[Writing Contest] - THE ARENA

Das Kitty · 16-06-2014 3:46pm

Achillles wrote: »

Righteo. Topic is: Fever

Okey dokey. See you before this time tomorrow.

I can't promise SFW, though!

Das Kitty · 16-06-2014 10:14pm

I know I'm posting it early, but I won't get a chance to tomorrow as there's no way I'm opening this on my work computer. :pac: (Also a tiny bit long. Forgiveness please)

Fever

Dr Letby straightened his waistcoat and looked in the glass to ensure his moustache was straight, before his next patient’s entrance. It always paid to put effort into one’s appearance, regardless of métier. Mrs Starbard was shown in. An elegantly dressed young woman in an exquisite bonnet, clearly in some distress. “Please, take a seat,” Letby said, and she obliged. “What is the ailment?”

Mrs Starbard wrung her small hands. “I appear to have…fever.” She dabbed her temples with an embroidered handkerchief.

Letby approached her. “May I?”

She looked up at him doe-eyed. “Yes.”

He put his palm to her forehead, and then checked for redness under the eyelid. “You feel perfectly normal.”

“Oh,” she said. “I—”

“Would you prefer if I checked with a thermometer, to be certain?”

“Please. If you would?”

Letby bade her stand up and bend forward onto his examining table. “Stay perfectly still, Mrs Starbard. This will only take a moment.” He performed his well-practiced hoist of petticoats, and then placed the thermometer. Mrs Starbard eeped. Letby ignored her buttocks flushing crimson with embarrassment. It was a regular occurrence amongst ladies and even some gentlemen.

He removed the thermometer and allowed her skirts to fall again as he read it. “Normal, Mrs Starbard.”

“Oh,” she said, still inclined forward on his examining table.

“You make take a seat again.”

“Thank you, doctor,” she said, resuming her prim position on the chair, her cheeks burning as crimson as her buttocks.

“You needn’t be embarrassed, madam. As a physician I take tens of temperatures in the same manner every day.”

“It’s not that,” she said. “It’s just that my sister told me that you helped her with her…fever.”

“Fever is merely a symptom of an underlying infection.”

“It wasn’t an infection.” Mrs Starbard buried her face in her hands. “I’m not explaining this correctly.”

Letby looked at her in her apparent shame, and all became clear. “Are you certain ‘fever’ was the term your sister used? Could it have been ‘hysteria’?”

Mrs Starbard looked up. “Yes, that was it. I’m sorry. I’ve never been very good at being accurate.”

“Quite all right, madam. Now, if I am to treat you for hysteria, I will need signed consent from your husband, or, if he cannot write, he may present himself here at the surgery to provide verbal consent.”

Mrs Starbard’s face fell. “Charles died in the Crimea.”

“Oh dear, I am sorry. Your father may also consent.”

“My father would sooner send me to the asylum. He is not a believer in modern medicine.” She began to weep into her handkerchief. “It’s hopeless.”

“There there,” Letby said, feeling a swell of compassion. “It does run contrary to my normal ethics, but so long as it’s just this once, I don’t foresee any long-term harm.”

Mrs Starbard lay recumbent on the examination table with a palm on her cheek as Letby washed and dried his hands. “I don’t know how much detail your sister gave you, Mrs Starbard, but the treatment can be rather intense and affecting.”

“Could… could I faint?”

“I shouldn’t think so. No. The only way to ease hysteria is to draw it out, so during the treatment you may feel less in control of your faculties. You may shout, or say things that diverge from your usual discourse. But you mustn’t worry. I have heard every permutation over the years. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Mrs Starbard said timidly.

Letby approached and laid a palm on her forehead as he lifted her skirts to locate the pelvic pressure point. Her eyes went wide. “Don’t worry, madam. It will be over before you know it.” He took his hand from her forehead and noted the time from the corner clock.

Five minutes later, Mrs Starbard’s eyes were closed and she was worrying her lip. “Is everything all right?” Letby asked.

“Yes,” she said, her voice already considerably altered. “It’s, ah…”

“Mrs Starbard, you must remain still.”

“Sorry. Could you call me Clara?”

“That would not be appropriate, Mrs Starbard.”

