The TUFFest Ride (Part 1 of 5)

Okay, I wasn’t one of the five writers selected by the judges for this TUFFest ride; however I was shortlisted and have been encouraged by Charli to participate… so here goes.

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“We begin the TUFFest Ride with a free-write. You have five days to draft 297 words to the prompt: mudslide. Your technical challenge is to include at least three of the five senses (touch, taste, smell, sight, sound). This is the story you will revise and rewrite as a final entry throughout TUFF.”

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GERONIMO

by

Kelvin M. Knight

‘Mudslides are great. Nothing beats a mudslide!’ 

‘Really?’ Fenton peered over the top of his monitor.

‘Really, darling.’ Dressed like a lemon soufflé, Terri nodded. ‘I want you to enter the mudslide race at the village fete this year.’

The dutiful husband, Fenton got straight to work. First up, mud wrestling videos. He found female mud wrestlers to be particularly educational. The way mud entered every nook and cranny to ensure maximum slide ability.

‘Fascinating.’

Lurking behind Fenton, Terri glowered. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Practice makes perfect.’ He gave Terri that certain toothpaste smile.

‘Practice makes permanent.’ She stomped away.

*

Come fete day, Fenton felt faint. The height of that muddy slide! ’You did this deliberately,’ he grumbled. ‘You know I suffer terribly from vertigo.’

‘You can always wimp out.’ Terri appeared draped over the arm of a mountain of muscles. ‘I know someone who won’t.’

Fenton could see from the dreamy look in his wife’s eyes that she was going gooey inside. ‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall.’

‘The bigger I am, the faster I slide,’ squeaked Mr Muscles.

‘We’ll see.’ Steeling himself, Fenton marched up the stairway, chanting something his Nanna said, ‘Don’t stare up the steps, step up the stairs.’

He peered over the top. The slide plummeted away into a canyon. And this platform was so tiny. Wind buffeted him. Legs trembling, Fenton gripped wobbling handrails. Their coldness did nothing to cool his fevered brow.

‘I can’t do this. I won’t do this.’ Bile rose. He spat the vile taste out.

The pistol cracked. He teetered. Someone tittered. Behind him? Shoved… hard.

Whoosh.

Mud splattered him, swallowed him, spat him out.

‘My hero!’ At the bottom, Terri threw herself at her trembling, spluttering husband. ‘I knew you would conquer your fear!’

(297 words)

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After Penny Gadd’s comment in the comment section below, I opted, while still in the 5 day deadline, to fashion a swift re-write of a more important part of the story… creating the story you have just read, above. My original finished and posted version – Revision A – is below so people can see the power and invaluable nature of constructive criticism.

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GERONIMO (Rev A)

by

Kelvin M. Knight

‘Mudslides are great. Nothing beats a good mudslide!’ 

‘Really?’ Fenton peered over the top of his monitor.

‘Really, darling.’ Dressed like a lemon soufflé, Terri nodded. ‘I want you to enter the mudslide race at the village fete this year.’

The dutiful husband, Fenton agreed then got straight to work. First up, mud wrestling videos. He found female mud wrestlers to be particularly educational. The way their bodies embraced the mud before embracing one another. The way mud entered every nook and cranny to ensure maximum slide ability.

‘Fascinating.’

Appearing behind Fenton, Terri glowered. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Practice makes perfect.’ He gave Terri that certain toothpaste smile.

‘Practice makes permanent.’ She stomped away.

*

Come fete day, Fenton felt faint. The height of that muddy slide! ’You did this deliberately,’ he bemoaned. ‘You know I suffer terribly from vertigo.’

‘You can always wimp out.’ Terri appeared draped over the arm of a mountain of muscles. ‘I know someone who won’t.’

Fenton could see from the dreamy look in his wife’s eyes that she was going gooey inside. ‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall.’

‘The bigger I am, the faster I slide,’ squeaked Mr Muscles.

‘We’ll see.’ Steeling himself, Fenton marched up the stairway, chanting something his Nanna used to say, ‘Don’t stare up the steps, step up the stairs.’

The platform at the top swayed. Bile rose in Fenton’s throat. He gulped. How he despised that vile taste. He conquered it by smelling the mud, feeling its texture – so earthy, so smooth.

The pistol cracked. He teetered. Someone tittered. He felt himself shoved forward.

Mud, mud, glorious mud. It splattered him, splurged him, swallowed him.

‘My hero!’ At the bottom, Terri threw herself at her coughing, spluttering husband. ‘I knew you would conquer your fear!’

(297 words)