Writer's Notebook

This week's Fiction Friday prompt is: A man aspiring to be a pro bowler loses to his young daughter. I'm afraid I know absolutely nothing about professional bowling so I've taken some liberties with this post, above all transporting it to the UK and the sport of lawn bowling. But the essence of the prompt is still there.

Friday afternoon in the park. The sun sat down on players and spectators alike. Thanks to the now experienced park-keeper and the early morning rain that day, the greens were immaculate. Everyone was looking forward to an excellent evening's bowling. Club championship. First round. 64 of the best bowlers in the club pitting their skills against each other. And for the first time a woman had made into first round. Ginetta had won the junior championship three years running. Last year she had also partnered the club captain to the final of the pairs, losing only to her grandfather and his long-standing bowling partner. Polite applause, the closest thing you'll get to enthusiasm in bowls, accompanied the arrival of the club secretary with the pairings. In his best monotone voice he read out the names, hesitating when he got to the fourth pairing:

"Mercetto Brintini..." He raised his eyes towards Mercetto before adding "... Ginetta Brintini."

Try as he might it took at least three minutes for order to be re-established. This was going to be the game of day. For years Mercetto had been after the club championship; ever since he had been seduced to leave their oldest rivals and come and join them it had eluded. Pairs, fours, mixed pairs... some several times. But never the championship. Never, that is, until the previous year. Fate had smiled on him that year. A storm had brought a postponement of the original date set for the final. The rearranged tie was fixed for the day of Mercetto's 60th birthday. The whole Brintini clan turned out to see him. His opponent had little choice. Win and get lynched or put a brave face on things.

Most people were convinced Mercetto would retire from championship bowls after that. He himself, had no such thoughts. He was the title holder, he was determined to defend his title. Walking towards their rink, a smile on his face, he proclaimed for all to hear:

"The chit will win the first two sets but then I'll wipe her off the green."

Ginetta herself, was delighted to be playing against her grandfather. She was a chip off the old block if ever there was one, but today it was her wisdom which shone through. She simply kept her mouth shut and let her bowling do the talking. Not that that had much to say mind you. Despite her father's best efforts she lost the first set badly. Her length had gone to pieces and she wasn't able to get any real draw on the woods. In the second she faired a little better but still lost, scoring just two points.

Mercetto was exasperated. He walked off the back of the rink and up to the club secretary who was refereeing their game.

"What did I tell you about letting girls into the championship. Girls were born to play girls. They have no business playing with us. They can't even win when you let them." And arms flaying he poured out a torrent of insults against his granddaughter. The referee stepped up and warned but Mercetto continued.

"Mercetto docked one point for misbehaviour," he announced.

"Mercetto docked one point... docked one point. You could dock me a hundred bloody points and I still couldn't lose. She doesn't know the first thing about bowling."

The referee stood his ground. Any more of this and he would disqualify Mercetto. Then he caught sight of the tears streaming down Ginetta's eyes. The girl was visibly shaken by the outburst but in her eyes he also saw the steely coldness of the Brindinis. She didn't need a knight in shining armour to come to her rescue. She could do that herself.

"Play on!" he called out.

Now it was Mercetto's turn to stutter. He lost the next set without winning a single point, before taking six straight points at the beginning of the next. With victory in sight, his smile came back but his bragging had stopped. Which was fortunate for him as Ginetta fought back and won 21 points in a row to take the set. And so the two locked horns for the final battle.

Ginetta took the early advantage and kept it by constantly changing the length of play. She knew her grandfather hated short lengths but by varying it, she stopped him from getting any regularity into his play. But Mercetto wasn't a champion for nothing and once he succeeded in gaining a pointed, played a series of long lengths and began picking up points. But his lead never extended itself to more than one or two points and when Ginetta took two points on a long jack which Mercetto had set up, they were locked at 19-19. What turned out to be the final rubber was fascinating. Ginetta had one wood to play with three woods were clustered around the jack To the onlookers it seemed as if one point, maybe two would go to Mercetto. But the decision would be a tough one and would probably require the measure. Ginetta stepped up to the mat wood in hand. She had two options. Thunder the wood down the rink and try and take out her grandfather's two or try and squeeze through the tiny gap and hope it ended near enough to give her the point. It was the final option she took and a gasp went up from the crowd as the wood drew through the gap coming to a stop just millimetres away from the jack. The point was hers, that much was obvious. The referee stooped measure in hand with Mercetto watching over his every move. But he couldn't fault him in the least. Her second wood must have been almost half a centimetre closer. Mercetto stalked away before the referee even had time to announce the result. Ginetta, a beaming smile on her face turned to acknowledge her grandfather but he was nowhere to be seen. The club captain came up and congratulated her, before leading the referee away into the office. Their deliberation was short and sweet.