“I’m sorry, doctor.” She made her hands into fists and pressed them to her cheeks. “I think… I think fever is more… accurate than hysteria. It feels like… burning. Happily burning.”

“Hush now, Mrs Starbard. It’s almost done. Relax and allow the poison escape.”

She covered the entirety of her face with her two hands and made noises typical of Letby’s previous observations in this therapy, accompanied by the expected involuntary spasmodic muscular response.

Nine minutes: a textbook case.

Achillles · 17-06-2014 2:30am

Not long in from work, so as good a time as any to post it....

Fever

He lays awake-quarter past four in the morning. The bed sheets cling grimly to his sweat soaked carcass. One leg and one arm out from beneath the covers. Too cold, he shudders, tries to find a balance. Both arms in, one leg out. Vice versa. Too warm. Moves to cooler part of the bed- it doesn’t remain cool for long. There is no balance to be had. So he lies awake, and thinks. Of everything and of nothing. It’s Friday night and so he should be exhausted. He is exhausted after another week of monotony at work. Day to day trivialities turn over in his head until he tries hard not to think of them, counting sheep jumping over walls, like his mother thought him. Only they don’t clear the walls gracefully, they scramble and clamber and generally make a mess of things. Goats. He should be counting goats- they’re much more sure footed. With such nonsense in his head, sleep finds him at half five-ish.

Half Ten and he’s up and about, needs to be with the day that’s in it. He can’t shake this queasy feeling in his stomach, and he finds he’s still sweating. A lot. Drinking plenty of water and eating well, but it doesn’t help, and he finds he needs to **** more. Can’t be healthy, that. Alternately he lies back on the couch- he needs the rest- or strolls the garden- he needs the fresh air. All the while the day whittles away.

It’s seven o’ clock now, and the queasiness is gone. The restlessness is gone. The frivolous thinking is gone. All replaced with ice in the mind; and fire in the belly. He stands in a huddle, with fourteen other people. But it’s more than a huddle. It’s a team. But it’s more than a team. It’s the lads you have grown up with. Laughed with, fought with, drank with and won with. Lost with. They will kill for each other today, die for each other. And it is more than them. It’s the Parish and the community to whom they will be either heroes or failures. It is their heritage, their Irishness. In unison, they stomp, snort and shout, allowing the rage to build within themselves. Rage at what? They don’t really know. At the injustice that anything would dare stand in their way. For the next two hours, nothing else matters. NOTHING!

Forget the glory. Forget the pride. Forget the girls and the local fame and the affection of youngsters! This is why he plays football. THIS is championship fever.

Das Kitty · 17-06-2014 8:26am

Gorgeously written, Achillles.

17-06-2014 10:50am

They're both brilliant!

I could see DK's better though, love it :cool:

echo beach · 17-06-2014 11:45am

So different and as always so hard to make a choice but Achilles skill in conveying the feelings so well in such a short piece swung it for me.

Achillles · 17-06-2014 11:47am

I found yours hilarious, DK. How you thought of the situation arising, I'm not sure I want to know. Actually I'm sure I don't want to! 9 minutes textbook? :eek:

Das Kitty · 17-06-2014 2:24pm

Achillles wrote: »

I found yours hilarious, DK. How you thought of the situation arising, I'm not sure I want to know. Actually I'm sure I don't want to! 9 minutes textbook? :eek:

It's historical, innit?

Carra23 · 17-06-2014 11:39pm

I get it now, the impenetrable clique ! ! ! lol

P.S. Where's the mod ? I thought there were rules for this game. I'm used to my 3 and 6 year old making the rules as they go along, didn't expect it here !

Das Kitty · 17-06-2014 11:44pm

Carra23 wrote: »

I get it now, the impenetrable clique ! ! ! lol

Nah, twas just the smut that brought 'em in.

(Seriously though, it gets randomly awfully quiet around here for no discernible reason. Would have been nice to get a few more votes cast on the previous round all right.)

Which rules were broken?

Carra23 · 18-06-2014 12:08am

Das Kitty wrote: »

Nah, twas just the smut that brought 'em in.

(Seriously though, it gets randomly awfully quiet around here for no discernible reason. Would have been nice to get a few more votes cast on the previous round all right.)

