[Writing Contest] - THE ARENA

The wind was blowing so hard that the rain was almost horizontal. A violent flash of lightning silhouetted the small island and derelict house that was to be their final destination. 18 year old Frank was the unofficial leader of the group. Second oldest was Amelia, his next door neighbour in Bantry. Frank was steering the boat, while Amelia and two younger kids clung together for dear life. The waves were throwing the boat around like a toy. They all agreed that this was a terrible idea, but they were past the half way point so it was too late to turn around. Jim, also known as Jiggles, was only 15 but he was as big as a grown-up - his young age belied his strength. The final member of the gang was Conor, Amelia's 9 year old brother.

At the end of their summer holidays, they had been playing in Amelia's attic when Jiggles knocked over an old framed picture, shattering the glass into a zillion pieces. While cleaning it up (or hiding the evidence, depending on how you looked at it), they noticed a yellowed parchment behind the picture. Curiosity got the better of them and they pored over it, under the light of Frank's torch.

"Holy crap, it's a treasure map!"

Two months later it was Halloween mid-term. Weeks of stealing time with Dad's tablet, looking up Google and exploring Google Maps, they figured out that their map lead to a tiny island off the far coast of Whiddy Island. An island off an island off an island, Amelia had joked. It couldn't get more remote than that and it was the perfect hiding place for treasure.

After a particularly violent wave dropped the boat from a height, Conor started to cry and Amelia tried to comfort him. She gave Frank a look to tell him to speed up, and Frank put three fingers in the air. A few minutes later, they made landfall and they all worked together to pull the small boat high up the beach.

Amelia had to shout over the howling wind - "This house better have a roof, Frank."

Despite how near the house looked, the camping rucksacks carried by Frank and Jiggles seemed to catch the wind and made for a tough 15 minutes' walk to cover the distance through the storm. The house was definitely abandoned. Nobody had lived here for a very long time. Frank, Amelia and Conor ran to the nearest window and cupped their hands on the glass to try and see inside. Jiggles was a bit more direct and his right shoulder led a charge at the front door. The rotten lock gave way and the others followed Jiggles inside. There was some water dripping from the roof in places, but it was considerably more sheltered than where they had just been.

It only took a couple of minutes to explore the old bungalow, and a couple more minutes to be sure.

"Where's the tweasure?" said Conor.
"There is none, dude," said Frank.
"Or else someone got here before us," said Amelia.
"ARSEHOLES!" said Jiggles.

Amelia found the driest part of the house to set up the sleeping bags. They were glad she insisted that they pack towels and dry clothes. Half an hour later, they had finished sandwiches, tayto crisps, mars bars and fanta and sat together in the sleeping bags, unable to sleep.

Jiggles got serious for a minute. "What if the storm hasn't stopped by the morning? There is no way I'm going back on that boat if the sea is rough."

"Me neither," said Conor. "No flippin' way."

Amelia and Frank nodded in agreement. "We'll figure it out in the morning. Try and get some sleep."

Sometime in the middle of the night, Jiggles' bladder woke him up. He looked around and noticed that the others were out for the count. He chuckled quietly when he heard that Amelia snored. He carefully tiptoed away from the sleeping group and went outside. The rain had stopped, but the wind was as furious as ever. He went around to the side of the house that was some way sheltered from the wind.

As he started to relieve himself, he noticed something weird. Even though the house was made of stone, the sound of liquid hitting wood was obvious. He redirected his stream and finished up. After he found the source of the sound, he ran in to wake the others.

The transition from grumpiness to excitement was a quick one, and they were all standing around the partially overgrown wooden cellar door a few minutes later. As before, the door was well rotted and easy to get through. Frank's trusty torch led the way into the darkness.

Four simultaneous "wows" broke the silence, followed by a curse word from Jiggles. Both sides of the room were lined with framed paintings, up to ten deep in places.

Conor said "We're gonna need a bigger boat," and the others laughed hysterically.

Well done TP.

brilliant stuff from both of you.

Yeah I had lots of ideas that I had to drop. More dialogue, more descriptions, coastguards and even some romance.

Would have been great for a 2,000 word VOAT. Hint hint.

Ah no, I think there is still a place for a limited daily challenge.

