Professor Mahajan, who Aja thought of as a father, warned her against getting involved with boys.
“They only want one thing,” he told her as he puffed on a cigarette.
“And what thing is that, father?” Aja asked innocently.
“The thing you keep private,” Professor Mahajan told her, gesturing with his cigarette at her genital area, “Your private place that is not ready for anyone to visit yet.”
Aja looked confused, “From what I have read it is natural for boys at the university to want such things.”
“But you are so much younger than them,” Professor Mahajan warned her, “You must not allow any boy to convince you otherwise. You may be tall for your age, and you may be mature enough to understand more things than any of them ever will, but you are not ready for a sexual relationship.”
“I understand, father,” Aja said, though deep down she did not.
Privately she had read an awful lot about sex and the things it entailed, and she found it more fascinating than anything else she had ever studied in her short life. She had easily bypassed her father’s security settings on her computer and had discovered all sorts of videos and picture galleries that showed her the wonders of sexual congress. People would dress up in costume, only to remove those costumes and perform what her father would have called lewd acts upon each other.
When she watched these videos, she found it hard to turn away.
So, in spite of all of Professor Mahajan’s warnings, when Troy asked Aja out on a date, she happily accepted.
Their first date started off innocently enough, with Troy taking her to a movie and then a meal afterwards. They talked about university life, and what they thought of the movie, and what they thought of their meal, but soon the evening was drawing to an end.
“You look beautiful tonight, Tag,” Troy said, using the nickname that everyone but her father used.
“Thank you,” Aja blushed, “and you look very handsome.”
“My parents won’t be home until late,” Troy told Aja, “would you like to come back to my place for a while?”
Aja smiled, “I would like that very much.”
The two of them headed back to Troy’s place, and it wasn’t long before they were kissing on the sofa in his living room.
“Wow!” Aja smiled between kisses, “I’ve never kissed anyone before. I think you are very good.”
“I’ve never had any complaints,” Troy continued to kiss her as he reached his hand between her legs.
Aja flinched as Troy’s fingers pushed her panties aside, “I don’t think I’m ready just yet,” Aja said, scooching away from Troy’s probing hands.
“Of course you are,” Troy moved closer, unbuckling his belt with his free hand, “You even shaved.”
“I haven’t,” Aja said, “I don’t have hair... down there yet.”
Troy leaned closer to her, “All the better,” he said, kissing Aja harder as he lowered his trousers.
Aja didn’t know what to do. All the reading and movie watching in the world hadn’t prepared her for this. She wasn’t ready, but Troy was forcing himself on her. In desperation she sunk her teeth into his lip in the hope of stopping him.
“Ouch!” Troy yelled, backing away from Aja, “You don’t have to be so rough.”
“I asked you to stop,” said Aja, pulling her legs up to her chin ina defensive stance.
“That’s just part of the game,” said Troy, moving back towards her and forcing his mouth onto hers.
Aja bit him again, this time much harder. Troy screamed as Aja’s teeth sunk deep into his lip, this time separating flesh from flesh.
Troy screamed, pulling away from Aja as he frantically clutched at his bottom lip that was no longer there.
“You crazy bitch!” Troy yelled, “What the hell have you done?”
“I asked you to stop,” Aja replied, tears welling in her eyes, “You wouldn’t listen. I begged you.”
As Troy writhed in agony, clutching at the missing part of his face, his parents arrived through the front door.
“What the hell is going on?” they screamed, seeing the two blood soaked children sitting on teh sofa.
“This crazy monster bit my lip off!” Troy sobbed, nursing his face which was dripping with blood.
Aja looked at the parents, her own mouth covered in Troy’s blood and bits of his lip still present in her mouth.
“He wouldn’t stop,” she sobbed, “I begged him, but he wouldn’t-”
“You’re that genetic experiment, aren’t you?” Troy’s father observed, “I knew having a gene freak at the university would be a mistake.”
“You mutilated our boy, you beast!” Troy’s mother cried as she comforted her disfigured son, “Michael, call the police.”
Michael picked up the phone and dialled for the police, “Hello?” he began, before Aja knocked the phone from his hands.
“Please, don’t call the police,” she sobbed, clutching at Michael’s arm, “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“Get off of me,” Michael screamed, writhing in agony as Aja clutched his arm ever harder, “You’re hurting me.”
“Please, just don’t call the police,” she begged, squeezing his arm until blood started to soak through his shirt. Then there was a cracking sound as his ulna and radius snapped under the pressure. Michael screamed.
“Get off of him!” Troy’s mother yelled, jumping up from the sofa and rushing at the girl.
“Keep away, Deborah!” Michael weakly warned. Aja turned to Deborah and swung her free arm into her face. There was a cracking noise as Deborah’s head swung unnaturally on her neck, and she collapsed dead to the ground.
“Mum!” Troy screamed, “What did you do? What did you do!!”
“I didn’t mean to,” said Aja, still gripping Michael’s arm which was starting look like a deflated balloon, “She came at me.”
Troy ran from the room in tears, and Aja turned to his father, “Why didn’t you just leave me alone when I asked?” This didn’t have to happen.”
Troy returned, wielding a handgun he’d retrieved from his father’s desk, “Let go of him, you... you thing!” he sobbed, his hands shaking as he pointed the gun at Aja.
