Last week’s challenge produced some cracking stories and poems, on the themes of ‘Money‘, ‘New‘ and ‘Operation‘, as I’m sure you’ll all agree. Take a look below.
This week’s challenge moves forward to the letters of P, Q and R. Your themes for these are: ‘Party‘, ‘Quirky‘ and ‘Race.’ Not sure what to write? See the link below for some ideas:
Time for last week’s challengers:
Keith Channing‘s story makes a compelling read:
For five long years I had been living in the shadows, trying to keep away from the O’Grady gang, continually looking over my shoulder, afraid to answer the phone, hiding every time the doorbell rang.
Until five years ago my life was normal. It was more than normal, it was good. Good? It was great. I was a professional footballer, playing for a minor league side at the time, but I was being feted as a rising star with a grand future. Everything was going swimmingly until that fateful match when I ignored my coach’s orders. The order was simple.
“We gotta lose this match,” he said, “we gotta play normally in the first half, with a scoreline of two-nil at half-time. In the second half, John, in goal, will let three goals though, and we won’t score any more. The final result will be three-two to the opposition.”
“Why’s that, Coach?” I asked.
“Don’t ask, Mark. Just this once, do as I say without question. Okay?”
“Yes, Coach,” I said. But I didn’t. I pushed through a third, then a fourth goal, scoring my first hat-trick for the club. The crowd loved it. The O’Gradys didn’t. They had, it seemed, placed some very heavy bets on my team losing 2-3 in the second half after being 2-0 up at half-time.
Afraid to leave the house for fear of being picked up by the O’Gradys, I was living most of my life on-line. That’s how I came by the big money. I played the lottery on-line; had been for nearly five years. One Saturday evening I was checking my numbers and saw that I had bagged the Thunderball jackpot. I checked it more than half a dozen times. It was right; I had won. Big. Not the Lotto jackpot, but big enough. The Thunderball game pays a cool half million top prize.
As soon as the money was in my bank, I called on some contacts to see what options I had, that could possibly allow me to escape from this hell I was living in. One of the people I contacted was Algernon, an old school chum, who was then a cosmetic surgeon.
“Depending on how desperate you are, and how much you want to spend, I may be able to help you,” he said.
“What do you have in mind?” I asked.
“I can change your face so much, no-one will recognise you,” he suggested.
“Tell me more,” I said.
“For two-hundred-and-fifty thousand, I can carry out a series of operations that would change your face significantly. For another fifty thousand, I can arrange for a contact to provide full documentation to give you a new identity.”
“What if the O’Gradys find out about it?”
“They won’t. My contact is not in this country.”
“Where is he?”
“You don’t need to know that. Leave it all to me. Do you want me to go ahead?”
“Do it,” I said, and replaced the receiver.
One month later, Algy admitted me to his clinic, where I spent four months undergoing operation after operation. When the wraps came off, at the end of the four months, I didn’t recognise myself. The whole shape of my face was different. There was nothing about me that was familiar. I was looking at a different person. Fortunately, Algy was standing-by with a cup of hot, sweet tea and a large, stiff brandy. I selected the latter.
“Once the swelling and discolouration have gone, we’ll take a passport photo and arrange the paperwork,” he said, “your new name is William Clanville; you are a British émigré to New Zealand and will have a passport from that country. Whether you choose to relocate there is up to you, but it would seem to be a good move.”
“I’ll think about that,” I said, “how long before I can leave here and try out my new face in the open?”
“Two weeks should do it.”
Two weeks later, armed with my new documentation, I left the clinic. I was three hundred thousand poorer, but still had more than two hundred thousand in the bank. Hang on, I didn’t, Mark Meechan did. Complication number one. How to get the money from Mark Meechan’s account to a new account in the name of William Clanville? Perhaps not so hard. Provided I didn’t need to give photo-ID, I could spend my Mark money. But perhaps that wouldn’t be necessary.
I arranged with the bank that held my Mark Meechan account to open a new account in the joint names of Mark and William, and transfer the balance from Mark’s account into there. A month or so later, I switched that account to a different bank and, using both signatures, transferred two hundred thousand pounds to an offshore, Euro-denominated account that I had set up in the sole name of William Clanville.
Mark Meechan carried on a normal spending pattern for a while longer then, seven years from the date of that fateful match, William Clanville, naturalised New Zealander, boarded a British Airways flight bound for Wellingon, New Zealand to start his new life.
