[Writing Contest] - THE ARENA

Bonavox

Antilles wrote: »

All right, I think I'll give this another go. Somebody name a theme and let's rumble.

GOURANGA!

First timer, but I'll give it a go.

Theme: Death

Antilles

Woop!

See you in 24 hours.

Bonavox

Rain attacked the surrendering, concrete ground with the violent noise of watery collisions consistently ringing in the background. Main Street was full. It was Christmas Eve and people scrambled in and out of the many shopfronts, buying last minute gifts for loved ones. Loud shouts of thunder began to roar and the rain doubled, falling heavier still. Large coats and menacing umbrellas covered the already drenched consumers. One person, however, was different.

He wasn’t rushing, nor was he covering up. In fact, all he wore was the most odd silk, black cloak which was clinging to his body due to its drenched state. The only thing that parted the silk and skin was the fierce wind as it grew in a tunnel-like way between the large buildings that were positioned each side of the narrow street. This man, no older that fifty, strolled along, clearly in no rush. His gifts were already tucked under his toasty Christmas tree at home, wrapped and ready to be given to the unsuspecting receivers.

The strangest part of it all was that nobody took notice to him. His slow, quiet steps and minimalist attire attracted no attention from the stressed shoppers. Nobody was bumping into the man, nobody scoffed as his preparation for the weather and nobody would dare connect with his fierce, determined stare. This man meant serious business. He made his way down the cobbles, weaving expertly in between the shoppers that would, for anybody else trying to move at all, provide quite the obstacle.

It was late and nearing midnight. Shops were doing their best to shoo the last of their customers out so they could close up after the busiest day of the year, just adding to the congestion. At the far end of the road, a clock struck midnight. The cloaked figure grinned to himself satisfyingly. It was officially Christmas and it was time to deliver his first present. A side street provided escape from the chaos, and the man turned onto it quickly. Making no attempt to step over the puddles on the aging ground, he made his way down the street, passing many crooked and old cottages.

He reached his destination. One of the smaller, but more cosy cottages. Through the front window curtain that provided weak concealment, an old woman was putting out the fire, rearranging presents with toy car Christmas wrapping on them, inevitably for the grand kids, and locking up the back door. He opened the spindly, wooden gate gently and proceeded up the path slowly, but with an intensity that indicated he didn’t want to wait until she was asleep. He didn’t want to disturb this late, but he wouldn’t get another chance this side of Christmas.

He knocked politely on the door, preparing the gift in his hand, waiting for the door to gently swing open, revealing the quaint old lady. It did.

There she stood, in her toasty Christmas woolen jumper, her grey hair messy and her aging face portraying such a natural smile. One that faded. The man at the other side of the threshold, wet and run down, smiled instead.

“Hello, Rita,” he greeted. “My name is Death, and I’m here to escort you with me if you don’t mind.”

With that, he raised his white, ice cold hands up to her flinching face and stepped over the threshold, closing the wooden door behind him.

Antilles

It was his first day on the front lines.

“Tell me something, newbie,” Pfc. Derricks said, lighting his Winstons and inhaling its acrid content. He crushed the match beneath his boot. “Do you believe in death?”

Down the trench, some men eyed the Private but most stared at the ground. Frank Patterson, recently of Illinois, was the newbie. His eyes widened in confusion.

“It’s a simple question,” Derricks said. “Do you or do you not believe you’ll die?”

“Doesn’t everybody?” Frank responded.
Several of the men barked bitter laughter. Derricks chuckled and shook his head. “You’d imagine,” he said. “But not everyone believes in death.”

He nodded down the trench. Frank turned to see their superior, Lt. Nesmith, atop a ladder, peering into no-man’s land.

“He doesn’t believe he can die?” Frank said.

“Doesn’t act like it,” Derricks replied. “Puts himself in the way of harm and us with him.” He stressed the word ‘us’ to make it clear Frank was included. “Bastard needs to be stopped,” he said and stared at him for a few seconds.

Eventually, he gave a derisive laugh and turned to face the sky, smoking the rest of his cigarette in silence.

It was his eighth day on the front lines.

“He’s not immortal,” SPC Warren said, dropping the crate on top of the others. He turned and ambled down the trench. Frank followed, unable to believe the discussion.

“If he’s so dangerous,” he began, “surely someone can report--”

“You think the higher ups are going to listen to grunts like us?”

“All right then, but why me?”

They reached the ammunition shed, lifted a crate and hoisted it to their shoulders.

“Because he hasn’t led you on a god damn daylight mission into no man’s land,” Warren replied. “Nobody would suspect you.”

It had a certain logic.

