VOAT - February 2017 - "The Gamble" - Vote Here.

Mr E

We have 4 stories for your reading pleasure, all based around the theme "The Gamble".

There is a poll at the top of this thread - vote for one or more of your favourites. The poll will be open for 5 days and in the interest of fairness, results will be hidden until that time, and people will be able to see who voted for which stories.

Please give feedback as to which ones you liked or didn't like.

Thanks to those who submitted stories, and we'll do it again in March.

Enjoy!

Mr E

Story 2

You cry razor tears, that cut me when I try and kiss you better. Your tears are made of shiver shiver water, shiver for you, shiver for me. Press my skin to yours, feel the cold, feel your bones press into my flesh. Kiss, kiss, can’t kiss you better. You drift through my dreams always out of place, getting into dreams where you don’t belong. You woke me up with your crying last night, I didn’t talk but I know you knew I was awake. In my dreams you should be well. In those dreams you’ve been coughing, skeletal.

My thin camping mattress rests diagonally at the end of our bed, you’d rather I slept somewhere else but I don’t like to leave you. There isn’t really space for it but it’s light and easy to stack in the corridor outside during the day. We don’t get more than four hours sleep, though for all that extra time, nothing gets done around the house apart from the essentials, and every week we discover one more task is no longer essential. How we ever thought washing windows or ironing clothes was essential is beyond us now.

You joke and say it’s a race to see if I can get you better before you get me sick, and sometimes I swear I can feel your illness under my skin. Who will kiss us then, you used to call my kisses medicine, that they could make you feel something, if not better, well at least something. Chances are, you say, you’ll finish both of us off. You joke and say I’m your jailer, but you’ll be my executioner.

Draw in your breath, let the air fill your lungs, hold it there, just long enough until you get dizzy. Breathe out, breathe out sick air. You think I’m running risks, you think there’s a price to pay, that I should live my life instead. I see the price you pay every day. Every bet is worth the cost, the feel, the thrill of living. Do you feel that? Of course you don’t, I can see how little you let yourself live. I can see how much living hurts you, how little life is in you, propped up by vials and venoms that are only meant to hurt your illness but hurt you all over.

You ask to be left alone, for me to go out and leave this “bloody house”. Catch a match and call someone. The times I do go, to give you the peace and quiet, to save you from arguing with me. Everywhere is empty and I’m thinking hopelessly of you anyway. I can’t find another you though, so you have to get better. You will get better and we will go. Go out beyond the horizon, where we’ve so much left to see. And you are so thin, with nearly translucent skin, I feel there’s still so much I don’t know about you. I just want the chance and the time to get to know you.

“I never meant to break my word so quickly, I never meant to break my word even slightly.” You wrote that when you still wrote. You didn’t break your word, not even slightly. Here we are locked in silence but not broken, not either of us. We will get better. I get tired. Tired of the pills and the headaches, and the lack of sleep and tiredness that comes with convincing you to try, to live. We will get better. You wrote that line when the news came through, and you thought you would end up breaking the vows we’d only so recently made. A scrap of paper I keep close to my heart, the last scrap of writing you left to me.

You have been sick for months now, really sick, unable to get out of bed sick. We know we can’t continue much longer like this. Winter is coming to an end and I hope some dormant cells under your skin will burst into life when Spring arrives, if Spring would ever arrive. When it comes I will buy you a new notebook, and a light blue biro. I will read back to you what you write, so you can hear the false notes in amongst the syllables. I wish you hadn’t burnt everything back in October. I know you felt you had to but still, so many pretty words turned into ash, and all that ash still marking the spot on the lawn where the fire had been. A dirt memorial to all we lost, I can’t wait for Spring to come and for the grass to grow, maybe the ash will act as fertiliser and some forgotten flower seeds will blossom.

Some coruscation in my mind wishing for a gleam in your eye. The idea catches and I want to plant for you a flower bed there. We could sit and watch it slowly grow. When you’re better you could kneel with me out there and pull the weeds, the weeds that are bound to come. Every bit of life always brings weeds that must be pulled. That’s what happened, you never noticed the weeds taking hold in your blood until it was too late. Too late for you to treat alone, well, the doctor says he got the worst of them and he has an honest face and no reason to lie. When you come back to yourself, when you can stand a car journey I’ll take us both to town and we can press ourselves together against the crowds. We’ll just stand and wonder at them all. We’ll sit in the window of the Carlton café and let Catherine street act out a dumb show just for us.