“Put down the gun, son,” Michael warned his boy as the shock of his broken arm started to make him feel woozy, “Just... put it down.”
“She killed mum!” Troy wept, slipping his finger into the trigger guard, “And she’s hurt you, dad.”
“Don’t do this, son,” Michael said weakly, “Just please, put the gun down.”
Everything happened very quickly then. Troy pulled the trigger, and defensively Aja swung Michael in front of her. The bullet tore into the back of Michael’s head, showering Aja’s face with fragments of skull and brain tissue. She screamed as Michael’s dead body collapsed on top of her and she fell to the ground.
Troy dropped the gun to the ground as Aja pushed Michael off of her and clambered to her feet, and then the front door burst open. The line to the police had stayed open, and they’d managed to trace the call to Troy’s address.
“Don’t move!” the first police officer through the door warned.
“She killed them all!” Troy coughed, holding his hands in the air as blood continued to trickled down his chin, “She killed my mum, and shot my dad!”
“I didn’t shoot him,” Aja said, “This was all a terrible mistake. I asked them to leave me alone.”
Aja sobbed as another police officer snapped cuffs on her and dragged her out to the waiting car, “You can explain what happened at the station,” she said, guiding Aja into the car and driving away.
When Professor Mahajan arrived at the station, he found Aja locked up in a cell on her own.
“You can’t arrest her,” he told the police, “She’s only six years old.”
“Nice try, grandpa,” the officer on duty laughed, “but that ain’t no six year old.”
“What happened?” Professor Mahajan asked Aja through the bars.
“He tried to, to...” she sniffed, “I asked him to stop.”
“Did he rape you?” Professor Mahajan asked, not wanting to hear the answer.
Aja shook her head, “I stopped him before he could.”
Professor Mahajan breathed a sigh of relief.
“The boy is telling a different story,” the duty officer told Professor Mahajan, “and from what I heard about the crime scene, it looks like she massacred them.”
“She doesn’t understand how strong she is,” Professor Mahajan tried to explain, “she’s six years old and he tried to rape her!”
“I don’t think that story’s going to wash,” the duty officer shrugged, “Plus the boy’s taken pretty sick.”
“Sick?” Professor Mahajan looked confused, “What’s that got to do with Aja?”
“He says she made him sick,” the duty officer said, “You should see his face, it’s a mess where she bit his lip off. And now he’s got lesions spreading out from the wound. He’s a mess. She better not be infectious – she bit me when she came in here – look!”
The officer held up a discoloured finger. Professor Mahajan widened his eyes in fear.
Mahajan ran to the hospital where Troy had been admitted and raced to his recovery room. He was on the cancer ward, and the professor suspected he knew why.
Aja had been designed with a double thymine layer in her DNA, and in nature this could sometimes result in thymine dimmers. In many cases these dimmers could lead to melanomas, and if Troy was exhibiting these symptoms it could only mean one thing...
Aja was infectious.
When he saw Troy, he couldn’t believe how quickly the infection had spread. Ninety per cent of his body was covered in lesions, his skin bubbling like it was being heated in an oven. Troy was unconscious but stable, plugged into life support to keep him alive, but Mahajan didn’t know how long that would last.
If Aja was infectious, she had to be isolated from other people before the infection spread. If this mutated strain was catching, then the officer and hospital staff that had come into contact with Troy, or even with Aja’s blood or saliva, would now be just as infectious. Mahajan knew how these sort of infections worked; if left unchecked, it was only a matter of time before the whole town was infected, and it wouldn’t be long before it spread further afield.
“I’m sorry,” Mahajan said, turning up the oxygen in Troy’s tank then backing out of the room. The oxygen hissed as it filled the room, and Mahajan pulled his cigarettes from his pocket and opened them, retrieving the lighter he kept inside.
The only way to stop the infection was to burn those infected, and he had to start somewhere...
On his journey back to the police station Mahajan picked up a canister of petrol and marched through the station liked he owned the place.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” an officer asked as Mahajan walked into the holding cells. He answered by swinging the canister into his face and knocking him unconscious to the ground.
As he approached the cells, Aja ran to the bars and reached through them for him, “Father,” she sobbed, “Have you come to set me free?”
“In a way, my beautiful girl,” he told her, splashing the petrol on her face.
“What are you doing?” she screamed, “Father, what are you doing?”
“I wish it didn’t have to end this way,” Professor Mahajan wept, pouring the remaining petrol on himself and holding out his lighter, “but I can’t let my experimentations with the building blocks of life be the death of what God once created.”
And he flicked the flint on his lighter one final time...
Originally Posted 22/6/2015
Result - Joint 1st Place
But those decades had not been spent in vain, not in Professor Mahajan’s eyes, for in his thirty-eighth years of experimentation, he had finally found success when, after nine months of careful nurturing, he was rewarded with a healthy, almost human little girl.
He named her Aja, which meant unborn in his native tongue. An appropriate name as she had indeed not been born but instead created in a laboratory, though the rest of the scientific community chose to call her Tag, a name which stuck with her throughout her life, though Mahajan always called her Aja. Tag was a much more scientific name as, of the four nucleobases of DNA, she only possessed three; thymine, adenine, and guanine, and did not possess cytosine. Professor Mahajan had found that the pairing of cytosine and guanine had led to instabilities in the embryos development and more often than not the cytosine strand had mutated into uracil, a side effect which he had not been able to correct. So, by excluding cytosine from the cell structures and replacing it with a double dose of thymine, he had been able to bypass this issue and eventually reproduce a viable embryo, thereby completely recreating the very building blocks of creation.
