The Marathon

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is to use these words in a writing: jeep, marathon, pizza, wealthy, bedroom.

Cathy’s writings are found in numerous print and online publications. She writes all genres but invariably veers toward the dark—so much so her late mother once asked, “Can’t you write anything happy?” (She can!)

 

Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information on her works.

 

***

The Marathon

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

Melvin, when a child so wild, had always wanted a jeep to beep. Wasn’t wealthy and jeeps weren’t cheap, which made him blue. Had always wanted a bedroom of women, too—except the wife in his life would put the kibosh to that. Should tell the old hag of a nag to fly off on her broom.

Not one woman could he entice, all cold as ice. Was it his head of grey, or was he not as manly as next-door Fred? Did females not know he could still sing and play, still tell tall tales? Kailani had disappeared—for good, he feared.

He stared into the mirror. His lips flared, teeth bared. Old age stung but he was still young; forever he’d live, still much to give.

To prove his invincibility and how fast he could move, he’d enter a marathon, be front and centre. Keep it hush from Marie for she’d brush it off, would not understand his grand plan.

There was one tomorrow: show up at dawn, at sun’s first glow. . .

 

Males and females lined up on Main, in the distance the mournful sound of a train and the aroma of pizza at the all-night takeout.

When the race began, everyone, young and old, ran so bold as if a chase to reach the gold at the end of the faux rainbow.

The gunshot denoting the start happened so fast that everyone passed by while Melvin clutched at his pounding heart; having arrived late the guide forced him to stand off to the side, where he eyed the take-off gate and the surge of the crowd in front and behind.

His legs felt like wooden pegs until they moved, but he lagged behind the crowd and wasn’t so proud when his feet soon dragged across the road as if he carried such a large load.

He fell, hitting the pavement head-on when his leg gave out, wondered if he bled, heard a yell and the sound of a bell—

 

He awoke in the hospital to a bright light and the sight of Marie’s face an inch from his. Wondered if he could move his hand to pinch his flesh—knew he couldn’t stand but needed to know if he was dead, or alive to survive another day.

“Mel, you okay? You okay, Melvin?”

And then Jimmy, who was a tad dense, added his two cents: “Dad, you okay? You okay, Dad?” 

Fuck, he thought. Don’t need this bad luck. 

He closed his eyes, ignoring their cries, wishing they’d leave so he could grieve alone and bemoan the loss of the race he’d hoped to win.

As he drifted off, his hopes lifted: though today had been grey he was still brave. He would pray for a better tomorrow, but the race loss had strongly (if wrongly) told him: too old for women, too old for jeeps, too young for a grave, but hey, pizza can always save the day!

 

***

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/