Fortnightly Writing Competition - HANDICAPPED (CLOSED, WINNER ANNOUNCED)

Started by Mandle, Mon 20/02/2017 09:48:34

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Mandle

The theme is "handicapped" meaning the story should have a character who is suffering temporarily or permanently from some form of handicap.

VOTING NOW OPEN:

The entrants are:

"A Future That Would Never Be" by Sinitrena
"Orbs From Space" by Baron
"Still A Prisoner" by Blondbraid
"Left Behind" by Stupot (IMO the "unfinished" story tells a complete tale with its many clues)
"De Rigueur" by ¡ El Poncho !

The voting categories are:

"Best Writing"
"Best Use Of The Theme"
"Favorite Story"

Blondbraid

This theme is similar to last competition, who knows, maybe I'll write a continuation for "A broken man".

Baron

Hee hee!  We should all do it!  My horse will have one of those wheely carts for its hind quarter, and a giant cone on its head so it can't nibble on its casts!  ;-D

Stupot


Mandle

Quote from: Stupot+ on Tue 21/02/2017 04:24:41
Can it be about golf?

I was going to mention in the first post that it could be a golf story, but I didn't want to steal the glory from the first person to make that joke.

Stupot

Quote from: Mandle on Tue 21/02/2017 08:35:36
Quote from: Stupot+ on Tue 21/02/2017 04:24:41
Can it be about golf?

I was going to mention in the first post that it could be a golf story, but I didn't want to steal the glory from the first person to make that joke.
Feel my glory.* Hole in one!

*full-stop optional

Mandle

Sorry about no better intro page or trophies yet but we're about halfway through the fortnight and no entries...

Anybody working on something?

Stupot

My day off's tomorrow so I'll try an see what I can muster up :-)

Ponch

I have an idea. But I won't have time to work on it until Saturday.

Mandle

Cheers guys... It's just good to know people are thinking on ideas...

Baron

I want you to know that I'm definitely thinking of coming up with an idea.  ;)

Stupot

I didn't give myself time to write a story but I still plan on entering something. Even if it's a limerick.

Sinitrena

Warning: Depression and suicide attempt

A Future that Would never Be

„What did you do with the leg?”

She turned around and looked at her brother without comprehension.

“What did you do with my leg?” He sounded angry now, though still weak. But whether this weakness was due to his injury or because he scarcely dared ask the question he felt he had to ask, she couldn't tell.

“I told you,” she said, “I had to cut it off. It was rotting, disease was spreading...”

“I know that!” he interrupted her, “I want to know what you did with my leg. Where is it?”

“I... I don't know what to tell you.”

“Tell me! Tell me where my leg is!”

She sat down on the threadbare mattress in the run-down room she had rented and put her hand on his arm. “Don't, Jahm, don't. You're only hurting yourself. Don't ask such questions, don't think about it. Everything will be fine...”

“Stop it! Stop it now!” He pushed her hand away with all the force he could muster. “Don't tell me everything is fine, don't tell me to think of something else. Answer me! Tell me where my leg is!”

She didn't see any value in him knowing the answer. She didn't know what to do but answer him either. And maybe it would conciliate him for a moment, calm him down a bit, at least for now. “I... I buried it. I cut it off and buried it at the side of the road!”

“Why? Why did you do this?”

Claissa was getting frustrated. “What was I supposed to do, Jahm? Take it with me? Leave it at the side of the road, out in the open? What do you want? A burial ceremony in the temple of the Weeping One?”

“The temple of the Silent One would be better, wouldn't it? A sacrifice to him. That's what it is, isn't it?”

“Jahm...”

“No!” he pushed her further away, then turned his head to the dirty wall.

“Jahm...”

“Leave me alone!”

It had been three weeks. He was getting better, his body was. But some injuries never heal and those often don't just hurt the body. Claissa knew this, theoretically, but she had never seen it like that before, or completely understood it. When a woodcutter in their village had hurt his arm so badly that Vallene, the healer, had to cut it off, he was thankful to have survived. Jahm wasn't thankful, at least not on the surface. It wasn't the first time that he showed his anger, not the first time Claissa felt his wish to die, even though he never said it outright, hadn't said it yet at least.