You say you can tell you how it all ends anyhow. It ends with you on your own, and me on my own, lying in white sheets, being stared down at by people whose health we’ll crave. There are no gambles in this life, you say, it’s set up to be one big loss in the end anyhow. I hold you and kiss you and wish I could kiss you better.

They say you only had a five percent chance of getting this far. I’m glad we took the gamble. The tubes carry oxygen from the machine in the kitchen to the bedroom, snaking up the stairs, wrapped around the banister posts like some algae or clear vine creeper. I can hear the whirring when I’m doing the dishes, and making dinner. The high protein, low taste food that are doctor’s orders.

That mechanical music of the oxygen machine fills the kitchen but I keep the radio off anyway. I want to hear it working. I used to love dancing with you, not that I was ever much of a dancer, but with you it was just a laugh, and we would put on big band music and shake about like they do in those old Charleston clips. Back before it hurt you to be held up.

You don’t hear when I dig out the spades to turn the soil, and plant tulip bulbs and marigolds and daffodils, but you’ll laugh, and laugh when you see those ashes bursting into colour. The doctors will have news for us by then, and the odds say it will be bad but I know it will be good, that you will get better and the gamble on trying will have been worth it. I am planting flowers that I will pick for you and place in a vase in our room, when the sun comes back around and we win. I bet the veronicas and speedwells bloom early.

I’ll lean in and say happy anniversary, I grew them just for you, thank you for the ashes.

Mr E

Story 2

Ah Sweetie do you remember the time you took me by surprise in the shower and Christ I slipped and nearly broke my goddamn knee in half? I’m facing the wall, soaping up and you reach in and take me by the cock. Ha! What came over you that day to do such a thing? A girl like you. We hadn’t made love in years. Years. I’m getting hard thinking about it now. Ha! Imagine, an aul fella like me at a time like this. I doubt it even works. Guess there isn’t time to test it out.


Sit down Sweetheart, your chair is still here, I’ve been waiting for you. Pull up your legs the way you used to and smile for me and ask me how I am. Ask me if I’ve missed you all these long years, betrayed by a plan gone wrong. It was me was supposed to go first, remember? All that sh*te-talk and planning for the inevitable. Life’s poor assumptions blown apart. Sure anyway, can’t change any of that now can we? Tell me my Sweet, how’s the weather? Is it ok there? Fair weather? You look good on it. You do. Fair to middling you would say yourself, in true modesty. You look so good. Young again. Firm again. And full. Ah, I should stop. But then, is it so wrong for an old man to have lustful thoughts for his own young lady? To visit my own memories of your once young body? Your peachy arse, your shy cleft. Ha! I had all sorts of words for that, didn’t I? But I never did find one you liked. And the wiff. I loved it. Loved it like the smell of a tar barrel stewin’ on a muggy summer’s day. Hot in the nose, and heavy, take it down deep. Remember us? Us as we were? At dusk in St Anne’s Park beneath the folly, f*cking. Is it wrong? To think on what was mine?


Look at you Maureen. There’s not a line on your face. Not a hint of pain about you. You look so happy my Sweet. No tube in your neck. None of that horrid … eyes scanning incessantly left and right and rolling back and locking on a point of infinity on a dirty roof tile on some bastardin’ hospital ward. Stewing in the stink of over-cooked food and sh*te. You fought like a lion didn’t you Sweetie. You really did! They had you almost counted out a dozen times but you defied them all at the bell. But really? I knew you were gone. Up here where it matters most. The fuse bulb blown. Ha! I knew you’d left me weeks before your poor old body curled up and cried Sod it! And stopped. I knew it. But I’d been lost in hope. You were still so f*cking warm to touch, and still just so bloody well there! In that room, with me. Breathing and digesting. Existing. So I couldn’t say goodbye and when it finally happened, I … I couldn’t understand. How could something … become so still? Christ I’ve never seen anything so still as you Maureen. Where did you go? I couldn’t get it. The mystery they talk about. The Chaplain said she saw the blue veil surround your face the moment you passed. I saw nothing. So I’ve never let you go is the truth. I’ve been stuck Maureen. God help me such a f*cking existence, stuck between this world and the next, waiting. How come you got off scot-free like that? Answer! Bang in the night and two months later you’re out. Off the hook. I couldn’t boil a f*cking egg Mo. You cow you never showed me how!


