Short Story Competition 4 (World Cup) - VOTE HERE!

pickarooney

In the latter half of June we ran the latest Variations on a Theme conmpetition.

The theme this time was:
A World Cup Story

For more details on the competition, see the discussion in this thread.

Nine people entered this time and their stories appear below for your approval. These stories are posted anonymously and the winner revealed after voting closes, at around 9.15 a.m. on Wednesday 7th July. You may vote for as many stories as you like, all we ask is that you give a reason for your vote in the form of a post on this thread.

Please give the authors as much feedback, positive or negative but above all constructive, as you can.

Voting is public, and votes without a post in the thread will be ignored.

The order of the stories is, as usual, randomly generated.

Best of luck to all involved and thanks in advance to those who take the time to read and rate the entries.

pickarooney

Economics

‘Six, seven, eight, nine.. one thousand’.

The teller counted the last crisp R200 note onto the top of the neat bundle on the counter. She smiled wanly at the flushed, hot looking man in front of her.

‘Thank you sir, enjoy the rest of your stay.’

She smiled her practiced smile again as she waited for him to shuffle away from the counter. She was tired, and she still had hours till the end of her shift. A queue of similarly overcooked foreign-looking people remained. With all the football going on, these guys were everywhere. It was going to be a long, tiring afternoon.

The heat of this country was too much for the tourist, he could never get used to it. He pushed the tidy bundle of notes into his shorts, and plodded reluctantly out into the glaringly bright street. His shirt was sticking to his back, and his armpits dripped. He needed a beer, and some shade. With his hand inside his pocket, he gripped the bundle of money tightly, for fear it would leap out and get lost. You couldn’t be too careful in these foreign countries, he knew. The stranger was still waiting for him over by the café. He crossed the sun-baked street, narrowly avoiding the lunatic bakkies that motored up and down. He separated two notes from the rest of the unfamiliar currency in his pocket, and greeted the man with a small nod.

The slightly wrinkled R200 note, along with another, passed from his pale sticky hand to the man’s darkly tanned one, and the ticket was similarly exchanged in the opposite direction. The tourist didn’t notice the FIFA watermark was missing, which was a good thing, as the new owner of the note was not giving it back, and he wasn’t in the mood for a fight today. He just put the crumpled money deep in his trouser pocket, alongside his jingling keys and a folded square piece of foil. This man’s nerves were also jingling, and his hands trembled. He had places he needed to go, people to see. The men shook hands, and parted.

The note remained inside the dark folds of the pocket as the man crossed the road, got in his car, and drove through the busy streets to a particular tall dark building, which was streaked with city grime and pasted with crumpled advertising posters. Another man sat outside on the step in the evening sun, smoking a zol. The smoker was impatient, eager to get this business done and be on his way.

‘Sies, man, I’ve been waiting around for you, you’re late’

‘Have you got some?’

‘Sure thing’

‘Same as last time?’

‘Of course.’

The note was brought out into the light again. Another trade, this time for a small handful of something toxic. The note moved into another sweaty palm. A new hiding place was found for it inside a billfold. And then it was travelling again, moving south now, across the city. Sunlight faded to darkness, with streetlights glistening; the streets emptied as the safety of the day evaporated. But outside the stadium traffic was jammed. The man tapped his fingers impatiently. The sound of the crowds and people blowing horns was raucous and irritating. Finally he escaped the pinch of cars, driving fast down a familiar back street. He parked outside a neon lit bar; he had more business here. The football crowd inside was celebrating noisily, with large jugs of beer being carried over the heads of the revellers by waitresses in miniskirts and too-high heels. The man pulled the ever-patient note from his billfold and placed on the damp counter.

‘A Castle, bra’

The glass was pushed across the bar, the note exchanged again. It was brought to the till, but as the drawer opened it was pushed inside the pocket of the bartender instead, who counted out the required change from the float without missing a beat, and passed the notes and shrapnel back to the customer. Saami the bartender was heading home soon, Jacoline his wife was waiting, and the rent collector would be at his door at first light. As he left at the end of his shift, he gave a high five to Thandiwe who took over from him, then escaped out into the cool night air away from the noise. The note sat peacefully in his jeans pocket. It would get him out of trouble tonight. The streets were deserted and innocent looking, but they were not the place to be at that hour, and Saami hurried, walking at the edge of the pavement, away from the dark doorways. Walking home was stupid, he knew, he really needed to get himself a car, and he would, as soon as he got out of debt. He trotted around the corner by Braamfontein; he was almost home. Just a short walk across the park, but he would need to watch the shadows there.

Midnight. The note had changed hands again. These hands pumped through the air as the newest owner of the money ran hard through the gravel back street. The note was now sticky and so was the fist that held it. Panic seeped through the pores of the boy with sticky hands, and he pawed at blood on the front of his shirt. His thoughts raced, about the stupid kont he had left on the road, who fought back instead of just giving up his precious money. Well, he gave it up either way, George thought, he was stupid to waste his blood trying to keep it. George checked the street behind him as he ran; it was silent and still. No sirens yet, which was good. He slowed to a trot, allowing his heartbeat to slow down and his breathing to ease. All that mess back there for just a few lousy rand, but it might be enough to keep Boss off his back, he didn’t know. It was best for George to try to avoid any of Boss’s thugs, for now anyway. He reached the large building that used to house a furniture store, clambered through the bent metal shuttering covering the doorway, and went to hide in his temporary home.

The SAPS sergeant walked around the scene in the ruined store, and sighed. Another junk kid who would not be missed: George Selebi, who was age 19 according to the report in his hand. The cause of death was apparent, the back of the boy’s head was scattered across the room. Every day, it was the same, these wasted dregs of society becoming victims in a turf war that would never end. This dead boy was just more routine paperwork that would never be worth following up. He stooped and checked the kid’s pockets. Some gum, loose change, an illegal betting slip for last nights game. And a bonus; a stained and dirty 200 rand note. The sergeant slipped it into his jacket; he saw no point listing it in evidence when it would just be taken by the next officer in line, if he didn’t have it. The boy certainly didn’t need it anymore. It made a nice little addition to his unofficial overtime pay this week, and his wages needed this kind of supplement, he had child support to pay. He walked away from the corpse, instructing the waiting coroner to go ahead and move it. Nothing else to do here but clean up the mess and go home.

The teller stretched as she eased into her workstation and raised the blind covering the window. Another day, another queue. First in line, a grubby and tired looking police sergeant, she recognised him from the coffee stop on the corner where bank workers often shared their breaks with officers from the station. He proffered a bundle of notes and a lodgement docket. The notes were grimy and stained, and the teller wrinkled her nose. She would need to disinfect her hands after this.

'Six, seven, eight, nine.. one thousand. All correct, thank you Sir’.

She stamped the policeman’s docket, and stacked the filthy notes in the drawer, their dirt becoming invisible and unnoticed among the sheaf of other currency. Then she moved on to the next customer, a tourist in a red and white football shirt. This one looked wobbly and stank of beer.

‘Travellers cheque? No problem sir. Just sign it here. Your passport, please?’

She smiled her habitual fake smile as she pulled the required R200 notes from the stack in the drawer, and began to count them all over again.

pickarooney

Alone in Tokyo

Every train in every station vomits hundreds of passengers. They spill onto the platform, flowing unthinking toward the stairs, a navy-suited tide. They ignore each other, every one, as billows of stale air like the breath of some great beast blow through the tunnels, lifting the hair and the skirts of schoolgirls. No-one notices, or those who notice pretend not to. On each level, another rumble, another train. And more passengers pour out. And the foul wind blows. And they climb. Train. Climb. Wind. Climb.

The tributaries from the stairwells flow together on the top level, splitting to pass through the ticket barrier dams and remerging, carrying on in all directions to the surface. Even here the city can be heard, in the screech of brakes, the echoing of thousands of shoes on concrete, the bells of the ticket barriers, the grinding machines.

On ground level, umbrellas open like bats’ wings. The echoing footfalls, closer and heavier in the small stairwell, give way to the constant hammer of rain, and in stepping through the exit, the music of the city swells. A relentless, ever-changing rhythmic ostinato hammered out on umbrellas and on concrete and on air; the machine gun takataka of the blue-lit cross-walks; the hiss of tyres on wet tar as taxis and small trucks drive at a pace both luxurious and unstoppable; the distant, unconcerned voices calling “Irasshaimasen!” within newsagents and coffee shops. Jackhammers crush pavements, raising dense clouds of stone. Barkers appear from nowhere, standing outside stores and supermarkets, the advertisements they read into microphones bellowed by the speakers above their heads. Music pours from every shop, spilling and mixing on the street like paint.

