Placing Wagers
The Vocal + Assist Lost in a Story Challenge
This story is part of the Vocal + Assist on Facebook Lost in a Story Challenge. You can learn more about it here:
There is a foreword to this tale, which was born of a shared enjoyment of the wonderful film of The Princess Bride. This short piece was written as collaborative piece between myself and Mother Combs.
Writing collaboratively SOUNDS so easy, but its fair to say we got ourselves in some tangles along the way, not least as we repeatedly corrected one another's spelling of Moustache before realising that each time one of us was dropping a U somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, the other was fishing it out and putting it back in. I'm here to try new things though, and I feel like we both learnt a lot. So, without further ado, grab a tankard of ale, gather round the fire, and let us tell you what happened on the way back from market today.....
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I was on the rocky cliff path, yonder, when I hear crossing swords. Now I want no trouble, but when I peek round a rock, there’s two men dancing around the clearing, and between ourselves, I like the one in the tight pants! I spot another traveler behind the rocks where the path turns.
“Good morrow!” I call. “I think the one in the tight pants will best the other, no?”
“Aye, good morrow, as it may be, my ruble is on the masked stranger, it is” the old mother hailed back to me, and comes over, pulling a ruble from her apron pocket. I pulled a ruble out to match.
The men continued their dance, very acrobatic it was, even switched sword hands mid-battle!
“Aye, my money is on the mustached one!” I shout.
My ruble stays on the masked man,” The old mother says. Soon, others on the road gather round, placing bets. Well, I'm giving out the odds, "two–to-one on the left-handed man," then "two-to-three on the right-hander," and the rubles keep coming. The old mother, she's keeping a tally, but I'm busy watching those men prance. I likes a good show, and it's better than a cockfight! A cheer went up when the Spaniard was disarmed, but would you believe it, the man in black leaves him alive! Knocks him out and runs off!
"I won!" Shouts the old mother. "Pay up, wench!"
"You pay up," I says to her, "my man was the victor".
"Your man was the one with the tight pants!" She retorts.
"I said the mustache," says I, "the right-hander."
"The masked man won!" She's shouting, and others are holding out their hands, wanting paying.
"I won!" "You can sod off, the lot of you," I said. "I didn't lose!"
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My Mycorrhizal Moment
Running was never my thing. It wasn’t yours either, but if I could rely on anything, it was that you would be there, through every flight of fancy I took up. Better or worse. Sickness and health. And so it is that as I stagger to a stop, lungs grating in my suddenly too small chest, you are there. I reach out, searching for that solid reassurance, and let myself lean a little of my weight against you as I pull in air. Other runners pass, a cyclist, walkers in brisk ones and striding twos. But you wait, as I let my breathing ease, let me be unhurried, let me recover my legs, my hand against your solid strength, feeling the pulse of you beneath palm and thumb and all four fingers, letting mine slow towards it, anchoring myself to you, again. A warmth creeps up my calves, my thighs, my trunk, a post-run glow, and on my bare arms my skin turns to the echo from you, the pores like a thousand sunflowers, finding, in that shared warmth between us, a welcome. I let my shoulder lean into you, feel the soft give in your skin, the hard strength beneath, and think about how you need both, to survive in this world. Strength and flex. We’ve done a lot of that, over the years. Survived so much, me flying in great arcs which stretch away, and away, till it looks for all the world that I have set myself adrift, and then, listing, turning, returning, to you, your deep rooted assurance, your promise that all will be as it should, whether I rush or take rest, in the end. And you? I trace the lines of my name, the date we met, etched on your skin, the lines softer edged that they once were, a testament to how you have grown around me, around everything that has come, never falling, never fleeing, always growing, flex and strength. I have learnt so much since that date, changed so much. I rest my head against you, letting, I hope, the gratitude haloing my mind bleed into your body, and feel, in return, sheltered from any storm. Not everything has changed.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
Comments (8)
I love this! It was entertaining!
Fantastic job, ladies! I'm sorry to be late in reading it, but congratulations on a great collaborative tale.
Fantastic collaboration and such an entertaining read. Great job Hannah and Sharon.
This tickled me so much, I am so sorry to both of you that it took me a whilr to get around to it! Love it-What a great collab! 🤍
Haha you captured the peasant view perfectly! What an immersive collaboration. Well done, both of you! I felt i was there!
Lol, this was hilarious! But even more hilarious was the moustache thingy! Maybe we can call it upper lip hair. Or lip caterpillar? Lol!
Jeez, that is funny. I was laughing so hard at your narrative of collaborative writing. 'mustache' I think I could read about that adventure. This wasvery good.
We did good lol :D