Sunday February 19th, 2012

The exercise:

Let's see what we can do with: the race.

Did a little bit more work in the greenhouse this afternoon, but mostly it was a pretty relaxed day. Went for a walk with Kat this morning; was a bit chilly but not bad, I suppose. You know, considering it is still February.

Mine:

Cody took up his position on the starting line, not bothering to look at either of his opponents. He knew that seeing Peter's scrawny legs would make him overconfident, while Ben's scowling face might cause him to wet his pants.

Better to just stare at his feet and await the starting signal.

"We all understand the rules here," Mike said from off to one side where he was leaning on his crutches. He'd been forced out of the race by a sprained ankle he'd suffered the day before. "First one to the end of the block and back is the winner."

"And no shoving or tripping allowed," Peter added, giving Ben a hard stare.

"Whatever." Ben sounded bored, as though the result was never in doubt.

Cody ground his teeth together and tried to remain focused. He couldn't afford to let his anger towards that jerk get in the way of his feet. This was too important.

"You all look ready, so let's get this over with." Mike sighed, looking toward the end of the block as though he might try it despite his injury. "All right? First one back to me gets to kiss Mary Wilson. On your marks... get set... go!"

7 Comments:

Greg said...

It was near freezing here this morning, so it looks like Winter's not quite over yet. I don't mind though, as it's been quite a mild one this year. The greenhouse sounds nice and warm though!
I'm almost tempted to continue your story just so that the three runners can find Mike making out with Mary Wilson when they get back, but perhaps that's a little mean :) I like the viewpoint you picked here, choosing one of the runners to give the reader a stake in the outcome of the race.

The race
Miss Snippet looked up as she heard an unaccustomed sound. It was coming from somewhere outside her little portakabin, and was a kind of dull roaring that just went on and on. That ruled out wildlife, which she was pleased about as she'd forgotten to get the parental consent forms for letting children near bears. She laid down the plans for the flour mill and got up to go and look outside.
The portakabin did have a window, covered with slightly rush steel mesh, but it hadn't been washed since Noah's Flood so she just went straight to the door instead. Looking out, she had a good view of the children digging out the mill-pond right in front her, the two children who were marking out where the foundations for the mill itself would go, and the long, wide channel than led up the hill and would become the mill-race, providing the motive power to turn the millwheel.
Oh, and the flood of water racing down the from the dam higher up, heading for the race faster than she could shout. Little Timmy had clearly set off the explosive charges early. She could only hope he'd been caught in the water, as that would suitably punish him.

Cathryn Leigh said...

@Marc - Personally I'm wondering if Mary sanctioned this race. I know there are girls that would. But if she didn't and Ben wins I hope she kocks him flat. :}

@Greg - Wow... I don't think I like that teacher of yours... what sort of permision slips did she get?

Hm... now where did that sinking prompt go too, I'm not at home so I can't look up what I wrote, ah well, I'll have to pants it. :}


The Race

The Pirate Yachts are racing
With cannons on their bows.
It seems more ships are sinking
Than are sailing on somehow.

And it’s hey ho the diary oh
We’re pirates to the bone
And if we all die today
Our spirits will still roam.


The captains they are shouting
As their crews they pump and bail.
The slowest ship is leading
Spurred on by banshee’s wail.

And it’s hey ho the diary oh
We’re pirates to the bone
And if we all die today
Our spirits will still roam.


Then the race is finely ending
With one ship left afloat
Jessie the queen we’re crowning
But no one will sail her boat!

And it’s hey ho the diary oh
We’re pirates to the bone
And if we all die today
Our spirits will still roam.



(P.s. I love sea shanties)

Krystin Scott said...

“Are you ready Sam?” Little Joey whispered. “You ate a good breakfast and got lots of sleep. I know you’re going to win, because that’s what mom tells me to do whenever I have a big day.”

Sam didn’t make a sound. He looked at Little Joey for just a moment before taking another bite of his biscuit. Crowds made him nervous. He loved running but never cared much for all the screaming and shouting that occurred at these types of events.

A racers career was limited to just a few short years and Sam was the home town favorite. All these people were here to see him bring home the gold for the third year in a row. The course was set. Racers were at the ready. The fans were getting restless.