Higher, brightly-coloured advertisements and neon lights glare. Buildings surround on all sides, imperiously, concrete and glass reaching into the clouds.

This is not a clockwork city; a city of interactions and reactions, of synchronicity and simple beauty, nor is it steam-powered, noisily turning, churning, working, making. This is an electric city. Millions of particles, each travelling along its own path, each doing its job. It is a city of luminescence and complexity. It is a city of sound and vision that at all times threatens to engulf the senses. It is not perpetual. It has been switched on.

Tokyo is awake.



Tetsuo Tanaka is always early. He stares at the door of the elevator, over the head of the older man who got on just after him. The cheerful mechanical voice announces each floor as it stops, and eventually Tetsuo reaches his, and moves past the older man and out the door. Before taking his place at his desk, he orders a coffee at the vending machine by the window, and looks down at his city. He imagines it played as a high-speed video, cars flashing by at the speed of light, people moving slower, in impossibly intricate balletic interactions. Shibuya crossing far below, where hundreds of people cross on every change of the lights. How much Tokyo looks like an ants’ nest. How much the people like drones. I am not the first person to think this, and this is not the first time I have thought it. The machine buzzes and clicks, and Tetsuo takes his coffee and returns to his cubicle. All around him he hears computers groan to life, and the hum of the air conditioner. His own computer has powered up in his absence, and he sits in his chair, leans forward and begins typing. In a short while, the takataka of the keyboards from all around is all he hears.

At lunchtime, the dark-suited businessmen pour from the skyscrapers into the heavy, dull heat. Tetsuo descends into the smoking area and lights a cigarette. Every man in there is doing the same, dragging down smoke, making phonecalls, checking his email, tweeting, blowing smoke. Some stand in little groups, chatting, others alone. Tetsuo finishes his cigarette and makes his way to a snack bar for lunch. It doesn’t matter which one. Nothing in Tokyo lasts very long.

In the snack bar, Tetsuo pushes a button, inserts his money, takes his receipt, and gives it to the waitress. She takes it with a bow and prepares his order along with a dozen others she has just received. After his lunch, he returns to the office and works until late in the evening, as the dull glow of the sun through the glass wall is outshone by the glaring monitors, but even they blink out one by one as the evening draws on.

After work, Tetsuo rejoins the stream of people out of the city, back through the tunnels and the smoke and the mist and rain and the neon signs. Back underground through the foul air and the swarms of people. His hand and a dozen others grip the leather strap dangling from the train ceiling and he stands, half suspended, thinking about nothing, listening to the cheerful voice announce each station in Japanese and then in English.


So it is, every day.

But not today.

Tetsuo Tanaka listens to the rhythm of the train: two beats close to him as the carriage dips, then two farther off. He considers making a photograph inside the train, but soon he will be in Shibuya. At Ikebukuro, at Shinjuku, at Meiji-Jingumae no-one gets on. And the train carries on.

At his station, Tetsuo picks up his camera bag and steps off, taking one last look at the empty carriage. His footfalls echo on the platform, deep drumbeats, and he feels almost as though he is in a film. But still the platform smells of oil, smoke, sweat and gasoline, and he aches inside his mind and body for fresher air and he rises like a champagne bubble and surfaces. A steady, warm breeze blows across his face and bare arms, and the sun makes even the lines on the road seem brilliant.

Tetsuo sees a barker standing in front of an electronics shop, sleepily reading his advertising copy. The man — he must be about nineteen — keeps glancing over his shoulder at the televisions in the window. It’s clear he doesn’t want to be here. Tetsuo makes several photographs of the barker, considering his favourite one in which the barker seems to be staring bleakly out of frame, while beyond him the empty street stretches into infinity. I’ll sort these out later. He thanks the young man, checks his watch, and moves on. He has time.



When he arrives at Shibuya crossing, there is a handful of tourists and no-one more. The lights change, and even the tourists disappear then. Tetsuo takes his camera again, chooses a lens, and makes a few photographs of the empty space, taking his time and crossing the road several times for different perspectives. Finally he puts his camera away. He waits for the takataka rhythm, and walks to the middle of the road, then puts down his camera bag, turns to face the road, and shuts his eyes. Tetsuo Tanaka stands, in the middle of the road, breathing. Not a car can be heard, nor a single footstep. Nothing but the wind. The crosswalk stops its tapping rhythm, but Tetsuo does not move. He hears the silence, and he breathes the city. For this moment, he knows peace; for this moment, he is at one with Tokyo, and with the world.



But peace never lasts, and he has one last thing to do. He opens his eyes and crosses the rest of the way, still looking around him. This is Tokyo’s secret face. This is Tokyo stripped bare. This city will only reveal this side of itself to those who know when to look. And I have found it. And how beautiful it is. How sad that so few of them know, those millions who arrive in the morning and depart in the evening. But if they looked for it, it would cease to exist.

Tetsuo takes the unfamiliar route. As he walks, he runs his hand along a concrete wall, feeling the texture, rough like teeth. They had planned, originally, to meet at the same coffee shop, but nothing in Tokyo lasts very long, so he follows the directions that Mitsu emailed him last night. Tetsuo is always early. Mitsu is always earlier. She sits reading a book, two cups of coffee on the table. When Tetsuo arrives, she doesn’t look up immediately, but finishes her page first.

—I wonder what the score is. Do you know?
—No.
—I suppose it must be about half time by now.
—I suppose so.

And they sit, and smile, and talk, and sip their coffee, alone together in the silent city.

pickarooney

Il Corvo

Once beneath a floodlight dreary, while I scouted weak and weary,
Over many potential players from Division Four,
While I scribbled, nearly napping, suddenly there came a yapping,
As of some one loudly rapping, rapping out the number four.
`'Tis just a fan,' I muttered, `booing at the match's score -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distantly I remember, was it only last November?
And Belorus dismembered, in the dust upon the floor.
Feeling oh so far from sorrow; - foolishly I sought to borrow
From the greats, hope for tomorrow - World Cups had been won before –
Oh those rare talented players who had claimed a winning score –
Heroes then and evermore.

Now a future still uncertain, looking through my hotel curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with hopes not felt since years before
So that now, to stem a fleeting sense of hope, I’d stand repeating
To that journo seeking comment at my hotel door -
That journo simply seeking comment on the score; -
"Goodnight,” I’d say, and nothing more.

Presently my soul grew stronger; strategising then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, it’s your absence I implore;
But the fact is I am mapping out the players I am capping,
And so late you came a-yapping, yapping at my hotel door,
I need peace, I can assure you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Back to the desk returning, all my soul within me burning,
When again I heard that yapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is someone at the door,
Let me see then, who it is and so this mystery explore -
Let football wait a moment, I'll this mystery explore; -
'Tis the maid and nothing more!'

Open here I heard a shutter, and, with many a duck and flutter,
In there stepped a podgy journo of the Fleet Street days of yore.
But no introductions made he; not a card or badge displayed he;
But, with dictaphone in hand he slunk inside my hotel door -
Near the photo of Alf Ramsey placed inside my hotel door –
Tipped his hat, and nothing more.

Then this shady man beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the flat-cap that he wore,
`Though thy beard by barely shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no maven.
Ghastly grim and sleazy journo come up from the lobby floor -
Tell me what thy paper’s name is on night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the journo, `1-to-4.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly man to hear discourse so plainly,
Though his quip had little meaning - and no relevancy bore
For we cannot help conceding the fact that no human breathing
Ever yet was cursed with reading, in or out his hotel door -
Blog or paper that would hire this man at my hotel door,
With such name as `1-to-4.'

But the journo, slouching lonely by the photo thus spoke only,
That one phrase, as if his job in that one phrase he did outpour.
And no questions did he utter – fixing he his camera shutter -
In Italian then I muttered `other writers came before -
On the morrow you can see me, make contact with the press corps.’
Then the man said, `1-to-4.'

With the awkward silence broken by those words so glibly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I then, ‘your matter’s more than just the score,
Sent by some mongering master hoping for obscene disaster
Or I’ll take you as my pastor and reveal far too much more -
And the phrase to drive this madness, which you so cheerfully bore
Those little words, just "1-to-4."'

As the journo began smiling, sudden thoughts began compiling,
Straight I threw a FIFA cushion before man and Alf and door;
Then, upon the trinket sinking, and the room around me shrinking
I could not stop from thinking what this grubby man of yore -
What this greased, ungraceful, grimy, gaunt, and suspect man of yore
Meant in yapping `1-to-4.'