He was crying, weeping silently into the blanket she had bought to keep him warm. Their money was running thin, as thin as the walls, as thin as the blanket, as thin as the soup she had tried to feed him and which he had brushed to the ground.

He was torn between sad and angry, but he was always afraid. And he didn't even know that there was no money left, that she had used it all for herbs and necessaries to keep him alive.

“I will never walk again,“ he suddenly said with an even weaker voice, tearing her from her thoughts.

She sat down on his bed again. “I'm sorry.”

“No, you're not.” A small laugh accompanied his words, making it even more difficult to bear them than his anger and frustration. “You just wanted me to live.”

“I did. - I do.”

Silence fell between them, while Claissa slowly stroked the matted hair on his head and silent tears rolled down his cheeks. She wanted to cry too but she had promised herself to keep strong, for herself, for him.

After a while, Jahm broke the silence. “I'm hungry.”

“I'll get you something,” Claissa said, standing up.

“Do we have enough money left?”

“Of course.”

*

Of course not. Jahm wasn't stupid. He might have tried to ignore everything around him for a while, but he wasn't blind.

When Claissa had left, he threw off the blanket and sat up. He knew that bandages entwined the stump of his leg, imagined seeing them under his pants, imagined seeing the stump under those. He hadn't seen it yet. Claissa had made sure of this, and he didn't want to.

Slowly, he heaved himself from the bed, the only furniture in the room, and stood wobbly on his one remaining leg. There was no way he could walk to the door, even though it was less than three steps away. But he couldn't take a step, could never set one foot in front of the other ever again. Tears welled up in his eyes again and he brushed them away angrily.

No use. There's no use in crying. Or in hoping.

His hands were shaky. He hadn't realized it before. He hadn't paid much attention to anything but his circling thoughts, ever and always repeating that nothing would ever be again like it once was. He didn't want it anyway. There was no reason to want it, to want anything.

Pressing his hand against the wall, he hopped in the direction of the door. He wanted to see it for himself, wanted to verify that he would never ever live a normal life again, prove that he was not able to live â€" not on his own, not at all. What was there to do for someone who couldn't even walk, not even properly stand on his own?

Thump. Thump. The sound of his bare foot resounded through the room and was probably heard in the room below like a thunder from the gods.

No one reacted. No one came. Claissa was too far away to hear him by now. He had counted the minutes she was gone when she went to buy food. He had planned it, planned his escape. Of course he had. If Claissa found out, she would stop him. Of course she would. She had given up everything to save him, but he didn't want it. Not like that. If his leg was fine, he would appreciate it, would hug her and start a new life here in Remria. But it was not, and she would have a better life without him.

The room was above a tavern in the outskirts of Remria. Twenty rickety, steep and narrow steps led down from a balcony that surrounded the half-timbered house to the muddy back-alley below. While it was difficult to move through the small room, it was surprisingly easy to get down the steps. A banister on both sides helped. But once he was on the street and his foot sank into the mud, the rain pattered down on his bare head and the wind blew his hair in his face, he felt more than the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders again.

Nobody can walk with one leg. He tried, hopping and stumbling and falling. It was slow-going, but somehow he left the alley and the mud, somehow he reached the street and the cobblestones that lay there. It were just a few meters, less than the distance between his families house and their village's bakery where he was supposed to learn. He would never become a baker. Bakers needed to walk. As did thieves, which is what he tried. And then he lost his leg. Because he stole. Because the Silent One didn't just allow him to die.

Half-timbered house stood next to half-timbered house and wooden shack. This was not the best part of town. Even though it rained, there were people on the streets, craftsmen that preferred to work outside instead of inside their stifling workshops, merchants that sold to some shady characters, servants that had some thing or another to do for their masters and who tried to leave this part of town as soon as possible, and here or there a beggar or thief.

They noticed him. They stared at him, all of them. At least, that is what Jahm thought. Of course, someone with only one leg was noteworthy to some degree, even though Jahm knew, in his mind but not in his heart, that there were other people with only one leg, especially in this part of town. But how many of them jumped along the walls of the houses, trying to get away? Besides, how did those men and women who lost their legs in the last war, now about twenty years ago, moved from one spot to the other? Jahm didn't know. Jahm didn't care.