I'm not sure if you were around for the VOATs (the last one was 7 months ago), but they were extended writing competitions around a word, phrase or theme. One week to write 2,000 words.

For the last one, this was the setup and this was the outcome.

The Pooka wrote: »

It definitely could have done with another pass, but glad that aspect wasn't completely impenetrable

I didn't find it impenetrable. I got it on one reading but maybe I can see the dark side more easily than some.:)

I read it as him disliking the comparison between the happy child's toy and his distinctly less happy job of killing people with a remote controlled drone.

It's well known that civilian "collateral damage" is a side-effect of drone strikes so I read it as very specifically the association with happy children, especially on the packaging, that soured him to the gift since he must have known that his drone strikes were likely to have killed the occasional child.

But I had treasure. TREASURE!

I'll give it a go but can I request that we lift the max word count? I find it hard to write to a limit like that and have to do a frozen

Sounds good, cheers. Not a clue! Let's give someone else a couple of hours to suggest something?

Cool, I have to go to a funeral over the weekend, so will we say 9pm Sunday night for a deadline?

Blackstar

She lifts her butt cheek and plucks the G-string out of the crack, adjusts her dress hem down a smidge, and pushes off up the driveway into the milky dawn. The latch on the gate is stuck hard in the receiver by decades of sloppily layered paint, the current scheme being something akin to what her mother had always described as 'ducktymud'; an unfortunate brownish-orange. She pushes down hard with both hands but the latch won't budge. The boundary is a ratty low box hedge but being quite short she has to hike her leg up high to get across it. The cool breath of dawn and the untrimmed hedge ends tickle her as she straddles it and in an explosion of laughter she falls across to the other side. A little wee escapes. Oh gawd. She pinches the smile out of her face smudging her makeup, rolls over on to her knees, laughs again and hiccups. A spoonful of hot sick bubbles into her throat. Oh gawd.

She scans the small curtained windows above but nothing moves. She spits and wipes a little lingering spittle into the torn shoulder frill of her cocktail dress. Black is always a wise choice for a Friday night. Like a puppet on a string she gathers her limbs up and stands wobbling in the half light of the July morning. The night's music echoes in her head. She doesn't recognise the street, but the red brickwork, mock Tudor beams and tightly packed motors along the kerbside give her a fair idea of what part of town she is in. Score! But then it's a drag to realise that she faces a long-ass walk all the way home.

She fishes her bag out of the hedge, untwists the clasp and takes out her phone. F**k. A spider's web crack sits smugly in the centre of the screen. It is 6.02 AM. Adopting a well-practised and defensive pessimism she takes an itinerary of the remaining contents - Key, check. Assorted lip products, one - two - three, check. No wait, four. Four? Bramley apple flavoured B-Sting lip Gloss. That's not mine! She turns it in her fingers, focuses in and out on the minute writing - 'For that Bee-Stung look'. She pats her lips. Eh? Oh gawd, filching again. Cash - 200 euros, rising panic. She'd left home with 60 and had had the sense to leave her debit card in her knickers drawer. What else? Two foil-wrapped condoms, attached to each other. There had been twelve soldiers in the box when she'd kissed her mother goodbye. Major panic. Her brain goes into overdrive, she grabs herself in front and back. Bridge to Engineering! Damage report Mr Scott! We've vented a wee bit of plasma Captain but other than that we're in good shape. Must have given them to Marc. What the f**k happened to Marc? F**K Marc. I couldn't have used nine f**king Johnnies! She casts her line into the TARDIS-like purse again. A small baggy of a white dust-like substance of indeterminate identity and origin, a driver's license with a photo of some blonde bird called Gemma, a canister of pepper spray ... Hang on! This isn't my bag! There's a movie clip in her head; all glitchy and scratched. There is lurching, there is falling, there is dancing and ... and the Ladies toilet. Waving at the automatic tap, slipping on a pool of water, and, ah, there she is. Gemma. Same bag, SNAP! Fancy that! There is Tequila. Lots of Tequila. There are linked arms, a hand dropping. Oh gawd. She looks up at the window. Squints. Nada. She has zero recollection of what happened behind that curtain. She reads the license card again, studies the photo. Gemma Wells. Simply. Stunning. Nah, surely not with a woman. There is also an ID tag. Gemma Wells OB/GYN. She's only a fricking fanny doctor! Well that makes sense.