Then, I thought, the time grew faster, like the words of some sportscaster
Reading top division highlights, then shown late on Channel Four
`Wretch,' I cried, `Hath Sepp Blatter sent thee - as some demon to torment me?
Respite - respite and rest from memories of '94!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind stoppage, and World Cup '94!'
Quoth the journo, `1-to-4.'

`Bookie!' said I, `evil devil! - bookie still, if on the level! -
Whether Mirror sent, or whether Murdoch threw thee here ashore,
Insolent and so unwanted, in this room which you have haunted -
With your knowledge oh so vaunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Will we - will we win in Jo'burg? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the journo, `1-to-4.'

`Bookie!' said I, `evil devil! - bookie still, if on the level! -
By the championship above us - by that game we both adore -
Does the future hold elation for the hopes of this great nation,
Will we truly find salvation or more flubs as came before?
A rare win to bring salvation, or more flubs as came before?
Quoth the journo, `1-to-4.'

`With that phrase you are departing, man or hack!' I cried upstarting -
`Get thee back out to the airport and on night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no crib notes as a token of the boundaries thou hath broken!
Leave all results unspoken! - return outside my hotel door!
Put thy hat back on thy head, and take thy feet from off this floor!'
Quoth the journo, `1-to-4.'

And the journo, never quitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
Near the photograph of Ramsey just beside my hotel door;
And his eyes have all the gleaming of a striker that is scheming,
And the floodlights o'er him streaming throw his shadow on the floor;
And my team from out that shadow will go on to know the score!
Damn the journo - 1-to-4.

pickarooney

Damp grass tickled the soles of Cass’s feet. She climbed the knoll slowly, supporting her back with her hands. Her eyes were trained on the sky. Soon, the penetrating gong would sound, calling everyone to the ceremony. Cass hated this part. She had been a member of the celebrated twice before, and both times things had not gone according to plan. She hoped this time, her third ceremony, would be the lucky one. Breeders who made it to the ceremony three times were usually promoted to the position of novice mistress, or even group leader, but Cass was sure she would never be considered for such honours.

She lowered herself onto the grass slowly, using the slope to support her tired back. Gazing at the constellations, she stroked her belly and hummed absently. Although she was enjoying the tune, when she realised she was humming Cass stopped abruptly. The Watchers would be monitoring everything tonight, with the ceremony of the Celebrated and an imminent harvest. Cass had not known the tune she was humming. The unknown and unfamiliar were deeply mistrusted, especially as strict adherence to the guidelines was demanded at all times.

Approaching footsteps interrupted Cass’s thoughts.
“Cass?”
Leonie’s whisper was large and unsubtle. It ballooned to filled the empty space left by her humming and seemed to block out the clarity of the stars. Cass lifted her head in Leonie’s direction and raised an arm in salute.
“Cass, it’s nearly time. Get up, you’ll stain your dress. The Watchers are uneasy tonight and the ceremony is close.”

Cass bit her lip to avoid snapping. Leonie meant well, but Cass just needed a little time to clear her head before the Cup of Worlds was passed around. While Leonie’s former couplings and ceremonies had been uneventful, Cass could not say the same for her own. Many of the other breeders would no longer speak to her, as though she would taint their crop and ruin the harvest for them. Leonie, however, stood by Cass fiercely, defending her from the accusations of her peers and demanding that Cass be included as a full member of the group. Cass was unwaveringly grateful to Leonie for her support, but could feel fear sneaking up on her, forcing her to imagine the worst things that could happen later.

Leonie puffed to Cass’s side and stretched out her hand, hovering over her. Even bound, her breasts hung, ready and full. Cass knew that Leonie hoped she would go at any moment once the ceremony was completed. Those who harvested during the ceremony of the Celebrated were considered to have a chosen harvest, which brought honour to the breeder and their group. Their next couplings would be with the more favourable mates and their crop was treated with extra care. Leonie’s wide face peered over her chest and swollen abdomen, looking Cass in the eye.
“Come on, we start in a few minutes. We mustn’t be late – everything will be fine.”

Waving her hand in Cass’s face, Leonie motioned for her to grab hold, and together they levered Cass to her feet. Cass longed for Leonie’s confidence. She found the ceremony degrading and wished that it did not have to be performed in front of the entire community, who were presently collecting at the large domed tents. She always found it difficult to maintain a dignified stance as the elders stripped the Celebrated of their shifts, exposing their bound chests and engorged bellies to the entire community for their inspection, even when she had been one of the spectators. The exposure made her shy and uncomfortable – even more uncomfortable than she currently felt within the community.

Once the breeders were naked, they were forced to rotate on the dais so the entire community could examine their progress. Only then would the elders approach and, starting with the new breeders, the Celebrated would be clothed again in the finest cloaks. These garments were softly pinned around their temporary girth, until their harvest. After the cloaking had taken place, the Celebrated were to move to a new area this evening – partially because of Cass and her previous ceremonies. This raised platform, on which they would finally sip from the Cup of Worlds, was soft, ready to catch a falling breeder who might faint or have an adverse reaction. Cass could feel her face redden with memory and shame.

“I can see what you’re thinking. Nothing will happen, all will go well tonight.”
“I wish I could be so sure. I’ll try to be positive, this one has been different from day one.”
Again, Leonie’s comforting words were unwelcome. Cass needed to focus, to avoid the horror of her previous ceremonies. This would be her last chance. If she failed now, she would be an outcast, sent to the village of Barren outside the walls, where the old and infirm were banished to relieve the community of the burden of their care. The great gong boomed again, growing louder and more insistent as waves of sound flowed outwards, calling the community into the tents. Cass breathed deeply and pushed her shoulders back, ignoring the pressure of the binding on her chest. Whether she felt it or not, she would radiate supreme confidence tonight.

The pathway to the tents was well worn from previous ceremonies and travellers coming from afar to pay their respects to the community. From here the tents looked like bubbles of milk rising on the surface of the clearing, however as Cass and Leonie drew closer the gathering place seemed to grow larger with each step. Cass lost her footing and stumbled, gripping Leonie’s outstretched forearm to steady herself.
“Cass, should we slow down? If you fall now you could ruin everything for yourself, and the group would never forgive you.”
Occasionally Cass wondered at Leonie’s absorption of the group ethos when she was such a pleasant, if bland, individual at heart. Perhaps, Cass thought, if she had lived her entire life in the community too she would be the same. Cass reached the entrance to the ceremonial zone while still thinking about her beginnings in the community and her possibility of remaining here. The gaping mouths of the tents screamed at Cass to turn and run, but Leonie had placed a firm, gentle hand on the small of her back and was pushing her forward insistently.

“Between the two tents and in the left hand entrance,” Leonie whispered in her ear.
“I have done this before you know” she said under her breath.
Cass pushed forward through the throngs of people queuing to enter into the ceremonial tents and took the door Leonie had pointed out to her. The rest of her group were already inside, as were four others from a smaller group of older breeders. Cass elbowed Leonie gently in the ribs and nodded in the direction of the oldest lady in the room. She was known as The Mistress and this would be her fourteenth crop. To have the ceremony performed with her was an honour, and also a good omen. Cass slowly drank a lungful of the air surrounding The Mistress, hoping her skill and luck would be transferred (or at least shared) through close proximity to her.

Before Cass could move to stand beside her, a third great call was emitted by the gong. It was time to enter the ceremonial space and meet the waiting spectators, crowded to see the ceremony. Focussing on The Mistress’s presence, Cass moved forward slowly in her place amongst all the other breeders. Cass and Leonie stood on the raised dais side by side. The Unveiling, as the Watchers dubbed the exposure of the breeders before the gowning ceremony, was over far more quickly than Cass remembered. Soon, Cass felt the soft celebratory robe draped gently around her, as one of the elders pinned it delicately in place, avoiding physical contact. The most important part of the ceremony was about to begin.

Waiting her turn, Cass tuned out the breeders in front of her proceeding to the cup and having the future of their harvest foretold in tongues translated by the elders. Stunned, she felt herself propelled forward. They had called her name and she had been too focussed on herself to hear it. She strode comfortably to the place of the cup, portraying confidence in each step, though her entire body trembled. Extending her bare hands, the cup was placed gently in her palms and she raised it to her lips. Inhaling deeply, she began to feel the light-headedness she always experienced during the ceremony. She hoped this one would be a success. Cass took her first tentative sip and paused. Taking another, she continued until she had taken the required five mouthfuls. Opening her mouth for her proclamation, a loud sigh emerged, before she began slowly, building to a rapid flow of foreign words, astonishing the crowd around her. A murmur rose in the crowd as a bloom of red began to gather at her feet. The elder snatched the Cup of Worlds from her hands. Cass folded to the floor smiling at her success, and succumbed to the pain tearing through her.

pickarooney

The sun was high in the sky, casting a blue glow over the water on Lakelaoise. The fauxzone did most of its work during the day, its shimmer protecting the people below.