The streets became wider, the houses bigger and plastered. And the people, they moved faster, paid less attention to the boy who hopped along the street without even a stick to keep him upright, whose face was covered in tears from pain, anger, fear and exhaustion. Too many emotions were mixed in his mind. He couldn't tell what he felt, had long forgotten what he wanted to feel.

A dark cloud had spread over his mind and only sometimes a tentacle of sadness touched him in his heart. This was better. It was better to feel than to see nothing but darkness, but even then only the one hope existed that there might be an end to it. Nothing could ever be better again, much less good.

Two times or three, maybe four times, he was knocked to the ground by people that didn't pay attention to him. He couldn't tell what was better: being ignored or being stared at. In the end, it was all the same.

Jahm didn't know Remria. He had only seen a small part of it when he arrived, between the fever visions and the clouds of pain. That part was shabby and sad, and the nearly constant rain in the last few weeks didn't help. But now, he had reached the rich part of town, where the Pikram, a small but fast river, flowed through the city and rushed down into the depths of the sea over a steep cliff. Jahm's grandmother had often said, that you can't see beauty when you are sad. It wasn't true. Jahm saw the beauty of the place, a large square near the cliffs where a bridge connected the northern and southern bank of the river, especially now that the downpour had become a dribble. The ground was paved with white and blue stones that formed an intricate pattern, displaying waves and blowing wind, making it obvious to everyone that it was constructed in honour of the Blowing One, God of Water and Storms. A balustrade of bulgy columns separated the square from the sea deep below. Nothing of this meant anything to him. He saw it, he noticed that Claissa would have loved to sit on one of the benches near the river for a while without worry, but he just couldn't bring himself to care.

And thinking of Claissa made everything worse. He wanted to hate her because she just couldn't let him die and he wanted nothing more than to thank her and apologies. In the end, there was nothing he could do but take the burden from her that was he himself. Maybe then she would return home or at least look for work as a healer her in Remria instead of just caring for him.

He gravitated towards the balustrade, even though he had to cross a large square to reach it. There was no way he could walk that way, or jump and hop like he had done before. Tired, he fell to the ground, scraping his already sore hands on the hard stones. He crawled. But crawling isn't easy with only one leg either. It was slow going but he had his goal in mind and when the end is near, you can find strength in your body you never thought possible.

*

When Claissa returned, Jahm was gone. There was no obvious sign where he had gone or why. The blanket lay on the ground, thoughtlessly discarded.

“Jahm?” Claissa called but there was no answer.

She turned on her heels, looking back down into the alley. Nothing. She bolted down the steps, ran to the next street but there was no sign of her brother. Fear let her stumbled.

Where was he? He couldn't have gone far. How? He must be slow and she wasn't gone that long.

On the other side of the road sat a cobbler in the rain and worked on an old shoe.

“Have you seen my brother?”

The cobbler just shook his head and chewed on some herbs.

Of course not. How could he? “A boy. Fifteen. With just one leg...”

The man spat on the ground, grumbled something into his beard and than pointed with his thumb in the direction Jahm had taken.

She ran, mindlessly, stumbling over stones and debris. She ran faster than she had ever run before. No matter where Jahm was, he was in danger either from himself or the world around him. And the way he had acted the last few days...

She had done what she could. She had done the right thing. Hadn't she? He didn't say it like that, but he didn't want to live and who was she to stop him, what right did she have to decide for him?

No! I have to find him. I have to. I have to, I have to, I have to...

She did. Exhausted and panting, but she did find him. He sat on a stone balustrade and looked down into the ocean, one leg to the sea, the other... The other was gone, of course. Sometimes, she still didn't believe it, sometimes...

“Jahm!”

He looked up, his matted hair catching in the corner of his eyes. He made a move to brush it away, but then stopped himself as if he remembered that he didn't care about such small inconveniences any-more.

“Jahm, don't!” She ran up to him but stopped herself a few steps from him, even though he made no move at all, just stared at her or the empty air around her. “Don't, please. I know...”

“You know nothing.”

“Jahm, please...”

He looked away, into the grey sky, then into the frothing currents of the waterfall. “I can still feel it, you know,” he said to the last drops of the rain, “I can feel it. I think I can move it but then... then nothing is there. Nothing. The arrow is still there, too. It's cutting and burning. I still feel the wound in my flesh. The blood is still tickling away. There wasn't much. Was there when you cut it off?”

