THE RED HOT PAWN PROSE COMPETITION ROUND 2
Round 1 of the competition is now finished:
http://www.redhotpawn.com/board/showthread.php?threadid=22395
Congratulations to Starrman for winning with FIRE IN THE BELLY.
The SUBMISSION rules for the Red Hot Pawn Prose Competition:
1001 word limit; no profanity (stick within forum rules please); if a writer publically discloses which piece he/she wrote then that writer will be immediately disqualified; one entry per person; write about anything you want; you will remain anonymous, unless you win; once the prose has been posted for one week I will tally the votes and anounce the winner; don't vote for yourself; I won't post your prose anywhere but in this forum; prose must be EMAILED to redhotpawnprose@gmail.com with the following text in the subject: "REDHOTPAWN PROSE"; I will not disclose your email address to anyone; it is preferred if you mail your prose to me in a .txt document attachment; include your RHP username for me to verify the authenticity of each writer; I will post 5 entries in the order that I received them, hopefully every Friday
The VOTING rules for the Red Hot Pawn Prose Competition:
Please read all of the entries; note that I have included the number of words so if a writer breaks the rules then you may use your own discretion in your voting decision; choose three of your favourite entries and rank them eg: (1)TITLE A (2)TITLE B (3)TITLE C; rank 1 = 5points, rank 2 = 3 points, rank 3 = 2 points; voting closes on 29 April 2005 at 11am GMT, and I shall tally the scores and announce the winner then; DO NOT REC A POST IF YOU LIKE IT; I take no responsibility for grammatrical and spelling errors; comments on the submissions are welcome!
Here are the entries for round 2... enjoy
Nameless... Faceless...
(1030 words)
He was awakened by a moan.
It was only as he slowly emerged from his exhausted slumber that he realized that it was his own groan that had incited him to depart the land where he had sat with his family, happily enjoying the butterflies as they pirouetted in majestic swirls of sun blazed colours around the picnic. It was his own groan that prompted him to leave this idyllic world, and reenter the world of here and now. The world of excruciating, all consuming pain.
He had long since given up trying to rise from the bed, which he had been restrained to for an indeterminate amount of time. It felt like eons. Each day became the same. The ongoing battle with the flies for the hint of moisture that oozed from the cracks in his dried, swollen lips. The incessant throbbing agony from the beatings of the day before. The time to reflect on what was, what is, and what will be, before the next round of beatings began.
How had this come to pass? It must have been only a month, although it felt like an eternity, since he had sat with his family in Phnom Pen, huddled around the radio, listening to the advance of the Khmer Rouge. He had assured his loved ones of their security, made promises that he didn't know he couldn't keep. His family, his beloved family had been evacuated with the rest of the citizens to god knows where. He had been identified as an enemy of the new state of Kampuchea. His crime? Soft hands! His delicate office worker hands betrayed him to be an intellectual, and he had been taken to Tuol Sleng for interrogation. Here, he had been tied to a bed, starved and beaten on a daily basis, while being taught the 10 Security Regulations of the Khmer Rouge.
In his near delirious state, his body trembled with laughter although no sound came forth from his parched, inflamed tongue. He slowly, deliberately turned his head to see the 10 tenets through his window. His right eye was swollen shut, his left admitting a mere slit of light. Even though he could recite the tenets by heart by now, it assisted him to see them in his continuing quest to remain sane, or whatever could be referred to as sane in this world of pain, suffering and thirst.
1. You must answer accordingly to my questions. Do not turn them away.
2. Do not try to hide the facts by making pretexts of this and that. You are strictly prohibited to contest me.
3. Do not be a fool for you are a chap who dares to thwart the revolution.
4. You must immediately answer my questions without wasting time to reflect.
5. Do not tell me either about your immoralities or the revolution.
6. While getting lashes or electrification you must not cry at all.
7. Do nothing. Sit still and wait for my orders. If there is no order, keep quiet. When I ask you to do something. You must do it right away without protesting.
8. Do not make pretexts about Kampuchea Krom in order to hide your jaw of traitor.
9. If you do not follow all the above rules, you shall get many lashes of electric wire.
Darkness briefly passed in front of his window. He shivered. A guard noisily opened the door to his room. He never ceased to be amazed by the age of his tormentors. These two today, were about the same age as his eldest son. What had become of the age of innocence? The verbal abuse began immediately, even as they led him past the pools of dried blood on the floor. His dried blood.