Which rules were broken?

I've just noticed now that you're the moderator Das Kitty. That makes it easier to understand !!!

Das Kitty · 18-06-2014 12:19am

Carra23 wrote: »

I've just noticed now that you're the moderator Das Kitty. That makes it easier to understand !!!

Not of this forum...

GalwayGuy2 · 18-06-2014 6:37am

Das Kitty's was interesting. It was a little bit smutty, historical, but also brought in gender issues without shouting them in the readers face.

Now that the voting periods done I can comment on this.

“Don’t worry, madam. It will be over before you know it.”

heh heh.

18-06-2014 7:03am

Wat

Das Kitty · 18-06-2014 8:19am

GalwayGuy2 wrote: »

Now that the voting periods done I can comment on this.
heh heh.

Lie back and think of England, madam.

:pac:

18-06-2014 9:42am

Carra23 wrote: »

I get it now, the impenetrable clique ! ! ! lol

P.S. Where's the mod ? I thought there were rules for this game. I'm used to my 3 and 6 year old making the rules as they go along, didn't expect it here !

Seriously what are you on about

24 hours to post a story after accepting challenge, 24 hours for votes to be counted after which the most votes wins, winner stays on
You both broke the rules with your word count, that's about it ...

Achillles · 18-06-2014 11:48am

Congrats, DK, brilliant stuff as usual! Not sure what Carra23 was trying to get at, but a fully deserved victory, as shown by the fact that seven people voted for it. At the time we can assume these seven people were sound of mind and acting of their own free will, without intimidation from a gestapoesque police force,or any underhand tactics from the illuminati. So, yeah, fully deserved!

Carra23 · 18-06-2014 1:58pm

I bet those 7 voters are the same 7 voters each time. As I said, the impenetrable clique. There is another word for that, sad circle!

18-06-2014 1:59pm

How about "sour grapes"?
Different people vote for different stories depending on if they read them, see the thread, etc. I didn't vote the last ones cos I didn't notice/forgot.
You can go back through the thread and see who voted for what. Maybe you can stop insulting people then just because you lost

you can post up another challenge soon as well if DK has time or to the next winner whoever they will be and try beat them next time

Rubecula · 18-06-2014 6:03pm

Carra23 wrote: »

I bet those 7 voters are the same 7 voters each time. As I said, the impenetrable clique. There is another word for that, sad circle!

I voted and I am not in any clique, nor do I vote on every story posted. I seriously think that:
1/ You tender an apology to the genuinely hard trying people on here.
2/ Keep your argumentative opinions to a forum that appreciates them.
3/ Try and be nice, you catch more wasps with jam than with vinegar.

Carra23 · 18-06-2014 8:46pm

Between the illuminati, the wasps and jam you have me completely lost now.

There were no votes for either mine or Das Kittys story. Maybe I just didn't see them!

Anyway, enjoy the stories!!!

Das Kitty · 18-06-2014 9:13pm

Thanks are votes... It was 3:1, I think. Posts commenting are just feedback and are optional.

There's a feedback forum if you want to provide some.

18-06-2014 9:34pm

Carra23 wrote: »

There were no votes for either mine or Das Kittys story. Maybe I just didn't see them!

Anyway, enjoy the stories!!!

thanks on the story posts = votes

GalwayGuy2 · 18-06-2014 10:05pm

Since it will be a nice, beautiful, sunny day, I wonder would anybody be up for a story?

Nothing beats sitting in front of a laptop when the sun is shining

echo beach · 18-06-2014 10:26pm

Rubecula wrote: »

I voted and I am not in any clique, nor do I vote on every story posted.

I'm not in any clique either. I usually vote if I see the stories and get time to read them within the 24 hours because when two people have taken the trouble to write a piece that is of high standard it isn't hard to press the like button in thanks for the enjoyment they give. I also try to give a little feedback if I can to explain my choice.
The same names do tend to crop up again, maybe because the rest of us aren't brave enough for what is a difficult challenge, but I wouldn't remember who I voted for from one time to the next.