This difference made Aja unique as far as humanity was concerned, and that unique quality may well have spelled her downfall if it hadn’t been for one tiny little thing...
She was amazing.
Even at a young age, everyone who came into contact with her was entranced by her personality and enthralled by her looks. She was a beautiful child who learned to speak full sentences in her first six months, and even more impressive had been able to walk after less than six weeks out of her incubator. Professor Mahajan could not have been prouder of his work.
Or of his daughter, as he preferred to call her.
Professor Mahajan encouraged Aja to interact with children of her own age, but by the time she was two years old she had already far surpassed them in terms of maturity and knowledge. No one in the scientific community could explain quite why she was so intelligent, but Mahajan was just happy that her intelligence had come with an empathy for others that remained childlike throughout her youth.
At the tender age of six, Aja was intelligent enough to attend university, having already surpassed her peers and those more than a decade her senior. For most children it would have looked strange for a six year old to be attending university, but Aja had grown tall in her short time, and although she still had a child’s physique and a child’s biology, she had the height of a slightly below average teenager. Though flat chested and yet to go through puberty, this simply made her appear lithe and athletic to her peers, with many of her tutors encouraging her to take part in athletic events such as gymnastics and long distance running. Obviously, being the prodigy that she was, she excelled in every sport she tried.
And obviously, being as beautiful and athletic as she was, she drew attention from those that didn’t understand just how young she truly was.
A boy named Troy Templeton set his sights on Aja. As the captain of the University football team, and with Aja having used her gymnastic abilities to rise to the top of the cheerleading squad amongst other more competitive groups, their coupling should have been as natural as anything. But Troy was eighteen, and in spite of appearances Aja was still only six years old. Professor Mahajan, who Aja thought of as a father, warned her against getting involved with boys.
“They only want one thing,” he told her as he puffed on a cigarette.
“And what thing is that, father?” Aja asked innocently.
“The thing you keep private,” Professor Mahajan told her, gesturing with his cigarette at her genital area, “Your private place that is not ready for anyone to visit yet.”
Aja looked confused, “From what I have read it is natural for boys at the university to want such things.”
“But you are so much younger than them,” Professor Mahajan warned her, “You must not allow any boy to convince you otherwise. You may be tall for your age, and you may be mature enough to understand more things than any of them ever will, but you are not ready for a sexual relationship.”
“I understand, father,” Aja said, though deep down she did not.
Privately she had read an awful lot about sex and the things it entailed, and she found it more fascinating than anything else she had ever studied in her short life. She had easily bypassed her father’s security settings on her computer and had discovered all sorts of videos and picture galleries that showed her the wonders of sexual congress. People would dress up in costume, only to remove those costumes and perform what her father would have called lewd acts upon each other.
When she watched these videos, she found it hard to turn away.
So, in spite of all of Professor Mahajan’s warnings, when Troy asked Aja out on a date, she happily accepted.
Their first date started off innocently enough, with Troy taking her to a movie and then a meal afterwards. They talked about university life, and what they thought of the movie, and what they thought of their meal, but soon the evening was drawing to an end.
“You look beautiful tonight, Tag,” Troy said, using the nickname that everyone but her father used.
“Thank you,” Aja blushed, “and you look very handsome.”
“My parents won’t be home until late,” Troy told Aja, “would you like to come back to my place for a while?”
Aja smiled, “I would like that very much.”
The two of them headed back to Troy’s place, and it wasn’t long before they were kissing on the sofa in his living room.
“Wow!” Aja smiled between kisses, “I’ve never kissed anyone before. I think you are very good.”
“I’ve never had any complaints,” Troy continued to kiss her as he reached his hand between her legs.
Aja flinched as Troy’s fingers pushed her panties aside, “I don’t think I’m ready just yet,” Aja said, scooching away from Troy’s probing hands.
“Of course you are,” Troy moved closer, unbuckling his belt with his free hand, “You even shaved.”
“I haven’t,” Aja said, “I don’t have hair... down there yet.”
Troy leaned closer to her, “All the better,” he said, kissing Aja harder as he lowered his trousers.
Aja didn’t know what to do. All the reading and movie watching in the world hadn’t prepared her for this. She wasn’t ready, but Troy was forcing himself on her. In desperation she sunk her teeth into his lip in the hope of stopping him.
“Ouch!” Troy yelled, backing away from Aja, “You don’t have to be so rough.”
“I asked you to stop,” said Aja, pulling her legs up to her chin ina defensive stance.
“That’s just part of the game,” said Troy, moving back towards her and forcing his mouth onto hers.
Aja bit him again, this time much harder. Troy screamed as Aja’s teeth sunk deep into his lip, this time separating flesh from flesh.
Troy screamed, pulling away from Aja as he frantically clutched at his bottom lip that was no longer there.
“You crazy bitch!” Troy yelled, “What the hell have you done?”
“I asked you to stop,” Aja replied, tears welling in her eyes, “You wouldn’t listen. I begged you.”
As Troy writhed in agony, clutching at the missing part of his face, his parents arrived through the front door.