The letter, informing Mercetto of his immediate suspension came as he himself was putting pen to paper to inform the secretary of his decision to resign.

It was meant to be the third and last time: a triangle of love and joy. Joel hobbled out onto the hotel terrace and looked at the fuming clouds above him. The film of feelings linking him to the behemoth churned away deep within. He saw his wife pulling him up that last little rock, his body vibrant with elation as the two stood on the summit holding his wooden leg high above his head. The repeat performance with his son, much harder with the passing years; the smiles and arms wound around each other as sang out the praises of the creator with all their heart. The music still hummed in his ears. And...

But no, no 'and'. That most cherished of pictures was the one that never was; almost replaced by the one most feared. Joel shuddered. His enthusiasm, her reticence.

"I want this more than anything else."

"I know Dad, but we want to get back down."

It had been a lucky escape. Just a few inches more... He turned his away eyes. As he went back into the room he saw her tranquil body asleep beneath the sheets and muttered a heartfelt thanks to that self-same creator.

It's been billed as the event of the century. 5 long years people have been waiting. Yet now that it's here, it's hard to know what the event really is. Everyone's talking about Thursday, but the real action - i.e. sitting back in my armchair, beer in hand, trying to decide why the man in the centre is not performing as well as he usually does - has long since died away by then.

Of course, we do all participate in the event itself; rushing into the station, pencil in hand, surprised at the long list of names someone thrusts into our hand. We can't be bothered to figure out who they all are. A quick X marks the spot and it's all over. Your own personal record - 27.85 seconds from start to finish, unless of course, you can't remember which name on that long list you really wanted to mark. As you leave the station, there's a somewhat anti-climactic feeling. But at least, you've participated and there's always the next time to look forward to... five years on.

That evening, once it's all over, the excitement mounts again, whipped up by media boys showing us how interest is down, but promising to get us all excited in whatever it was that didn't really interest us in the first place. But in spite of the promised excitement, you fall asleep in front of the T.V. and wake up to find those bloody ***s have won after all. So it's off to work to join your colleagues in the greatest slanging match the world has known.

The real event has begun.

This week's Fiction Friday prompt: “My husband doesn’t know, but he will soon.”

"Okay come on, out with it."

Sheena glances at Olwyn. Her smile barely makes it across the table.

"Now, don't tell me there's nothing wrong. We've been meeting together every week for the last eighteen months and today you don't even seem to know who I am."

The same nervous smile. The same hesitation. She opens up her bag and fishes out a letter, placing it on the table in front of her. Olwyn frowns but waits. It seems to require a tremendous act of will for Sheena to push the letter across the table. Olwyn picks it up just as the waitress brings a second pot of tea. She reads it through twice.

"I see what you mean. Does John know about this?"

"No, but he soon will. We're having dinner with Phil and Bev on Saturday. Besides, there'll be a public announcement next week at the latest."

"Is this going to hurt John's career?"

"I don't see how it can. But it'll be awfully embarassing and..." Her voice fails her. She fishes in her bag for a handkerchief but has to make do with the gold crested serviette sitting on the table.

"I... I just don't know how he's going to take it. John's given more than his career to the institute. It's become his obsession. And he never forced Phil; not a bit. But only I know how proud he was when Phil started to follow in his footsteps. He took him to all the debates. Every meal time one argument or other would be demolished alongside whatever was on the plate. And he did all he could to help Phil in his studies. He spent ages combing the bookstores for Christmas and birthdays... that's what all his royalties went on. Anything he could do, he did. But he never used his influence to get him anywhere. Phil wouldn't have let him, not that he ever wanted to. And the day Phil received his PhD he cried buckets before and after the ceremony."

"So won't he be proud of Phil's achievement? They may be on opposing sides but..."

"Opposing sides! Do you know what this means? Phil will be the lead speaker at next month's congress debate. They're bound to pick him. They won't miss a publicity coup like this. Father and son at each other's academic throat. It'll be the death of John. After all he's done."

Sheena bursts into tears. Not even the serviette can alleviate her distress. Olwyn helps her out into the street and they hail a taxi. As they pass the Swan Hotel, Olwyn looks out the window hoping to catch a glimpse of John on his way to their rendezvous as a tear trickles down her cheek.