Das Kitty · 18-06-2014 10:26pm

I can't write again til the weekend, I'm afraid. If you're willing to wait though, I'll take you on then

GalwayGuy2 · 19-06-2014 6:51am

Das Kitty wrote: »

I can't write again til the weekend, I'm afraid. If you're willing to wait though, I'll take you on then

Sounds like a plan.

Das Kitty · 19-06-2014 7:48am

GalwayGuy2 wrote: »

Sounds like a plan.

Brill, drop a topic tomorrow evening and I'll be along to accept.

GalwayGuy2 · 20-06-2014 6:35pm

Rejection and Acceptance.

I'll be doing both, but it can be an either or as well.

Reject or accept whenever you want :P

GalwayGuy2 · 20-06-2014 9:18pm

Oh, Rejection and Acceptance are the proposed themes

Whispered · 20-06-2014 10:13pm

Just recently noticed this forum - what a brilliant thread! Some seriously talented people. I loved the death personification stories from earlier, I'm a big fantasy reader anyway so that was right up my street.

Will be keeping an eye on it from now on a joining in the voting.

20-06-2014 10:16pm

See, they all like my box

Das Kitty · 20-06-2014 11:00pm

GalwayGuy2 wrote: »

Oh, Rejection and Acceptance are the proposed themes

Cool. See you between now and 11pm tomorrow!

GalwayGuy2 · 21-06-2014 8:52pm

Warning: Quite violent

Here we go.

Story

Angelo's skin tingled at the thought of what was to come. He had had killed the rapists to be, and now that made him a man.

His friends, no, his family, his everything, encircled him. A smile lit every face. Their eyes were a glimmer with the white light that ran around them. That light cast their shadows into daggers that latticed him in their centre.

The oldest of them smiled at Angelo. Warmth flooded Angelo's stomach, still giddy from the lack of sustenance, as he smiled back. Even though they stood at different heights, they met each other's eyes as equals. Rules of order dictated that the eldest went first. So, the eldest's welcome crunched into Angelo's collarbone.

Fists thudded into him from every corner. Angelo kept his hands down and his head up. The blows spun his mind empty of that head exploding in lamplight. This punch gained him respect. That knee that hit him in the stomach cracked him into his place in the order of things. The teeth that fell out of his head smeared the floor like after-birth.

He knew they were breaking him of weakness, and he knew they'd do worse to anybody who turned traitor against him. The beatings hardened his resolve and he knew what he did was just. What he did was right. Killing that rapist in waiting had struck a strike for their streets.

A woman had lived in the black neighbourhood. She was one of the first blacks who had tried to stop the killings among the gangs. The local Mexican gang didn’t like that one bit. She could never speak again after they had lynched her for hours.

That night three middle-aged pros had entered the Latin Quarter. Any man that had boasted of hurting a black had met his end that night. Some died quick, but most died slow. A form of justice rode the air, but it cut those who tried to live off it. No sooner had the wrong been righted, then news of what the three men had done to the captain’s wife had spread throughout the city.
That was why Angelo did what he did. They needed to keep the streets brown. The gangs, though flawed, were a solution to the black problem. They had to stop them from flooding the neighbourhood with poisoned heroin and diseased whores.

‘It’s done. Get him up’

Two of his brothers picked him up. They congratulated him on his bravery, and fists that had struck him but a moment ago now patted him on the back. But, he felt as if a doom from afar rushed upon him.

As if on cue, the woman came up to him. Better than Angelo, older than Angelo, and more beautiful than Angelo could ever have hoped for. She kissed away his aches and he sought comfort in her warmth.

After, they had burned his school-clothes and marked his face. Now, everybody, from pope to president, would know who owned his soul. They had bought him bone and blood, and they would never leave their newfound brother.

A cemetery stood not far from the initiation spot. The new dug grave still had fresh flowers. A black schoolchild of eight t had been found at the side of the road. The bullet had splattered his head and covered the pavement in red.

Angelo lay at the grave’s feet. His hands had been tied and his head split by a machete blow.

On an on the gang wars go. Where it will end, nobody knows.