"Son, if you don't get a move on, we're going to be late! The game is in 30 minutes!"
"Coming, Dad!"

Harry O'Brien couldn't believe he got tickets for the world cup final. The stadium was purpose built for the final, and even though it had capacity for 1.2 million people, the tickets were like gold dust. He’d called in some serious favours to get them, but it was worth it. Colin would have a day he would remember for the rest of his life.

"Colin Joseph O'Brien. If you don't get your behind out here right now, I'm leaving without..."
"Here!"

A twelve year old boy sprang from the front door, a huge grin on his face. He was closely followed by his four year old sister. She was visibly upset. Harry scooped her up with one arm and looked her in the eyes.

“What’s wrong, pet?”
"Why can I not come to the wo' cup final, Daddy?"
"I need someone to stay and take care of Mummy, Aoife. It's an important job that only big girls can do. The person in charge needs to be at least four years old. How old are you?"
"Four." Fo-wah.
"Wow. That's the right age! Do you think you can do the job?"
"Yes, Daddy. I’m a big girl now."
"Eskimo kiss?"
"K".

Harry and Aoife rubbed noses, and Aoife giggled. Mary appeared at the front door.

"Daddy says I have to take care of you, Mummy."

Harry handed Aoife over to Mary.

"Drive safe, Harry."
"I will. Back in time for dinner."

Harry pressed a combination of keys on his wristband. 132 stories above them, his car powered up. Half a minute later, it was hovering at the dock at the end of the sharewalk. Harry and Colin were standing there when the door slid open. The boy climbed into the back seat, and Harry went to the cockpit. A lattice of thin red beams passed over his face, authenticating him as the owner. The car's dashboard lit up, and the HUD panel came to life.

"All set, son?"
"Ready, Dad!"
"We'll be there in twenty minutes."

Harry reached into the HUD and waved panels across the screen until he reached the navigation panel. The haptic feedback made his fingertips tingle as the panels moved aside. A map of the world appeared on the screen. With some gestures, waving his arms like a classical conductor, he zoomed into Western Europe and zoomed in again to The United Commonwealth. Moments later he had found Wembley Five in the London-Birmingham Sky City - the stadium where the World Cup Final was going to be played. He set the autodrive and a thin yellow line appeared on the HUD, stretching east into the horizon and marking their route.

The car left Lakelaoise, and it took several minutes for the 800 storey superstructure to vanish from the rear view panel on the HUD.

"Daddy, Daddy, show me Dublin!"

Harry waved his hands through the HUD until the undercamera display was on screen, and he pressed a control with his palm to maximise the display. Devastation filled the screen, but some noticeable landmarks were still visible. The Liffey was dry but still recognisable, and that goddamned spire managed to survive the blast. Most of Dublin was destroyed in the Fourth War, a very dark period in Ireland's 22nd century history. The car passed through the bubble and the ruins were quickly replaced by the Irish Sea.

It would take three minutes to reach the United Commonwealth bubble from here. This was the part that Harry hated. If anything happened between bubbles, there was no sanctuary. The radiation between bubbles would burn the skin from your flesh in seconds, and this hunk of carbon fibre polymer and electronics was all that stood between them and a very painful death. There had been no accidents for 73 years, but that did little to put his mind at ease.

Minutes later, Harry exhaled as the barren hills of Waleshire appeared on the undercamera display. With some gestures through the HUD, Harry changed to a forward display. The distance display showed 180km. About five minutes away. The airways were very busy - tens of thousands of cars were converging on the stadium from all directions and altitudes. Thank God for autodrive.

"Nearly there, son. Excited?"

He looked around and saw that Colin had his gameshades on. He was waving his hands in the air - shooting aliens, playing airball, or whatever else twelve year old boys played these days. Harry pressed the parental lockout control on his wristband. Cries of "Awwww daaaaad" told him that it ended his son's game.

"We're nearly here, son. You can play the game on your way back."

The car pulled up at a docking bay to let them out. Once they were on the sharewalk, the car's autodrive kicked in and car rose high into the air to find its allocated parking spot.

Harry grabbed his son's hand and they went to the nearest fastwalk. Even from this distance, the atmosphere was electric. Fans were singing, spirits were high, and the tension was palpable. It took them less than a minute to fastwalk the five kilometre distance to their seats. As they sat down, Harry looked around. The event was sold out, and the crowd was a sea of colour as far as the eye could see. Camera drones hovered through the crowd, transmitting a streaming video feed to huge displays overhead. Harry put on his magnivisor and cranked it up to its highest setting. He could make out individual blades of grass on the pitch. He set it back a few notches, so that half of the pitch filled his field of vision. Perfect. He turned to help Colin set up his magnivisor, but his son had already figured it out.

A loud tone sounded, and silence fell across the stadium.

King Charles VI stood to address the crowd - his booming voice projected for all to hear, his face filling the overhead displays.

"Welcome, one and all, to an unprecedented and historic occasion. For the first time ever, our two nations will do battle in the final of the most traditional sporting event still being played in the 24th Century. The World Cup has been played in 37 different countries since the inaugural tournament in 1930. Exactly 400 years later to the very day, we continue this proud tradition. May it continue for another 400 years! Our countries have crossed sporting paths before, but never before in an event of this magnitude. From the south tunnel, we welcome our visitors from our neighbouring bubble and wish them the best of luck..... THE REPUBLIC OF IRELAND!"

A sea of green, white and gold, accompanied by a deafening cheer, greeted the boys in green. Eleven men ran onto the pitch, clapping and acknowledging the crowd.

"From the North Tunnel, we wish our own boys the best of luck.... THE UNITED COMMONWEALTH!"

An even bigger cheer went up for the team in white and red – the home team’s fans outnumbered the Irish by some margin.

The tone sounded, and a respectful hush fell once again.

The national anthems played, and each country sang their anthem with gusto and passion. Harry had taught Colin the old Irish version of The Soldiers' Song, and was very proud to hear him sing it, even though most others sang it in English. They got some strange looks from other people around them, some disapproving. Many would not have heard the ancient tongue before.

After the national anthems, the two team captains met in the middle and shook hands. The referee tossed a 21st century coin to decide who would kick off first, and the Commonwealth won. The shrill sound of his whistle was projected across Wembley Five, and the game was on!

The first half came alive after 20 minutes. Tom Holmes scored for The United Commonwealth after a mistake by an Irish defender. Just before half time, Ireland pulled a goal back when Liam Murphy was fouled in the penalty area. He put the ball in the top left corner of the net, silencing the Commonwealth fans.

The second half was an action packed blur. A pair of goals went in on both ends, and the full time score was 3-3. There were five yellow cards, and the Commonwealth were down to ten men.

"Who's going to win, Colin?"
"IRELAND!"

Extra time was frantic but goalless for 29 minutes. A goal kick from Frank Fitzpatrick put the ball deep in the United Commonwealth half. John McCarthy trapped it on his chest, and with a flick, kicked it across the pitch to the unmarked Eoin Lambert. Eoin launched himself into the air, anticipated where the ball would be, and volleyed it as hard as he could. The ball went like a rocket into the corner of the net, just as the full time whistle blew! The Irish fans erupted! They hugged and kissed friends and strangers around them, united in joy. The Irish fans broke into a medley of songs as the trophy was presented.

Twenty minutes later, they were back in the car on the way home.

"Dad?"
"Yes, son?"
"What does '800 years' mean?"

pickarooney

I Am Vuvuzela, Hear Me Roar!


“I’m so bored!” moaned the Vuvuzela, as he lay dusty and forgotten underneath the bed...

“You’re bored? You’re bored?” asked the Umbrella angrily, “At least you’ve been out of here in the last decade... I haven’t been used since that light drizzle in 1988...”

“I just want to be blown on,” continued the Vuvuzela, ignoring the Umbrella, “If only there was someone to blow me... I need a good blow...”


***


Little did the Vuvuzela know that his wish would come true and that he would soon be blown... and not only would he be blown, he’d be blown long and hard...

On Friday, the 11th of June 2010, the Vuvuzela was nabbed from underneath the bed that he knew only too well and that had been his prison for many years. He was dusted off and brought to Johannesburg Stadium where the greatest month of his life was about to begin...