“What the hell is going on?” they screamed, seeing the two blood soaked children sitting on teh sofa.
“This crazy monster bit my lip off!” Troy sobbed, nursing his face which was dripping with blood.
Aja looked at the parents, her own mouth covered in Troy’s blood and bits of his lip still present in her mouth.
“He wouldn’t stop,” she sobbed, “I begged him, but he wouldn’t-”
“You’re that genetic experiment, aren’t you?” Troy’s father observed, “I knew having a gene freak at the university would be a mistake.”
“You mutilated our boy, you beast!” Troy’s mother cried as she comforted her disfigured son, “Michael, call the police.”
Michael picked up the phone and dialled for the police, “Hello?” he began, before Aja knocked the phone from his hands.
“Please, don’t call the police,” she sobbed, clutching at Michael’s arm, “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“Get off of me,” Michael screamed, writhing in agony as Aja clutched his arm ever harder, “You’re hurting me.”
“Please, just don’t call the police,” she begged, squeezing his arm until blood started to soak through his shirt. Then there was a cracking sound as his ulna and radius snapped under the pressure. Michael screamed.
“Get off of him!” Troy’s mother yelled, jumping up from the sofa and rushing at the girl.
“Keep away, Deborah!” Michael weakly warned. Aja turned to Deborah and swung her free arm into her face. There was a cracking noise as Deborah’s head swung unnaturally on her neck, and she collapsed dead to the ground.
“Mum!” Troy screamed, “What did you do? What did you do!!”
“I didn’t mean to,” said Aja, still gripping Michael’s arm which was starting look like a deflated balloon, “She came at me.”
Troy ran from the room in tears, and Aja turned to his father, “Why didn’t you just leave me alone when I asked?” This didn’t have to happen.”
Troy returned, wielding a handgun he’d retrieved from his father’s desk, “Let go of him, you... you thing!” he sobbed, his hands shaking as he pointed the gun at Aja.
“Put down the gun, son,” Michael warned his boy as the shock of his broken arm started to make him feel woozy, “Just... put it down.”
“She killed mum!” Troy wept, slipping his finger into the trigger guard, “And she’s hurt you, dad.”
“Don’t do this, son,” Michael said weakly, “Just please, put the gun down.”
Everything happened very quickly then. Troy pulled the trigger, and defensively Aja swung Michael in front of her. The bullet tore into the back of Michael’s head, showering Aja’s face with fragments of skull and brain tissue. She screamed as Michael’s dead body collapsed on top of her and she fell to the ground.
Troy dropped the gun to the ground as Aja pushed Michael off of her and clambered to her feet, and then the front door burst open. The line to the police had stayed open, and they’d managed to trace the call to Troy’s address.
“Don’t move!” the first police officer through the door warned.
“She killed them all!” Troy coughed, holding his hands in the air as blood continued to trickled down his chin, “She killed my mum, and shot my dad!”
“I didn’t shoot him,” Aja said, “This was all a terrible mistake. I asked them to leave me alone.”
Aja sobbed as another police officer snapped cuffs on her and dragged her out to the waiting car, “You can explain what happened at the station,” she said, guiding Aja into the car and driving away.
When Professor Mahajan arrived at the station, he found Aja locked up in a cell on her own.
“You can’t arrest her,” he told the police, “She’s only six years old.”
“Nice try, grandpa,” the officer on duty laughed, “but that ain’t no six year old.”
“What happened?” Professor Mahajan asked Aja through the bars.
“He tried to, to...” she sniffed, “I asked him to stop.”
“Did he rape you?” Professor Mahajan asked, not wanting to hear the answer.
Aja shook her head, “I stopped him before he could.”
Professor Mahajan breathed a sigh of relief.
“The boy is telling a different story,” the duty officer told Professor Mahajan, “and from what I heard about the crime scene, it looks like she massacred them.”
“She doesn’t understand how strong she is,” Professor Mahajan tried to explain, “she’s six years old and he tried to rape her!”
“I don’t think that story’s going to wash,” the duty officer shrugged, “Plus the boy’s taken pretty sick.”
“Sick?” Professor Mahajan looked confused, “What’s that got to do with Aja?”
“He says she made him sick,” the duty officer said, “You should see his face, it’s a mess where she bit his lip off. And now he’s got lesions spreading out from the wound. He’s a mess. She better not be infectious – she bit me when she came in here – look!”
The officer held up a discoloured finger. Professor Mahajan widened his eyes in fear.
Mahajan ran to the hospital where Troy had been admitted and raced to his recovery room. He was on the cancer ward, and the professor suspected he knew why.
Aja had been designed with a double thymine layer in her DNA, and in nature this could sometimes result in thymine dimmers. In many cases these dimmers could lead to melanomas, and if Troy was exhibiting these symptoms it could only mean one thing...
Aja was infectious.
When he saw Troy, he couldn’t believe how quickly the infection had spread. Ninety per cent of his body was covered in lesions, his skin bubbling like it was being heated in an oven. Troy was unconscious but stable, plugged into life support to keep him alive, but Mahajan didn’t know how long that would last.
If Aja was infectious, she had to be isolated from other people before the infection spread. If this mutated strain was catching, then the officer and hospital staff that had come into contact with Troy, or even with Aja’s blood or saliva, would now be just as infectious. Mahajan knew how these sort of infections worked; if left unchecked, it was only a matter of time before the whole town was infected, and it wouldn’t be long before it spread further afield.