I’ve had the bad word from O’ Neill the Younger. Hoor. Looked practically joyful giving it me. He’s as bad as his old man. Sore to see me outlive the prick all these years no doubt. But sure won’t he have the pleasure himself of seeing me turned into the ground soon enough. There’s marvellous things can be done these days, he says, surgery, drugs and the like. But that’s not for you, he says, it’s too late for you, he says. Why didn’t you come see me sooner? I could have helped you then, he says. Bastard. Scrote. I’ll settle my bill Mo, but I’ll not be going out scanning the infinite boundaries of a dirty spot on some strange ceiling. That’s not for me. There’s such things as dignity and pride yet! I have my plan. One final toss. You see Mo, it’s a gamble, I … ah f*ck it t’hell.


There. The die, as they say, is cast. O’ Neill asked me if I wanted anything. For the Mood. How’s your mood? he says. My f*cking mood? Ha! It’s far from moods I was reared! He could give me something, he says, to help. All sorts. Red ones or blue ones, white ones too no doubt, grey and brown ones even. Whatever I wanted. To help. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction Mo. Not a drip. The scut. Wake chin on him. The mood’s never been better! I says. And then I went two towns over and paid that young slip a visit at the new medical centre. She bought the tears and I showed her your mass card all battered out of me arse pocket and she gave me what I needed. She even touched my hand and Christ Mo forgive me but I near fell off the damn chair. Ha! Healing hands how are ye. She damn near gave me heart failure! Such a silken touch. You’re one fine girleen, I says to her. She gave me what I needed and I’ve taken them now and I hope it doesn’t come back up the road to cause her any grief.


You never would let me give you a French tickle Maureen. I’d known girls who’d loved it. Asked for it. Demanded it even! How ever do you think I learned about these things in the first place? Never could understand why you didn’t want it. Why you would never be up for a bit of … exploration. My god you were such a good girl Maureen and we were a bad match. You only wanted babies. But it wasn’t all an awkward lie, was it? Funny story – at the hospital, the doctors, they said - she is non-responsive Mr Jackson, it doesn’t look good. Non-responsive! I says, tell me something I don’t know. It’s been a cold bed I've slept in these past fifty years. Ha! No, they didn’t laugh. I’m sorry my love. I’m harsh as a March wind. Ah Christ! Will I start to feel something soon Maureen?


Sommun’s comin’ up jrive. Can’ see who. Can ye tell Mo? An’ a white van outsigh, an’ noise and childer. Sweetish music playin’. ‘member this one Mo?


If you go down to the woods today ...


‘member we used sing it t’kids? Ha! You’re mother was right. Stick at two! But no. No, no, no. Six. Six! They ruined us Mo. Killed us. Christ, I’d get so angry. So angry I thought I’d drop dead. Awful, black anger to burst me open. Oh why, Christ I never meant to but six of the little shaggers and the noise and, and, there was never any peace! Jesus forgive me but I called them f*ckers to their little faces. A bastard. I wasn’t built for it Mo! I just hadn’t it put in me!


For every bear that ever there was, Will gather there for certain because,


They don’ call. Not one of them. I’m hated. Left behind like a woman and hated. I don’ blame them. I never could talk to them. Was always like, a fat hand was over me mouth, pressing. Pumping. Every. F*cking. Word. Back. Inside. Could never just, breath in the moment. But I sang to the first two! I hope they at least remember that. That was the sweet spot Mo. A manageable time, ha? Them few early years. We shoulda listened your mother.


