SHORT STORY ENTRANTS THREAD!!

[kia027]

Please feel free to post your entry for the Short Story Contest in this thread!!

[Lacy]

Re: SHORT STORY ENTRANTS THREAD!!

<span style="font-weight: bold">Praying for a Miracle</span>

I’m not all that religious. But, for some reason, I still believe in praying. Don’t know how much good it does, though. Seems to me that stuff is gonna happen the way it’s meant to happen anyway--which kinda makes praying more like wishful thinking, when you get right down to it. I’m wishing something would happen--and I’m thinking—it sure would be nice if somebody showed up to help me out right about now. Most times, I wouldn’t care who that somebody was, just as long as they helped.

That don’t appear to be the case with praying. Although it always confused me some, everybody thinking they got their own direct line to a different god, when it seems to me they’re all calling in on the same prayer party line and they just don’t know it.

So, I guess maybe there is a difference between wishful thinking and praying, and that’s why I still believe in praying, too. I figure, might as well cover all of my bases. Increase the odds. Cuz, you never know who’s listening to you. I guess, the way I see it--if I’m already set about wishful thinking, a little praying couldn’t hurt.

The crowd interrupts my religious meditation with their collective groan.

“Seven.” The craps dealer barks out, and I open my eyes.

“God dammit.” I was praying for a nine.

My stack of $5 red chips is scooped up into a haphazard pile in front of the dealer. Fortunately, I don’t give much credence to the power of prayer; so, my contribution to the collection plate on this pass is minuscule compared to the burnt offerings coughed up by the agitated high-roller standing next to me.

“Jesus-Frickin’-Christ!?!” The man slaps his hand against the padded railing of the craps table, and turns away, groaning, as the dealer collects the towering stack of $100 black chips standing on the pass line in front of him.

“Sorry, Mr. Wyatt.” The young Asian working our side of the table offers up his practiced apology with just the right amount of feigned sympathy. In truth, the boy’s probably only sorry because he was praying that one of those black chips might be coming his way as a tip.

“You’re killing me here, Chu.” Wyatt fingers the dwindling pile of chips neatly stacked in the tray in front of him. I slyly glance down and count his stake. Twenty minutes ago, the man handed a $5,000 marker to the pit boss in exchange for five stacks of $100 chips. Only eight remain.

“The gambling gods must be on a coffee break.” I offer up, reaching down to place a red chip on the pass line in front of me.

The stick man slides the dice to a tall man in a panama hat. With the flick of his wrist, the shooter launches the dice up into the air. They arch gracefully past the stick man, and fly over the numbered boxes on my side of the table. Twenty heads simultaneously turn toward me, and then shift their collective gaze to the corner of the table. The pair of red jewels bounces lightly off the padded side, landing against my pass line bet.

The table groans. Panana Hat’s come out roll is a three. Craps. My red chip disappears. I replace it with another.

“Hope their coffee clutch is over.” Wyatt snorts, laying a black chip on the pass line next to mine, before adding, “Time for them to get back to work. I could use a miracle about now.”

“Then maybe I’ll leave the praying to you.” I reply, smiling. “I prayed for the last shooter to roll me a nine. I was blessed with a seven.”

The new shooter’s second roll is a five. Chu flips the button to “on,” and slides it over the green felt surface, stopping when he reaches the white box stamped with the point number. A flurry of multi-colored chips rains down on the table, accompanied by a chorus of singing voices.

“Six and eight.”
“Hard ten.”
“Gimme the full line.”
“C and E”

Chu efficiently sorts through the offerings scattered around the table. Quickly sliding each called bet to the appropriate number, he carefully places the chips between the hash marks that correspond to the individual player’s position at the table. Wyatt counts out three more black chips and places an odds bet behind his pass line bet. I slip the same size stack of red chips next to his. He looks over at me, surprised. I offer a lopsided grin.

“You sure you want to bet with me?”

“Why not?” I shrug, turning back to the table for Panama Hat’s next roll. “Eventually somebody’s prayers gotta be answered. Might as well be yours.”

The roll is a six.

A squat, blue-haired old lady standing next to the stick man is clutching a crucifix, and squealing. Chu lays out one red chip and two white $1 chips next to the woman’s $6 bet. He pauses for a moment so that the overhead camera can record the transaction, and then pushes the chips across the table. The woman’s stubby arm swoops down to collect her winnings. Kissing the top of Jesus’s head, she blesses herself and calls out across the table. “Come on, shooter. Do it again.”

Panana Hat rolls another six.

“Thank you, Jesus.” Blue Hair squeals again. This time, the stubby arm clutching the Jesus head shoots up in the air, and the tortured body of Christ starts dancing. I decide Blue Hair must be a Baptist.

Wyatt snorts, tossing another black chip out onto the table. “Gimme the six, Chu, I’m playing with Jesus.”