The starting gun sounded and the racers were off. Sam blew through the obstacles, he never faltered.
Little Joey hopped up and down, excitedly cheering on his best friend. Once again Sam was the first to cross the finish line; Little Joey was ecstatic.

The announcer spoke over the loud speaker “And the Winner of the Junior Competition, for the third year in a row is Sam, a little rat from Hoboken New Jersey.

Iron Bess said...

Laying hardwood flooring all day today. Probably will do it tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, and the day after that, and so on, and so on, and so on.

The Race

Incongruously Marvin’s face was line free and smooth, his hands were what showed his actual years, they were hard and calloused with large thick blue veins sluggishly snaking under his skin like a somnolent python digesting its prey. As he rubbed them together they sounded like sandpaper scraping against granite. The dark orange skin was the result of the permanent stain from the thick, muddy, red soil he laboured in day after day. Taking a few extra minutes now to savour the last drops of store bought tea Marvin sat in his favourite chair, legs stretched straight out, and crossed at the ankles.

Well that back forty wasn’t going to get finished by itself, he thought. Grabbing a hat which at one point had been green and white, he didn’t so much as put it on his head as he screwed it down until the rim met his eyebrows. When he stood, both knees cracked. Pop. Pop. Sounding like two consecutive shots fired from a nine millimetre handgun. According to the Almanac the weather would hold for the next two weeks, but he wasn’t fool enough to bet his livelihood on that nonsense. His life, such as it was, had always been a race against Mother Nature and her whims.

Grondzilla said...

Wilson crouched down near the starting blocks and began to work at the laces on this old beat up running shoes. The weather was perfect with bright sunshine and a the promise of a light, cool breeze. The grass was green and the crowd was starting to grow with a murmuring undertone that suggested they were in a bit of a mood.

Wilson noticed the man with the starter's pistol sidling toward him but carried on with his shoelaces.

“Pardon me,” said the official. “What exactly are you doing?”

Wilson paused an looked down at this shoes then back up at the man.

“I'm planning on winning this contest.” He said casually.

The man frowned.

“The trouble is I don't think you'd be allowed to run, my good man.”

“What not?” Replied Wilson, his brow furrowing. “The poster said, One thousand yard Footrace, open to all runners.”

“Well yes,” replied the official. “It's just that,” he gestured vaguely at Wilson, “Your...your, 'type' is not allowed.”

Wilson sighed, it wasn't like he didn't think this would coming, but still. He stood and looked down on the rather small man with the starter's pistol.

“What you're really saying is that these,” he gestured to the small clump of men in sporting gear, “fine young gentlemen, and no doubt their stuffy old patrons, are afraid, nay certain, that I would kick their lilly white asses up and down this track.”

The official's eyebrows shot up and he harrumphed but at the same time smiled quietly. He leaned in to closer quarters with Wilson and continued Sotto Voce.

“Well yes, there is that, and the fact that they are a bunch of raging bigots.”

Wilson laughed at the man's unexpected honesty.

“Fair enough” he said as he crouched back down and began undoing the laces on his running shoes. He smiled up at official.

“Do me a favour and tell these craven misanthropes that I will meet them on this track or any other...on my worst day and beat the pants off them. If they have the nerve.”

The official laughed out loud this time.

“It would be my pleasure young man." He paused and positively beamed at Wilson. "Let me say I'd love to fire the gun on that race!

Grondzilla said...

Clearly the phrase 'What not?' up there should read 'Why Not?'. Doh!

Marc said...

Greg - hah, I was actually considering doing that in mine but I figured it would get too long.

Miss Snippet's students certainly get a hands on education, don't they?

Cathryn - in my head while I was writing it I was figuring Mary had no idea this was going on. So the winner is guaranteed nothing :)

I am a big fan of sea shanties as well, and that was certainly a fine one!

Krystin - haha, nicely done. I did not see that twist coming at all.

Iron Bess - boo, flooring. I'm sure it will all be worth it once you're finished though!

Hmm, I can see myself a few years down the road in Marvin. Pretty sure I'm okay with that :)

GZ - I quite like your official, not to mention your racer.

And I skipped right over that typo without noticing it, so obviously not too big a deal :)