“Besides,” he continued. “We’ll cover for you.”

“Will it save lives?” he asked.

Warren grunted. They arrived at the final trench and dropped their crate. “Pal, the life it saves could be your own.”

It was his fifteenth day on the front lines.

The Lieutenant was planning a raid for the afternoon. Frank stood outside the mess, clasping the grenade. He closed his eyes in silent prayer, waiting.

At the set time, he unhooked the grenade and Warren’s promise echoedin his mind. He steadied himself, opened the door and looked inside. The Lieutenant sat alone reading troop reports. Frank pulled the pin and threw it in. Nesmith looked up, his mouth agape.

Frank slammed the door and ran.

The explosion knocked him into the mud. He rolled over and saw the hut in flames. The monster was dead.

At first the guards suspected enemy attack, but soon determined it had been an accident. Frank breathed a sigh of relief.

It was his sixteenth day on the front lines.

Frank watched as a crew searched the rubble. He smiled, knowing they would find nothing, but then one man shouted. Soon, six more gathered round and after a few minutes, they pulled a charred body from the wreckage and placed it on a stretcher.

Sweat broke across his forehead. The body’s head lolled to one side, exposing its scorched face. The Lieutenant’s eyes flicked open. They locked with Frank’s and from his throat came the most blood curdling scream Frank had ever heard.

The medics lifted Nesmith’s stretcher and ran towards the waiting ambulance. Frank watched as they went, rooted in place. Was the Lieutenant truly was immortal?

He dismissed the thought. It was possible, but he was gone from the command chain.

That was the most important thing.

Antilles

Hmm, not much interest

Bonavox

Antilles wrote: »

Hmm, not much interest

Yeah, was hoping there'd be more interest. Congrats anyway, your story was great.

Antilles

Bonavox wrote: »

Antilles wrote: »

Hmm, not much interest

Yeah, was hoping there'd be more interest. Congrats anyway, your story was great.

Thanks, Bonavox, yours too. However if the arena really is dying, I'll return to retirement and await the next VOAT.

So long!

stevejazzx

Is this still going? I'd like to throw my hat in the ring?

coffee_cake

i'll play, i have a couple days before the big return to work

i liked the last stories btw i just didnt get to vote in time

stevejazzx

theme?

coffee_cake

new beginnings, for the day that's in it

stevejazzx

ok challenge accepted new beginnings it is!

stevejazzx

A top of the head effort written in one go - go easy on me!
Steve

A Fresh Start

No one in Altenda had any idea that Stewart Matteson was a fake. His swept blonde hair and soft round blue eyes seemed almost too good to be true but all his documents checked out. He was the real deal alright; a proper con man.

Mary Albright was just returning from hospital. She sat in her Toyota Prius, parked in her driveway, crying with the early morning rain incessantly beating upon the car.

Matteson wasn’t expecting her to be this upset – he thought she’d be used to it by now. The rain was saturating him but he knew he couldn’t move as his play had already begun. Mary turned off the engine and was startled to glance upon his dark figure through the rain splattered glass.

“You frightened me just now you know?” Mary said removing her jacket and gesturing Matteson inside.
“Oh I am sorry” replied Matteson staggering into the hallway dropping his folder and keys in the process.
“I’m a bit of an oaf” he says bending down in the doorway to collect his things catching her eyes as she helps.

Matteson, confident that his proposition will be accepted, skips past some of his usual formalities.
“Fantastic tea, Mrs. Albright…just the thing for a day the like today”
She nods tentatively awaiting his news. Cradling his brew Matteson strolls up to the crackling log fire.
“Ok, I hate to do this to you Mrs. Albright but its good and bad news I’m afraid”

Matteson opens his folder, removes a blank page and begins to read.
As he reads he can tell from each subtle micro gesture on her face that he’s sold it.
“As you well know Mary, relocating myself here was suppose to be a fresh start and now well…I risk losing my license; the clinic will be shut down and I’ll quite possibly face criminal charges.”
A tense and awkward pause ensues while Mary studies him.
“And what about my fresh start?”
“Well that’s the good news Mary…you’re pregnant.”
Mary sinks into her seat, places her left hand on her heart; a solitary tear falling from her right eye.

Matteson sustains the momentum and pulls out her lab report.
“Here look at this, you’re roughly three weeks in” he enthuses handing her the report.

Still stunned Mary leans back in her chair and begins reading the report.
Matteson, looking on as she reads settles his eyes past the living room and to a set of luggage in the hallway.
“Huh…well. That’s amazing and I suppose you want the money now” she remarks coldly.