“Jahm, please, don't sit there, I... We...”

“I feel it rotting away. There, next to this road, under earth and grass. There was grass there, wasn't there?”

“You know that this isn't true, don't you? You're just imagining...”

“I know. I hoped you wouldn't come. But maybe it's better this way.” He turned around slightly and looked her directly in the eyes. “Don't ever lie to me again. There is no money left. I'm not stupid. Without me...”

“I don't want to live without you! I risked everything to save you! The Silent One himself...”

“What would a god want with me? And I don't care what you risked or not. I hate you! I hate you! I can never live again! I won't ever live again.”

“Jahm, we can find a way...”

“No, we can't!” Suddenly, without any warning, his voice became calm and sad again, “I love you Claissa, I do. You can't live for me, believe me. Believe me, it's better this way.”

“No!”

Her step came too late, the outstretched hand was too far away. The body fell without a sound.

She didn't hesitate, didn't even think about it. With one sure step, she jumped over the balustrade and followed her brother into the abyss.

*

The water hurt, not much but it hurt when he broke the frothing surface. He was lucky, reaching it head first, but he didn't know that. And once he was inside the water, there was no pain at all. The waves engulfed him, the current dragged him down, but while the waterfall was loud above the water, here it was silent and calm.

Slowly, he sank deeper and deeper. He couldn't swim, even if he wanted to, he didn't know how. It felt like standing in the rain and the sea danced around him. His leg stopped hurting and for the first time since he had left their village, he felt at peace.

And then the panic came. It came with a thud and a body hitting the water. It rushed into his lungs when he called Claissa's name and started to breathe again. He hadn't even noticed that he had held his breath. It came with water and pain, and fear in his heart.

Claissa.

The thought came slowly, was already far away when it began, but it was there, and it fought. It fought against his will. It fought against a pain he could never describe, because it was not the pain of water in his lungs or a saw at his bone, but the pain of a future that would never be.

But she, she had a future, for her there was hope and the thought screamed at him that he was awake and she was not and that there would be no future for her if not for him.

No! The thoughts were so slow, so sluggish, unconnected, while he sank further to the ground.

And then another kind of panic came, not of the mind but of the body, of a body who wanted to live. He gasped for air, but there was none, he grasped for a helping hand, but there was none, just the limp hand of his sister that had somehow found its way into his.

No. Limp. Limp isn't good. Limp is...is...

Suddenly, he tore He hadn't even noticed that they had drooped shut. But he needed to see, needed to...

No, no, no. Don't think, just, safe...

He fought against the current, against his tiredness, against the fleeting thoughts that made no sense at all. He kicked with his one good leg, splashed with his one arm, while the other was...

...busy? It held onto something, though he didn't remember what it was or why his fingers were cramped around it. He just knew that it was important.

The current was gone. The water lay still. Maybe it was too late, maybe he was too deep down now. It was dark here, darker then before. And still it felt like hope, peaceful again. Maybe there was no strength left to panic.

A last time he opened his eyes and there was no water around him. He still lay in it, sloshing peacefully against two bodies, both of them connected by a cramped hand and a strong bond, but his face was above the surface and far above him was a ceiling of rough and crude stone. It made no sense.

*

It makes perfect sense.

A voice woke her up, a voice she seemed to remember and when she looked around, the face seemed familiar too.

“My God...,” she gasped silently and the young man looked up from a blanket where he was busy putting all kinds of food on the ground. He smiled at her, but continued talking to her brother, who sat next to him, with his back to her.

“This was once a temple of the Blowing One, right underneath the square and behind the waterfall. The perfect place for this temple.”

No, he looked similar, but this wasn't the Silent One, the God of Thieves and Liars, who had helped her safe her brother. He was younger and his eyes weren't quiet as deep, though the resemblance, in hair, face- especially the smile - and statue, was uncanny.

“And then things happened â€" it's a long story â€" and we, well, we kind of took the temple for us. This is the way of my god.”

“Your god, the Silent One?” Jahm's voice sounded raspy, like he had screamed for a long time, though she couldn't remember that he had or how they ended up where they where.

“Yes, the Silent One.”

“So my leg isn't enough for him?” This tone, Claissa knew all too well. “He brings me here to do what? Maybe gods don't understand that we humans can do nothing with just one leg!”

