We are to choose one from the following:
The 100 Meter Sprint
100 words on a conflict, competition, or game.
The Road Race
300 words on a topic of your choice. The only catch? Your setting must be London, Beijing, or Rio de Janeiro.
Partner up with another Write on Edge writer. You each have 450 words to write about a conflict between two characters; each writer should represent a single character’s point of view.
So, funny story...
When my editor speaks and the words "So, funny story..." escape her lips, everyone around her stops and listens. She's got a verbal arsenal of tales, mostly hers, some borrowed, that oft times bring uncontrollable fits of side-splitting giggles to surface. Those words became a catchphrase that my circle of immediate friends has adopted. Of course, the ubiquitous "No shit, there I was..." happens also, depending on the amount of drinks consumed by the party speaking.
So, funny story...and my attempt at narrative non-fiction for The Road Race event...
I offer the following in response: A Rare Commuter
St. Paul’s Cathedral blocked what little of the dawning sun the clouds couldn’t hide. Armed with our backpacks, we left the nearby hostel, walking the empty Saturday streets to the Tube. I whistled Feed the Birds from Mary Poppins, in fond farewell, as we passed the baroque apostle before we descended into the earth for our last journey through London.
“My-nd…the gap!” echoed the alternating male and female automated voices over the speaker system as the two of us stood on the vacant platform. When the train doors opened, we did as instructed, stepping over the gap between the platform and the train. The car to ourselves, we chose the seats against the end, backs to the wall, to better survey our empty traindom.
The rumble of the train lulled us into our own thoughts and we occupied the time writing in our journals. Stops blurred by without our notice, until an unexpected passenger boarded.
Feathered smartly in a hounds-tooth-like mottled brown, our new travel companion was an adventurous pigeon.
It jumped into the car and bobbed its head in different angles as if to better ascertain our merit. It pecked briefly at the ground as the doors closed behind it. I held my breath, preparing for the desperate flight of a panicked pigeon. Instead it bobbed, swaggered, and pecked while the train lurched onward. Too stunned to move, I simply watched it watch us.
As the train slowed for the next station, the pigeon turned and waited for the doors to open. It shot one last look at us before hopping from the car onto the platform. Only when the doors slid shut again did we risk laughing. We giggled the entire rest of the way to Victoria Station and our waiting Edinburgh train.