At the door he stumbled, and weakly caught the doorframe to keep from falling. As he wearily lifted his head to resume the long, slow walk to the torture chambers, he saw the 10th regulation which had been hidden when viewed from inside…
10. If you disobey any point of my regulations you shall get either ten lashes or five shocks of electric discharge.
His mind must already have entered the realm of insanity, as he laughed when he read this. The laugh came out as a dry gasp, but the guards could see the source of his amusement. Immediately, there was chaos. Guards came running, shouting, gesticulating. Loud arguments were had between guards. They pointed his way, while venomously spitting contempt. He stood there, feeling light headed and detached. He felt free, as free as he had ever felt. He had transcended above pain, above suffering, above madness. He began to notice the beauty which had been hidden by the ugliness of humanity. He saw the multi coloured birds as they glided effortlessly above him, calling to each other in their sweet melodic voices. He delighted in the sight of an orange and blue lizard as it flitted between the legs of a guard.
The guards roughly turned him away from the torture chambers and brought him around the back of the converted school building. They walked him to the edge of a freshly dug trench. As he was forced to kneel at the lip of the trench, he saw the butterflies, gaily flashing their myriad of colours, the sun piercing the blue sky to illuminate their translucent wings. He was happy. Even his subconscious did not note the sound of a click behind him as a butterfly proceeded to land on his nose. His dry lips cracked painlessly as he smiled for the first time in weeks. He was back with his family at the picnic. He didn't even hear the loud explosion, or smell the hot acrid stench of gun smoke. As he keeled forward into the trench, he didn't see the damp, musty earth reach up to grasp him. Instead he rushed toward the outstretched arms of his dazzling wife and adoring children. As his face hit the cold earth, he nestled his head into the warm bosom of his wife, and became entombed in a timeless hug of rapture.
He was with his family again. He was free.
Under cover of the night
(802 words)
It is raining … it is raining hard, for three days already and the wind blows streams of water in my face; unmasked but covered by the dark of the moonless night. Its good hunting weather … excellent hunting weather actually, especially for the predator that has been hiding in me for so long. Hiding and waiting, eager but patient until the right time and place unfold itself.
Who I am? Ah … people called me so many names I forgot my real name. It is not important anymore. My personality lives without a name, without a face, without a record … untraceable I have become. I will await the verdict of the media … they will give me my new, rightful name. Until then I am one with the predator and he becomes one with me.
The road ahead is deserted. Which is no wonder considering the weather. Everybody stays in except the predator and his very first prey. The thought of prey makes my mouth water in anticipation, but I will have to wait, will have to prepare, do the final check-ups.
Uphill the road winds itself to my new level of perception. The mirroring image by the headlights of the car on the road’s wet surface no longer blinds me. I have perfect vision to my left side… lovers lanes and parking places, all deserted. Perhaps one will be occupied. I know one will be, because of the nature of prey. A nature that will still the predators hunger, for a while at least.
Slowly I pass the fourth lovers lane since my departure from the town downhill, a quick glance confirms my instinct as the small red backside lights of a car light up in the total dark surroundings of these woods on the hill. I pass the sandy side road and drive on for another kilometer to the next side road. Taking the left turn I switch the lights of the car off; letting the car roll to a natural stop also the engine is shut down. Darkness and the silent buzz of the rain engulf me as I wait and hear the predator’s breath inside me … almost moaning.
It is time.
My feet make deep imprints in the softened soil of the forest. It doesn’t matter. The prints are not recognizable because I wrapped my polyester boots with a towel on each boot, the boots two sizes to large for my feet, three extra pairs of woolen socks stop my feet from slipping inside the boots. My coat and trousers are black and made of … ah I remember: “Texas America Company has a great deal on industrial rain suits. Heavyweight 35mm PVC over polyester rainwear resists abrasion tears and snags and provides solid protection from a variety of industrial compounds, acids and oils. Made with raglan sleeves, durable storm fly front, vented cape back, non conductive snaps, suspenders with elastic, snap fly, corduroy collar, waist and ankle gather snaps, three piece suits consist of jacket, detachable hood and bib overalls.” The rain will wash off any trace of my hunt.
It is wet and dark … but not cold. It is a good thing that it isn’t cold … the predator doesn’t like the cold of winter. His hands will function better when its not cold. The hands are the tools, or the extension of the tools, of the predator … he likes my hands.
I am near the vehicle … I can see the shadows in the back of the car. Shadows in slow-motion, rhythmic movements behind the water pearls of the cars windows. But not all windows are closed … the ones in the front are wide open, exposing the interior to he rain … and the predator; me.
Silent and slow we approach the right front of the car … a BWM, old too for that matter. We keep our eyes on the couple on the back seat … partially clothed, engulfed in their own universe of movement, heat, air and smell. We can smell them when we kneel beside the opened window … and we can hear them. A moaning not unlike our own, but far less dangerous.
