Here’s something that I wrote for a competition that popped upon my feed during a cup coffee. It was not a serious attempt to create anything noteworthy, and it took only the space of one coffee to complete (long black with milk on the side, no sugar) with no edit. The only requirements were that it be 500 words revolving around two people in some sort of relationship. It had to contain the words ‘needle’ and ‘uniform’ and something else I can’t remember.
At the time I was thinking about the childishness of war and sexism and tribalism and racism – but it’s hard to make much of a point about these things in 500 words.
Anyway, somehow I made the ‘longlist’ – I don’t often make lists of any length, so that’s why I repeat it here ….
*
We crawled to the very edge of the balcony, allowing just enough of ourselves to protrude, so that our eyes could stare down into the urban abyss and secretly observe the passage of pedestrians below. We were alone on the balcony – nobody there to later needle us for the crime.
“No-one can see us,” whispered Tom confidently.
“Or hear us,” I replied at similar volume.
“Correct.”
“So, why are we whispering?”
“I don’t know. It just feels right.”
Checking my timepiece: 0811hrs. Scheduled train arrival: 0817hrs.
“How long have we got, Ronnie?”
“Allowing three minutes for them to get out of the station,” I answered, “and another minute to walk below us, we’ve precisely ten minutes to drop time.”
“We’d better get ready.”
“Yes, we’d better. Have you got yours?”
“Yes, you?”
“Right here.” We each reached into our bags and carefully extracted the missiles and laid them gently on the concrete: 0814hrs.
“How many floors up are we?”
“Seven.”
“So how long will it take these things to fall seven floors?”
“I don’t know,” I confessed, “how much do they weigh?”
“That shouldn’t make any difference.”
“What? Don’t be stupid. Of course it makes a difference. And accuracy is vital!” I paused for dramatic effect, “T minus five minutes to surgical strike!”
Tom normally reacts positively to technical jargon, but this time he looked offended. “Theoretically,’ he pronounced, “weight has got nothing to do with it.”
“That’s ridiculous. So, a brick and a feather would hit the ground at the same time?”
“Yes. Sort of.”
“I don’t, sort of, believe you. But anyway, how long?”
“Not very long.”
Clearly the plan lacked precision. “And what about the targets?” I continued, “What speed will they be travelling? We need to allow for that.”
“Not very fast.”
“OK. Got it. So …. not very long and not very fast. Sort of. That’s it? That’s the sum of our research?”
Tom nodded.
Silence.
We saw them emerge from the station at 0820hrs, all wearing their uniform and chattering amongst themselves.
“Ronnie,” whispered Tom.
“Yes?”
“Why are we doing this?”
“Because they are girls.”
“Is that all?”
“And because we are boys.”
“OK.”
“And they go to a different school. Catholic.”
Then they were beneath us. “Now!” I called.
Six water filled balloons began their descent towards six first-form students from St Brigit’s Girls’ High. The plan was proceeding splendidly until about halfway down, when the wind, another factor we had not anticipated, intervened, and pushed the falling barrages out towards the roadway, where they would have burst harmlessly, if not for a heavily pregnant woman crossing the road.
Collateral damage.
The gesture, we decided in retrospect, had been largely symbolic. Two daring young men had hatched a clever plan and, by virtue of that plan alone, had made a statement.
The statement itself remained tauntingly ambiguous. We spent the following six years of high school avoiding girls from St Brigit’s High, continuing, for reasons we could not explain, to fear them.
*
P.S. I did not transition to the short list. No surprised there.
Richmond Road 
You made the longlist? Heck yeah!! 😮
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Well, I liked it! Does that count for anything? 😉
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That counts for everything, Nan
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It’s a fun little story. I liked it as well.
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you were light weights … the Catholic boys used double bungers chucked near the ear to attract the attention of us protestant girls … kids, as you say we don’t get much wiser as we age!
Wondering if a few water bombs might excite my aged neighbours 🙂 🙂 🙂
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Yeah! Try it on the neighbours! I’m trying to subtly circulate vague rumours about my worsening senility (more than just rumour, if truth be told) as a standby excuse for any erratic and unappreciated behaviour (such as water-bombing the neighbours) on my part. I’m working towards making my pleas of insanity (to this and other things) entirely credible.
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and I’m sure you’ll do it well … a bit of fun might slow down the process! Good luck with that …
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My mother died of Alzheimers and my sister is now deep in its grips, with no memory now of her own husband and children, let alone her brother. So I try to put as positive a spin on the process as possible. We don’t really know what goes on in the head of a sufferer, so I prefer to think that some kind of magic alternative reality might be in progress. So enjoying the immature fun of maturity might be just the way to prepare for my own journey.
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DO NOT “anticipate” your journey. Nothing is set in stone. Besides, I can’t EVEN imagine you losing the talent and wit you display through your writings to some nebulous possibility of a mind shift.
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That’s very kind of you to say, Nan. I haven’t actually made any reservations at this point – the facility where my sister lives is quite nice but I’m concerned with the quality of food and wine that comes with the deal.
What I will say, though, is that the place is full of interesting characters – there is a tall, thin, gaunt woman, for example, who seems to float around on air wearing a white flowing gown, casting evil spells on others with a ghostlike prophetic tone. I have christened her ‘The Angel of Death’, though, strangely, she always greets me with a quiet nod and a vague smile. She may be planning to recruit me.
So there is plenty of inspiration there for creative writing.
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ouch, having professionally worked with A I believe the ‘person’ has checked out all together … not present at any level! I’ve seen them survive alone in their own home not eating at all eg NO food. They don’t seem to have any feelings or recall of those who should have been caring for them.
So more sad for the close ones who are totally disregarded or can be the brunt of quite violent outbursts. The A person, unlike Elvis, has definitely left the building 🙂
Good luck to Mrs R, she is the one who will really suffer 😦
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Yeah. I am fairly sure that what you say is correct, but I prefer to adopt a more positive perspective because, you know, what difference does it make. And, whilst they ‘don’t seem’ to have any feelings’, who are we to know absolutely? Perhaps they have feelings incomprehensible to us, but perfectly reasonable to them …..
As for Mrs Richmond? Perhaps she has suffered enough already….
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maybe try to imagine you will be taking a UFO into outer space … further than all that worldly jet-setting you did! Imagine the serenity poised out there looking back at us like ants scrambling about not knowing what life is about, while you rest peacefully with NO obligations whatsoever … not even to be nice 🙂
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You know mate, you may have hit it right on the head. I know we have our differences, and hopefully richer for exchanging them, but you may have me pegged. Responsibility – obligations, having had a bit of such stuff over the years, is something that I’m eager to discard. I get the impression that responsibility is something you actually seek out – and good on you for that.
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for me taking ‘responsibility’ for all we do and say, or don’t, is key to taming my mind/emotions 🙂
take care pops and give MrsR a big hug from me … please give her my email if she ever needs to talk … enjoy your journey!
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Oh yes, I take full responsibility for everything I do and say, however well or badly that may be received, but I no longer take responsibility for others.
Mind you, I do sort of encourage other people to do and say what ever the fuck they want to do and say – just as long as they think about it first, and are willing to listen openly to both the praise and scorn which comes back in return.
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