Matteson had invested such a long time in this con that he almost missed Albrights tone. There was something not quite right in the way she said that. He decides to press on regardless; it being too late in the game now for second thoughts.

“Well, I mean Mary; this has been a very expensive process; and you know we need to relocate immediately in order to save the company?”
“Oh absolutely Stewart, absolutely but I’ll need to relocate also won’t I?”
“You…no…why would you need to?”

Mary, rising from her position, reveals her gun and points it at Matteson, who, dumfounded, stumbles backwards dropping his cup.
“Oh you’re such an oaf” she says shaking her head.

“Mary what are doing...?”

Desperately restudying the micro expressions on her face, trying to get a read he see’s anger, contempt, fear and disgust before suddenly a horrible booming noise floods his ears. Grabbing his winded gut he falls to the floor in shock and pain and from his new mangled position his eyes once again come to rest on the luggage in the hallway.

“All I wanted was a fresh start” she manages, staring down at him with anger, tears streaming from her empty remorseless eyes. “All I wanted was a fresh start”.

coffee_cake

jaysis that was quick
mine'll be tomorrow...
*starts trying to think*

coffee_cake

feck it i'll go "off the bat" as well



Joan washed the dishes. She vacuumed the floors. She dusted the counters. She polished and cleaned until every room in the house was sparkling. She began preparing dinner.
All this was done without any thoughts. She felt entirely numb, and this was an old routine anyway.
It had happened again last night. Tonight, there might be apologies or promises not to do it again. But those had become fewer and fewer over the years, and she did not expect them. Maybe if she had everything perfect this evening, just the way he liked it, she would not get that look, that single first look: the look that promised a very bad evening.

The business card hidden at the bottom of her purse came into her head again. When the woman had given it to her, Joan had demurred and tried to move away, but the woman had seemed so kind and insistent. Joan had nearly burst out at her: there was no leaving, no escape, he would always find her, and then it would be worse again. He said so. And if she couldn’t do better to make him stop getting angry at her, how could she face the rest of the world? How could she tell anyone about this? Besides, he put a roof over her head, he did so much for her really. She had no friends or family to help. They’d long since left.
But there it was anyway, in her purse, “just in case you change your mind. No harm just having it”.
She had taken it out a few times since then and looked at it, and put it back into the purse. She’d made it to the phone with it once, nearly even dialling the number.


Joan woke up the next morning with fresh bruises, both mentally and physically.
She could just stay in bed. Never getting up again. Never facing anyone or anything again. She could lie here and stare at the ceiling forever and feel nothing.
She got up and began her daily routine.
This time when the card came to mind, she didn’t put it straight back. With the same numb feeling that pervaded her life, she walked to the door and opened it. She refused to let herself think. Everything was done mechanically, as it always was. If she stopped for a second to think, just one second, she would turn around and not go through with it. She would begin to make excuses to herself, just like she did to everyone else, and it would go back to normal.
The outside world was harsh and looming, but she kept walking, toward the address printed on the small card.
She opened the shelter door and looked around uncertainly. The kind woman was there, and came over immediately. She smiled in understanding. “I’m glad you decided to come. What’s your name, please?”
“Joan….”
“Welcome, Joan. You’re safe here. Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”
Somewhere underneath that numb fog, a spark grew, and Joan began to cry helplessly.

coffee_cake

thanks guys

pickarooney

Dammit, I always click on this thread, see there are stories and tell myself I'll read them at work but then I forget when there are no new posts...

I would have voted for Steve's if it's any consolation.

coffee_cake

pickarooney wrote: »

Dammit, I always click on this thread, see there are stories and tell myself I'll read them at work but then I forget when there are no new posts...

I would have voted for Steve's if it's any consolation.

tbbbbptpppt!:pac:

Mr E

How about a new VOAT, Richard?

stevejazzx

pickarooney wrote: »

Dammit, I always click on this thread, see there are stories and tell myself I'll read them at work but then I forget when there are no new posts...

I would have voted for Steve's if it's any consolation.

Woo-hoo almost one vote...thanks PR!
well done bluewolf!

pickarooney

Yeah, planning a new VOAT fairly soonish. I guess everyone is back from holidays by now?

I'll probably put something up later in the week.

bluewolf wrote: »

tbbbbptpppt!:pac:

I can play that on the clarinet and the sax.

diasporabint

Don't play rugby, not doing the Leaving Cert, have only ever been the victim of trollling.
Do I qualify?

Proposal


The Drunk Tank

pickarooney

Whoah whoah whoah. You have to wait for the challenge to be accepted before posting. I soft-deleted your story until the challenge is taken up. I'll undelete it then.