The man just looked at Jahm for a long while, as if he was taking his time to parse through the meaning of Jahm's words, then he sighed.

“You walked from the harbour district all the way to the temple district, uphill, I might add. You climbed a balustrade that reaches to your chest, you swam under a waterfall even though you don't know how to swim. And you saved your sister from drowning. Whether the gods chose you to be here, whether you hate the Silent One especially for, I don't know what exactly, whether you'll choose to jump into the ocean again, in the end, all of this is your decision, even what you can or can't do.” He shrugged and then pointed with his head in Claissa's direction. “Your sister's awake, by the way.”

With that, he bowed slightly to her and left them alone.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

This story is set in the same world as (in chronological order):

The Naming of Names
Little Dove
Truth!
The social, friendly, honest man

It follows "Little Dove" directly and while I think everyone should be able to understand the story without knowing it, there are some details I choose not to explain. Sorry if some small parts are slightly confusing.

Baron


Blondbraid

A great entry, Sinitrena! I must definitely read your previous stories as soon as I can!
My entry touches on similar themes too, despite that I started writing on it before reading your entry, just like
with Mandle's entry in the last Fortnightly Writing Competition. I either have bad luck in my timing or a very predictable imagination.  :-\

I'll post my entry tomorrow. It's a continuation on my previous story, A broken man. I got the idea for a much longer story years ago, but decided to make parts of it into entries for the competition,
even though I had to restructure some things. I've toyed with the idea of one day making a full-length AGS project out of this story one day, but it's just writing for now.

Baron

Space Balls!

Orbs From Space! :P

   Ska Dastard rolled menacingly through the cell block to the hoots and cheers of his fellow inmates, an armed guard at either side.  His dimples were scuffed and his tattoos were scratched from eight long years in the astro-penitentiary.  If he had a chance of parole in the next 50 years he might have used his time more constructively.  Might have.  Ska was a hardened criminal, with an emphasis on hard.  They busted him for spice smuggling, barge-jacking, and racketeering, but he'd done everything in the book, usually twice over.  This recent riot business was just par for the course.

   But the Warden wasn't amused.  This would be Ska's twelfth stroke in his books, which would probably mean a lunar cycle in the cat box, or even worse, another spell in the cyclotron.  But to his fellow inmates Ska Dastard was a hero, and that kind of reputation greased a lot of gears in the joint.  It was easily worth whatever hazard the Warden could throw at him.

   Ska entered the Judgement Chamber and took his accustomed position on the Tee of Misconduct.  A magnobeam locked him to it, allowing the guards to withdraw to the periphery of the chamber.  A panel of jurors rose on tees from portals in the floor, and then at last came the Warden on the Tee of Judgement, towering over the entire proceeding.  The lights dimmed except for a spotlight fixed directly over the perpetrator.

   â€œSka Dastard,” the Warden began, “You are hereby charged with inciting riotous assemblage.  If convicted this will be your seventeenth stroke.”

   Ska shrugged as best he could within the confines of the magnobeam.  Next they'd probably charge him with being bad at math.

   â€œHow does the jury find?” the Warden continued. 

   â€œGuilty!” rang the cries from the panel.  Fair trials weren't exactly a part of Orbian culture.

   â€œSka Dastard, you are hereby found guilty of a seventeenth stroke,” the Warden continued.  “The punishment is... exile!”

   That was a new one.  An expression of confusion briefly crossed Ska's face despite himself.  Details would be forthcoming, of course.  The Warden loved the sound of his own voice when meting out sentences.

   â€œYou will be left stranded on Douchebag 3, where the yellow sun and native's penchant for fluorescent track lighting will sap you of your alien powers.  You will be a prisoner in your own shell, powerless to move, a passive witness to the barbarities of the native culture for the rest of your days!”  The Warden smiled wickedly as his tall-tee slowly withdrew into the floor portal, followed by the jury and even the guards.  Ska was left alone to contemplate his fate.

