Writing Prompt
Writings
Writings
STORY STARTER
Write a story about a character who places second in an important competition.
It is often said that history is told by the winners – but what about the runners up? You can focus on any element of this situation.
Writings
ATTENTION: Hello fellow talented and amazing artist! This fictional and original. Please don’t take it seriously. Anyway, enjoy! 🙂
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The loud bell rings in my ear, nearly making me deaf. I keep thinking to myself, I have to win. Their is no second placing in a fight to the death, no participation trophies, none. Just, survive. The guard behind me punches me forward into the arena, ending up with me landing on my bare knees because of the weight of the chains around my ankles.
“Get up!” The same guard growls as I groan at the stinging pain in my knees as the cuts begin to bleed.
“I’m trying…” I whimpered softly. “It just… hurts…”
I look at my opponent. He looked… weak. Weak! I-I might survive! Ha! I stand, actually believing I won’t die. He looked older, maybe 16, but-
“Stand still. “ My guard said, taking off the chains on my neck, wrists, and ankles.
I massage the areas they once lay, sighing happily. The guard leaves the area shutting the think metal door behind him with a loud CLANG.
The familiar voice of Sorruli Fay, the host of the Area’s Blood turns on over the speakers, “ Welcome everyone to the 89th Area’s Blood!!!”
The crowd goes wild.
“For this month, we have interesting opponents. On the right, you see Jabod Wri, a 16 year old from San Francisco, California.” She continues as the crowd applauds. “And to your left, a 14 year old named Abby Vee. She is from Phoenix, Arizona!”
I breathe heavily. Just last month, I was sitting in the audience. What happened?
“ Well place your bets, the game will start in 5 minutes!”
The five minutes seem to go by as slow as days. Finally, Sorrui Fay calls, “Enjoy the show!!! Ready. Set. Fight.”
I pick up the knives on the ground and run up to the boy. He was quick though, and dodged easily. He grabs the axe at his feet and swings it at me, cutting a bit of my pant, scraping the skin.
I grab my leg, trying to soothe the pain. I look up at him, trying to look menacing. (Really, I probably looked terrified, but whatever) I threw my knife, cutting into his shoulder.
“Argh…” he moans painfully, kneeling.
I smile. I was about to win. I was- The boy throws his axe, landing in my skull. I fall back, a river of blood gushing out.
I barely felt pain, only sadness. I needed to win. For my mother, who needed medical help, for my father, who needed the money, for my sister, who needed to be happy again.
I smiled, thinking about my family. One Christmas, we all sat in front of the tree, and just… talked. My sister wasn’t depressed. My mother wasn’t dying. My father could provide for us. The darkness washed over my eyes.
Goodbye.
Me…
Daily Prompt competitions.
But like a pepperoni pizza eaten by a man over forty too late into the evening, I will rise again!
Like a Karen who will cancel a zoom conference with her son’s soccer coach to find out ‘why Cedar doesn’t get more play time’ to wait for a store manager to return from a run to the bank to get more quarters so she can complain that the coupon doesn’t say ‘limit: one per customer on it anywhere,’ I will not be denied!
Like a potato left too long on a window sill, new life will continue to sprout from my eyes!
Like the young wife of a Juggalo4Lyfe, who reluctantly agreed to getting doused with Faygo instead of rice on her wedding day and saying ‘whoop-whoop’ instead of I do, I remain hopeful that my failure to place first is ‘just a phase.’
Like that one guy in your office who doesn’t think everyone totally knows he’s using discount Rogaine and that those ‘sprouts of new growth’ are likely septic follicles, I continue to hope for the best.
Like a millipede telling a dad joke, it is nearly impossible to ‘defeat’ me.
For, like Nicholas Cage, I know that if I just keep making things, eventually, one of them will be decent.
…I mean, Pig is worth watching.
“Runner up, Duncan Morgan.”
I put on a smile and walked confidently up onto the stage. I shook the judge’s hand as I thanked him as I accepted the small trophy.
“Duncan, we’d like to interview you for our dance studio newsletter.”
Duncan required all the restraint he could muster not to roll his eyes.
“Oh but Jeremy won first place, why don’t you just feature him in the newsletter?”
“That’s the thing. Both Runner up and First place from our dance studio. We would like you two featured together.”
Duncan had no restraint left in him and rolled his eyes, then closed them.