Today's the day the teddy bears have their picnic.


s’justa ice-cream van. Ha! s’pullin’ away now, music dyin’ away now. Sighta me eyes fading away now Mo. It’s all nearly a spot. Can’ take me eyes off it now. Not a spot of difference is there in any of it, big or small. Sound’s last t’go so they say. Letter box’s bangin’, oh Sweetie can’t move the aul legs now to see what it is. Chap is leavin’, hear him whistlin’. Must’ve been just a flier for somethin’. G’bye young man. Don’ hop me feckin’ hedge now! Or do. Do what you want. As you please. The f*ck I care oh Christ I’m sorry for it all. But for what? For what! The mystery? I never asked for it, any f*cking part in it! Ah Sweetie, do you remember the time.

Mr E

Story 2

In my late 20s, I was what you might call a risk taker. Interactions with my friends would invariably result in me doing something outlandish, and conversations would be punctuated by howls of laughter and someone saying "Jesus Ben, you're some chancer" or words to that effect; often with more colourful language.

Some might say that I craved showmanship and maybe I was a bit egocentric - I always wanted people to acknowledge me, acknowledge my accomplishments, pat me on the back. There was an element of truth to that, but the day I met her was a day when I was on my own.

When she walked into the coffee shop, time seemed to slow to quarter speed. The ambient noise became muffled. The room seemed to darken, except for an aura of brightness that surrounded her like a bubble and carried her towards the counter. She was summer personified. I watched her over the top of my book as she placed her order. The barista seemed to be as enamoured as I was - he was trying to chat her up but wasn't doing a very good job. His cheeks flushed and he yelped when one of his colleagues released steam from the coffee machine. She had a wonderful laugh that filled the coffee shop. Several customers looked over towards the counter to see what was so funny. She paid for her order and walked to the collection point. She was wearing a bright yellow dress. I didn't know what the fabric was but the hem of it was just above her knees and caught the air and twirled with the slightest movement from her.

A few moments later, she picked up her cup and sat at a table close to mine. She was alone. She reached into her bag and pulled out a pink ring binder. The front of it had a bejeweled pattern - the little plastic gems twinkled as they caught the light. Very feminine. She tucked a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear and started writing on something inside her binder. Her coffee was in a cup to go, and I could see markings on the cup - extra shot, cream, and part of her name: -line. Madeline? Caroline? Adeline?

I noticed some sort of sticker on the back of the binder. It was a logo and it looked familiar. Four red boxes of increasing size and some lettering underneath. I knew that logo from somewhere. Then it dawned on me - the mobile world congress in Barcelona. The sticker said 2003, which was a few years earlier at the time. Perfect!

She took another sip of her drink. When she put the cup down, I could see more of the lettering. -oline. That narrowed the possibilities. I took a gamble...

"Caroline?" - I said it with a quizzical tone and the broadest smile I could muster.

She looked up from her binder and turned her head towards me. All or nothing now.

"Heyyyyy.... I knew it was you." - I put my palm on my chest. "Ben - we met in Barcelona."

"Oh... hey!"

I stood up and walked over to her table. I pointed at a chair and she nodded. She was smiling and there wasn't a hint of defensiveness. A good sign.

"Wow, it must be a few years now. 2001? 2002?"
She said, "I was there in '03 and '04."
"Ah, must have been 2003 so. I didn't make it there in 2004. How have you been?"

The conversation went on for a couple of hours. There were a few more coffees, a couple of paninis and equal measures of chat, flirting and laughter. The rest, as they say, is history.

Now eight years later with two children, three dogs and a happy marriage, the "how did you meet?" question pops up from time to time. I revel in telling that story to anyone who will listen. Inevitably, the story ends with howls of laughter and Caroline saying "Jesus Ben, you're some chancer."

Mr E

Story 2

“Put your money where your mouth is,” demanded Mary. “Ten dollars says I’m right.”


“Only ten dollars?” asked her cousin Erin sitting beside her in the back seat of the car. “I’ll bet you fifty I’m right.”


“Fifty it is then,” said Mary.


“That’s a lot of money to lose Erin,” warned John, Mary’s husband of only a week, who was in the passenger seat. Erin’s husband Brad was driving. “Mary isn’t a gambler. She wouldn’t put a dime on it unless she was sure she would win. Why don’t you both just forget about it?”


The argument between the two women had already gone on for almost forty miles, as arguments could and often did in those pre-Google days. All attempts by the men to divert them onto another topic had been unsuccessful and this one didn’t fare any better.