A/N Bit dark, but I kind of like it. Although, one big thing bothered me. All the victims seemed to be women and, I dunno, but that seemed cliched and not very egalitarian. I had a strange desire to do a gender swap on the main character, but I'm not entirely sure it would have worked with a female view point character. Oh, yeah, and I went a 3 or 4 words over the wordcount :P

Das Kitty · 21-06-2014 10:40pm

Acquiesce

Shit like this is always happening to me. My main man, Noel, sometimes says that sunshine follows thunder. Not for me it doesn’t. All I ever seem to get is more rain. I’d quote another song, but Travis are crap. This thing that just happened though, this one rivals anything that’s come before. I’ve never felt like such a complete bell-end in my life.

It wasn’t all my own fault.

The Debs is coming up, right, and me and the lads said we’d go stag. It was the perfect plan: no stressing over finding a date and ending up bringing your sister’s annoying friend out of desperation. But of course, this is me we’re talking about, so it couldn’t go to plan, could it?

Two weeks ago, John and Ryan arrived over to the house for a few rounds of Tekken on the Playstation, and I knew the second I saw their shame faces that they were going to wreck my head with something. They had dates. They made a deal with a couple of birds from the girls’ school to go to each others’ Debs. They said they were sorry, but still.

So that left Derek and me. Still grand, less craic, but grand. Then he only goes and gets landed with glandular fever. How a fella who’s never had the shift gets the kissing disease, I’ll never know.

I wasn’t going to go at all then. I was going to sit at home and work on my song lyrics in my room like a loser. I suppose if I ever get famous like Noel G, I can put it down to missing the Debs. Actually, most of what ended up happening is Noel Gallagher’s fault.

The other lads, they’re mad for Oasis too, and they all think Liam’s the dog’s bollocks. But me, I think Noel is it. All Liam does is stand there in his parka. Yeah, he’s cool, but Noel he’s got the talent. And he’s the reason I started learning guitar in the first place.

I went to my lesson on Saturday morning, right after hearing about Derek’s poxy glands. I was already feeling crap, and then I went and broke a string without a spare in my bag. One of the girls in the class, Julie, gave me one of hers. She’s all right, Julie, pretty cool, like. She wears a jacket from the Army&Navy and her hair over one eye. We were sorting out me giving her a new string after class, and that’s when my genius idea struck.

Next week before the lesson, I’d tell her about the Debs, then I’d play her Acquiesce on the guitar. When I was finished, I’d ask her if she would acquiesce to coming to the Debs with me. And, like, not many people know what that word means, so when she asked, I’d explain it meant to agree to, or to accept an offer. I’d look like a right deep bastard then.

Everything went brilliant. I nailed the chords and the high bits, as she sat listening. Then I asked her, like a right smooth fecker, “Would you acquiesce?” and she just stared at me. I started to tell her what the word meant, and she cut in telling me she knew what it meant, “to reluctantly agree to.” Then she said, “You really like Oasis, yeah?” I asked her if she didn’t, and then she said it. “I’m more of a Blur fan.”

For. Fuck’s. Sake. A Blur fan! I asked out a Blur fan. And worst of all, the cow said yes. She acquiesced. I’ll never live this down.

GalwayGuy2 · 22-06-2014 9:17pm

I like how you tell the narration through his tone. It's a nice type of narration for characterization. I'm trying to do the american halfway point between that and the whole journalistic thing at the moment.

I also loved the corniness of his plan :P That was pretty good. You got across that what sounded perfect in his head, was imperfect in reality.

Also, it has a nice beginning and end format.

hcass · 23-06-2014 1:32pm

Ah Das Kitty - loved it. Made me laugh and remember my sad teenage years too...

hcass · 01-07-2014 4:11pm

I'd love a story if anyone's biting - haven't written in what seems like forever...

The Pooka · 01-07-2014 8:23pm

hcass wrote: »

I'd love a story if anyone's biting - haven't written in what seems like forever...

I'd be up for that! (I know I'm much more a lurker here, but have entered a couple of the VOATs and have been wanting to do this for a while...) No worries if you'd rather someone else obviously

Das Kitty · 01-07-2014 8:25pm

Off ye go.

I was going to abdicate anyway.

Das Kitty · 02-07-2014 7:49am

Ooh, can I give ye the topic, as my last act?

The Pooka · 02-07-2014 8:44am

Great idea DK! (seeing as it's a bit unclear who exactly's challenging who

) Do we say 24 hours from when we both accept it?