In one swift motion, Chu slides the $7 payout to Blue Hair, and picks up Wyatt’s $100 bet, moving it across the table to the number six box, and depositing it next to the old lady’s called bet. Then, the Asian claps his hands, once, shows his empty palms to the overhead camera, deftly flips them over, and pats the table. “Good luck, Mr. Wyatt.”

“Maybe I should have brought my rosary.” Wyatt gives a short laugh, leans over the table, clasps his hands together, and appears to be praying.

“Did you really bring a rosary?” I launch a red and white chip across the table. They bounce once and fall in the number six box. “What for? Don’t Catholics believe everything is preordained, anyway?”

Chu’s hand snakes out, and he slides my bet between the hash marks on six, just as Panama Hat launches his next roll. The dice clink against the corner of the table beneath Wyatt, and land directly in front of our pass line bets.

Two fours. Hard eight.

Blue Hair and Jesus are dancing again. A group of twenty-somethings on the other end of the table are whooping it up, too. After high-fiving everyone, they spin around once, start singing, and launch into a little dance. Looks to me like the Baptists are on a roll tonight.

“I don’t own a rosary.” Wyatt admits with a laugh, tossing another black chip onto the table. “I was raised Catholic, but I haven’t been to church in ten years. You could say that me and the Lord had a little falling out.” His black chip lands on a wide area of the table stamped with “Field,” a single roll bet that pays out on a 2, 3, 4, 9, 10, 11, or 12.

“So, you’re playing the field then?” I launch a red chip across the line. It rolls past the other man’s black marker, and settles on the far end of the “Field” box. “Me, too. Better odds.”

Panama Hat rolls the dice. One skids off the top of Blue Hair’s pass line bet and falls dead in the middle of the table. A five. The other bounces off the padded side and hops to the wall beneath me. I peek over the railing. The die is cocked up against the corner. On its face is another five. Hard ten.

“You won, Mr. Wyatt.” The Asian sounds genuinely relieved, as he quickly dumps a black and a red chip next to our respective bets.

“Press it.” Wyatt calls out.

Chu looks up at the man, and hesitates. “You sure?”

“Press the man’s bet, for godsake. Mine, too. You think this is our first time to church?” The Asian gives me a sour look, before he stacks the chips. He’ll probably blame me later for his lousy tip. I don’t much care. I didn’t come here looking to hand out charity, anyway.

Panama Hat launches his next roll. The dice sweep around the corner beneath Wyatt and come out the other end by me. I lean over and spy a six and a five—eleven—and holler out a whoop of my own. I imagine if I was clutching Blue Hair’s Jesus right now, he would be dancing, too.

“Another win.” Chu makes a show of laying out the two black chips next to Wyatt’s bet, and then drops two red chips next to mine.

“Press it again.” Wyatt’s tone is even. He lowers his head over his clasped hands. The odds were probably against us. But, I wasn’t the one bent over praying for a miracle with $400 on the line.

Hell, yeah. Me, too.” I shout out. I figure, if anything, the entertainment value had to be worth the $20 I had riding on this thing.

The Asian stacks our chips. Panama Hat is pulling his arm back, getting ready to launch the dice, when Wyatt suddenly lifts his head and shouts out, “Box cars, Shooter.”

The two red jewels arch past the stick man, fly over our “Field” bets and bury themselves in the corner next to me. I can’t look, and close my eyes, praying.

“Seven.” The dealer barks out.

“Jesus-Frickin’-Christ!” I hear the man next to me pound on the railing of the craps table.

“Sorry, Mr. Wyatt.” Chu leans forward and scoops up the stack of chips in front of us; and then, clears the rest of the table, before adding our “Field” bets to the enormous pile of chips already in front of him.

I take up the three red chips from the tray in front of me, and slide them into my pocket, feeling a little guilty that I may have enjoyed the other man’s misery, a bit too much.

Maybe I should have stuck with the Baptists. Apparently, no one’s answering the Catholic prayer line this evening.

[Bizzy]

Re: SHORT STORY ENTRANTS THREAD!!

Ohhhh (((Lacy))))

[Bizzy]

Re: SHORT STORY ENTRANTS THREAD!!

weh Nunya, ILP, Phatty etc deh??

[Peasie]

Re: SHORT STORY ENTRANTS THREAD!!

<div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Quote:</div><div class="ubbcode-body">etc </div></div> Ah who yuh ah call etc?

Mi coming wid one story.

[Bizzy]

Re: SHORT STORY ENTRANTS THREAD!!

Well hurry up an stop hitch caw to how mi seet de one smaddy weh enter win...

[Lacy]

Re: SHORT STORY ENTRANTS THREAD!!