We smile as we retrieve our “COLT WOODSMAN 6" target,push button release,98% blue thru out mintcolt plastic grips with palm filler $595” and hold it in our gloved right hand, checking the safety is off. It is and we may rise from our kneeling position to a half standing … extending our arm inside the car, without touching, aiming … waiting … wait a bit more. The car starts moving as the couple intensify theirs … faster and faster … louder and louder, until two perfectly aimed shots kills their last gasping screams of pleasure, pleasure while dying …
Voodoo, Hoodoo
(406 words)
‘Half of the estate belongs to me and I demand that I have it’ declared Abigail.
‘What did you do to earn anything that belongs to mother?’ mouthed Jason.
What was meant to be a happy reconciliation between the two had turned into a bitter battle for their deceased mother’s estate.
Abigail, a generally sly and shrewd woman never cared for her mother except when it came to money, Jason was not much the better but occasionally bought flowers on Mothers Day and visited on the odd occasion. He was smart in a business sense and was meticulous in his work.
Today the two were in the Maldives, in the grand La Maldives Resort, bathing in the sun and lying on intricate bamboo deckchairs, covered with expensive beach towels.
‘You know I will get the money so give it to me now!’ insists Abigail.
Jason, keeping his cool, and with a nonchalant manner shrugs, ‘You’ll never see a cent of it’.
‘I know voodoo; if I wanted to I could kill you now, so don’t provoke me.’
‘Voodoo, hoodoo, it’s all fake. What, you think I believe in magical charms and little poppets? Bleh, it’s all nonsense Abby’.
‘Don’t you dare call me Abby. Voodoo is an ancient art and can only be learned by the gifted’ denounces Abigail.
‘You gifted? Your gift is that you make people either laugh when they see you or cry because they feel sorry for you! Tell you what, I’ll offer you a deal, you can do whatever “voodoo” on me and if it works you get the estate but if it doesn’t it’s mine. How about that?’
‘Sure, replies Abigail with a gleeful smile, ‘we’ll see who can laugh after I’m done with you! I’ll go to the room to get the clay poppet and from you I’ll need a toenail, a piece of hair, or a fingernail.’
‘Oh hurry up! I don’t have all day.’
She came back soon and Jason gave her a bit of his hair. She took the hair and pushed it into the doll.
‘Hey Jason’, she said with a smirk as she plunged the sharp needle into the poppet’s heart, ‘this is the last breath of air you will have’,
He never believed in voodoo but being a cautious man, he never took chances. Besides, it had always irritated him that women left so much hair around, especially on beach towels.
Fight at the Mess
(942 words)
The Project Security team staged a party at the Rosythe Navy Base, Fleet Senior Ratings Mess. This was not one for the faint hearted, remembering that none of the Project staff had been allowed alcohol at the mine. Ian James was normally the stoic, stiff upper-lipped type. Though he always gave the appearance of being a man’s man, Ian exuded an authoritative calmness, which set him above mere mortals. This night was different; people spoke of what they saw in Ian’s eyes later, though none agreed as to whether the look in his eyes was playful mischief, anger or psychosis.
A bunch of the guys drank themselves into oblivion before midnight. Base regulating staff manhandled the drunkards towards the door and the shore patrol van outside, but with Ian playing the father figure that was never going to happen, “Excuse me sailor, where do you think you’re taking those men?” he said to the young RN Shore Patrol Leading Hand. “These fellows are in my custody and they aren’t leaving this room until I release them,” he continued.
A burly Chief Master-at-Arms, who had been watching his staff at work from the far side of the room, chose that moment to push his way through the gathering. He stepped between the young men and the veteran agent, “my lads are removing these intoxicated men from this mess, do you have any objection Mister?” Ian James took a step forward, put his nose against the nose of the Chief and challenged him eye ball to eye ball. “Jossman this isn’t the time for you to bring us some virgin boys for my men to play with, I suggest you take them back to your cabin and keep them in storage for when they grow some pubic hair.”
Onlookers gathering around the group gasped in excitement and exhaled a harmonic “Ooooooo” as they egged on their man. The Chief wound up and punched Ian on the Jaw with all his considerable weight. Ian didn’t attempt to move out of the way or block the punch. It hit him on the chin, rocked him backwards a couple of steps but didn’t knock him down. In an instant, Ian was eye ball to eye ball again with the Chief.