There were mere minutes to go before South Africa kicked off against Mexico and the Vuvuzela was getting the blowing of his life...

“Wahoo!!!” he roared, “Now that’s the job! That’s what I’m talking about! Wahoo! Blow Me! Blow Me! Wahoo!”...


***


The Vuvuzela had soon forgotten life under the bed, with the Umbrella, as everyday was a party... It was as if he was nineteen again, partying all day and all night with all the other Vuvuzelas, in an orgy of noise...

He was making all sorts of new Vuvuzela friends and he absolutely loved it... One Vuvuzela in particular caught our Vuvuzela’s attention during a match between South Africa and France...

This Vuvuzela had been shouting “France are sh*t! F*ck you France! You’re all sh*t!”...

“Whoa, easy there buddy,” our Vuvuzela said, shocked at this language...

“They’re cheating b*stards mate. Knocked my country out of the world cup with their bloody froggy hands,” explained the other Vuvuzela in an agitated manner...

“Oh, I see,” replied our hero, although he didn’t really see at all, “Where’s are you from then?”

“I’m Irish mate. And if it wasn’t for these French assh*les, we’d be in this World Cup... F*cking French B*stards... Stick that up you baguette and smoke it!” roared the Irish Vuvuzela insultingly...

“You from South Africa then mate?” asked the Irish Vuvuzela after a short awkward silence...

“Yes, I am,” replied the Vuvuzela.

“Good stuff, good stuff,” continued the Irish Vuvuzela, “What do you think of the football?”

“I’m not all that interested to be honest... I much prefer just being here, getting a good blow, you know what I mean?”

“Not really... You’re a bit odd mate... Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta get back to hurling abuse... Good talking to you...” and with that the Irish Vuvuzela continued his onslaught of abuse against the French squad...


***


The Vuvuzela was having the time of his life, but like everything else in life, all good things must come to an end... And unfortunately for the Vuvuzela, a very bad end it would be... Very bad indeed...

The World Cup had come to its close and the Vuvuzela knew that he’d soon be returning to the underbed of boredom along with the Umbrella...

What the Vuvuzela did not know was that his owner had one last thing in mind for the Vuvuzela before returning it to its metaphorical prison, and it was not going to be pretty...


***


Darkness had fallen and the Vuvuzela and his master returned to the bedroom...

If only he’d blow me once more before putting me away, thought the Vuvuzela...

The master however had something else in mind, as he placed the Vuvuzela on top of the bed and began to undress...

“What’s going on?” asked the Vuvuzela, but of course he got no answer...

As the master lay on the bed, now completely nude and raised his legs in the air, he picked up the Vuvuzela in his hand...

It suddenly dawned on the Vuvuzela what was about to happen and he began to scream, “NO! NO! Don’t do it! Don’t put me in there! Please, Listen! Don’t Do It!”

The master did not listen and the Vuvuzela screamed in horror as he was forced into that tight space... That horrifying space...

The Vuvuzela tried to think of something else to ignore what was happening, but the violation was too much for him to handle and he merely screamed louder...


***


It had been several days, since the Vuvuzela’s encounter with the thing he never wished to encounter again...

“Are you okay buddy? You haven’t spoken in days?” The Umbrella asked.

The Vuvuzela did not answer.

“Please say something... Anything... I just want to know if you’re okay?” the Umbrella persisted...

“I don’t want to talk about it,” the Vuvuzela muttered after several days silence...

“I know it’s hard buddy, but you’ll get over it,” the Umbrella encouraged...

“No, I don’t think I ever will,” the Vuvuzela said miserably...

And he never did...


***


If you have been affected by any of the issues raised in today’s story or know a Vuvuzela who has been sexually abused, please call the Vuvuzela hotline on 1800-VUVU-ZELA


***

pickarooney

Final

---

The World Cup final between East China and Sweden was almost ready to begin, and Dad had spent the whole morning clearing the yard and setting up the Visio Crystals so we could watch the game in 3D. He’d invited the neighbours around too, so he was being extra careful aligning the Crystals to make sure we’d have a good clear view of the match.

‘You get the incantation?’ he asked Mum, who was busy in the kitchen making snacks. She opened the kitchen window and handed a set of pages out to him. ‘You remember if we have to enchant the four separately, or all at once?’

‘Separately, honey,’ she said smiling. He knew full well he had to enchant the Crystals separately, but it was a total pain to do. The last time he tried to do it all at once, he cracked one of the Crystals – cost 200 Golder to replace!

After about an hour, Dad finished the incantations and the Crystals began to glow softly, a purple hue that got brighter and then darker until the Crystals looked like pieces of coal. A blurry image of the stadium appeared, and then slowly came into focus. It was so surreal – I could almost reach out and touch Ling Xi in front of me! The neighbours were all sitting in a group around the Crystals now, and Mum had dished out all the chicken wings, sausage rolls and potato wedges that we could handle.

East China was the favourite to win today, and it was easy to see why. They were the masters of earth magic, and manipulating the pitch is one of the easiest ways to get possession of the ball and score goals. Sweden’s players used water and ice magic to distract their opponents, though they had taken the Alaskan Republic by surprise in the semis when they conjured a lightning bolt to save a penalty. That was the beauty of the game – you never knew what any country would do in any given game.

The referee did a quick double-check to make sure the protective dome was secure around the pitch, and with a quick whistle-blow the game was under way. The ball was thrown sky high by the referee and one of the Swedish players, Oskar Batten, launched a jet of water at it. The ball changed course and fell towards one of his teammates, Eklof, who kicked it towards yet another player. One of the East Chinese players, Hanna Yao, held her hand out towards the pitch and a large wall of clay ripped itself from the ground and up between the ball and the Swedish player. One of the Swedish players was ready for this tactic, and had a fireball ready and waiting. He flung the fireball quickly, smashing a piece of the wall into dust. The football bounced away with the force of the blast, and one of the Chinese strikers, Wu, was on it in seconds. A Swedish defender launched a bolt of electricity at Wu, who buckled over in two. The referee blew his whistle sharply – you could use magic to your advantage on the pitch, but you couldn’t use it directly on your opponent. That’s what rugby was for.

‘Come on, what the f**k was that?’ shouted Dad, oblivious to the neighbours’ presence. Mum turned a dark shade of scarlet, mortified.

‘Eric, watch your language!’ she said, shaking her head apologetically in the direction of the other wives. They smiled at her, waving their hands in dismissal.

Wu lined up the ball and the other Chinese players got into position further down the pitch. He used his magic to draw power from the ground, hardening his foot into a rock-like state to help boost the distance of his shot. He kicked the ball hard, and the Swedish players shot water bullets and shards of ice to distract the ball as it flew through the air. Ling Xi stamped his magic-charged foot onto the pitch and the earth shook and split open. Some of the Swedish players fell over, others tumbled into the cracks that had opened in the ground. As the Swedish players pulled themselves free, while Eklof and Batten filled the cracks with ice. Yao was metres from the Swedish goal, and just as she went to strike the ball, one of the Swedish defenders covered the ground beneath her with a thin sheet of ice. Yao turned head over heels, smashing onto the glassy surface as the ball rolled slowly into the hands of the goalkeeper.

“We need a Healer!” shouted Ling Xi, and at once the Healers on the sideline rushed over to Yao’s assistance. Her ankle had been twisted badly, and even on the Visio-screen you could see her foot getting bigger and redder. One of the Healers cupped her hands about her foot and began chanting an incantation. Her hands glowed a feverish yellow, and within seconds the swelling reduced. She hopped to her feet quickly and ran off down the pitch into position.

The Visio screen blurred slightly, and the images of the players gave way to a newsroom, the words ‘News Flash’ written in red across the bottom of the screen.

‘We interrupt this broadcast for a special announcement. Another meteor storm is approaching Earth. Citizens are advised to lock all doors and windows and retreat to the nearest storm shelter immediately. Initial estimates suggest the storm is likely to hit Earth in two hours, and is 7.5 on the radioactivity scale. It is expected to last between seven and eight days. Be sure to take a Visio Crystal with you to keep updated on the storm while in your shelter.’

The excitement of the final instantly disappeared. The neighbours dashed off home without a goodbye, and I helped Mum and Dad bring the chairs and food inside.

‘Bolt up the windows son,’ said Dad. He exchanged nervous glances with Mum, who was filling a bin bag with shelter supplies.

‘The storms are getting worse, aren’t they Dad?’ I said. He didn’t need to answer me – I could see it in his eyes.

