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Week Three [Weekly Writing Challenges] Read 915 times

Krystal Itzume

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Week Three [Weekly Writing Challenges]
« on: August 19, 2014, 06:33:07 am »
Busy, busy day for me, but the challenge is up!

~***~

Theme of themes: First Time, New Experience.

Words to use: Bob, Poorly, Crime.

Length: No length

Peregrine

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Re: Week Three [Weekly Writing Challenges]
« Reply #1 on: August 22, 2014, 01:29:56 am »
Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Bob had been there nearly two hours and still, she was sure she could still hear that hair ripping annoyance! Either the problem was worse than she thought or he was doing his job poorly.

She tried not to hover, but this was her first place, all her own. It had her name on the lease, her rear on the line if something went wrong.

She was in it up to her eyeballs already and she couldn't afford for this to be something as horrible as it seemed it was by the length of the plumbers visit.

She pulled her fingers from her mouth, mad that she'd gnawed off nearly every nail. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and heard silence.

She smiled until she heard the shuffling of the feet, the clanking of tools being dropped back in the tool box.

She took a deep breath as she heard him coming from the bathroom toward the small kitchen where she'd been pretending to work.

With the way things were breaking around here and the mounting bills she was going to have to turn to a life of crime to pay it all off.

Runic Blade

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Re: Week Three [Weekly Writing Challenges]
« Reply #2 on: August 22, 2014, 09:59:33 pm »
The boxer, Johnny the Mad Dog, bobbed out of the way as I made a quick jab to his face.  My fist traveled through empty air, leaving my entire right-side exposed.  Johnny sent a left hook smashing into my ribs.  I was breathless as my body surged with pain.  I jumped, or perhaps stumbled, backwards.

My trainer called out, “Yo, Adam!  Is this fight going to go on forever?  Take him out!”

I gasped for fresh air through my mouthpiece.  I could see Johnny smiling through the beads of sweat which clouded my eyes.  However, I knew he was just as exhausted as I was.  I just needed to get back into the fight quickly.

I shook my head and approached Johnny once again.  We traded blows.  I grunted as I blocked another barrage of Johnny's fists.  And another.  He was really laying into me with everything he had left.

Finally, he hesitated, his strength spent, and I landed a left hook to his head.  The collision with his skull reverberated through my entire arm.  He hadn't been expecting it.

Johnny went unconscious and fell to the mat with a thud.

“It's about time you finished him off,” my trainer, Mac, growled as he climbed over the ropes and slapped Johnny's cheeks.  “I think you're ready for the big time, Adam.”

Johnny sat up and growled a stream of obscenities.

Mac came over to my corner.  He grabbed a towel that was slung over the post.  He used it to wipe the sweat off my face and shoulders.  He examined my body for cuts.

“No injuries – good,” he said.  “I'll talk to the guys down at the Arena to get you into a paid match.”

“Thanks man, thanks,” I managed to sputter after he removed my mouthpiece.

We both climbed out of the ring.  Although Johnny had been serious while fighting me, in fact it was only a practice match.  He followed Mac and I out of the ring and on to the gym floor.  The place reeked of stale sweat and was poorly lit.  A speed bag and heavy bag hung nearby.  We rested on a pair of metal folding chairs while Mac checked Johnny's health.  Johnny was a much bigger guy than me – he was a heavyweight class that I wouldn't be fighting in a real match.  He had volunteered to be my opponent for the practice match.

“I think you'll both live,” Mac said with a chuckle.

Johnny said, “You've really improved, Adam.  I could see it in the way you came after me after that shot I gave you to the ribs.  You didn't back down.”

“I know, I'm just hungry, that's all.  I'm ready for the big time.”

“A few months ago you fought poorly.  I pushed you around like a baby,” Johnny continued.

I interrupted, “Yeah, but a few months ago, I had a job.  I wasn't as worried about money then.  You know, there isn't much work these days for an out-of-work carpenter.  Not like 2007 – man I was living like a king back then in comparison to where I am now.”

“Me too,” Johnny said, “Did I ever tell you I used to work as a laborer downtown?”

“No, I guess there just isn't much work for men like us anymore.  There's only work for machines.  Did you see that they're replacing all the cashiers at Walmart with those damned computer checkouts?”

“Well, it's either bashing each others brains out in the ring, or a life of crime for guys like us.”

I glanced at Johnny's prison tattoos.  He had spiderweb tattoos on his chest and a street gang insignia on his back.  He wasn't kidding.