This week's 3WW words: depart, ignite, rotten

Paddy had one great love in his life - his love for France. And now dear reader, I can see you smile already. You know or think you know that it was really one of the infamous French demoiselles that had ignited such love. I am sorry to disillusion you but such was not the case. Indeed, it was difficult to say what it was that brought on this great love. It was certainly not those wonderful, holiday weeks spent on golden beaches with his parents, for Paddy had never even visited France. Nor was it a love for the rolling valleys resplendent with overripe vines, their nectar dripping down into the streams below. You see, like most Irishmen, Paddy preferred black heaviness to sparkling white. And as already alluded to, the young demoiselles, be ye they from Avignon or elsewhere played no roll in his love either. So I'm afraid his love for France will have to remain one of those unfathomable mysteries, putting him in line with millions of French - men and women - who themselves show a devoted love to their country without being able to explain why.

But if the reason for this love is beyond us, the fact itself remains as unwavering as ever. And so imagine Paddy's excitement when after many years of longing and waiting chance finally knocked on his door and the opportunity presented itself for him to see his beloved face to face. For weeks beforehand, Paddy could not contain himself. He prepared his journey meticulously. Every morning before breakfast he would devour the latest edition of the Beginner's Dictionary, following that up with a series of entrancing flights in which he would conjure up one image after the other, revealing aspect after aspect of his beloved's character. And in the week before his departure he washed his feet at least three times a day in order to be sure nothing could spoil the sanctity of the soil he was going to touch.

But if Paddy's love for France was immense, his hatred of cars was even greater. And so, as Paddy first glimpsed the terrain his heart had so longed for, he raced onto deck to be the first to disembark and embrace his long lost lover. But before he could do so, the bowels of the ferry opened and out poured a stream of cars all desiring to penetrate each nook and cranny of his heart's desire. Paddy immediately took fright and did the only thing he could do faced with such horror... he ran. He ran and he ran until he finally found shelter in a pokey, rotten, little cellar in the middle of one of the dingiest streets that county had to offer, where he remains to this day.

But if Paddy's love was ardent, it was also true. The moment a speck of light poured through the crack in the wall that served as his window to the world Paddy would begin writing. As the speck became a ray and beat its constant progress across the wall opposite, Paddy's fingers would become feverish in production - eulogies of praise to his lover; eulogies which no one would ever read.

A quarter past three. Lacy was late - again. Francis' face began to give a good impression of the Icelandic volcano which had taken one cigarette too many. His colleagues kept well clear of him at such times. The minutes ebbed away. Francis picked up the newspaper and flipped through from back to front in under two minutes.

"There never is anything worth reading in this rag."

He'd forgotten it was actually his newspaper; the one that had published his first freelance articles; the one with whom he was at that moment negotiating a large contract. His mind started to wander. He saw himself on top of a podium making his Nobel speech. But the Nobel was only given over to literature. Literature was story-telling. Literature was only for the make-believes of the world. He hated story-telling. Random facts, slanted as you will. That was what true writing was all about. So, he awarded himself a Pulitzer for journalism instead.

He was jotting a few notes on his desk blotter when Janice came up.

"What on earth..."

He glanced up on her and then back down onto his desk. Lacy Scottskin found dead. Journalist arrested. He reddened and tried to give Janice a smile. Just then a head popped around the door.

"Hey folks, heard the news. They just found Lacy down in the cellar. Seems someone swiped him over the back of his head. He's in a pretty bad way."

Janice's eyes widened as she turned back to Francis.

There could be no doubt about it; Tommy was more than disappointed with the horror charm he dug out of his latest packet of griZZlies. He put the sugar cube on the table in front of him. It certainly wasn't a patch on the traitor's-tongue-tip he'd dug out of the first packet. He'd been overjoyed with that - there had been just 13 different pieces; you couldn't cut up a tongue into much more. A fitting end to a tongue that had belonged to Ally Sagen, his country's biggest ever traitor. The second packet also contained a real find: a Dracula-like fang which took pride of place on his neck. And now nothing but a lump of suger. Tommy looked at the packet. He knew most of the names there and couldn't associate any of them with a lump of sugar. Two names, he wasn't sure of; the sugar probably belonged to one of them.

He quickly buttered a piece of toast and raced back up to his bedroom. Ten minutes later he descended the stairs a little more satisfied. It seems the lump of sugar had belonged to a research doctor who had killed his son. He had been doing some research into warfarin anti-dotes and had prepared a few dozen lumps of sugar to administer to a number of volunteers, including his son who had been the first to swallow one of the lumps. Unfortunately... So

Tommy poked his head through the kitchen door to say goodbye to his mother. Sitting at the table in her new dressing-gown she was enjoying her first cup of tea of the day. Tommy froze as he saw that his lump of sugar was no longer where he had placed it.