‘Just get the house secure, good boy,’ said Mum.

World Cup 2730 was over.

pickarooney

A World Cup Story

She held his thin hand as they slowly, deliberately, scaled the steep expanse of steps that led to the stadium entrance. She was careful not to climb too fast for fear of exhausting the child, and with concern she watched his small feet gain purchase on the indifferent concrete. As they reached the summit, she saw him attempt to take in his incredible surroundings; the immense, almost incomprehensible scale of the place, the great waves of supporters spilling forth into the stadium grounds, the unbearable cacophony of horns and cheers like the droning of some gargantuan insect. As she looked down at his little face, his eyes aglow, a wan smile on his lips, she felt inside her an unbearable surge of emotion. Turning away, she fought back the tears.
“Are you ok, Mum?” he asked quietly.
She took a deep breath before replying, her voice quivering. “Yes, Danny. I’m fine. Let’s go and get you a drink, ok?” Maintain control, for god’s sake. Don’t ruin everything.
And with that, she led her son to a food stand and ordered a Coke, his favourite. She stood with her arms wrapped around him as he drank, and wished she could hold on forever.
My child. My love, my life.

With ten minutes to go until the kick-off, she took his hand once more and they managed to locate their seats despite the commotion. The seats were of hard, inflexible blue plastic and scarcely offered any comfort. There was a sharp chill in the air, a persistent coldness that worked its way under her skin and into her heart. She shivered slightly. Easy to forget that it’s winter in South Africa, she reflected. At least the air here lacked the languid, bloated dampness of home.
All around, the furore, the energy that is inexorably tied to a momentous occasion such as this, was intensifying, building to a crescendo that was almost unbearable. The light and noise and enthusiasm were too vivid, and felt alien and unreal. She had the feeling, as she so often did these days, of detachment, of disconnection. She felt, so frequently, that maybe her sight was a mere lie, that her surroundings were not real, that she wasn’t really there. Were it not for the searing pain in her heart, that unbearable knife of suffering that scourged her soul, sometimes she doubted she’d be able to say for certain whether or not she really existed at all. The pain was an anchor, a dead weight that bound her to reality. And she knew the pain would soon get so much worse.

She remembered so clearly the day everything had started to unravel, the day everything began to end. These memories resurfaced countless times each day, like dead fish rising to the surface of a lake. There wasn’t much point in trying to fight them off, she had soon discovered. It didn’t work.
The intolerable worry as she sat in the waiting room; the pastel pink on the walls sickly, like dead flowers. The medicinal smell. A voice calling her to the doctor’s room at the end of the hall. A hand on her shoulder, a box of tissues on the beechwood desk. He hasn’t got much time left, the doctor had said. Six months. I’m so sorry.
It was her son’s dying wish to be brought here, to a World Cup match.

She looked down at him once more, all wrapped up in a dense woolly scarf and a thick winter coat to protect him from the cold, his gloved hands resting on his lap. He was looking straight ahead, marvelling at the enormity of the stadium, everything incandescent, illuminated as if it were on fire, as if this were the end of the world. He frowned slightly, attempting to absorb the spectacle, to retain an indelible imprint of the precious view in his memory. The sight of him broke her heart.
Abruptly, the whistle blew and the stadium erupted, the view dissolved into vivid, liquid bands of shimmering hues, a child’s watercolour sunset, and she didn’t know what she would do without him.

pickarooney

World Cup Story

Johnny stood on the pitch with the rest of his team doing their warm-ups. Stretch down to the right,down to the left and repeat. Jog in place then short bursting runs. The spectators were piling in. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his family arrive. His daughter roared 'Daddy' excitedly,waving madly at him. Johnny grinned and waved back. His son John jr was more reserved but even he couldn't resist a grin from his dad and he smiled back and gave a thumbs-up. Johnnys wife Mary looked strained and nervous. He nodded to her,holding her gaze for a moment before the coach whistled for them to gather round.
'Right lads this is it,it's what we've been working towards all year,the world cup'. 'It doesn't get higher than this so get out there and make your country proud.'
Johnny got into place as a forward for Ireland. They were playing France, it was the final,everything to play for,everything to lose. As he glanced over at his family and waited for the ref to start the game,johnny's mind wandered back to another game like this,Ireland v France 2006.

'Ole,Ole,Ole,Ole,Come on Ireland!'. The atmosphere at Micko's pub was electric. Ireland V France,this was a game they had to win. Johnny was in great form,a few euro in his pocket,out with the lads and Ireland playing in the World cup,what more could you want? He had 50 euro on Ireland,under micko's counter where all the local betting took place. Mike,his best mate said he was mad but Johnny had a feeling,Ireland would do it,he was sure. Then maybe Mary would stop moaning about being broke. He'd give her a few euro for herself,buy something for the kids too. He felt uneasy for a minute,thinking of the bills stuffed in the kitchen drawer,then shook himself,Ireland would do it,no worries.
Three pints later it wasn't looking good. Ireland were 2-0 down and playing badly.' Mike guffawed loudly,'Jaysus lucky I bet on the frenchies,wha?' Johnny smiled weakly,'Ah you're a disgrace to your country,i'm a loyal irish man'. Inside he felt hopeless. Mary would nag,the kids would look at him in disappointment,even the shagging dog would side with them. 'May as well stay out and cut my losses,Pint please Micko!'
3am and Johnny staggered in the front door. Mary came hurrying down the stairs. 'Johnny be quiet,you'll wake the kids'. Johnny turned a bleary eye on her. 'Shurrup woman,i'll do as i please in my own house'. 'Johnny please' she whispered. 'I said shut up' he roared,pulling back his fist and punching her in the face. Mary collapsed on the ground,blood pumping from her nose. 'Aw jesus Mary i'm sorry' he said,trying to pull her up. 'Leave me alone' she cried,'just leave me alone'. 'Mum' came a tremulous voice from upstairs. Johnny leaned back against the wall,afraid to look at his sons face. 'It's ok John,go back to bed' said his mother,'I'm ok'. Johnny put a hand out to his wife but she looked at it in disgust,'You'll never lay a finger on me again Johnny,never'.
The next day Johnny moved out,under the glare of his father-in-law. As he moved the last box he hissed in disgust,'You stay away from my Mary and my grandchildren or so help me i'll make you pay,you make me sick'.

The whistle blew. The midfield for Ireland sprang into action. Quick right foot from Topper,the ball was heading his way. Topper,Sean,back to topper,tackled by the french mid field,now the ball was heading away from him,down towards Irelands goal. Johnny roared helplessly,mark him,mark him! The opposition went for goal.....saved! 'Phew that was a close one' thought johnny. Forgetting for a moment he looked over at Mary and smiled. She smiled back,just a small one,but still,a smile. It was a long time since he had seen her smile,too long.

In the bookies again. Anywhere was better than that dive of a flat he was living in. He missed his wife,he missed his kids. Mike wasn't talking to him anymore. He called to his house to ask him for a pint. Mike answered the door,looked him right up and down and said '**** off you,i've nothing to say to a scumbag who touches a woman'. Shaken,johnny walked away. Walked to the nearest pub and got drunk. What could he say to that? Whiskey was good,pint and whiskey chaser turned to straight whiskey. Whiskey turned to vodka,vodka turned to Cider. Cheap cider. Hash,cocaine,then heroin. Anything to forget the look in his wifes eyes after he hit her,the look on his kids faces when he left. The looks of disgust from the men he once called friends. He missed payments on his flat,got kicked out. The next two he got kicked out of too. It turned into one drunken night on the street,lying in his own piss,too drunk and stoned to move. Waking up in the garda station,getting kicked out and straight into the nearest pub to start again. It turned into every night on the street.

Half time. Their coach was saying something. Johnny tried to concentrate. 'Nil all lads,come on,ye can do better than this'. Remember what we talked about,ye need to pass more,rely on each other,act as a team,don't go for the glory if someone else is in a better position'. Tom looked red,he had done just that and missed a golden opportunity. 'Now Tom,i'm not getting at you' said the coach kindly,'you did your best,it was a good shot'. Tom perked up at this,grinning,'Jaysus yeah,another inch and i would've had him'. 'Now Johnny' coach turned to him,'we are going to do or best to get the ball to you,you have a dangerous left foot and we want to make the most of it'. Johnny smiled back 'Thanks Neil,i'll do the best i can'. They lined up on the pitch,ready for off. The whistle blew.