Das Kitty · 02-07-2014 8:52am

Yeah, when the second person accepts, go 24 hours from them. I'll be back later on with your topic.

hcass · 02-07-2014 11:10am

Oh thank you DK - I hate picking a topic. Whenever you post it I'll get started.

Das Kitty · 02-07-2014 12:36pm

The topic is...

Festival

Good luck!

The Pooka · 02-07-2014 1:59pm

Challenge accepted - see you tomorrow hcass!!

Rubecula · 02-07-2014 5:40pm

I am looking forward to this

GalwayGuy2 · 02-07-2014 9:43pm

Now that's a nice topic :P

The Pooka · 03-07-2014 7:49am

She is the Charles Dickens to my Barnaby Rudge.

I first see her standing next to George Orwell, sipping Swedish cider. Perhaps I’d have spotted her even if she hadn’t been my match, though admittedly this name-tag game – which perfectly legitimises spending the entire evening staring at women’s chests – calls for a rather narrow focus. As he sees me approaching, my rival barely manages to suppress his scowl before turning away, and although the book tent at an arts festival isn’t exactly the most sexually charged of places, I feel no great guilt at having interrupted their pleasantries. The rules are clear: you can make the rounds only after completing your set, which for him means seeking out 1984 – or, since they seem to be pairing well-known authors with their lesser-known works, that one about the plant.

“Found you!” I open – feebly – but Dickens is too preoccupied squinting at the adhesive label on my shirt to really listen.
“Barnaby... Rudge... It’s by Dickens?”
“It is indeed.”
“Huh, there you go. You knew? Or you Googled?”
Her voice has got to me now – that affable verve, that sing-song inflection – and I feel a surge of panic at having to respond without betraying my thrown composure.
“Oh, no, I don’t, er, Google on the go. I take that whole ‘wireless fidelity’ thing pretty seriously.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Um, just a joke – a bad joke.”
“I see... Well, what’s the saying: don’t give up the day job?”
I let out an involuntary snort, then rush to apologise as I see her flinch. “Oh, sorry! Sorry, it’s just – well, that sort of is my day-job.”

It feels almost grubby to admit it, but yes, I am indeed yet another aspiring wannabe peddling my wares at Edinburgh’s bloated Fringe festival: a solid month in which the best and worst alike of live comedy, music, theatre and the arts descend on the city’s famed cobbled streets in a veritable orgy of unfettered culture.

“I’m Ian, by the way. Kinda my stage-name too – Comedy Ian, it’s... well, pretty terrible. But nice to, y’know, meet you.”
I stretch out my hand, realising only then that she’s holding her drink in her right and so has to swap it over to shake; this is not going well.
“Mathilde,” she lilts in return, adding in the same breath: “With an H, and an E – after Brel, not Dahl. My parents were big fans.”
“It’s a... book?”
She giggles and shakes her head. “A song. You don’t know Brel? Or the Walker cover – that, you might prefer.”
“Ah, right. I’ll, um, definitely check those out...”
“Looks like we’re learning a lot from each other, Ian; me about Dickens, you about my namesake – without having to Google.”
“Aye, ’tis been a most enlightening evening... You’re a musician then, I take it? What kind of stuff d’you play?”
“Melodic death metal, mostly.”
“Oh. Oh, well, that’s...cool.”
She giggles again. “That’s my bad joke for the night. Nah, I’m just one gal with her guitar – like all the rest of ’em.”

And then, just as our conversation has finally settled into a more natural rhythm, the call is sent out for Authors to gather at one side of the tent and Books at the other so that we can start a new activity. With an apologetic smile, she turns to go.

And so, my dilemma: tonight’s rather contrived events are intended purely as an ice-breaker – a chance for the various artists from across the festival’s spectrum to get to know one another via party games and an open bar (I suspect most have come solely for the latter); after this, we will go our separate ways and get swallowed up by Auld Reekie, every man and woman for themselves. If we plan to meet again, we truly have to plan it – but how to suggest this without coming across as a sleaze?

Suddenly, Mathilde swings back around and, setting her drink aside, tears a strip off her own label and scribbles something down.