“I’m sorry,” Mahajan said, turning up the oxygen in Troy’s tank then backing out of the room. The oxygen hissed as it filled the room, and Mahajan pulled his cigarettes from his pocket and opened them, retrieving the lighter he kept inside.
The only way to stop the infection was to burn those infected, and he had to start somewhere...
On his journey back to the police station Mahajan picked up a canister of petrol and marched through the station liked he owned the place.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” an officer asked as Mahajan walked into the holding cells. He answered by swinging the canister into his face and knocking him unconscious to the ground.
As he approached the cells, Aja ran to the bars and reached through them for him, “Father,” she sobbed, “Have you come to set me free?”
“In a way, my beautiful girl,” he told her, splashing the petrol on her face.
“What are you doing?” she screamed, “Father, what are you doing?”
“I wish it didn’t have to end this way,” Professor Mahajan wept, pouring the remaining petrol on himself and holding out his lighter, “but I can’t let my experimentations with the building blocks of life be the death of what God once created.”
And he flicked the flint on his lighter one final time...
Originally Posted 22/6/2015
Result - Joint 1st Place
June 21, 2015
Poem : Get Back Up
If a child
learns only one thing
in their short time
on this Earth
it is that,
like the building blocks
with which they play,
they will
inevitably
be knocked down
by those that try
to defeat them.
But like those blocks
the persistent child
will soon realise that
if they persist in rebuilding,
if they persist in trying
over and over,
those that try
to knock them down
will soon give up
and realise the futility
of attacking those that will
not give in.
Originally Posted 21/6/2015
Result - Joint 4th Place
learns only one thing
in their short time
on this Earth
it is that,
like the building blocks
with which they play,
they will
inevitably
be knocked down
by those that try
to defeat them.
But like those blocks
the persistent child
will soon realise that
if they persist in rebuilding,
if they persist in trying
over and over,
those that try
to knock them down
will soon give up
and realise the futility
of attacking those that will
not give in.
Originally Posted 21/6/2015
Result - Joint 4th Place
June 15, 2015
Short Story : Mess In The Rug
“Don’t move! Don’t you move a goddamn muscle, you hear me?”
Major held his gun to the man’s head as he cowered on the ground, his hands shaking as he held them above his head. Major pressed the gun lightly into the man’s skull to emphasise his point.
“Stand down, Major,” Corporal warned him, “We need to keep this man alive.”
“Why bother?” asked Major, wiping his nose with his sleeve in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood that was dripping over his lips and towards his chin, “I say we just put a bullet in his head and be done with it.”
The man stopped shaking and looked up at Major, “I’d like to see you try, geit neuker,” he chuckled in a sing-song accent.
“What’s that? What did you call me?” Major growled, smacking the man in the side of the head with the butt of his weapon. The man spun sideways, falling from his precariously balanced position, hitting his head on the floor.
“I warned you Major,” Corporal growled, snatching the weapon from Major’s hands, “Now get out of here. I’ll deal with the prisoner.”
Major looked at his empty hand then glared at Corporal, “Aye, sir,” he said reluctantly, heading out of the holding cells and back to the main office.
He sat down at his computer, deciding to play a few games of solitaire.
Back in the holding cells, Corporal motioned with Major’s weapon for the man to get up off the ground.
“Come on,” he said, gesturing with the weapon towards an open cell, “Get in there.”
The man picked himself up off the ground and ambled towards the cell, Corporal closing the door behind him.
“Now,” Corporal said, pulling over a chair and sitting down outside the cell door, “where should we begin?”
“I’m not talking to any of you geit neukers,” the man spat through the bars of the cell, moving to the back of the cell and taking a seat. He folded his legs underneath him into a meditative position. Corporal edged his chair back slightly from the cell’s bars.
“Can you at least give us your name?” Corporal asked.
The man grinned widely, “They call me Mess In The Rug.”
“Mess In The Rug?” Corporal repeated, “What is that, Native American or something? What’s your dad’s name, Piss On The Floor?”
Mess In The Rug continued to grin.
“So, your not going ot talk, huh?” Corporal asked.
Mess In The Rug’s grin widened.
“Fine,” Corporal shrugged, “Then I guess we’re going to have to get some experts in to talk to you.”
Mess In The Rug nodded, scratching his back as he leant forward and rocked in his seat.
Corporal stood up from his seat, not taking his eyes off Mess In The Rug, then backed out of the holding cells.
“Well?” Major asked, looking up from his game of solitaire, “Did you get anything out of him?”
“Nothing,” Corporal shrugged, “I guess we bring in the boys to have a word.”
Corporal picked up the phone from his own desk and dialled a number, “Hello,” he said, “we need ‘The Boys’ to come and interrogate one of our suspects. He might be dangerous and he isn’t talking. All I could get out of him was that he calls himself Mess In The Rug.” He paused as the person on the other end of the line spoke, “Okay, we’ll see you soon.”
“Mess In The Rug?” Major repeated, “What kind of name is that?”
“I don’t know,” Corporal replied, “I asked, but all he did was grin and call me git nuker or something.”
“He called me that too,” Major said, “I wonder what it means.”