   The cyclotron was starting to look pretty comfortable.  Maybe he could-

   Suddenly a floor portal opened beneath him and he was sucked out into the vacuum of space, sent hurtling in the direction of the bluish Douchebag 3.  He screamed as the yellow sun bombarded him with strength-sapping radiation, but Ska had a thick shell and was inured to pain.  He would survive.  He would escape.  He would have his rev-

   At that moment he entered the nitrous atmosphere of Douchebag 3 and his shell began to oxidize with a glowing flame.  “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!” he screamed as he plummeted to the surface at two kilometers per second.  And as painful as the burning of atmospheric entry was, it had nothing on the pain of impact that was about to-

   WHAM!  Ska left a crater almost a meter across right in the middle of a stretch of urban asphalt before bouncing back hundreds of meters in the air.  Strangely he noticed that there were many other such potholes throughout the urban fabric, but they seemed to go unrepaired by the natives.  What kind of  deadbeat losers lived here anyway?

   WHAM!  Ska made another impact, this time merely cracking what was left of a pedestrian right-of-way before bouncing scores of meters into the air again.  He felt nauseous at all of the changes in direction, but wouldn't give up now that he was so close to landing.  Now there was nothing beneath him but a nice soft carpet of grass.  He gently skipped another four times, and then rolled to a stop.

   Whew!  His ordeal was over.  But wait... who was THAT?!?  Not two meters from him, nestled next to some broad ground foliage, there lay another Orbian!  What were the chances?  “Hey!” Ska called to him.  “Hey you!  Can you help me out, bro?”

   â€œNo way, man,” the other Orbian called back.  He lay half in shade and was able just barely to rock back and forth.

   â€œC'mon, bro!” Ska called. 

   But the other Orbian had now managed to roll entirely into the shade and laughed with glee.  “You're the Titliest 4 now, man!”  he called as he disappeared into the rough.

   Ska strained and pulled, but he couldn't move from his spot on the open green.  What had the other Orbian meant?  When darkness descended he would surely-

   But what was this now?  A club wielding native barbarian was approaching, with a pair of radiation-filtering lenses over his ocular nerves and a can of anger-sauce in his hand.  He immediately spotted Ska and planted his feet to either side.

   â€œGreetings, Douchebaggian,” Ska began, trying his best to affect the same accent he had heard from his fellow Orbian, hoping that it would somehow pass for native language.  “I have come here from an advanced society to-”

   Suddenly there was a light tap against his side.  Ska turned to notice the business end of the native's iron club looming menacingly next to him.  And then it withdrew away, far away.  And then it approached even more quickly, and Ska braced for impact....

   But then nothing.  What was going on here?!?  The bizarre ritual repeated itself twice more, and Ska began to think that these Douchebaggians were crazier than they were barbarous.  Then suddenly, on the fourth iteration of the ritual, the iron club did not stop and slapped him upside the head so hard he thought his brain would juice itself inside his shell.  He soared up high again, before bouncing gently on the grass a few times and coming to rest again.

   What had he done to deserve such ill-treatment?  If only he could regain his powers, he would wreak his vengeance on that senseless barbarian!

   But vengeance for some unknown offence flowed only one way that day.  Ska was driven, and sliced, and beaten to within an inch of his life.  Once the beast even tried drowning him, fishing him out with a long pole only at the very last moment.  Finally, at the end of the day, when at last the sun plunged close to the horizon and Ska felt his powers starting to return, he was zipped into a prison that smelled of dead cow with a dozen or so other former inmates of the astro-penitentiary.

   â€œBrothers!” Ska gasped, trying hopelessly to roll in the crowded confines.  “What terrible place is this?  Tell me there are no greater horrors on this planet?”

   The other Orbians huddled together in silence for a long moment.  Then one bravely spoke up: “There is a juvenile in the barbarian household that likes to clog up the plumbing at his educational center....”


Blondbraid

Awesome entry, Baron, and the ending really sent me laughing!  (laugh)

I guess my story isn't very humorous, much like Sinitrena's, it deals with some dark subjects like depression, ptsd and imprisonment.
If anyone wants to read it, here is the link to my previous story about the protagonist, A broken man.

Still a prisoner

Paul woke up screaming, but fell silent immediately once he realized where he was. But it was too late, his scream had already woken Gerda. She reached out an arm for him, but when she didn't feel him lying next to her in their bed she opened her eyes and sat up. Paul was lying on the floor next to the bed, curled up with his arms around his legs and pressing his chin against his knees. He was struggling to breathe.

