23/5/11 - LM - The Caretaker

**TheFuhrer02** · 05-23-2011, 01:31 PM

LITERARY MANEUVERS
The Late May Challenge

*Opening round bell rings*

In your corners! We have a new installment of the LM Challenge! Custard gives us our prompt for this round:

The Caretaker

The judges for this round are as follows: KarlR, Bruno Spatola, Anna Buttons and TheFuhrer02.
(I don't know the previous arrangement when it comes to sending the scores, so, uhm, just send them to me via PM. ^_^)

Now a recap of the rules:

The word limit is 650 words not including the title. If you go over - Your story will not be counted.
You can no longer edit your entry after posting. There will be a 10-minute grace period, if you want to go in there and edit a typo or something, but really, you should approach this as if you were submitting your work to be published and paid for. When you submit, that should be your final work, the work you are happy with.
And of course, there can only be one entry per member.

As always, there are two ways to post your entry:

You can opt to have your entry posted in the LM Workshop Thread which is a special thread just for LM entries in the Writer's Workshop. You would put your story here if you wish to protect your first rights (in case you want to someday submit the work to a magazine or whatnot). Take note: If you have elected to put your entry in the Workshop thread you must copy the link into this thread or else it will not be counted.

If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you could place your entry right here in the LM Challenge thread.

Everyone is welcome to participate. Judges are welcome to participate, too, but their entries will not receive a score.

Submissions will be accepted until the 6th of June, Monday, at midnight [GMT +8].

No comments, please - Only competition entries (or links to) to be posted in this thread.

Now that all's set, let the writing begin!

**Prinkes** · 05-24-2011, 08:54 AM

He should’ve taken care of me.
That’s what everyone was whispering, as they stood in a big ring around us. They wouldn’t go inside, even though it was raining.
“He should’ve been watching her.”
“Why wasn’t he more careful?”
I wanted to tell them to be quiet. I wanted to shout “Shut up!” but Charlie doesn’t like it when I say things like that. He doesn’t really like it when I yell at all.
“There’s too much yelling in our house already, Luce,” he’d say, using his special nickname for me. Then he’d mess up my hair. I hate it when he does that – I work real hard on it. I’m the only girl in the first grad who braids her own hair!
So even though I want to yell at the circle of people around us, I don’t. It’s just that Charlie usually takes great care of me. He babysits me a lot, because when we get home from school Mom’s usually just waking up. She works all night, so she’s sleepy during the day, like an owl. Mommy and Charlie won’t tell me what her work is, even though they fight about it all the time. They fight a lot.
Charlie and Mommy and me haven’t seen Daddy in a long time. Mommy tries to make up for it by having boyfriends. Some of them are nice. Some are mean. Mommy’s newest boyfriend is one of the nice ones though. He buys me presents all the time. Usually candy, but sometimes dolls and sticker-books. Sometimes, he even lets Mommy and Charlie and me stay at his house. It’s really comfy and he always has snacks. Charlie has to sleep on the couch, but Mommy and me get to sleep in the bed.
Once though, I did a real bad thing. I wet the bed. He told me it was ok. He took me into the bathroom and drew me a bath. He even had a fluffy towel waiting for me. But as I was drying off, he came back into the bathroom and told me he found germs while cleaning the sheets. He said he’d better check and make sure I didn’t have any germs on me. He checked my ears and my mouth. I was ok, until he checked down there. He said there were germs all over, but he’d get them. He poked me and prodded me, touching me all over. It hurt a lot and I felt really bad after.
I told Charlie about it today. He got this weird look on his face and said we had to go. I reminded him it was Saturday and we didn’t have school, and he just shook his head and said we weren’t going to school. I grabbed my favorite doll and he grabbed his plastic bag full of white stuff and we left.
We were crossing the street when it happened. We were going too fast, that’s why I dropped dolly. I stopped for just a second to pick her up, and then there was a loud noise and everything hurt. Next thing I knew, I was looking at this crowd of people surrounding Charlie and me. I watched some policemen grab Charlie and search his pockets. They weren’t happy to find the white stuff, I saw them frown and start yelling.
I saw me too. Weird. I was laying on the ground, and I didn’t look very pretty. I was happy when they put a white sheet over me. Bu not when the policemen dragged Charlie to one of their cars and put handcuffs on him! I wanted to yell at them, but I didn’t want to make Charlie more sad. He already looked really, really sad.
“It’s ok, Charlie! I know you take real good care of me.” I told him. Maybe he couldn’t hear me through the window, because he didn’t stop crying.