“It sounds German or something to me,” Corporal shrugged.
“I’ll Google it,” Major said, “It’ll give me something to do, seeing as I’m not allowed near the prisoner.”
Corporal shook his head, but he was smiling at the same time.
A knock at the door alerted Corporal to the arrival of ‘The Boys’.
“Afternoon, Corporal,” the first of the two men saluted, “Where is the prisoner?”
“I’ll take you through to him,” Corporal said, guiding the two soldiers through to the holding cells.
While Corporal took them through, Major started to Google git nuker.
Just entering ‘git nuker’ didn’t bring up anything that looked promising, so Major added ‘translation’ to the search.
Still nothing.
Major stroked his chin and tried spelling ‘git’ with two e’s, giving it the sound that the prisoner had made.
Nothing.
He tried googling just ‘git’, and found it to be an English slang term. Then he tried Geet which turned out to be an Indian soap opera. He clicked on the link, thinking Geet might mean something in some Indian dialect, but it was just the name of the main character.
He then tried googling it spelt g-e-i-t.
It brought up a picture of a goat.
“That’s promising,” he told himself as the Corporal came back into the room.
“Did you find anything?” he asked, bending over Major’s shoulder.
“It looks like ‘geit’ might mean goat,” he said, typing ‘geit in english’ into the search engine.
A translation box showed up showing that geit was Dutch for goat.
“We’re getting somewhere,” Major smiled.
He added nuker to the search, but it just came out as nuker in English. He tried some varying spellings – newker, nueker, neuker...
“Gotcha!” Major grinned, “ ‘Geit neuker’. It means... he was saying we have sex with goats!”
“The little git!” Corporal growled, then he stood upright, “Try typing in Mess In The Rug,” he said.
In the Dutch box that had geit neuker typed in it, Major typed ‘mess in the rug’. What appeared in the English translation made the two soldiers blink in surpise.
“Try spelling mess with one s,” Corporal suggested.
Major did so, and the translation came back to them.
“ ‘Knife in the back’!” Major read from the screen, “Oh my God! He’s one of them!”
*
In the holding cells, Mess In The Rug had been standing near the door to his cell when ‘The Boys’ walked in. He skittered away from the door when he saw the two men, scratching himself eagerly as he sized them up.
“So,” the second man smiled, “you’re Mess In The Rug? Is that what you call yourself?”
Mess In The Rug looked the two men up and down, scratching at his back as he watched them.
“What are you doing there?” the first man asked, “You got mange or something?”
Mess In The Rug continued to grin as he produced a blood soaked hand from behind his back.
“Jesus Christ!” the first man cringed, “What is wrong with you?”
Mess In The Rug’s other hand emerged from behind his back, holding a foot long knife. He chuckled like a cross between a hyena and a chimpanzee as he stood and staggered towards the cell door.
That was when the men noticed that the cell door was unlocked.
The first soldier reached for his gun, which was in the holster under his jacket, at the same time that Mess In The Rug kicked the door open. He leapt into the air like something out of a fantasy movie, landing on the first man’s chest and pinning him to the ground before plunging the knife through his skull.
The second soldier didn’t even have much time to react. He only just managed to pull his gun in the time it took Mess In The Rug to remove the first soldiers gun from its holster and fire a round into his face. He slumped to the ground, a burning hole between his eyes.
At that moment, Major and Corporal burst through the doors, seeing the two dead soldiers sprawled on the ground, and the blood soaked Mess In The Rug wielding the knife in one hand and the second soldier’s gun in the other.
Major had heard of this tribe of killers, who kept knives secreted beneath their skin to enable them to pass cursory inspection and get weapons into enemy territory. If Mess In The Rug could hide such a large knife between his ribs, it wouldn’t be hard for him to have hidden some sort of lock picking device as well.
“Pistool zijn niet leuk,” Mess In The Rug chuckled, throwing it behind him into the open prison cell. The crazy Dutchman flexed his fingers on the handle of the foot long knife before launching himself into the air and landing on top of Corporal.
“Ik zal steken tot je sterft!” Mess In The Rug screamed as he repeatedly plunged the knife into Corproal’s chest. Major looked on in stunned silence at the madman continued to stab Corporal to death.
Major reached slowly for his gun, lifting it from its holster and tentatively pointing it at Mess In The Rug. He squeezed the trigger and fired the full clip into Mess In The Rug, who fell off Corporal who was miraculously still breathing.
Major raced to check on Corporal, who was staring with unresponsive eyes through a mask of blood and sinew. Major felt his heart racing as he heard a chuckle coming from Mess In The Rug as he mumbled something.
“What did you say?” major asked, “What the hell did you say?”
Mess In The Rug licked his lips, “Ik ben maar de eerste,” he chuckled before he stopped breathing entirely.
Major called for a paramedic before sitting down at his desk, staring blankly at the screen which still showed the translation screen. Trying his best to remember what Mess In The Rug had said.
After a few attempts, he sat back in horror from his screen as he saw the English translation:
“I’m just the first.”
Originally Posted 15/6/2015
Result - 2nd Place
Major held his gun to the man’s head as he cowered on the ground, his hands shaking as he held them above his head. Major pressed the gun lightly into the man’s skull to emphasise his point.
“Stand down, Major,” Corporal warned him, “We need to keep this man alive.”