One could picture the scene from the old movie, “The Alamo” where Davy Crocket played by John Wayne met and faced up to one of his men. They balanced feathers on their noses to determine who took the first hit, then punched each other in turn until one fell down. Alas this was no Hollywood movie, Ian James was no John Wayne and the chief was no pal. Ian's left hand grabbed the big man by the testicles as his right hand knocked off his cap with an impudent flick of his wrist and grabbed his thick head of sun bleached hair. “Chief, I want you to see my point of view” he demanded menacingly. “My men have been at sea for several years and they haven’t had so much as a tot of rum in all that time.” “Now how about you take your boys away?” As Ian put him back down on the ground, the chief took a swing at him. The punch missed as Ian swayed to the side but a second blow hit Ian in the stomach and ripped into his rib cage.
The Fleet Mess-men later told their mates that what they saw next was one of the best one on one bar fights that they had ever seen. The Navy man grabbed Ian’s shirt and tried to head but him in the face but he was too slow as Ian dropped his head causing the Chief to smash his nose against the top of Ian’s head. Ian countered with a right to the solar plexus and a left uppercut to the already damaged nose, but the salt hardened man smashed back with a vicious left hook to the side of his opponent’s face. Ian could have finished the man but a fight he wanted and a fight he got. The chief followed the hook with a heavy upper cut to the jaw and a two handed rabbit punch to the right cheek which sent Ian reeling into a row of bar leaners smashing a score of glasses and sending trays flying through the air.
Agents winced in sympathetic pain. Sandy, who was still dancing nearby, yelled out “Sht that had to hurt!”
Ian got up, approached the chief and put up his fists. The chief smiled broadly and accepted the challenge. In no time, they were dancing around the boxing like a couple of fly-weights around the mess. The pair parried, sparred and caught each other with some fearsome blows, but neither would go down. The bigger man started puffing and his previously accurate jabs and hooks started to miss with regularity. Suddenly Ian stood upright from his pugilistic crouch, the next punch thrown was caught in mid-air, the man’s wrist was turned about two hundred and fifty degrees and the chief was evicted unceremoniously from the hall.
At the door, Ian had the last word, “We’ll be gone in the morning, then you and your men can have their Mess back, but tonight, check with your officer of the watch, before you come back, he should have let you know to stand down tonight Chief.” He responded, “You’re no sailor mister, but I wouldn’t mind having you in my crew.” The two men shook hands and the Shore Patrol got in their aging Land Rover and drove off down the hill to the Quarter Deck offices.
No Salvation
(1461 Words)
Jesus looked at the weathered chapel. Everything seemed in place. About twenty figures were standing still within the walled enclosure awaiting his next move. Jesus sensed that they were looking to him for salvation. He was, after all, their only hope. But if they were, they were about to be let down. For Jesus had no intention of saving any of them.
Outside the chapel compound the besieging army was drawn up in formation, awaiting orders to storm the defenses. Jesus had foreseen what the outcome would be. He knew he could alter that outcome, that his actions could deliver the defenders from their predicament. But he would not offer them salvation. No, it was time to right some wrongs.
* * *
Jesus Morales had been born and happily raised in Monterrey, Mexico. But then one moonless night, just over a year ago, his father, Manuel -- a poor man with only five dollars and a forged Green Card to his name -- swam with his wife and young son across the murky waters of the Rio Grande to begin a new and uncertain life in the United States.
His parents were able to make a hard and meager living at a variety of transient jobs. Jesus, on the other hand, was having a much more difficult time adjusting to his new surroundings. His poor command of the English language and his parents’ frequent moves had made it very difficult for Jesus to fit in with the other kids in the Texas public school system.
Although he had always been a bright student, his grades now suffered. And although he formerly had been an outgoing child, he had become withdrawn and made few friends. Jesus found himself surrounded by Anglo children who didn’t seem to care for him from the very start. He was besieged with homework that he was unable to escape from. And in recent weeks he had been bombarded with a series of taunts from his classmates. It seemed now that every day was a battle for Jesus. A battle that he felt he had no hope of winning.
* * *
Jesus glanced one more time at the chapel. It was about a foot long and made from aluminum which had been painted to look like weathered stone. He looked again at the doomed defenders who he liked to imagine were secretly beseeching him for salvation. Each of them was molded from tan plastic and stood two inches tall. And after appraising the perimeter wall once more (it enclosed about three square feet of his bedroom floor), his eye fell at last upon the plastic gateway to the compound, above which was printed the word “Alamo.”
Manuel was acutely aware of the pain his son was going through. It nearly broke his heart to see how sullen and introverted his once carefree son had become. Especially since he knew at heart that uprooting his family from their homeland was at the root of it. Manuel couldn’t undo that decision, but in some small way he could try to atone for it. So although he could scarcely afford it, prior to Christmas he had taken Jesus to the largest shopping mall in San Antonio and had let him choose any gift he wanted. Since history was one of the few subjects Jesus liked and still did well at, and because it was the only thing he saw which depicted Mexicans, Jesus had chosen an Alamo toy soldier play set. Jesus thought it was the greatest gift he had ever received and was soon restaging the siege of the Alamo almost every day when he got home from school.