**Nick** · 05-24-2011, 03:39 PM

The Caretakers

I fought in two wars and have been given more medals than I have fingers that can stretch all the way out. I’ve been a son, a brother, an uncle, a husband and a father, and I’ve seen mobile phones make people too busy to talk to you. I didn’t really expect to live past 65. And yet here I am, 80 an approaching prospect and despite all my expectations, I really didn’t want to be in an old, busted car I found in the field just off Casey’s Point.

Caretakers. That’s what they called themselves – showing up in glowing white vans, screaming with luminous stickers their slogan “WE’LL TAKE CARE OFF YOU!”, and that monstrously waxy grin from their manager glued to the side. Surprisingly, the grin wasn’t much different in person – she turned up, brandishing her clipboard like our age was infectious, and yet she never stopped grinning. Waxwork: that’s the only description for her.

“If you’d just like to sign here sir, we’ll have that care off your hands in no time!” Sign where? A huge box in a sea of tiny little writing. I reached for my glasses, and she tutted, shaking her finger at me like a child that reached for the cookie jar too soon, “No time, sir! I have over 20 of you people to see in this building, and then I have to rush over to Calmwater to get another 15 signatures. You’ll have to just trust me on this one sir! Would I ever lie to you?”

Apparently I wasn’t allowed to read the small print, and so I signed away my care. Caretakers. Quicker than a rat trying to bite the handkerchief from your pocket, they thrust a box into my arms and told me to pack up my belongings. A few pictures, a photo album, some memorabilia and the medals – the rest belonged to the home.

Valley Park Care Home for the Elderly was a little beaten down, but many of us were satisfied with it, and were quite satisfied to call it home. However, when the government decided that too much care was being put into the elderly that ‘couldn’t fend for themselves’, they called in the Caretakers, and Miss Sally Rethbourne’s whiter-than-insomnia grin met the eyes of every home across the country, and saw itself put in super-size on billboards, too.

I saw Miss Rethbourne’s smile close up – her lips drowned in red plastic and her teeth… Well, her teeth were what they always were: robotically perfect. “Thank you, Mr… Mr… Mr Aldous! Oh, like Brave New World? How sweet! Thanks for the signature! You can ensure that you will see your cheque within 3-6 weeks. Oh, and please note that you will NOT be granted a loan as a ‘waiting period’,” That grin again, blinding me, “have a wonderful life, Mr Aldous!”

Caretakers. I might be able to move in with George, but he hasn’t spoken to this old father in a long time. Until then, this Chevette would have to be a home, and the various pieces of wildlife eating the foaming in the seats would have to make do as neighbours. Funnily enough, parked near the nestled Chevvy was one of the billboards, displaying it’s tempting demand to any passers-by, and I had front-seat view of Miss Sally’s bedazzling whites for the next 3-6 weeks.

Are you unsatisfied with your life? Reaching the TWILIGHT years and just too darn bored of where you are? Are you TIRED of CARE? Do you want CHANGE? Then call up the CARETAKERS, and we’ll give you CASH for your CARE! Get those new dentures you’ve been waiting for, and a cottage in a picturesque town – it’s all possible, if you CALL the CARETAKERS NOW on 1-800-481-7301!

WE’LL TAKE CARE OFF YOU!

**Flapjack** · 05-24-2011, 06:50 PM

Horace the Caretaker
(585 words)

The limestone steps beneath the Caretaker's feet had grown harder over the years. In the lantern's dim light, it seemed they had grown darker too. Once upon a time he would chase flowing blond hair up the hundreds of feet to collapse on secret blankets. A thousand pounds of cast bronze had sat inches above their heads. Some might have felt intimidated. Yet, their passion faded the world away in a gentle golden glow. Nothing existed but succulent strawberry lips and warm sun-kissed skin. She was existence.

He often wondered if she too had transcended reality in the peak of love. The wounds he had bled in the following months still itched, so many years later, with unhealing scabs. Did other adventures simply celebrate their bond?

She would say, "He's just a friend, my dear Horace." That voice had seemed unreal, tangled as they were in their blankets.

"You see Horace, my sister's fiancé knows him well and he just needs a place to stay. "

"Why can't he stay with him then."

"Come now Horace, that simply won't do. They have little room as it is. I have both a spare bedroom and a bath."

"Yes, but it isn't proper"

"Do you truly not trust me. I trust you Horace. If you can't rely on me to be faithful now, what of our future?"

The creaking lantern swung in rhythm to his climbing. The sound seemed to judge him. Each swing a new accusation filled his ears. It, however, failed to trouble him anymore. Rather, the voice seemed like an old friend. It connected him to something lost long ago. Perhaps more than one something, he had often considered.