“Why bother?” asked Major, wiping his nose with his sleeve in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood that was dripping over his lips and towards his chin, “I say we just put a bullet in his head and be done with it.”
The man stopped shaking and looked up at Major, “I’d like to see you try, geit neuker,” he chuckled in a sing-song accent.
“What’s that? What did you call me?” Major growled, smacking the man in the side of the head with the butt of his weapon. The man spun sideways, falling from his precariously balanced position, hitting his head on the floor.
“I warned you Major,” Corporal growled, snatching the weapon from Major’s hands, “Now get out of here. I’ll deal with the prisoner.”
Major looked at his empty hand then glared at Corporal, “Aye, sir,” he said reluctantly, heading out of the holding cells and back to the main office.
He sat down at his computer, deciding to play a few games of solitaire.
Back in the holding cells, Corporal motioned with Major’s weapon for the man to get up off the ground.
“Come on,” he said, gesturing with the weapon towards an open cell, “Get in there.”
The man picked himself up off the ground and ambled towards the cell, Corporal closing the door behind him.
“Now,” Corporal said, pulling over a chair and sitting down outside the cell door, “where should we begin?”
“I’m not talking to any of you geit neukers,” the man spat through the bars of the cell, moving to the back of the cell and taking a seat. He folded his legs underneath him into a meditative position. Corporal edged his chair back slightly from the cell’s bars.
“Can you at least give us your name?” Corporal asked.
The man grinned widely, “They call me Mess In The Rug.”
“Mess In The Rug?” Corporal repeated, “What is that, Native American or something? What’s your dad’s name, Piss On The Floor?”
Mess In The Rug continued to grin.
“So, your not going ot talk, huh?” Corporal asked.
Mess In The Rug’s grin widened.
“Fine,” Corporal shrugged, “Then I guess we’re going to have to get some experts in to talk to you.”
Mess In The Rug nodded, scratching his back as he leant forward and rocked in his seat.
Corporal stood up from his seat, not taking his eyes off Mess In The Rug, then backed out of the holding cells.
“Well?” Major asked, looking up from his game of solitaire, “Did you get anything out of him?”
“Nothing,” Corporal shrugged, “I guess we bring in the boys to have a word.”
Corporal picked up the phone from his own desk and dialled a number, “Hello,” he said, “we need ‘The Boys’ to come and interrogate one of our suspects. He might be dangerous and he isn’t talking. All I could get out of him was that he calls himself Mess In The Rug.” He paused as the person on the other end of the line spoke, “Okay, we’ll see you soon.”
“Mess In The Rug?” Major repeated, “What kind of name is that?”
“I don’t know,” Corporal replied, “I asked, but all he did was grin and call me git nuker or something.”
“He called me that too,” Major said, “I wonder what it means.”
“It sounds German or something to me,” Corporal shrugged.
“I’ll Google it,” Major said, “It’ll give me something to do, seeing as I’m not allowed near the prisoner.”
Corporal shook his head, but he was smiling at the same time.
A knock at the door alerted Corporal to the arrival of ‘The Boys’.
“Afternoon, Corporal,” the first of the two men saluted, “Where is the prisoner?”
“I’ll take you through to him,” Corporal said, guiding the two soldiers through to the holding cells.
While Corporal took them through, Major started to Google git nuker.
Just entering ‘git nuker’ didn’t bring up anything that looked promising, so Major added ‘translation’ to the search.
Still nothing.
Major stroked his chin and tried spelling ‘git’ with two e’s, giving it the sound that the prisoner had made.
Nothing.
He tried googling just ‘git’, and found it to be an English slang term. Then he tried Geet which turned out to be an Indian soap opera. He clicked on the link, thinking Geet might mean something in some Indian dialect, but it was just the name of the main character.
He then tried googling it spelt g-e-i-t.
It brought up a picture of a goat.
“That’s promising,” he told himself as the Corporal came back into the room.
“Did you find anything?” he asked, bending over Major’s shoulder.
“It looks like ‘geit’ might mean goat,” he said, typing ‘geit in english’ into the search engine.
A translation box showed up showing that geit was Dutch for goat.
“We’re getting somewhere,” Major smiled.
He added nuker to the search, but it just came out as nuker in English. He tried some varying spellings – newker, nueker, neuker...
“Gotcha!” Major grinned, “ ‘Geit neuker’. It means... he was saying we have sex with goats!”
“The little git!” Corporal growled, then he stood upright, “Try typing in Mess In The Rug,” he said.
In the Dutch box that had geit neuker typed in it, Major typed ‘mess in the rug’. What appeared in the English translation made the two soldiers blink in surpise.
“Try spelling mess with one s,” Corporal suggested.
Major did so, and the translation came back to them.
“ ‘Knife in the back’!” Major read from the screen, “Oh my God! He’s one of them!”
*
In the holding cells, Mess In The Rug had been standing near the door to his cell when ‘The Boys’ walked in. He skittered away from the door when he saw the two men, scratching himself eagerly as he sized them up.
“So,” the second man smiled, “you’re Mess In The Rug? Is that what you call yourself?”
Mess In The Rug looked the two men up and down, scratching at his back as he watched them.
“What are you doing there?” the first man asked, “You got mange or something?”
Mess In The Rug continued to grin as he produced a blood soaked hand from behind his back.
