I'm humbled by all the people who voted for me - there were many more fine entries worthy of your votes than mine.
Mine was a true story - difficult to edit down to the requisite 750 words. We were very lucky that November that year was actually unseasonably warm - otherwise the story would have been very different.
Well done to all who took part (it's not easy) and all who voted (you make it worthwhile).
Especially well done to Silverstriker - without your prompts this thing would not have happened.
Looking forward to the next one ...
1st - 39 Points - Tick by MIKE169
Chiappini’s is an old gas station. It looks like all gas stations did in the 1930’s, 40’s and 50’s before they lost their mechanics and became self pumping mini marts. Their two pumps sit under a roof attached to their store which also serves the small community of Melrose, Florida as a drinking establishment.
He didn’t have much truck with the Chiapinni’s having had a falling out a number of years back but he still set up next to their establishment and sold Mayport shrimp to any commuter passing the intersection where Chiappini’s sat where State Rd. 21 crossed State Rd. 24. Everyday he picked his shrimp from the shrimpers up at Mayport, north of Jacksonville, and carried it back in two big ice chests to his spot at the roadside. He’d put up his table and umbrella and sit through the heat of the day as customers lazily pulled their cars to the side of the road got out and examined the shrimp and bought or did not buy depending on whatever fancy they took. This was his routine. It didn’t pay much but no job in North Central Florida paid much these days.
Tick wandered down Rte 21 with his dog Leb. His head was down and the man could discern the nature of the problem. Tick, short for Bostick, was an 11 year old towheaded boy whose home was half a mile from the crossroads where the man sold his shrimp.
“Have a seat Tick. What’s on your mind?”
“Nothin’”, said Tick scratching Leb’s head and ears.
The man knew however.
The day was a North Florida summer day with high fluffy clouds surrounded by heat you could almost eat. Tick had been pretty much quiet in the 45 minutes he had been sitting alongside the man as he sold his shrimp. Whenever he came to the man it was to get out of the house. Things weren’t good there.
After a couple of hours the man asked Tick if he’d watch for customers as he wanted to get a beer. He bought Tick a Pepsi and headed across the street to the Blue Water. It was hot and the Blue Water’s fans, just about moving, pushed the heavy air this way and that but never enough to generate so much as a breeze. Kimmie was tending bar as it was Kerry’s day off and the man’s entrance distracted Kimmie who had been looking out the window enjoying the heat and traffic from the confines of the dark bar.
“I see ya got Tick again.”
“Yup” answered the man as Kimmie served him a cold Budweiser from an ice chest.
A voice down the end of the bard sai he had seen Vel at the Keystone Saloon last night.
“Drunk as a balled owl and half as smart.”
Vel was Tick’s father.
“I thought as much”, said the man though whether it was Keystone, Hawthorne, Waldo or Starke made no difference. Vel knew them all.
The man had known many men like Vel. The area was full of them. Nice young men once. Then lost. Never to come back. It happened that way for some reason. Angry at everything and everyone who stood between them and whatever it was they wanted.
Roy Orbison’s “Blue Bayou” oozed from the old juke and curled around the inside of the bar.
The man finished his beer and headed back to the table and Tick and Leb, who now laid immobilized by the heat beneath the table. The man laid down a bowl of water Kimmie had sent over so that Leb might not die of the heat. Leb looked up and laid his head back down not up to the effort.
Round four o’clock the traffic slowed and the man began to pack up his gear. The unsold shrimp would be sold the next day at half price. As he and Tick loaded everything into the back of the man’s pickup a beat up mid 70’s Pontiac pulled up next to the man’s truck.
“Get in Tick!”
It was Vel the man knew him.
“You okay Tick?” asked the man.
His head down he said “Yes I’m okay. Thanks for the Pepsi.”
The boy and Leb moved to the car and Vel said “Leave that dog!” The boy turned to the man whose look told him it was okay. The boy got into the front seat and Vel sped away. Leaving the man and Leb to finish the day.
2nd - 28 points - A nightmare on the rocks by Orangutan
The trip there was almost perfect.
Train on time to the airport, no hassle through passport control, flights on time taking off, even landing early. The hire car left something to be desired: booked was the “VW Golf (or equivalent)”; waiting in the airport car park was definitely the “equivalent”. Still, it wasn’t that sluggish and there wasn’t that far to go to the crag. An hour or so in the car and then on to the 300 meter vertical wall of climbing bliss waiting for us.
Here’s where we made the first mistake. The time difference from the UK to France is only an hour, but going so much further south meant that the sun dropped much quicker. It was November so what would have been a gradual twilight in the UK around London was going to be quite a sudden lights out in the Verdon gorge. This was a fact we had sort-of overlooked.
The flight had been an early morning one so we were able to get to the top of the gorge (the easiest way to climb there is to abseil in and then climb back out) by about 2:30 in the afternoon. This, we figured, left plenty of time to abseil in, enjoy the view then climb back out on an easy route before sundown. It was November, but there was brilliant sun and the abseil down was fantastic. At each belay chain we carefully threaded the ropes through the bolt rings and carried on our descent.
Climbing back out after getting about 150m into the gorge was brilliant. We had an old guide book and the grey rock was a bit difficult to read sometimes. We obviously strayed off route. The easy-peasy route we’d picked (French grade 4c) quickly becoming a bit more technical (6b+). It was within our limits though – I’d climbed 7b+ and Frank had climbed much harder stuff. On we went.
The lead-outs were awesome. 200 vertical meters above the valley floor, hot sun on your back and fantastic limestone to pull you up to the summit. This holiday was going to be brilliant.
