Conor Cawley: Capture the Drag

The best part about being a Drinker with Writing Problems is our prompts. We like to inspire each other by providing random words, phrases, and situations to each other to write about. This piece is the result of one such prompt.

As the breeze from the field blew up the bleachers, I felt relieved.

I’d carried Philip in this capture the flag league for too long. And if Phillip thinks that moving to Colorado is going to help his chances of “going pro,” let him go. The team didn’t need him, the coach didn’t want him, and I am certainly done with him.

Apparently, my relief was visible and Phillip’s notable arrogance felt the need to chime in.

“What? Are you happy I’m leaving?”

My slight grin betrayed me.

“Fine. Fuck you.”

He stormed off down the steps of the bleachers. I wish I could say I was sad to see him go, but like I said, he’s kind of a dick now.

The breeze picked up and Phillip was gone. I took the moment to relish in the silence of the top of the bleachers, like Juliet on the balcony excited about her new life. We read that in class today, and I think I totally understand it.

I was already picturing new lineups for the team. With Phillip gone, Don could move up to forward, and Mikey could shift back midfield. That would make our team faster, while still keeping our defense as strong as possible.

The breeze started to really pick up. In my haste to plan the future success of our capture the flag team, I hadn’t noticed the dark, black clouds rolling in directly overhead. I quickly realized that I was standing on at least 200 yards of shiny, metal bleachers in the middle of what looked like to be a fairly serious lightning storm.

In a brief panic, I scurried down the steps to where Phillip had exited. I don’t know if he knew the storm was coming and was trying to kill me, or if he was just trying to be a dick again, but he had locked the gate behind him.

I was trapped. On the most electricity-conducting structure in the history of mankind. I wanted to jump the fence but I knew my bum ankle wouldn’t survive the fall and finals were next week. I wasn’t going to risk my future in the world of professional capture-the-flagging just to avoid a life-threatening lightning strike.

I started briskly walking to the other end of the bleachers in hopes that it wasn’t also locked. If I wasn’t sure of Phillips evil intentions before, what I found at the other gate assured me that he was in fact, a huge dick.

The gate was locked. And in the grate of the fence was a crudely scribbled note that Phillip had hurriedly taken out of his backpack. It read:

“I’m shocked at your behavior.”

He even drew a winky face. That smug bastard.

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