Home | Contest | Write A Book | Write Ebooks For Cash | Be A Travel Writer | Write Children's Books Write For Newspapers | Write An Ezine | Write A Blog | Writing Skills & Tips | Novel Writing Software Please take a moment to bookmark this site and join our free hot tips list. Read & Rate Our Writing Contest Entries! See what other people have written, and rate them on a scale of 1 to 5. This is an opportunity to view a wide variety of short stories and see what kind of original material is being submitted to us on a daily basis. After you rate an entry, you will be randomly redirected to another entry to rate. You may read and rate as many entries as you wish! The user-rating system is simply a fun way for writers to receive a public opinion of their work, and does not affect the judging for the cash prizes. If you wish to enter the contest, you may enter for free here. Rate This Contest Entry: Contest: June 30th, 2005 Author: Amanda J. Burchell Rage ! Late Autumn leaves continued on their descent to form a blanket of warm colour on the ground around the impressive façade of a once-glorious home; fraudulent camouflage. The fabulous core of this residence had been gutted, and with rude expediency, converted to the drab functionality of a nursing home. I was grateful that it hadn’t been raining this morning, as I hauled the assorted boxes of art materials and ingredients for the cooking session, onto the three tables allocated for my diversional therapy group. Sighing inwardly I looked over the room, noting all the old, familiar faces of patients who had been here for some years. They had seen a procession of diversional therapists a.k.a. art and craft ladies, bingo ladies, music ladies - come and go. The staff had arranged the patients sitting in chairs, against the walls of the rectangular room to enable visual, if not actual participation. Trying to keep this shindig going in an organized and engaging fashion was the real challenge. Most of them would be compelled at some point to leave the room for recurrent commode regimes suiting carer schedules. I decided to start the group with some upper body exercises and I announced this intention while demonstrating with selected actions. As I expected, my habitual antagonist, George, protested the alleged irregularity of the exercises. He informed me that the previous therapist, Maggie, had been better and had done it differently. His face was set in obdurate belligerence, his eyes slit with malevolent portent. While not acknowledging his comments, I glanced in his direction and noticed that he was not following my own movements, but repeating some other, learned activity from my predecessor . As if on cue, Maggie entered the room and in her role as personal care attendant, began her commoding regime. Our eyes met, hers echoing George’s hostile expression. Hmmn, trouble I thought; after all, her resentment wasn’t unexpected. I was her replacement in a post that she had not wanted to relinquish. The title, Diversional Therapist had meant a professional step up for her, whereas I was merely experimenting with a new interest. I had casually submitted my programme to the Director of Nursing not expecting to be taken up on my proposal. She had been thrilled with it and offered me the job on the spot. My internal preoccupation faded as I became aware that Maggie was slowly coming toward me. I stood transfixed, as she now stood with a bedpan outstretched before her, raising it upwards … All at once flying effluence descended on and around me as I became drenched in the contents of a full commode. Completing this bizarre cabaret was her grotesque, rage distorted face now directly in front of mine shouting invective, most of which eluded me. It was the stench of human waste assaulting my olfactory senses which brought me back to the moment. For a fraction of time we both remained motionless until I resolutely shook off the enveloping stupor. Side-stepping her, with my own eyes firmly averted, I stormed out of the room. Silence was short lived and the cacophony of voices reached me as I strode down the corridor toward the shower room. Ignoring the insistent knocking on the locked cubicle, I towelled myself dry and put on two wrinkled, but clean hospital gowns, one back to front and tied firmly around my waist for maximum coverage. When, in my own good time, I exited the cubicle, I found Trish, the Director of Nursing waiting there, looking anxiously back at me. Not wanting to enter into any discussion, I kept walking toward the activities room where I hastily bundled everything back into boxes. My stinking clothes were enclosed in a large, plastic bag and I made several trips back and forth to the car, reloading everything into the boot. The gravel raking my bare, uninitiated feet, heightened my savage emotions. Trish scurried around after me, offering apologies and uttering inanities, but all I wanted to do was go home, never, ever to return. Finally tired of having the manager ineffectually shadowing me, I pleaded to be left alone and assured her I’d call. Not ! I thought. Yes, I felt rage, humiliation; but I could wait. Maggie the Maggot would keep. I had my own plans for her. … Finally I had the car packed and I took one last look at the autumnal picture of the once lovely old home. I felt its resentment and rejection of me, as if it did not want anyone with discernment to witness its measured decline and collapse; from refinement and loveliness, to ugly, pedestrian functionary. Iniquity within, masquerading as benevolent righteousness and piety. No, the house had conspired to spit me out, discomfited by my judgment of what lay within, determined to repudiate this sentient witness to its wounded reputation. Golden brown and rich reds, mixed with olive green leaves as foot rug, surrounded the querulous old harridan. With her impressive stonework, lead light windows, turrets and moss-laden tiled roof, she still looked magnificent – from a distance I thought. people have rated it so far. is the current average. |
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