Mac cleared his throat.  He was becoming concerned about the direction our conversation was headed.  “Who knows,” he said, “when we get Adam into the ring down at the Arena he might be on the road to become the next world champion.”

“Maybe,” I said, “maybe.”

I looked at my fists.  After taking off the gloves, my skin was still red from our practice fight.  Although I was only 29, I could already see the wrinkles forming on the back of my hands.  Most boxers retired in their early thirties.  My upcoming fight would be my first bout in a professional ring.  I knew that I didn't have much of a chance at a boxing career, even if I did get lucky and win a fight or two.

Well, if I couldn't make it legally with my fists, I could use them just as well on the streets.  A man had to do what it took to survive.  The police were no friend of mine.  I looked again at Johnny's prison tattoos, this time with more respect.

Krystal Itzume

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Re: Week Three [Weekly Writing Challenges]
« Reply #3 on: August 24, 2014, 09:02:18 am »
The room was spinning. I’m not sure how I made it up the stairs in these heels. “Never again,” I muttered in reference to the spiked energy drink I’d had, after a few cocktails. “Ugh.” I felt sick, but I didn’t head towards the toilet. I found the couch, and took a seat on it, kicked the heels off.

I placed a hand on my forehead. I wanted something cold, but I didn’t want to walk to the freezer. I wanted water, but the floor was still moving beneath me.
‘Curse you low tolerance.’ I didn’t get silly. I didn’t get angry. I didn’t get anything but this—dizzy, hot, and nauseous. I don’t even know why I drink, except everyone else was. “Fucking Lord Silver Fox,” I cursed the nickname of the man I went out to see, and then smiled to myself.

Well, at least he’d called over one of his friends to get me home safe, not trusting me to get on a bus home as he usually did. And at least he’d paid for every drink, too. He just hadn’t taken advantage of the opportunity. I wouldn’t have considered it a crime even in my right mind, but no, Lord Silver Fox never did. It probably would be too awkward—we did work together.


“I should do something,”
I was still speaking aloud. I lowered my hand and looked towards the door to make sure it was locked, then fumbled to find my phone.

Living alone had many perks, but it had one severe disadvantage. No good advice from a mother on hand. I dialed home.
“Hello?” It didn’t take her long.

“Hey. I’m drunk and the floor is moving. What do I do?”


I could see the look of horror in my mind’s eye.
“Why are you this drunk? Are you home? Are you ok?”

“Yes, and I drank some energy…thingy…,”
I couldn’t quite tell her I was this drunk because Lord Silver Fox encouraged me to drink the thing I knew I shouldn’t. I was above peer pressure, damn it. Still, I heard her suck in a breath. “Seriously. Never been this bad. What do I do?”

“Water. Crawl to the water.”


Mom, ever the realist. No walking. At least my dignity wouldn't be lost in my own apartment.
“I don’t want you standing. I don’t want you to fall.”

“Yes, mother,”
I stood anyway and soon regretted it. I pushed my body towards the nearest wall and let my form sink down it. “This might take a while,” I muttered and sighed.

“I know,” she said, ever-patient, ever suffering. “I’ll stay on the line,” she always did. Mothers. She was there when I cut my finger and needed to get stitches. I was stone sober then, too.

I looked down the wall and plotted how to get around it, and to the kitchen with my sink.
“This was a bad decision,” I said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “How did you get home?”

“Friend of a friend. Bob, I think.”


“Friend of who?”

“Josh,” Lord Silver Fox’s real name. “History guy.” My mom didn’t do names.

Eventually, I did make it around the wall, and into the kitchen, where I grabbed onto the counter to pull myself up, and then leaned against it to get myself a cup of water. I sat back down immediately with it.
“Did you ever drink much when you were my age?” I asked.

“No,” she answered, “and whenever I did, I reacted as poorly as you.”

I smirked,
“So clearly I have you to blame. Thanks.” I sipped the cool liquid. I imagined my clarity of thought came from my father, though. At least, he was the only drunk person I knew who could remain 'present' when he drank too much. He didn't go off rhyming the word 'loop' with everything that came to mind and falling to the floor in a fit of giggles. “I’ll stay awake until I feel better.”

“I’m staying on the line.”


No getting rid of her, then.
“All right,” this was what I got for calling home the first time I get sick-drunk. Least she kept me up and talking, until it started to wear off. No sleep. No choking myself on vomit. I didn’t even vomit once.

Score one for me.

Just not the score I wanted.