"You don't have to do this, please Horace," he remembered her saying.

His words had left his memory with time. Even the anger he felt seemed a foreign, distant emotion. Hammers pounding his soles, the Caretaker stepped into the upper room and began examining the ropes. He felt of the hardened cords, checking for wear. Warning bells should never be delayed by broken pull ropes. He would ensure they never were. That lonely climb up the dark, frigid steps was part of the debt he owed to these bells.

"I suppose you've heard the news" his old friend had asked. Officers had once frequented the tower.

His forgotten answer had been made through a salty taste in his mouth. The ocean or his eyes, he wasn't sure.

"The doc said she drowned two days ago around noon. I know it's wrong of me to ask, but can you tell me where you were."

The bells had given him such a wonderful gift that night. Some young woman recalled the clanging chime of brass beating brass. He could have kissed the local children for their mischievous natures. He could not, thankfully, for their crime had never been discovered.

Instead he paid his respects to the bells. He decided to bring some polish tomorrow. The brass deserved to shine as brightly as that glow from so long ago.

A renewed vigor in his painful steps, the Caretaker began his journey down. A horrible scream pierced the cool night air. Oddly, he didn't dash up the steps to warn the authorities. No, it was odd at all. That wasn't the scream of a victim. It wasn't the cry of a poor injured man in need of assistance. That scream was another old friend he often cherished. The sound came again, as it would throughout the night.

"Horace!"

**Bilston Blue** · 05-26-2011, 10:50 AM

Taking Vic to Lord's

by Scott Derry

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1436472

**Misa Buckley** · 05-26-2011, 12:29 PM

Vigil

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1436498

**Jinxi** · 05-26-2011, 04:36 PM

The Caretaker
(650 words)

This is a different world I work in. My job expects a lot from me, and I spend a lot of time trying to understand my clients. My daily activities involve therapy and attempting to understand the minds of severely damaged people. One particular client impacted my life so greatly that I cannot resist sharing my story.

On Thursday 19th May, after dropping my daughter off at school, I stopped at the garage to buy the morning newspaper. The headline read “Convicted: The Edenvale serial killer to receive lethal injection”. At that moment, I knew I had a new case to research, to understand. Warren, my husband, always found himself frustrated when a new case came in, as I seemed to completely lose myself in someone else’s world. How could I not? I desire to know why, to know what made them do what they do, to understand what caused this behaviour. Hours dedicated to reading patient profiles trying to find a connection.

My client’s name was Jasper. He was a slim man, barely old enough to drink a beer. Scars occupied the space where a smile used to be. His family were killed in a hijacking and he was left to fend for himself. He was introverted to the point of complete social awkwardness. From the moment I met with him in his chilly cell, I was fascinated. The first hour we sat together in total silence. I introduced myself and explained that I was here to try and help him make sense of what he did and why. He responded with nothing, not even a tilt of his slight head. I could sense that my presence was not welcome, but I stayed nonetheless. The only way I would allow him to trust me is if I pushed myself into his personal safety net.

Conversation remained without words for two weeks. In that time, I had learned to read his body language. There were days when he would sit straighter and more rigid, and others where he would lay on his back staring and muttering to the ceiling. I managed to develop a pattern: the days where he seemed tenser were the days they served beef for lunch. After many months, and eventual discussion, I learned that his parents had owned a butchery and the very smell of beef reminded him of a time when he was happy.

*

The Court has sentenced him to death by lethal injection. Unfortunately a date has not been set as yet, so no one knows when his punishment will occur. For now his life will run its course in a cement room. I have come to know him and it is hard to believe that this young man is going to spend the rest of his days decorating the grey walls of his cell with the dreams he once had.

*

I have visited him twice a week for 38 years. Jasper has become family to me - a son I never had. I admire his courage and am so proud to have watched him grow up and become such a wonderful man. His health seems to be failing him. He spends most of his time in the Nursing Block. I received a call to inform me that he may only have a few hours left with us. I rushed through and spent his last 3 hours with him. I will never forget his final words: “Kay, I want to thank you for the years you have given to me. For the gifts on my birthday, the jerseys in the winter, the mysterious books and the wonderful discussions. You gave me a better life than I ever would have known. You are my caretaker and for that I will forever be grateful.”

He never received his injection, but the strength of his words will live in my veins for the rest of my life.

**bazz cargo** · 05-27-2011, 09:25 PM

628

Luna.

The clang as the final eight feet of fire escape dropped woke me from a light doze. I sat in the dark listening to the sounds of someone climbing six floors to the roof, my roof.

