Short Stories + Contest Entries

Tag, No Tag Backs

I do not take full credit for this story! It was a group project and I liked the end result!

Enjoy!

The dirt road crumples as my shoes meet the ground, and I feel the melting snow surround me. The February sun strives to peek out of the clouds and shine, but for now the clouds refuse to move. Signs of life drawn near, and glance around to see a quaint town. It has a wide distance to fill, and thin homes stand firm in their place.

I tuck my hands into my pockets, and bend down next to a rock, hoping that they won't spot me and accuse me of being a threat to their world. I'm still close enough to spy on the town, curiosity bubbling inside me. Not too far from where I lean, a town square with the name Province is carved in mahogany wood. Above it, a round clock distinctively reads 11: 58 as it ticks more of our time away, never to be seen again.

The streets are paved to perfection, and wondrous, pure oak trees surround the area.  But there is one detail that sticks out like a sore thumb. A blood red line is drawn straight in the middle, and seems to separate another part of town.

Realizing another major feature, I turn my head, and find that the right side of town have wider, more appealing features than the other. The most puzzling accusation of all is how quiet the town is. It's noon, and yet no one is around working or shopping. There's no chitchat or laughter. Just dead air.

Like the clock heard my questioning, it answers with a bombarding chime, and in an instant hundreds of thousands of people come out at once.

Men from all different sizes and color escape their homes, as children watch from their windows or come out to cling to their fathers. It's hard to make out, but they hold eerie expressions. Women's pleading weeps echo around the square, and the feeling of wonder drives deeper into my skin. What could they be afraid of? The men are obviously going to work. Aren't they?

As the men come out, the two sides appear rather different. One side is more dusty with out of date fashions and blotchy colored houses. Opposed to that, its neighbors seem to have a clean, and proper way of living. The clean cut, precise style of clothing also shows the cultural difference ad well as the skin colors and their collide. The darker skinned people have more of a raggedy dress code while the lighter humans have a more serious attire.

Slowly but surely, the men walk towards the scarlet divider, all determined and ready, but for what?

"Bolsa sucia!" One shouts in Spanish with a murderous tone, while cracking his knuckles.

"Lazy deadbeats!" Another angered voice hollers back, stretching his arms out.

More yelling spits back and forth and I reach forward to glance past the scene. A man is very familiar to me is casually pacing towards the crowd of vexing men and stops to stand on the  line. A pistol in his hand. He stands in the shade that is next to a closed shop, and I can't make out an exact face.

The rambling men become aware of the man, and silence their insults to greet him.

"Afternoon, Host Max Cornwell." voices echo each other and I gasp in surprise. Smiling pleased, the Host steps out of the shadows and I see my brother's face for the first time in years.

He begins to speak, full and clear. "Welcome men, to this year's 84th annual Tag. I assume rule numbers one and two are all taken care of? Doors are locked, and only men 18 and over are present?" The fellows nod their heads in agreement, and I stand perplexed as to what all the hullabaloo is about. Is this what he wanted me to see, a game?

"Wonderful. Now-" But my brother is cut off when a light skinned man with blonde hair bolts from behind his place and straight past the line, screaming "Let me at em!"