* * *
Jesus seemed satisfied that everything was in place. The battle could begin at any time. Twenty tan plastic, two inch, Texans (which included figures representing William Travis, Jim Bowie, and Davy Crockett) were at their posts, ready to defend the aluminum and plastic Alamo. Outside, fifty blue plastic Mexican soldiers (including one figure representing Santa Anna), with three cannons, were ready to commence the attack.
History has recorded that the doomed Texan garrison heroically defended the Alamo against a Mexican bombardment for thirteen days and inflicted heavy casualties upon the attackers in their final assault before being wiped out. But Jesus had no interest in repeating the perceived mistakes of history. In the battles he conducted almost daily, the Mexicans always won a glorious victory while mercilessly slaughtering the cowardly Anglos. Today’s battle would invariably follow the same general script.
The Texan defenders were surrounded and besieged by the plastic Mexican army. The three cannons were poised to commence the bombardment. Jesus knew it would be a fierce battle - a battle the Anglos had no hope of winning. Using the short, one notch Lincoln Logs to represent Mexican cannonballs, Jesus opened fire.
A merciless and withering fusillade ripped through the Texan ranks. Tan plastic bodies were blasted over and killed. Hits from incoming Lincoln Logs sent their helpless, two inch bodies sprawling. Lethal ricochets within the compound walls cut down many others. William Travis took a direct hit which sent his body spiraling through the air. Jim Bowie was dealt a glancing wound which was still sufficient to knock him over dead. The inert, lifeless bodies of the Anglo defenders were soon scattered around the floor of the compound or piled up against the inner base of the wall in a gruesome heap.
Everything was going perfectly until something happened which caused the Mexican bombardment to suddenly cease. A high arcing Lincoln Log projectile had smashed into the chapel and ricocheted toward the wall, striking the figure of Davy Crockett. Crockett teetered back and forth on the parapet momentarily before tipping over into the compound where he landed on his side. Davy Crockett was dead.
No. This wasn’t right. How could he have caused this to happen? Jesus was unsettled by this turn of events, so he decided to directly intervene and alter the outcome of the battle. Jesus slowly reached his hand down from on high, picked up the lifeless body and raised Davy Crockett from the dead. The few surviving Texans, had they been in a position to do so, would surely have regarded it as a miracle.
Anyone who had seen only this isolated incident would have thought it an act of grace. They may have thought Jesus was offering salvation to the bedraggled plastic Texans under his watchful eye after all. But they would have been wrong. Contrary to the popular Hollywood versions, Jesus knew there were Mexican eyewitness accounts from the Alamo who claimed that Davy Crockett had been captured alive and was executed shortly thereafter. This was the script Jesus intended to follow in his recreation. Crockett had to be captured alive. He had no intention of letting an ersatz Mexican cannonball alter that scenario.
Following the resurrection of Davy Crockett the battle was resumed, but the hostilities quickly culminated with the surrender of the remaining garrison. The Mexicans had not lost a single man. As Jesus had foreseen, Crockett and the other few prisoners were led before the victorious Mexican troops where the two inch blue plastic figures repeatedly ran the Anglos through with their little blue plastic bayonets. This time, Crockett (that American icon and former U.S. Congressman) was really and truly dead.
* * *
Later Jesus lay on his bed thinking about restaging the battle of San Jacinto as a glorious Mexican victory. Had this really happened it would have put an end to the Texan rebellion and, to Jesus’ mind, would have insured that Texas stayed on as a part of Mexico for all eternity. Then instead of being an outsider, this would be his rightful home. But his flights of fancy were driven away by a gentle knocking on his bedroom door.
“Jesus, how is your homework coming?” Manuel asked through the door in a soft voice. “Is everything all right?”
“Si, papa, si,” Jesus answered as he hurriedly sat down at his desk and opened his school books for the first time all weekend.
“English, Jesus,” his father gently admonished him. “You must practice your English. Don’t stay up too late, though. Tomorrow is a school day you know.”
Jesus hesitated for a long moment before responding, “Yes, father. I know.” He tried to study a little, but his restless gaze soon drifted to the remains of the battle still spread out on his bedroom floor. The victorious Mexican armies were still there, standing firmly at attention, along with the bodies of the Texans he had denied salvation. Tomorrow Jesus would have to fight his own battle all alone. And he knew that there was no salvation in sight for himself either.