I’ve been there ever since. I bought a nice house in the suburbs, and found employment as a groundsman at a local football club. I helped out in various roles, and it soon came to the notice of the managers, that I was quite a tasty player. I had no wish to return to playing competitive football, but was happy to help out with some coaching. That went well, and I quickly gained a reputation locally for being a good, fair, effective and successful coach.
Today, I am head coach for one of the better semi-pro teams in the area, and act as visiting coach for a number of local schools. I am tolerably well-paid and well respected. I had almost forgotten about the difficulties of my past, until a new senior at one of the schools where I coach said that his step-dad thought my playing style was familiar.
“What’s your step-dad’s name?” I asked.
“Brien O’Grady,” he replied.
I’m thrilled that Kate Loveton has taken up the challenge. You’ll be mesmerised by her atmospheric flash fiction story:
Unanswered Prayers
Lace curtains fluttered on the breeze of a warm summer’s night.
News arrived and the window was quickly closed. A mausoleum stillness then descended, captured in the mirror’s surface.
Out of view, a lone figure knelt by a bed, fingers flying over a string of beads. Soft entreaties drifted skyward, searching for love and comfort as each bead touched fingertips.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us…’
Nearby, a body lay in a morgue.
She’d told him easy money was a lie.
She continued fingering the beads, once shiny and new, now worn dull by a mother’s troubled prayers.
Jasdeep Kaur has gone for a short tale this time. A great title and story:
Obligatory Conviction
Habitually, he threw the money on the bed.
“This is not what I want,” she said.
“Then why you are here,” he winked, “with me?”
“Obligatory conviction,” she said.
“And what’s that?” he asked.
“One that makes you cheat your wife,” she said.
“Oh, so you clicked the snaps,” he said summing up things in his mind.
“That sounds so moron,” she smirked, “Mr. Swindler, this is a fresh game.”
She flicked out her pistol and shot straight at his head.
Before leaving the hotel room, she kept a card on the dressing table that said: Insurgent Boggy Chambers.
Ayo Oboro‘s story tugs on the heart strings:
Is the smell of disinfectant so strong or is it his imagination? He doesn’t think he can stand it but he has no choice; he can’t just abandon her, not after what they went through last year.
They had both been overjoyed when they were given the news, news they had been waiting for for six years. They had started shopping almost immediately and didn’t stop picking up things here and there until the spare room looked like it would burst at the seams.
It didn’t but,’We need to stop shopping,’ Helen said to Victor.
He agreed but both of them would still come home once or twice a week with something small.
‘We really need to stop,’ Victor said to Helen again after they had both sneaked a little something into the house yet again.
‘I know,’ she said with a mischievous smile,’I’m just so excited and I know you are too.’
They looked at each other and laughed.
‘Let’s pinky swear that neither of us will do anymore shopping for the next …’
‘Four months!’ Helen shouted.
He put his pinky to hers and they swore.
Everything went smoothly – no unusual food requests, no unnecessary hospital visits, nothing to be concerned about. Helen’s doctor was pleased and they were, too.
And then one day, just after returning home from the market she started to feel uncomfortable. The pain in her stomach was worrisome. She considered calling Victor but changed her mind. ‘It must be something I ate,’ she said to herself as she went about preparing dinner. As she moved around in the kitchen, the pain increased so she decided to lie down on the sofa.
That day was the worst day of her life.
‘I’m sorry, Mr. Alfa there was nothing we could do. Your wife will soon be wheeled out of the theatre. Please be strong for your wife,’ the doctor patted Victor’s shoulder in sympathy as he returned to the surgery.
Victor wept. He couldn’t believe all their dreams, hopes, their happiness had just fizzled out in one day. Six years of waiting and two months of joy had just been taken away from them.
‘What do I say to Helen? How do I comfort her?’ He looked up as the tears continued to stream down his face.
Fast forward another year and Victor is standing in the lobby of the same hospital. He tries to focus on what he’s doing here but the unpleasant memories of the previous visit to the theatre cling to him. He tries to be upbeat but his step slows as he reaches the lift. The last operation was an evacuation but this one is to be a delivery.
‘New life, a gift money can’t buy, ’ Victor whispers as he carries his baby boy in one arm and puts the other round a smiling and content Helen.
A huge well done goes to Jason Moody for his first attempt at poetry. It’s a fantastic first go:
My body’s done, it’s staked its claim,
No hope, no point in operation,
No ransom of kings, nor new fangled things can offer me salvation.
Esther Chilton 
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