It was a cold November evening. Johnny was in his usual spot,on the lookout for gangs who would think nothing of giving him a few kicks just for fun. He has quickly learned that if he curled into a ball to protect his head and waited they would soon get tired of it. As always,images of Mary came rushing into his head. He had spotted her and the kids last week,they walked past him unknowingly. He had crouched down further into himself,making hmself as small as possible. He had very little pride left in life. None for himself,that was for sure. But as he watched his family walk past he felt a little glow inside,of pride,love and loss. Around 1 am the usual gang came around,giving out food and blankets,asking did they need anything. Usually Johnny turned away but tonight he dared to look up. It was a man,early twenties,light brown hair,kind eyes. 'Do you need anything?' the man said,surprised that this usually reticent man was responding to him.' I need,i need to go home' said Johnny,surprising them both. 'Do you want me to call someone?' the man asked. 'No' said Johnny sadly,'there's no one to call'. 'Do you want to come back to the shelter?'asked the man,'maybe have a shower?' Johnny was immediately embarrassed,realising for once did he did smell,and badly. 'It's ok',said the man,realising what was going through his head 'we'll get you all cleaned up,i'm Neil by the way'. 'I'm Johnny' he said,and off they went.

Johnny snapped back into the match,Topper was roaring his name,he was on the way up the pitch,his marker was behind him,but only just.He glanced behind him,one forward and the goalie to beat. Topper kicked the ball,johnny caught it easily and turned to face the goal. He started to run,quick turn right,twist,he was past him,goalie to beat. You know when you watch a movie,and time slows right down and you think that could never happen. Well it did,just for moment,it did. Johnny took aim,that magic left foot touched the ball,the goalie reached out.....Goal!!!! 'Goal for Ireland' roared the commentator. Johnny was suddenly lost beneath a pile of his team mates. 'Good man johnny,whoop whoop' roared Topper. They turned to look at the ref,he glanced at his watch,smiled and blew the whistle. 'We won' they all roared. Neil came running over, 'ye did it,oh jesus lads ye did it'. They all hugged again and started dancing around the pitch. Johnny looked over at his kids,they were beaming and jumping up and down. Then he looked at Mary. She too was smiling,as wide as can be.

It wasn't easy you know,beating it. Johnny had to slowly come off everything. He sweated,hallucinated,screamed for his mother. When he came to, Neil was there,always smiling. He fund something for him to do,something other than the drink and drugs to concentrate on,he brought up something Johnny had nearly forgotten about but it saved him. Soccer. He did the programmes,the AA,NA,even GA. And every evening he would stay out in the yard and kick,and dribble and then kick some more. He contacted Mary. She agreed to come and see him. When she saw his wasted body she said,' oh Johnny' and hugged him. She pulled away almost immediately but when he was down he thought of it. She came to sessions with him,listened to him talk about his demons. The kids were reluctant to see him again but kids are good at forgiving.

They all gathered in the stand. 'And now',said the commentator,i give you the winners of the Homeless World Cup 2010,Ireland!'

ToasterSparks

VERSION 9

I voted for 1, 8 and 9. Some comments below!


Version 1: Interesting. Didn't really understand the sharp change in character POV until the note was passed onto the third person, but an interesting take on the theme. Liked the continuity of the note passing back to the teller at the end, and starting the cycle all over again.

Version 2: The first line was off-putting. 'Vomited' is such a vulgar word and doesn't tie in with the rest of the story and the way it's told. I'll be honest, I found myself skipping along quickly to find a twist or something else in the story, but I just didn't find it. Interesting imagery, but felt a little too personal and I almost felt like I was intruding on the narrator (if that makes any sense!).

Version 5: What a ridiculously unbelievable story! Ireland - in the World Cup? :P I was caught off guard with the family moment at the beginning, so didn't expect the futuristic setting (not the only futuristic story in the comp either).

Version 8: Some of the description at the beginning was a little too much for me, but overall I liked it. I could feel the sadness of the mother very clearly. Well done.

Version 9: Interesting story, the only one where a main character was actually playing soccer! I assumed at the start he was in the World Cup, until the story unfolded and it become more and more obvious of the conclusion. Very gritty but very good.

Oryx

VERSION 9

I voted for 8 & 9. Thats not to take from the others, but those stories are the type I like best. The others were well written but just not my thing.

Some feedback:

Version 2. What bothered me with this was that I read through it waiting for the world cup to crop up somewhere, and it was just tagged on the end. I didnt get any connection to the theme and felt like I was missing something. The heavy descriptions are something that just dont draw me in, but thats a personal thing.

Version 8. I loved this story. It brought a proper lump to my throat. Started off with a gentle description and some subtle hints, before easing you into the knowledge of the childs terminal illness. Beautiful. But far too short. The given word count was 1500, and I think the writer should have tried to extend the story as the count was there to do it. Almost lost the vote because of that.

Version 9. The switches between the past and the present didnt flow entirely well, but this was a lovely story, well told. I especially liked the scene where the mc decides to seek help.

Version 7. Very futuristic Harry Potter. Didnt quite convince me, sometimes the normal acceptance of the magic worked, other times it felt forced. The last line didnt work for me.

Version 6. The vuvuzela story made me laugh, but also made me cringe uncomfortably! Nice twist to go for the perspective of the horn, and the sex abuse angle, just eeek!

pickarooney

I deliberated as long as I could and almost came down to tossing a coin in the end but eventually went for version 9. Quite simply, all things considered this was the story I enjoyed reading the most. Almost every other story could each have won a vote in a separate category, so diverse were the entries and outstanding in certain ways.

Version 1
This story had probably the best premise of the lot but I found it hard to get into. There was a lot of repetition and clunky descriptions which slowed down what should have been a hundred-mile-an-hour story, I felt. This is me completely overthinking things but I spent a few minutes trying to figure out how much money the teller was handing over as she counted in hundreds but the notes were two-hundreds. And the weather was wrong for June in South Africa (sorry, totally pointless nitpicking I know). Again, the plot and the way it cycled neatly around were excellent.

Version 2
I wanted to like this, as the opening paragraphs were really well-written with an excellent sense of space. I'd be surprised if the author had not spent time in Tokyo. However, as it went on through passage after passage of description, nothing of note happened and the link to the World cup was highly tenuous, as if this story was written for something else and shoehorned into the World Cup contest.

Version 3
I couldn't decide whether to love or hate this one. At one stage I found myself comparing it line by line with the original to see just how much of it was invention and how much was pastiche. The end result was that I didn't enjoy it all that much and it felt a little out of place as though trying too hard to be different.

Version 4
I knew someone would take the words 'World' and 'Cup' and write a story unconnected with sport, which is cool. I was in turns baffled, intrigued and baffled again as I tried to figure out just exactly what was going on and what had happened to the main character that was hinted at time and again but never revealed (unless I completely missed it).
This would probably have got a vote if I had been able to figure out more of what it was about.

Version 5
A bit like an episode of the Jetsons: the world was very well and thoroughly imagined to the point that disbelief could almost be suspended... and then Ireland won the World Cup I thought the names might be a little more ethnically diverse perhaps, but that's not a flaw in the story. The ending almost worked, but then I felt it didn't as it cheapened the rest of the story for waht felt like a cheap dig.

Version 6
I laughed a few times at this twisted tale and that should probably have made it pass my enjoyment test, but it was a bit of a one-joke pony.

Version 7
I'm not sure why I didn't like this one so much. It was very imaginative but the end was a slight cop-out I thought. Building up the match and then just blowing it off for a doomsday scenario wasn't a great idea in my opinion.

Version 8
Very well written without being overwritten but I have to be honest and say that I've had just about all I can take of misery-lit and was looking for something more upbeat

Version 9
Speaking of which... there was a fair dose of hardship in this story but more than enough hope and happiness to balance it out. The back and forth time-switching jarred a bit on a couple of occasions but ultimately it was a very satisfying and well-worked story with not so much a twist as a curving plot.

OxfordComma

VERSION 2

After a fair bit of deliberation, I voted for two stories: 1 and 9. They were all very good stories, but I feel that 1 and 9 were the best overall.

Here's some thoughts:

Version 1: Interesting premise. I really liked the idea of the story tracking the movement of a single note over a certain time-frame, although I must admit I was a little confused at first! Some of the transitions were a little clunky though, and it was slightly repetitive in places. These nearly made it lose my vote, although the overall quality of the story compelled me to vote for it.

Version 9: I really liked this story - it's compelling, sad and ultimately redemptive. A satisfying, well-rounded tale. Just personally, the use of punctuation bugged me, and some of the transitions could have been handled better, but these are only minor complaints and could be sorted out easily.