She rifles the bag for more treasure. Her scrabbling fingers fall upon a cold metallic object. She draws it out into the light. Its beauty is almost frightening. It is a Mercedes key fob.

She slowly totters round one hundred and eighty degrees. A silver Mercedes C-Class Coupe lounges at the kerbside. It looks freshly unwrapped.

She raises the fob and squeezes. The locks disengage with a clunk so smooth it steals a little of her breath away. The driver's door pops open, just an inch, an invitation. The engine sets to humming.

Oh sweet devine. She claps her hands to her face to stifle a laugh and smudges her lippy up onto her cheeks.

Her gaze swings back to the window, then up and down the silent street. A robin stands brazenly on the gate latch, egging her on.

Hadn't her mother always warned her never to get into a stranger's car? She steps closer.

A voice drifts through the narrow gap in the open door, a siren voice that startles her at first, then intrigues as it seems familiar.

She leans forward.

Rebel Rebel You've torn your dress

Well Gemma obviously has good taste in men. And delivered through the Burmester 3D Surround Sound System Bowie has never sounded so good.

She hooks a painted nail behind the door and ever so gently pulls it back. It opens with all of the ease with which the other half round here live.

Hadn't her mother always warned her not to talk to strangers?

Hi David. May I come in?

You've got your mother in a whirl 'cause she's
Not sure if you're a boy or a girl

Funny guy. She slides into the driver's seat. The leather is like a lover's skin against her own. She closes the door. Hermetically sealed, it has the feel of a cockpit and she is the pilot. Sitting at the heart of the wrap-around technology that she understands so well is like having a universe of possibilities at her command. She flicks and swipes her way through every function as if performing a pre-flight checklist.

Rebel Rebel, your face is a mess

She adjusts the mirror and checks her face.

You're not wrong David. The only colouration that does not slide across her face is the tiny Blackstar tattoo below her left eye that Marc had given her on her first anniversary in juvie. He'd explained to her what a Blackstar was and about the irresistibility of its gravitational pull and that this symbol meant that there that was no escape from his love for her. The f**king knob end.

Hey babe, your hair's alright
Hey babe, let's stay out tonight

uh huh. She musses her hair in the mirror then runs her fingers through it to put some manners on it.

Let's have some of that Bramley Apple shall we. She freshens her lips, feels the capsicum burn, purses and pats and pouts. I think it's actually working! And it really does taste of Bramley apple pie David!

You've got your transmission and your live wire

Yes I do David. And I've also got a state of the art 302 horsepower V-6 engine beneath my ass.

She presses down on the accelerator. Oh f**k me Jesus! She could cry.


Sh*t David, what am I doing?

You want more and you want it fast

She places her hands at ten and two and thinks about that.

The crown of the new sun births at the end of the avenue. It makes silhouettes of everything and lays down a tangerine runway along the centre of the road. She licks her index finger, dabs it into the baggy and rubs the grit across the front of her gums. She savours the burn as the sunlight crawls up the bonnet and onto the windscreen. She sucks and swallows. Oh gawd. Top sh*t Gemma. You naughty, naughty girl.

The stick falls into first at the merest suggestion of a push and her bare foot finds the bite. She lifts her butt cheek, puts her hand up her dress and straightens out her cock.

Right then David. Let's go.

Well done Mr. E, a well deserved win!

redser7 wrote: »

Oh thank Christ I got at least one vote!!

You haven't lived until you got a nil vote.

I usually manage it :pac:

redser7 wrote: »

Aw, don't give up hope! You never know ...

Never give up hope? I never had any to give up :pac:

I know my limitations redser and I really don't care whether or not I get a vote in my favour, just as long as folks enjoy my writing I have no worries about whether they like it best.

Yeah me too.

I don't have a free night this week, but maybe next week?

and me please

How about a VOAT story? Maybe Sunday to Sunday?

Since there are a few people interested in writing, I thought a VOAT might help get more people involved. Strike while the iron is hot.

I am up for anything to be honest as I have not written anything for a while now