“How can we forget about it when she won’t admit she is wrong?” asked Mary.


“I thought I was married to the world’s most stubborn woman,” said Brad, “but it must run in the family. Is it an Irish thing?” he asked John.


“Only their family. Ours wouldn’t fight over something so silly.”


The two women didn’t think it was silly. The argument had started with a comment as they were driving through Baltimore on their way back from Washington or ‘DC’ as the Brad and Erin called it. The Americans had taken the honeymoon couple on a road trip, showing them all the attractions. It was the first time they were in the States and the first time Mary had met Erin although they had been sanding photos and writing to each other since they were children. They were getting on great until Mary’s chance remark that Baltimore lived up to its name better than its Irish namesake.


“Why did they call a town in Ireland after Baltimore?” Erin asked.


“They didn’t. It was the other way around. This one is called after the town in Ireland, in Cork.”


“No,” Erin insisted. “Baltimore was named for a tribe of Indians.”


“No.” Mary was equally insistent. “It’s from the Irish. Bailte Mor means ‘Big Town.’

That’s why I said this one is better named because the place in Cork is far smaller, only a village really. Were you ever there John?” she asked, looking for backup.


“I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it,” said John, “but that’s not to say it isn’t there. Geography isn’t my strong point.”


“I thought Baltimore was named after an Indian tribe,” said Brad.


“See how Erin’s husband agrees with her. You should be supporting me,” said Mary.
And so the argument went back and forth, round in circles and got nowhere until both women put their $50 in an envelope, sealed it and agreed not to open it or discuss the matter any further until they could resolve it.


It proved harder to find the answer than they expected. All the books they checked were silent on the subject on the origin of Baltimore’s name. Erin had a world atlas but Ireland was on the same page as Britain and the only places marked were Dublin, Cork, Belfast and Galway so that wasn’t much help. The envelope with the $100 continued to sit on a high shelf.



In the end all four of them went to the public library and got the biggest atlas they could find. It took the two men to carry it but it did have a full page map of Ireland and there, in the exact spot Mary said it should be was a dot and beside it, in tiny print, the name Baltimore. Erin snapped the book shut.
“Okay. You were right,” she said. “Let’s get out of here. Who spends their honeymoon in a library?”


“If every trip to the library got me $50 I’d come more often,” said Mary, smiling.


“I did try to warn you,” said John.
The holiday passed quickly and soon it was time for the couple to return home. Their hosts drove them to the airport. After dropping them off Brad found an envelope in the car. It contained $50 and a note. “Thanks for everything. After all your hospitality we couldn’t take your money.”


“That’s nice but a bet is a bet. We have to send it back to them,” said Erin.


“We can give it back to them when we go to Ireland,” said Brad.


“We can’t afford a trip to Ireland,” Mary reminded him.


“We will be able to soon. I don’t know who started that story about Baltimore being named after a tribe of Indians but everybody has heard it and loads of them are willing to put money on it.” He took out a folded up page from his pocket. “I paid fifty cent for a copy of that map in the library and I’ve made over $300 already betting that Baltimore Maryland is called after a town in Ireland. Baltimore, Ireland here we come!”

Mr E

Story 2

Bump.... only 2 people have voted so far. The poll closes on Wednesday at 8am.

If you prefer, you don't have to give any feedback until the results are revealed.

Mr E

Story 2

Less than 24 hours to go!

Das Kitty

Story 4

Fair play people. Some great reading here for stories written in the space of a week. In the end I voted for story 3.

Feedback below.

Story 1 - Some great description in this one. I like that the relationship has become twisted through the secondary character's illness. That the main character's hope is rendered slightly grotesque, which is incredibly well done. But I didn't feel it tied with the theme very closely. The writing is beautiful though. A close second for me.

Story 2 - Another death bed I thought the character's voice was good, but the contractions all the way through started to grate. That's personal taste though, I don't like reading accents like that. Again as with story 1, I didn't feel it held with the theme .

Story 3 - I thought this story had a nice trajectory. It was the right size for the story told, which is very hard to achieve. You get a good feel for the character in a few hundred words. My only reservation was that the gamble taken was a bit slight. I think the writer could look at it again and come up with something a bit riskier and bolder. A bigger lie that the character might not reveal to anyone after the fact. But besides that I really enjoyed it and it got my vote.