Version 2: This was very well-written and very descriptive, and by all accounts a very interesting and believable account of day-to-day life in Tokyo. However, the link to the World Cup feels very tacked-on and doesn't work very well in my opinion. This really lets the story down, and it would have been very successful had there been a different theme set for the competition.

Version 4: This had an intriguing premise (sounds reminiscent of "The Handmaid's Tale", although I haven't actually read that book yet so I may be way off there!) and was well-written, although to be honest it kind of confused me in places.

Version 5: This was well-written, compelling and enjoyable, and despite not being a big fan of sci-fi normally, I quite liked the setting for this one. In fact, I would have voted for it if it wasn't for the ending, which I personally didn't like very much. The combination of Ireland winning the World Cup and the joke at the end let it down, but still a good story overall.

aislingej

After reading through them all I voted for Version 9 compelling story, well written. Unfortunately lives are hit with abuse and heartache.

As for version 6 uncomfortable with it I don't see sexual abuse as a joking matter.

--amadeus--

Very interesting and diverse set of stories...

1 - I liked a lot because it was a clever idea. As pointed out there were a few small inaccuracies in it (weather, for example) but well worked. Nicely connected to the WC theme and placed in context. That said it did manage to cycle through a fair few african stereotypes for a short piece (shantytowns, corrupt police, random street violence) and maybe sharper distinction between the wealthy tourists and the locals might have made that less jarring. A really good effort though

2 - In some ways the most frustrating piece. I'm normally very anti-descriptive text as it just gets in the way but this gave an outstanding sense of place. But I cannot believe that a city like Tokyo would be that still for a match and the WC section felt very tacked on

3 - I get what's going on and as an intellectual exercise it's very clever but not my thing

4 - I'm glad I'm not the only one who thought of Margaret Atwood. Good piece, well written and with just enough detail to leave you able to fill in the blanks yourself

5 - A well imagined world but again it felt a bit like the Tokyo piece, the WC element seemed to be a device to use a world that teh author already had. Personally I thought the ending lacked a little subtlety but overall a good piece of writing

6 - Another good idea but maybe needs a tiny bit more polish but certainly teh adventures of a delinquent Vuvuzela could be funny

7 - Apologies to the author but this isn't a genre of writing that rocks my boat

8 - A nice idea and well written, you can feel the genuine emotion and it certainly echos with me as a parent. However I think it might benefit from a bit of tightening up, some of the middle paragraphs lay the emotion on a little heavily and are very wordy. Again this is my personal prejudice against too much descriptive text slowing down a short story and getting in teh way of teh characters and their emotions so feel free to ignore

9 - Believable and well crafted and I liked the redemption theme. Captured the slippery slope into homelessness well and was credible. Again teh ending lacks a little subtlety but for me this was the stand out piece.

angelll

VERSION 6

I'm voting for number 5. I really liked the story,i agree that the ending was a bit unusual,i was wondering was it a sly dig or something the commentator had said about it being 400 years since they had met and hopefully it wouldn't be another 400 years....but i'm guessing it was the dig .
I think this could be turned into a longer story or even a book. Loved the inventions and the small bit of backstory we did get.
Number 6.....i just cringed sorry.
Number 8,could have been a lot longer,very sad story.

Mr E

VERSION 9

I went for 8 and 9.

8 was beautifully written and very sad.
9 was a good spin on the idea. The punctuation bugged me a bit to be honest, but it still gets my vote.

Blush_01

VERSION 9

Voted for 5, 8 & 9.

So tired, can't give reasons now. Will post tomorrow. Was afraid I'd miss the closing date for voting entirely!

Best of luck all.

The Mad Hatter

VERSION 5

Agh, voting closes today!

I'll vote for no. 1, as I enjoyed the idea. There was quite a variety of characters set up just enough to make them interesting before they're left behind.

And for no. 4, just because, everything else aside, I found the writing beautiful.

Wantobe

VERSION 2

I voted for 9 also, likeable story and well written.

I didn't like the content of 6 at all, like Aisling I feel that if abuse of any form is written about it shouldn't be in a light hearted manner.

I thought 1 was a great idea and well written too, and also voted for this.

I really liked 2 but this was a really forced reference to world cup tacked on to a very descriptive and well written story- if the theme wasn't world cup actually overall to me I thought this was the best.

Version 8 was well written but I think I'm suffering from misery-lit glut now so missed out for me.

I also thought version 4 was really well written, I don't like this genre of fantasy lit but it was a compelling story, I'm not sure what happened in the end though.

Phew, just made it in time for poll, actually had read them all earlier but didn't realise the vote ended today!

Mr E

VERSION 9

A runaway win for number 9, so! Congrats, well deserved.

pickarooney

A clear winner, poll mess or no poll mess. Let's hope our mystery writer shows up soon...

Mr E

VERSION 9

While we're waiting for our worthy winner, I'll own up to number 5 (family day out to World Cup 2330).

My idea behind it was that even though it's 320 years away, some things will always stay the same (even with all the technological advancements that have happened). The family unit, the traditional game, people still go to live games, and so on. My '800 years' closing line was a play on this (i.e. some things never change). I thought it was a fun way to end the story, but obviously it cost me some votes.

It was fun to stretch my imagination a bit and come up with new concepts that had to be somewhat articulated (but not completely spelt out) for people to understand them. And I was very pleased when I thought of the fauxzone.

Roll on the next challenge!

pickarooney

I did like the fauxzone, I have to admit, very clever.

angelll

VERSION 6

I'm here! I wrote number 9,was so excited when it started to get votes. Thank you so much for the lovely comments,and i will work on the puctuation,quite a few of you mentioned it and I don't want it to become a trademark of my stories.
MrE i did love your story and really think you should expand on it.

ToasterSparks

VERSION 9

I wrote Version 7, a zero-vote entry. Honestly, I keep getting worse and worse at these competitions. Clearly my writing isn't improving.

In hindsight, focusing solely on the description of the match might have been a better idea. My plan was to show the changed world of 2730 and give hints (meteor storms, radioactivity) that give the reader an idea of how magic became so prominent. Obviously a mistake. And it seems magic isn't the most popular genre here either! (bad magic stories anyway )

Well done angelll, well deserved!

pickarooney

ToasterSparks wrote: »

I wrote Version 7, a zero-vote entry. Honestly, I keep getting worse and worse at these competitions. Clearly my writing isn't improving.

I wouldn't lose heart just yet. As you mention yourself, not all genres will have the same popularity and you can just be unlucky in writing a similar story to someone else. Angell wrote by far her best story yet, in my opinion, so you need to take into account others improving (or writing a one-off hit).

Besides, the next competition is to see who can write the worst romance story, so who knows who'll win that

Also, statistically, if you change your username to something beginning with 'a' (punctuation notwithstanding) you have a higher chance of winning.

Oryx

VERSION 9

Big congrats to angelll, I loved your story, it deserved to win.

I wrote number one, and went doh! when pickarooney pointed out my obvious counting mistake. I was really dumb not to spot that. The weather I knew was off, but I left it. I should have made more effort to change it. Otherwise I'm glad some of you liked the story.

With regard to the comment someone made about stereotypes, I was aiming for a particular side of south african life, it is a dangerous and corrupt country, that is what the story was about. It didnt actually take place in a shanty town, it was inner city, and the race of the locals was for the reader to infer. Thanks to all for the feedback and well done to all entrants, even those with no votes. I think the voting has a lot to do with what youre up against as well as your own story.

The Mad Hatter

VERSION 5

Congrats, angelll - I liked your story, even if it didn't get my vote. Kinda had to vote in a hurry before work...

My story was number two, and thanks for the great criticism (even with the complete absence of votes >.<).

Just in defence of my premise, I have seen cities completely emptied by world cup matches, and I heard reports of an abandoned Tokyo during Japan's last match, so I don't think it was too out there, but possibly I shouldn't have tried to keep the reason for the empty city a secret until the end. That didn't work...

OxfordComma

VERSION 2

Congrats to angelll - great story.

I wrote number 8. It was my first time entering one of these competitions, and I'm delighted by all the positive feedback I didn't expect to get any votes to be honest, so thank you all!

I didn't intend to write such a sad story to be honest, it just kind of ended up that way! I wasn't aware there was even a genre called "misery lit", and to be honest I'm not surprised that my story put some people off. I'll try to be less depressing next time! I do agree in hindsight that it was perhaps too short, although I felt I said everything I needed to say in just under 700 words.

Thanks to everyone who gave feedback and constructive criticism, because it all helps a lot Well done to all who entered!