<div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: BiziBubbla</div><div class="ubbcode-body">weh Nunya, ILP, Phatty etc deh?? </div></div>

I happen to <span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="font-style: italic">know for a fact</span></span> that *I* am not the only storyteller around here. <span style="font-style: italic">Adding BB, BND1999, SandiF and neutral to that list.</span>

[Bandana]

Re: SHORT STORY ENTRANTS THREAD!!

<span style="font-size: 14pt">
<span style="text-decoration: underline">Under the Mango Tree</span>

Lora had been going to Jamaica for years. She knew the runnings, she knew the hustle. She had made many friends and she understood the struggle that led them to do the things she had witnessed. She didn’t like it; she hated to see good people resort to bad behavior in order to put food on the table. She helped where she could, but she never partook in the “pleasures” she’d seen so many tourists indulge in. No, Lora went to Jamaica to unwind, to recharge and to help where she could. She’s had enough heart break in her life, Jamaica was her healing place and she wasn’t about to mix the two.

***

George sat on the edge of the property under the mango tree watching her. He wondered how he could approach her without scaring her off. He’d seen her turn down every man who’d tried to make advances. George just wanted to make conversation; he wanted to know why such a lovely woman came to this beach every year alone. Most women George had seen who came alone eventually ended up with some company. Not her. She spent her days in the sand reading; she went next door and enjoyed a little medi with the Rasta man, all the while declining anything more. Never rude; always smiling, she was beautiful. George watched as she called out to the fruit lady. He admired how she always noticed the hardest workers and lined their pockets with something. Her smile was genuine and it never failed to stir his emotions. Why did this foreign woman draw him so intensely? George had never looked twice at foreign women in general. There were times when he’d been offered, money stuck in his pocket, words whispered in his ear. George always told them he was there for their security and he could not keep them safe with such distractions. Every morning George went home to his modest shelter alone. It had been three years since him and Baby Lee had broken things off. He didn’t miss the drama that woman brought to his life.

***

Lora felt his eyes on her again. It unnerved her that she could tell his presence even before she saw him. She knew the days he worked, she knew his shift, and she even knew his name. George. In the three years since he had been hired here at her favorite resort, he had not said one word to her. After 10 years of vacationing in Jamaica she had heard all the lines. She could spot the players a mile away, but most of them had given up on her. They knew she was not interested and they seemed to respect her more for it. George never said a word to her. She realized that was the second time she had thought those words… why did she want him to talk to her? Why did he draw her so? He took his place under the mango tree every evening and he stood guard all night. Even tho she would not admit it to herself she looked forward to seeing him in that chair under the mango tree. She felt safe when George was on duty.

***

George watched as she packed up her book and sun block, wrapped her fresh mango and pineapple in her towel and headed back to her condo. He knew she would come out to sit on her balcony later but he had lost his chance to speak to her. Silently he cursed himself, what the heck would he say to her anyway? Why did he want to talk to that foreign woman? Who cares why she comes alone every year. There could be nothing between them. George was sure of that.

***

Lora turned up the music and made her way to the kitchen to clean up the afternoon dishes before dinner. She could see him perched on his chair out the kitchen window. He looked angry. This disturbed her as he always seemed so even tempered. Just then the knife she was washing slipped and cut a slit in the palm of her hand. The crimson color quickly filled the sink. She jumped back and grabbed the towel off the counter. Wiping the cut she looked at the wound. It was deep. Lora had nothing here in her apartment that could bandage such a wound. She made her way down the stairs and to the bar clutching her towel wrapped hand. The bartender quickly jumped into action offering her another towel as the one she had was already blood soaked, he called out for George to come. Lora swallowed hard. She refused to take her eyes off her own bleeding hand and look his way.

***

George was already on his feet and moving toward them when Clive called out. He had seen her coming and he had seen the blood. Why his own blood felt like ice coursing through his veins he could not say, nor did he care about anything but getting to her. And then he was there and he was holding her hand keeping pressure on it and telling Clive to get the first aid kit from the front desk.
Lora looked up at him and their eyes met. She did not know if the dizzy feeling was due to the blood loss or the worry she saw in his gaze. Somehow he sensed she needed a chair and he gently led her to one. George kneeled in front of her and Clive brought the first aid kit. With the tenderness of a nurse George’s big hands cleaned and dressed her wound without a word. When he was done he looked back to her face. George spoke his first words to Lora that day: “You must be more careful sweet one; I can’t bear to see you bleeding.”

***

They talked for hours every day thereafter. They laughed till they cried. They both felt a connection like no other and one year from that day Lora married George under that mango tree.

</span>

[Bizzy]

Re: SHORT STORY ENTRANTS THREAD!!

Dang. Just 2 story what a disappointment

[Nunya]

Re: SHORT STORY ENTRANTS THREAD!!

Dem need fi put anedda zero pon de prize money...