Confused and worried Gerda asked "Did you fall out of the bed?". "Yes…" Paul answered. It was a lie of course, once Gerda had gone to sleep Paul had crept out of the bed and laid himself on the floor, he had hoped it would help him go to sleep. Back in the soviet prison camp, he and the other German prisoners of war had not had any real beds, just harsh bunks with some hay on them, and now when he was home, the bed was too soft.

In the room right next to their bedroom, little Leo had started crying. "I'll go put Leo back to sleep." Gerda said and walked out the door. Paul waited until she had left the room before he got up. He didn't want her to see the mess he had made, a wet stain spreading between his legs. He went to the bathroom to clean himself. When he did, he made sure to lock the door.

It was all so unfair, all the things he had wished to do, that which he could only dream about in the camp, had shown to be just as impossible here at home, but now they were not mere memories a thousand miles away, now they surrounded him constantly, but were just, only just precise  out of his reach. He had lost track of how many times he and the other prisoners had fantasized about all the foods they would eat once they left the camp, apfelstrudel, steak and potatoes, goulash with plenty of meat simmering around, white fluffy bread with a golden crust, all drenched in impossible amounts of sugar and butter. But once he came home, he had struggled to keep down just a few bites of the food Gerda had served, and only coarse dark bread and watered down broth didn't give him stomach pain. So much else had been lost in the camp as well, and he didn't know how to get it back.

Leo, his own son, had spent the first years of his life without ever seeing his father, and when Gerda had taken him to the train station to see him for the first time, the little boy had been scared of him. Perhaps with good reason, for while Paul was in the army, and then later on in the camp, he had always been completely exhausted whenever he could get a precious few hours of sleep, to such a degree that he almost immediately fell asleep when he laid down. When he was home, things had not been so easy. He didn't only struggle with changing hard wooden planks for a soft mattress, but the nightmares as well. He hadn't dreamt about losing his teeth before, but several nights now that painful memory had resurfaced, that of a drunk Russian who had first forced Paul's mouth open, but then moved on to another prisoner and proceeded to bash the man's teeth in. In his dream, every single tooth was broken and ripped out one by one by large and filthy hands. But it wasn't the other man's teeth in the dream.

Paul didn't even notice that he had started crying, it wasn't fair. They had set him free, yet he was still a prisoner. He struggled to breathe again, and tried to concentrate. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat the process again, and again. It was Leah who had taught him that in the soviet camp, back when he first had heard the news from her and the other doctor there. Despite there being no visible damage, the backbreaking work in the camp had ruined his body, and now he was to be considered an invalid, unable to do any heavy work. The word Leah had first used was helpless, and Paul felt helpless indeed. He was unable to do any physical work, and the war had prevented him from getting any higher education, so the best he could hope for was maybe a small pension, but he had no idea where to turn for such a request. The idea felt wrong to him, being unable to take care of his family, and not being able to take care of himself. When he was in school, his teacher had given him a math problem. How many houses could you build from all the money it takes to provide for an invalid? How long road could you build? How many people could you feed? He didn't remember any numbers, but he remembered what the conclusion was. Gerda would be forced to continue working, but now not only to feed her child but to provide for an invalid as well. He was staring into the mirror now, but he didn't look at his reflection. A thought was growing in Paul's head, slowly eating up everything else.

Very slowly he unlocked the door. He walked carefully into the bedroom as to not wake Gerda or Leo again and started to get dressed. It would be better if he left without any questions or goodbyes. He stopped for a moment and looked at Gerda sleeping in the bed. She had started to cut her hair short, just below the ears, some time while he had been away in Russia. Before that she always had her long hair in a bun at the back of her head, but otherwise, it was as if she barely had aged a day. She was still young and beautiful. Paul on the other hand felt like he had aged fifty years during the five he had been gone. He barely had any strength or energy left in his body and his hair was more grey than brown. When he was released from the camp he had only a worn bag with a few donated clothes in it, but he had barely unpacked it during the week he had been home. Yet he decided to leave the bag where it was, for he wouldn't need it where he was going. Gently and quietly he slipped out into the night.