As the boy stepped off the ladder he was lit by a hunters moon, I recognized him, just one of the many kids I get to see during my working day.

He walked slowly across to where he could look down over the schools' main entrance.

“Hello,” I said, startling him.
“Jesus!” He swung around and stared into the shadows cast by vents and stuff. “Who the hell are you?”

I switched my lamp on. “The caretaker.” In the shadow of the largest vent I sat on my camping chair, beside an upturned crate and a small telescope.

“Fancy a coffee?” I asked, trying to head off a panicked leap into the next world.
“Coffee?” His mind was all over the place.
“Yep, I have milk and sugar if you want it.”
“You're not angry?”
“What for? The health and safety people would have a fit if they knew I was up here, but it is the best place to do a bit of stargazing.” I had stopped him, he was not the sort to end it all with an audience.
“Sure, milk two sugars,” he said.

I poured two cups from my thermos, and put his on the crate. I took a sip from mine, careful to hold it with both hands. “The night sky is a fascinating thing, even with a small telescope you can get to see some true wonders of creation, but that is not always why I am here.”
The boy was hesitant in his movements, but he came over and picked up his cup. “Why are you here?”

“Do you think God made a mistake?”
“What?”
“God, the great creator, who made the stars I look at, who made you and me.” Gotta be subtle, the dumb ones very rarely come up here, and the smart ones can figure it out for themselves.
“I'm not sure God exists.”
“So where were you intending to go?”
“Uh, nowhere.”
“Just wanting to make it stop.” Crunch time. “It's funny how someone can find the courage to end it all, but can't face their problems.”
“You have no idea what it's like.”

Time to lay a new path. “Every now and then someone like Joker passes through this school.” I could see him start slightly. “Mostly a boy, very rarely a girl. They have what the papers call charisma, I call it being a bastard. They know what emotional levers to pull, all the psychological buttons, and they push and pull just because they can. Teachers, pupils, parents and total strangers are all puppets to them.”

“Everyone thinks he's wonderful.”
“It's people like him who persuade kids to strap on explosives and find a crowd to die in.”

I could see a change in him. “One thing to think on, it says in the bible ' For Evil To Prosper, Good Men Should Do Nothing.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“I'm glad you enjoyed the coffee, now buzz off home and get some sleep.”
“G'night.”

As I listened to the boy climbing back to the ground, I felt my throat tightening, tears welling from my eyes, a deep cloud of sadness swallowing me up.

In the moonlight a silver shadow of a young girl stood on the parapet, an echo of a thought filled me up, 'I'm so lonely.'

“I'm sorry, but he was not meant for you.”

**InsanityStrickenWriter** · 05-29-2011, 03:39 PM

Ill-treated and needy garages
(644 words)

Staring out through a glass patio door was a thirteen year old, called Michael. He had his eyes glued to the garage at the other end of the garden path, where, in the dark, mostly covered by ivy window, next to the door, he could swear he could see light seeping out from the sides of a hazy silhouette.

His parents were both out shopping, and his sister was, well, he didn’t know where his sister was. Usually he might assume that she was out getting drunk, but it was still the afternoon, so it was a tad too early for that. But she definitely wasn’t home; else he’d be able to hear ear drum shattering music blasting through the house.

He contemplated whether or not he should call the police, but then, knowing his luck, it would turn out that he was just seeing things and being completely irrational. Besides, he didn’t want to be a coward. His dad had chased a burglar away once with nothing more than his fists, and he wasn’t exactly a vision of peak physical fitness.

Michael opened the patio-door, and stepped out into the garden, keeping an eye on the window. As he approached the garage, the figure seemed to remain just as hazy as when he was looking at it from the house. He wasn’t sure whether to feel comforted or disturbed by that. He reached for the garage door-handle when, quite suddenly, the window slid sideways open. Michael froze.

The majority of him was busy being terrified, but there was also a passing thought of confusion. As far as Michael was aware, the window wasn’t meant to be able to slide.
“He-hello,” he stammered, at an attempt at greeting the dark hazy figure on the other side.
“Go away,” said an airy, female voice.

Michael didn’t make a move. The mixture of fear and curiosity had seeped out of his feet and glued him to the spot. The figure seemed to make a sigh, before condensing into an old woman. She had grey hair tied up into a bun, a pair of oversized, round glasses sitting on her nose, and a ring-shaped earring on each ear.
“Can’t you see we’re busy?” she hissed.
“...I’m, err... sorry,” said Michael.
“And so you should be!”
“Is there another – person – in there as well?”
“Indeed there is! I’m the Organiser. I organise things, you see.”
“Right... and who’s the other one then?”