“Duncan, are you alright?”
“…Yes, I’m fine. Sure, when and where are we doing the interview?”
“Meeting room 2 in 10 minutes.”
“Okay.”
“Duncan”
Duncan was already in Meeting room 2. He heard the knock then the voice that called out his name and he looked up from his seat and cast his eyes towards the entrance of the room.
“Jeremy.”
“Hi. Um, can I come in?”
“Of course you can.”
“Thanks. Oh and um, congratulations, Duncan.”
“Thank you. Same to you, Jeremy. In fact, more to you Jeremy. First place. Impressive.”
Jeremy shuffled his feet.
“Jeremy, don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Stop shuffling your feet around. You just won a dance competition. Stand confidently with good posture.”
Jeremy blushed.
“I.. I guess I’m not used to this.”
Duncan gave a wry smile.
“Well I think you should practice getting used to it.. It’s likely to happen more often from now on.
Duncan bit his lower lip.
< …Such as coming second, for me. This is something completely new to me. >
Platypus. Platy-pus. I'm the biggest idiot in the world.
Everyone was right. I'm stupid. Dumb. My parents probably wish they never got horny outside of that movie theatre. They made the biggest moron to ever walk this planet.
One mistake. One letter. It all comes crashing down. A filled auditorium. Eyes, so many eyes. The lights are too bright. I'm hot. Sweat trickles down my forehead, into my mouth. My stupid, dumb mouth.
Platy-pus. Not Platty-pus. Two T's. That's what separates me from Janice Lovelong. She's the winner. I'm the loser.
Someone pats my back, but it doesn't comfort me. It feel like every finger cracked another bone in my body, leaving me a sagging, bag of mush.
I'm second. Not first. Two. Worse than one. I'll always be a silver medalist in a world filled with gold medalist.
I hear my voice in like an echo, cracking on 'T'. The host, judge, destroyer of my world, sighed with a disappointed head shake. The crowd was hushed.
If Janice messed up, I would've had a second chance. One more chance. I could've proven myself. Could've... she spelled hippopotamus right on the first try.
Two P's. That's what makes her a winner.
The crowd roared. Standing ovations. The sweat on my face isn't just sweat anymore. A tear is able to push over the bottom lid of my eye.
My bottom lip wobbles. A small, helpless sound catches the mic. It blares through the speakers. Everyone is too busy lifting Janice up to notice it. My parents aren't in their seats anymore.
They're gone. They truly know, now. Not a single doubt in their mind that their son is the single, most idiotic person alive.
They probably hate me as much as I hate myself. At least I rank first in that. I'm first place in Hating Myself.
Plattypus. What a moron.
My swimsuit straps pull on the tops of my shoulders. I reach my hand to my back and pull on the tight fabric. It snaps back against my skin and sends tingles up my neck. This is it. The race of a lifetime. Tokyo awaits. My eyes feel like they might pop out of my head; my goggles are tightened to the point where there is virtually no chance of them slipping off my head. I jump in the air, slap my calves, stretch my arms, and breathe heavily; in and out. Anything that will prepare myself for the 100 meters before me. I look to my right. Four swimmers jump, stretch, fidget, and breathe. I look to my left. Three swimmers jump, stretch, fidget, and breathe. And breathe. Breathe. “Swimmers, step up.” The crowd around me silences. I climb onto the top of the block and press my goggles even tighter onto my face. Dive. 50 meters fly. Touch the wall with both hands. Turn. 50 meters fly. Be first. Be fast. Beat your time. “Take your mark.” . . . ‘Beep’. In an instant, I fly into the air like a hawk taking off into the clouds. The tips of my fingers enter the water first. Then, my head, shoulders, upper body, and legs. I kick like a dolphin under water; as fast as I possibly can. The kicks force me back to the surface of the water where I whip my arms down and around my body. Kick, pull, kick. I stretch my head out like a turtle peeking around its shell to breath between every 4 strokes. Kick, pull, kick. The ‘T’ shape under water comes to my view and, before I know it, my two hands touch the wall. They only stay there for a half a second before rocketing back off and turning into the second half of the race. I push off the wall underwater and kick my feet as fast as I can. I swim as if a shark is chasing me and is right at my heels. I swim as if someone has lit a fire in my belly; fueling me like coal does and train. Shooting straight and true in the water. Here it is. The final stretch. The last 10 meters. Don’t breathe. Just swim. Kick, pull, kick. And touch. . . . I look around next to me. All of the other swimmers hold there breath as we all turn around to look at the giant board behind us. I rip off my googles that might as well have been glued to my face. The bridge of my nose will surely be bruised later but I don’t care. I just need to see if I- My heart stops. Second place. I- I did it. Salty tears stream down my face. Tokyo is mine. I push myself over to the lanes next to me and hug my competitors with the little strength I have left to give. Second place. Not to bad. Now, all I have to do is go even fast the next time.