“Here’s that song. And the singers. So you can... learn.”

And she has indeed written Mathilde. J. Brel. S. Walker – while underneath, in cramped but legible digits, is her mobile number.

I set about educating myself as soon as I get back to my hostel; never have trumpets’ flourishes seemed more appropriate.

hcass · 03-07-2014 9:50am

The Festival

They’re having a great time. All nodding their fu*king heads and chewing on their lips. Look at me. What about me? I’m freaking out here. I want to leave. I think I’ll leave. I’m going to leave. Should I tell someone? But they’ll make me stay. I’m just going to go.

I leave, passing through the exit, down to The Salty Dog Stage. I could stay here for a while, on one of those hammock things. The music is crap though, couldn’t listen to that sh!t for long. And people will want to get in the hammock. They’ll be queuing for it and I won’t be able to enjoy it cos they’ll be like; “he’s been in there for ages, when am I getting a turn?” And the whole time you’re swinging in the hammock, supposedly relaxing, you’re actually feeling guilty thinking they all want the hammock. Can’t cope with the pressure of being in the hammock. Of being in charge of the hammock. It’s my say, I get to decide when the next person has a go. Where is the fun in that? Can’t do it, can’t take that on. Keep walking.

Nearly there now. Head down. Step over the blue rope, walk through the maze of tents. Tripping on guy ropes, tripping on pills. Nearly back. I hope they’re not there. Hope they’re all still at the gig.

Could take a Valium, have to go searching though, have to ask people. And they won’t give me the Valium: “You only took the pill an hour ago? That’s thick. What a waste. Come on out and we’ll get high. You’ll be grand.”

But I won’t because this is different. It feels different. It’s bad. It’s scaring the sh!t out of me.

Here’s my tent. But there’s people.

“Alright, what’s the story?”

They smile.

“I’m freaking out.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, just… freaking out.”
“Come on we’re going the gig, you’ll be grand.”
“I’m gonna get something in the tent.”

Liar.

I zip it open, climb in and zip it shut. Wellies need to come off. Start to pull but they’re not moving. Using one foot to push the bottom of the wellie, I keep pushing and pushing but it’s not moving. I pull, it doesn’t budge. I start to cry. They’ll never come off. I gonna have to sleep in the fu*king things. They’re never coming off and I can’t ask anyone for help. Sit on the ground with my head in my hands. My fu*king wellies. I fu*king hate them. I’ll just get in the sleeping bag with them on. No, that’s thick. I start to pull at them again. I’ll get them off. Get them off if it kills me. They start to come off. One is off. Yes, I can do it! The other is off.

Get into the sleeping bag. Lie there. Hear them all; going the toilet, smoking a doobie, putting on jackets. Tents open zzzzzzzip. Tents close zzzzzzzzip. Can hear everything. Talking sh!te, blah blah blah. Just fu*king go! Leave. I’m fu*king freaking out man.

“Yis heading in soon?” It’s Sully. He’ll ask where I am. I hide inside the sleeping bag. Go away. I pray to something. I need to be left alone; please don’t let anyone look in the tent, please.
“We’re just about to leave.”
“Where’s Liz?”
“She’s in the tent. Think she’s freaking out.”
“She’s freakling out? In the tent?”
“Yeah man.”

Zzzzzzzip. Leave me alone, I curl in a ball, go away.

“Lizzie, you there?” I don’t answer him. “What are ya at?”

I peer out from the sleeping bag.

“I’m freaking out man.”
“You’re not staying here. Come on, we’re going.”
“I can’t, I’m freaking out.”
“You’ll get worse in there, get out ya fu*king mentaller.” He looks safe. He’s right. I will go fu*king mad in here.

I get out and pull me wellies on. We go outside. Everyone asks am I alright.

“I’m freaking out”.
“You’ll be grand”.
“She was going to stay in there all night.”
They laugh. We start to walk.
“Want a pill?” I ask Sully.
“Yeah, man, sweet.” Sully takes the pill.
“I’m still freaked.” I tell him.
“You’ll be grand, we’re gonna have a savage night.”
I smile.

We step over the blue rope and walk towards the Salty Dog.

[Writing Contest] - THE ARENA

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