Although to your credit you have successfully proven that you're not a one-post time-waster who will never show up to compete.

diasporabint

Sorry, getting ahead of myself.

coffee_cake

that's going to be tricky

okay i will give it a go

diasporabint

Thanks Bluewolf; and it won't be tricky at all to wipe the floor with me.

diasporabint

What happens now?

coffee_cake

i've 24 hours to post up my story
pick will un-delete yours when he's about

or you can re-post it if you have it saved

coffee_cake

alright nevermind 24 hours ill flip this up
giggle


The drunk tank

He woke up in the holding cell with a blinding headache.
"Alright guys, I’ve learned my lesson, come on and let me out of here."
Usually he’d expect to hear some jeers back, or at least some kind of reaction, but this morning there was nothing. He tried yelling again, then gave up for a while.

By lunchtime, it was getting to be a pain. Nobody was answering, the headache was not going anywhere, and he was getting seriously thirsty. By late evening, he had planned all sorts of lawsuits, revenge on everyone, sworn never to drink again, and would probably have sold his own mother to get out of there.

An eternity later, he heard some shuffling and strange noises outside. The door was opened.
In front of him stood the most grotesque sight: the police officer was unusually pale, vacant eyes, covered in blood, and parts of his skin appeared to have been ripped off. As well as one of his arms.


Jim jumped back in horror. “What the hell?! What’s going on here? Is this some kind of joke?!”
Last night had been some night, but he was pretty sure he couldn’t still be drunk.
The thing that used to be the police officer advanced toward Jim, emitting strange groans. This wasn’t a joke, and it didn’t look like it wanted to help him.

Jim looked about in desperation. Everything was nailed down. But there was a potted plant on the windowsill, on the other side of the table. He circled around behind the table and kept his eye on the door. It was still open: if he could get out, he could make a run for it. This thing didn’t look too fast. The zombie shuffled closer. Jim grabbed the pot and bolted toward the door. His foot caught on the table leg, and he fell, cursing. The zombie jumped onto him and began trying to bite him, still making that awful sound. He could feel its clammy skin, blood dripping down on him. It was frighteningly strong and had him pinned. Jim lifted the pot and smashed it against its head as hard as he could. It roared in anger and punched him hard in the face. Jim gasped and dropped the pot. He kicked up at the zombie and made a grab for the gun that was still somehow in the ex-officer’s holster. He shoved the zombie as hard as he could, rolling to the side, and shot it in the head. It didn’t have much more effect than the plant, but the zombie was now having difficulty getting back up again with its one arm. Jim ran back for the door and slammed it shut, taking a deep breath in relief.

He looked around the station. It was deserted. Whatever had happened to that officer, the others didn’t seem to be around. He rummaged through some drawers, grabbed another gun, and looked out the window. The street outside was as deserted as the station. What on earth had happened while he was in that drunk tank? Time to step outside and find out.
The supermarket would be his first stop: if the place had been overrun by these things, he’d have to stock up before going anywhere. Plus, they’d have some painkillers. That thing hadn’t done much damage compared to how he already felt, but it had broken his skin. A small annoyance.
This was shaping up to be his worst hangover yet.

diasporabint

Hold off on the soft delete button Pickaroony, I've deleted my last effort in disgust, and post below my latest effort


Friday night and Dee and her colleagues were off to the pub for a few drinks. Dee was knocking them back, looking for that cosy buzz – and beyond. Two and a half hours later she made her careful way to the ladies room. Sitting there, she let her eyelids relax for a moment.
When Dee came to, it was strangely quiet, dark, and she was on the floor of the toilet cubicle. Out in the pub, she realised it was locked up for the night, and was amazed to see that it was after three in the morning. How did that happen?
In her efforts to get out she set the burglar alarm off, and was eventually rescued by the police. Her relief was to be short lived. She was informed that she was not considered safe to make her own way home in view of the level of her intoxication, and would therefore spend the night in the police station for her own protection.
On her release the following morning, she was outraged at the injustice that had been done to her. It wasn’t as if she was some homeless wino drinking super strength lager in a doorway somewhere. Didn’t those stupid police realise that she was a professional woman with a department of forty people under her in the bank, a subsidised mortgage, and a BMW thrown in as part of her employment package?? (Well, they did now - she had explained it all to them whilst making notes of their collar numbers, notwithstanding their expressions of consummate boredom. B**t**ds!!).
But as the rage passed it was replaced with a feeling of humiliation. This was one drinking jape she wouldn’t be sharing with her friends. The utter mortification was almost too painful to bear. Nearly home, she popped into her local off licence; just for a half bottle of vodka – just to sip slowly during the day. Jesus, a saint would need a drink after an ordeal like that!