“Jesus Christ!” the first man cringed, “What is wrong with you?”
Mess In The Rug’s other hand emerged from behind his back, holding a foot long knife. He chuckled like a cross between a hyena and a chimpanzee as he stood and staggered towards the cell door.
That was when the men noticed that the cell door was unlocked.
The first soldier reached for his gun, which was in the holster under his jacket, at the same time that Mess In The Rug kicked the door open. He leapt into the air like something out of a fantasy movie, landing on the first man’s chest and pinning him to the ground before plunging the knife through his skull.
The second soldier didn’t even have much time to react. He only just managed to pull his gun in the time it took Mess In The Rug to remove the first soldiers gun from its holster and fire a round into his face. He slumped to the ground, a burning hole between his eyes.
At that moment, Major and Corporal burst through the doors, seeing the two dead soldiers sprawled on the ground, and the blood soaked Mess In The Rug wielding the knife in one hand and the second soldier’s gun in the other.
Major had heard of this tribe of killers, who kept knives secreted beneath their skin to enable them to pass cursory inspection and get weapons into enemy territory. If Mess In The Rug could hide such a large knife between his ribs, it wouldn’t be hard for him to have hidden some sort of lock picking device as well.
“Pistool zijn niet leuk,” Mess In The Rug chuckled, throwing it behind him into the open prison cell. The crazy Dutchman flexed his fingers on the handle of the foot long knife before launching himself into the air and landing on top of Corporal.
“Ik zal steken tot je sterft!” Mess In The Rug screamed as he repeatedly plunged the knife into Corproal’s chest. Major looked on in stunned silence at the madman continued to stab Corporal to death.
Major reached slowly for his gun, lifting it from its holster and tentatively pointing it at Mess In The Rug. He squeezed the trigger and fired the full clip into Mess In The Rug, who fell off Corporal who was miraculously still breathing.
Major raced to check on Corporal, who was staring with unresponsive eyes through a mask of blood and sinew. Major felt his heart racing as he heard a chuckle coming from Mess In The Rug as he mumbled something.
“What did you say?” major asked, “What the hell did you say?”
Mess In The Rug licked his lips, “Ik ben maar de eerste,” he chuckled before he stopped breathing entirely.
Major called for a paramedic before sitting down at his desk, staring blankly at the screen which still showed the translation screen. Trying his best to remember what Mess In The Rug had said.
After a few attempts, he sat back in horror from his screen as he saw the English translation:
“I’m just the first.”
Originally Posted 15/6/2015
Result - 2nd Place
June 14, 2015
Poem : Treachery!
I recall when we were close
We weren’t deceived, we weren’t morose
We’d hang around like all was great
And never turn our thoughts to hate
Until that time I met a girl
My heart did skip, tongue did unfurl
I’d feel a twitching in my heart
You helped me out – well, at the start.
You gave ideas and made suggestions
Answered all my tricky questions
Named some places, things to do
The best place for a rendezvous
I bought her chocolates, gave her flowers
Wasted immeasurable hours
Wooing her from dusk till dawn
(Suppressing every trouser horn).
Until the day that you concluded
You shouldn’t have been excluded
From my lady’s fond romances
Or her furtive tender glances
So you set upon a quest
Much like a man by girl possessed
And asked her out behind my back
And filled her with your semen sack!
I hadn’t even passed first base!
My lips had never touched her face!
Let alone what you did with her
You treacherous deceitful cur!
I hadn’t made my move quite yet
(Though I thought sex was a sure bet)
But there you were like some Greek God
Defiling her with your cheap rod
When I found out I couldn’t breath
By my best friend to be deceived
I felt the blades infectious rust
As in you I lose all my trust
I hope the two of you are pleased
(And that your parts are all diseased)
I lost a friend, you broke my heart
My life began to fall apart
And so I leave you with this thought
Sometimes romances come to naught
Having a girlfriend can be nice
But don’t let friendship pay the price.
Originally Posted 14/6/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
We weren’t deceived, we weren’t morose
We’d hang around like all was great
And never turn our thoughts to hate
Until that time I met a girl
My heart did skip, tongue did unfurl
I’d feel a twitching in my heart
You helped me out – well, at the start.
You gave ideas and made suggestions
Answered all my tricky questions
Named some places, things to do
The best place for a rendezvous
I bought her chocolates, gave her flowers
Wasted immeasurable hours
Wooing her from dusk till dawn
(Suppressing every trouser horn).
Until the day that you concluded
You shouldn’t have been excluded
From my lady’s fond romances
Or her furtive tender glances
So you set upon a quest
Much like a man by girl possessed
And asked her out behind my back
And filled her with your semen sack!
I hadn’t even passed first base!
My lips had never touched her face!
Let alone what you did with her
You treacherous deceitful cur!
I hadn’t made my move quite yet
(Though I thought sex was a sure bet)
But there you were like some Greek God
Defiling her with your cheap rod
When I found out I couldn’t breath
By my best friend to be deceived
I felt the blades infectious rust
As in you I lose all my trust
I hope the two of you are pleased
(And that your parts are all diseased)
I lost a friend, you broke my heart
My life began to fall apart
And so I leave you with this thought
Sometimes romances come to naught
Having a girlfriend can be nice
But don’t let friendship pay the price.
Originally Posted 14/6/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