Our serene bubble burst at the next belay point. It was now 5:30pm and we were scarcely beyond the half-way point back to the top. We needed to get motoring.
Frank started up the next pitch and soon disappeared from sight. When he got to the next set of chains he called for me to follow. I stowed everything loose, collected the slings and karabiners into the rucksack and prepared to follow. We were each tied into the end of the rope – me at one end and Frank at the other. When Frank started to bring in the slack so that I could start climbing we found the next mistake.
Whiz, whiz, whiz went the rope as the slack disappeared. Whiz-wap and the rope stopped. There was still a load of slack below me however. The rope was jammed in a small bush.
I called for slack and set about flapping the rope to try and get it out of the clutches of the tree. All the while it’s getting darker and darker. It took an age to free the rope – lots of flapping, lots of curses. I was all ready to untie completely and solo-down to untangle the thing when ‘sping’ it freed itself.
It was now dark.
By the time I got up to the next chains with Frank we were still 50 meters from the top (at least) and there wasn’t any light. We could barely see each other, let alone work out the route and get to the top safely.
All we could do was to abseil back down and find the ledge we’d started the climb from. Climbing up was clearly too dangerous - one slip and we’d be toast. Staying put wasn’t really an option as the belay point was not comfortable and we were going to be stuck for some hours. Going down wasn’t exactly a picnic either as we were three rope lengths from the ledge and it relied on us finding the belay chains as we went down so that we could tie in and secure the next abseil.
Off I went into the dark trying to find a route back to the chains. By the time I got to the end of the rope I’d not found any belay point, but I did find a tree. I tied in and Frank followed down. Luckily for us we found the next chain and that got us to the ledge.
It was dark. It was cold. It was a long night.
Never has the sun rising been such sweet joy to me. The warmth, the light, the realization that you’ve been a complete pillock.
3rd - 21 points - Kilcan by wrhine
I hail from a town known as Karseus. Karseus is located on the north side of a mountain range we call the Yandelius mountain range. Yandelius was the lord's g-grandmother or something like that.
The town is surrounded by farm land and is ruled by a pompous shirt-tail cousin of the royal family. He is wealthy enough to support a small castle and uses the guard to keep the town and surrounding farm lands safe.
The wall is made of a mix of stone and wood. An impressive stone gate and iron portcullis on the main road greets the visitor and the rest of the wall is constructed of wood between stone columns. Don't be fooled it's quite sturdy and secure against attack. I had guard duty over trading caravans passing through the area. The lord charges a fee for trading caravans to pass through Karseus. In exchange he guarantees safe passage
including military escort. Otherwise who knows what may befall the travelers. Trader money made this remote town surprisingly prosperous.
I was a scrawny lad the 5th son in a family of eight. Not really liking farming and with no chance to inherit land. I was happy to be bound to a young guardsman just starting his career of service to the lord's guard.
There I learning the names of weapons. Was able to see the damage they could inflict on an opponent. And of course learned firsthand how heavy each weapon was. As I grew up, I filled out with thick muscle and found I had a natural aptitude for any weapon. I burned with a deep seated desire to absolutely master each and every weapon I could get my hands on. I worked hard and was allowed into the training classes.
The senior weapons master, Iftal, was older than dirt. I mean really ancient. Iftal had scars and wrinkles all over to the point you couldn't tell them apart. He wasn't completely human, not sure what all he was. No one, including me, had the nerve to ask him what he was. Iftal was not exactly mean just very unforgiving, especially of stupidity. After
running a recruit out of the training salle I remembering Iftal saying to himself "Ignorance can be fixed, stupid is forever."
Iftal may have had a soft spot for me. He caught me training alone, I was trying to perfect sword moves. First he beat me with the flat of a wooden practice sword for not using the sword properly. Then he taught me how to parry and avoid getting slapped around. As I mastered one weapon he taught me another. Some were so strange and old their true name belongs to the mists of time.
As I graduated out of regular training I was set to standing watch on the main road, riding through the farm lands, following traders. Only the occasional band of brigands kept duty lively.
Sometimes an outlander from the caravans would request a sparring partner. We would spar, I would win and we would then get drunk together. I'd buy the drinks and they would tell tales about the wide world on the other side of the mountains.
With the same certainty of the daily sun raising and the evening sun setting I approached my 30th season, wanderlust and boredom overtook me. I hired on with one of the traders as a guard. That carried me around the Yandelius range and I caught my first glimpse of the magnificent lands south of the mountains.
After we arrived at the traders destination I struck out on my own as a sell-sword. I traveled the lands meeting people and sharpening my fighting skills battling raiding brigands or defending city states from greedy neighbors. That kept my purse full. I found tavern brawls to be the most fun. The idea of a free-for-all unplanned spontaneous fight
really gets my adrenaline flowing. They are easy to find. Find a tavern in the less prosperous part of town with heavy tables and chairs, and then sit quietly in the corner. Unless it's raining, a fight is bound to start. Raining? Very few are dumb enough to start a fight that will get them dumped out in the muddy street.
I have no desire to settle down. I fully intend to die honorably with my sword in hand, covered in my enemy’s blood. Not old and feeble in a bed.
This tale telling is thirsty work. Barkeep, another round.
Originally posted by orangutanI could tell. It was obvious you were comfortable with your material. This was why, even though I did not vote your story as one of the top three, I did give it an honorable mention.
Mine was a true story - difficult to edit down to the requisite 750 words. We were very lucky that November that year was actually unseasonably warm - otherwise the story would have been very different.