When Gerda woke up without feeling Paul next to her, a thought of horror fluttered at the back of her mind, that Paul wasn't home and that he had never been home and that soon she would remember that he had died in Russia and the last week had only been a dream. But when she sat up and blinked a few times, she came to her senses. It was real, and Paul was just in the next room and would be back any moment. It had not been as she had hoped when he finally returned from captivity, he had argued with her a few times and he had explained that he wouldn't be able to begin working, but what truly got to her was what she saw when he thought she wouldn't notice. It was all very subtle things, how he slumped his shoulders and bent his head down to how his hands were trembling and nervously wringing each other. He had lost his engagement ring too, and even if she had told him that she understood, there was still a lingering bitterness in her head, asking why he hadn't protected it better if he truly cared, but she tried to push these thoughts away when they came up.

The war, the soviets, the long years of captivity, none of this had been Paul's fault and he was still the father of Leo. She could have found another man, but she didn't, and every day she had thought of him and hoped for his return. Gerda started to wonder where he was, for it was almost dawn and he still hadn't come back to bed. It was her usual time to rise up anyway, so she got up and walked around the apartment. Leo was still sleeping, but there was no sign of Paul. She knocked on the bathroom door, then noticed it wasn't locked and the room was empty. Paul wasn't home. She began to feel worried again, but told herself that he maybe just had walked out to get some fresh air. Who wouldn't need to get some air after a nightmare that woke him up screaming such as he did? She could only hope that he would return before it was time for her to leave Leo with the woman next door and leave for work, she wouldn't want Paul to come home to an empty apartment when he was in such a frail state. There was no use to go out and search for him, she had no idea of where he would go, all she could do was wait.

Gerda dressed herself and went into the kitchen to make some tea, but hesitated. Should she make only tea for herself, or make enough for Paul as well? She poured a little more into the kettle. But as she sat at the table with her warm cup, her worry only grew. She couldn't tell for how long Paul had been gone, and a dark premonition begun haunting her thoughts. Should she contact any authorities, tell them that her man was missing and he had been distraught when she last had seen him? She slowly walked up to the phone and began dialing, but she didn't call the police. She called her work and explained that she wasn't feeling well and that she wouldn't show up there this morning. It wasn't entirely a lie. She did feel a dark twisting knot in her stomach and in her throat. She would wait for Paul a few hours longer.
Gerda almost fell out of her chair when she heard the door knocking. She hurried towards the door and fumbled the lock open. When she opened the door she had no idea what to say, she just stared at both the men by the opening. The man at the back was an older man with white hair and scars on his face, probably old enough to have received those scars in the first great war. He was certainly too old to be a veteran of the last war. She didn't recognize the other man at first since he had a large coat draped over his shoulders, but suddenly she realized that it was Paul.

Paul didn't say anything, just hugged her tight and stayed that way. He knew that it wouldn't last, Gerda would wonder why he was wearing the jacket that the man he had met on the bridge had handed to him, and it would only be a matter of time before he would be confronted with what he almost came to do, but right then and right there it all seemed so distant. He just wanted to savor this one moment, this one beautiful fleeting moment before he would begin that long and arduous struggle of living a normal life again. He was home now.



Mandle

Anyone still working on something and would like an extension?

I'm gonna be busy for about the next 12 hours with work so unless someone speaks up before then I will close the contest and open voting.

Stupot

Sorry. I had something on the go. Thought it was a funny idea but didn't get very far and I won't have time to finish it. Here's what I got:
Spoiler

Left Behind

Warwick rubbed his elbow. The lady next to him did the same. He said sorry. One of them, maybe both, would have a bruise in the morning. This was a common occurrence in these tight ramen shops. It's why he usually chose a seat at the end of the bench. But today he'd left work late so now everywhere was crowded. He looked at the silver smudge on his hand and chastised himself. It was his own fault his boss made him resubmit the form. He should learn to stop using a pencil for these things.

After dinner he made his way to the station. Got to the ticket gate. Ran his card over the reader. *bzzzz* Red flashing. Nope. Dropped his card. Bent to pick it up as a crowd of hungry salarymen (politely not tutting out loud, but almost certainly tutting inwardly) formed behind him. He got through the gate and made it through the next twenty minutes without incident.


At home, Warwick sighed to himself in the mirror as he fumbled to unzip his trousers and said to his right-handed reflection, "and I'm not even fucking creative."
...

[close]

Mandle

We could leave the contest open until Thursday if you need the time Stupot. I understand you have time off work then?

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