Story 4 - The concept of this one is great. The idea of grifting based on common misconceptions. I thought it failed a little in the execution. I think the writer could have done more to place it in the past at the beginning. I was most of the time wondering why they don't just google it. Seeing the name on the map, also didn't really settle the bet, IMO. But it was a fun concept and got me thinking.

Mr E

Story 2

Mine was story 3 and it looks like I tied with story 1.

Story 1 had a lovely lyrical quality about it and was my own favourite. I thought it was a bit inaccessible at first (no offence!), but multiple reads reward perseverance. For some reason I started reading it with Mícheál Ó'Muircheartaigh's voice (try it)

Story 2 was great but like DK, I wasn't crazy about the language. It's probably OK for a short story, but reading a whole book in that style would drive me bananas.

Story 4 was my other vote. It was a good story with a clever reveal at the end. Probably closer to my own style than story 2, which is why I was more drawn to it.

Great job folks... we'll try for another one on the week of March 6th.

redser7

Story 2

Well done Mr. E and story 1. Mine was story 2 so thanks pickarooney for the vote!

Story 1 - it was strange reading this one as it was similar to mine but a flipped situation where you have someone taking a gamble on treatment and putting yourself and your loved ones through an horrendous experience perhaps for nothing, whereas in mine he gambles on his escape not working. Loved the language. It added an airy counterpoint to the harsh reality of an all too common experience, dealing with cancer. Well done, loved it.

Story 3 - I enjoyed this but have to admit I felt a bit cheated by the ending. I thought it would end up perhaps going somewhere sinister or embarrassing rather than being a feel good anecdote. It wrapped up very suddenly and could have done with a few more hundred words maybe. Well done.

Story 4 - this would be my number 2. It was simply told and I enjoyed the casual intimacy of the two couples arguing, nice tension there. Well done.

Mr E

Story 2

redser7 wrote: »

Story 3 - I enjoyed this but have to admit I felt a bit cheated by the ending. I thought it would end up perhaps going somewhere sinister or embarrassing rather than being a feel good anecdote. It wrapped up very suddenly and could have done with a few more hundred words maybe. Well done.

I had a busy week that week and I really only got going on it a couple of days before the deadline. It was even shorter than that before I did some last minute padding.

Mr E

Story 2

I just looked back over my PMs and Story 1 was written by someone with 0 posts to their name.
Not sure if it's a regular user incognito or someone who stumbled upon the thread and decided to throw their hat in.

It's not my place to 'out' them but congrats, stranger. If you want to reply here and take credit, please do. You are a talented writer and deserve the plaudits.

echo beach

Story 4

Another fine selection of stories. Lots of views but it is a pity there weren't a few more votes.

Story 1 was my favourite maybe because I know several couples who have been there with varying outcomes and I thought it was an accurate reflection of what they go though. The opening was very effective in quickly creating the atmosphere and getting the reader to empathise with both characters.

Story 2 tackled a similar theme and possibly suffered a little in comparison because the narrator, maybe more honest, wasn't as easy to sympathise with. Gave a very believable account of realities of family life.

Story 3 got my second vote because of its vivid use of detail. It might have worked better without some of the 'padding' at the beginning and end, leaving only the story itself as a piece of flash fiction.

My own last minute, or to be more exact last hour, effort was Story 4 which was really more an extended anecdote but I enjoyed writing it and thanks to all of you who made kind comments and provided useful feedback.

Mine was story 1, thank you for the votes and feedback. I've been meaning to sign up for the VOAT for a while.

I enjoyed the different styles of writing, though when I read story 2 I immediately thought the writer nailed a type of story telling that's very hard to do and felt it was a more coherent narrative than the one I had entered. I didn't vote but would have voted for it.

The last two stories are more narrative driven than the first two I think and both achieve fluidity in a style that can fall flat if it isn't done right.

echo beach

Story 4

Well done Harvey on a successful first VOAT. Do you do much writing? It was a very polished entry if you are a beginner.

Thanks Echo, I don't do a huge amount of writing but have knocked out a few stories out over the years. I love the idea of the VOAT though, been meaning to put things into for it a while.