The Organiser rolled her eyes.
“The Caretaker,” she said.
“Caretaker of what?”
“Garages. I find the most ill-treated and in-need garages, and organise for the Caretaker to save them from their plight.”
“Garages have plights?”
“That is just the behaviour I would expect from the owner of this garage! You should be ashamed! Dust and cobwebs everywhere! Old pieces of furniture that you can’t be bothered to get rid of! Dodgy electrics! There’s even a motorbike leaking oil in the corner!”
“Well, it’s my parents’ garage, not mine... besides, I wasn’t aware that garages had plights.”
“Wasn’t aware?! Oh the nerve! It’s a good thing we came here in the nick of time. I was going to wait to hear from the main people responsible, but after meeting you I think I’ve made up my mind. We’re going to take this poor garage far away, to a place where you can’t ever harm it again!”
“You’re... going to take the garage away? Right...”
“Don’t you listen? That’s the Caretaker’s job.”
“And he's in there with you?”
The Organiser frowned.
“Why must people always assume a caretaker is a man?” she said, before taking a nurse hat out of nowhere and sticking it onto her head.
“I’m the Organiser and the Caretaker of ill-treated and needy garages. G’day to you!”
The window slid shut, and the garage slowly vanished.

“I suppose we needed a new garage anyway...”

**MJ Preston** · 05-30-2011, 03:58 PM

Squared Up (648 Words)

by MJ Preston

He reaches across and pulls the shirt from the hanger, setting it neatly upon the ironing board. Smoothing the crease with his left hand he sprays the starch across it, smelling the aroma from the aerosol can and then he smooths it once more feeling silken moisture on his fingers.

To his right the iron percolates, huffing and puffing, spitting out an occasional complaint, as if to say, “Let’s go! I’m ready!” He runs his palm across the crease, ignoring the iron, tightening it and looking to the other items he has already attended to and itemized.

“Rodney Burrows,” he says. For some reason the name seems unnatural, so he looks at the snapshot provided in the dossier, smoothing the crease once more. The iron protests, he ignores it and says the name again. “Rodney Burrows.”

The snapshot is of a young man, clean-shaven, his expression serious and purposeful. His hair is cut down to the wood. He does not so much look at the camera lens, but through it-at attention. The landscape of his face is shiny and new, in the corner on his right cheekbone there is a mark that could be a pimple. Around his neck a tie is pulled tightly in a single Windsor and on each lapel are collar dogs often referred to as: Flaming Grenades.

The irons grumbles once more and he reaches for the pressing cloth setting it out over the crease. This will protect the material from the iron scorching the uniform shirt, instead leaving a razor sharp crease. The moisture from the starch dampens the cloth as he again set across the crease and pulling the material taut.

“Men can shave with my creases Rodney,” he states and lifts the iron. “We’ll have you looking first class for that parade.” He presses the beast onto the cloth and it sizzles with satisfaction as the steam rises and rolls around his bare wrist leaving it hot and damp, he ignores it and running it back and forth pressing hard. Setting the iron upright he pulls up the pressing cloth and checks his work.

“Perfect.” He turns the shirt of and repeats the process. “This will be your finest hour Corporal. Your Comrades will stand at attention, Colonels and dignitaries will all salute you and though they may not know it, you will have your best bib and tucker at the parade. I guarantee you that Lad.”

The iron is now sitting back on the board, turned off and winding down, spitting and hissing a little less with each outburst. He folds the shirt neatly using a ruler to square it up. He knows the measurement by heart, could probably do it by eye, but uses the ruler to ensure accuracy.

Outside he can hear the rehearsals.

A voice bellows, “General salute!” [pause] “Present….. Arms!” There is a click, then a slap, and the unified clunk of combat boots striking the pavement.

“Six inches up, eight inches down,” he says smiling and gets up to retrieve the box.

He grabs the crutch and steadies himself on it. The prosthetic sits in the corner forgotten for now. He hasn’t built up enough callous yet and it makes the nub of his leg sore and raw when he wears it. He works his way over, grabs the box and hobbles back to the bench. Carefully, he sets each item of the uniform inside, stacking them in the exact same manner as the others.

The final item to go in are the dog tags. He lays the chain out in a criss-cross fashion ensuring the identification side is up and square. From behind he can hear footsteps coming down the hall. “It’s almost time Rodney.”

“Sergeant Andrews,” A voice in the doorway says. “It’s time.”

“Just squared it up Sir,” he says and seals the box.

***