It was the most important performance of my lifetime. This years competition is being shown under the limelight. This was supposed to be the moment where I shine bright. Instead, my rival is the one being talked about in the typewrite. Well I can’t just let that ruin my whole life, right? Sore loser has never been me and my kind mind has light time for envy which means I’m checking the tape to find the exact moment where I lost. Empty out old strategies that failed to find some better cost because I won’t accept this loss turning me into an outcast away. Second place is not first so it must be last, the placement where I’m not staying. I’ll stay on the fckn grind & sway the judges votes next time. Now I will only gain. As God as my witness, I will never go hungry as a loser again. Winner winner; chicken dinner.
“And the runner-up for the Miss America contest is Miss Pennsylvania!” With some disappointment, she joined the second runner-up on the stage. Feeling a bit dizzy, she tried to steady herself, but fell down to her knees. She tried to stand, but there was nothing she could grasp for leverage. Meanwhile, the winner, Miss Texas, was getting all the attention and the TV cameras were focused on her. No one saw her fall,she reasoned. Maybe someone would help her- a stagehand? No, it was Miss Texas herself. She pulled her up and asked, “Are you ok? Let’s get you to the medic.” Miss PA replied, “Ok.” The two contenders walked off the stage. In a small room, a medic took her blood pressure. It was a little low. Her temperature was low grade. “You should go to your hotel room and get some rest,”the medic said. Back at the hotel, Miss Texas made sure Miss Pennsylvania got to her room. “Keep in touch.” She said, slipping her a card. Miss Pennsylvania glanced at it. It was just a toll free number. When she was back in her hometown in PA, she went back home to see her parents, whom she had left when she was in college. They were in trouble with their mortgage and were facing a future in a nursing home. She wanted to help, but it was so overwhelming. She looked at the card from Miss TX. In small print it said, “if you have a need, call this number and ask for Molly”. She called the number and a woman answered,”to whom shall I direct your call?” “Molly,”Miss PA felt nervous but intrigued. Molly answered,”Miss Pennsylvania?” “Yes,” “I’m glad you called. Is it financial?” “Unfortunately, yes. My parents are going to lose their house,” “No problem. I have a solution. I’m going to pay your parents’ mortgage free and clear. I have a large inheritance and I want to help people. I don’t give my card to too many people, but you impressed me. Please accept my gift, but don’t share the card unless you really think the need is real.” Miss PA was in tears. Molly really did deserve the Miss America crown.
T
Jared’s brother Evan had always drilled the same words into him every time he raced, no matter what kind. “Second place is just the first of all the losers.”
He’d heard the words so many times about so many things. Skiing, swimming, biking, running. All of it. He had placed second before, and the disappointment he saw in Evan’s face stopped him from doing it ever again.
That was… until yesterday.
Yesterday, at the biggest competition of his life. A triathlon. Watched by scouts, scouts that could change his life and get him into a good college. Scouts that he let down.
Things had been going so well. The swimming went amazing, and he was on his bike well before many of the others. His running was practically flawless, and it felt like he was flying. He was one with the race, and he was a bird with the wind in his wings, loud cheers just making him fly faster.
Then, just a few metres before the end, something terrible happened. He barely registered the blue shirt of the racer beside him before they burst in front of him to win the race.
His heart dropped into his stomach as he made it over the finish line, just moments too late.
He stumbled away from the track, tears starting to well up in his eyes. How could things possibly be worse?
Then he saw Evan. His light brown hair was a mess, and his eyes looked angry.
“Evan… Evan I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean… I almost had it!”
“Yeah, you almost did.”
“Evan, I-“
“You’re a loser, Jared. Even after all those wins, you couldn’t do it when it really counted. So you’re a loser.”
And he turned and walked away.
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