The Writer Games | Once In A Lifetime & World Edition

Welcome: Liz Short

"Liz Short!"

I glance down at my  sweaty palm and the two red pills sitting there, trying to steady my  arm. It won't stop shaking, however, and so I throw the pills into my  mouth and swallow them down with a huge swig of water. The crowd are  waiting. All five thousand of them, waiting, for me.

The roar as I walk  onstage is deafening, the camera flashes and the lights, in white, red,  green, blue, and a hundred other colours, blinding, my body, which feels  clumsy and ugly in front of so many eager eyes, trembling.

Helvetica grins at me,  beckoning me over to an empty stool which is bathed in light from a  thousand different sources. I stumble over to it and sit down.

She shakes my hand. "Nice to meet you, Liz."

"You too, Miss DeVil"

She laughs at that, but  not really. I know a fake laugh or a fake smile when I see one; it's  hard to go so long perfecting it without learning how to pick it out.  "Please, call me Helvetica."

I blush. I haven't even  been asked a question yet, and I've still made a mistake. The crowd  laugh however, and not at me. They must think it was cute.

It only takes one look  at them, one proper look, not the glimpse I caught from the wings, for  my carefully constructed plans to go flying out the window. So many  faces staring up at me, expecting a spectacle or a semi-coherent  contestant or at least someone resembling a normal human being, and  finding me. Plain, boring, depressed me.

Helvetica asks me something.

"Huh?" I say, swivelling to face her once more.

"I asked how you were feeling," she repeats, smiling reassuringly, "You look nervous."

It's now or never. I  take a deep breath, take one last glance at the eyes following my every  move, and begin. "I... I guess I am nervous, yeah." I look down at my  hands, clasped together so tightly that the knuckles have turned white,  and hold them out to the cameras. "See. I can't stop shaking."

More laughter. I feel more in control now, back on track even. Be honest, I remember. That's the plan.

"Don't worry," says  Helvetica, still smiling. It must hurt to smile for so long. When was  the last time I had smiled? "It happens to the best of us. I've been  doing this for years and I'm still a wreck."

"You don't look it."

She winks. "That's the  trick. You've got to hide it, love. There's no room for nerves in my  business, just as there'll be no room for them in yours."

I nod, silent.

"So," she says, moving  on from the dead end of a topic we had started on, "Tell us a little  about yourself. What you're like, what your hobbies are, that sort of  thing."

Be honest. "I have  clinical depression." There. "I used to enjoy painting, before it all  started, and going out with friends. We used to play in the woods, hide  and seek and all that stuff, and then, when we grew up, we'd go to the  shops and eye up dresses and boys, you know, typical teenage girls." I  laugh, the memories making me happy for a moment or two. "That all  changed when the depression hit. I don't go out much anymore, don't  paint either."

She's leaning in, smile gone and replaced by a look of concern. "Do you want a tissue, sweetie?"

I wave it away, sniffing. "I'm fine, really. Thanks."

"Anyway," she resumes, stuffing the tissue back into the box, "How do you cope? You do have a way of coping?"

"Hold on," I say, my  abrupt reply cutting through the low ever present murmur and reducing  the crowd to silence. "This... This isn't all an elaborate ruse to get  me talking to my councillors, is it?"

The shock of it takes  everyone aback. There's more silence, and then, like music to my ears,  gales of laughter from everyone, including Helvetica, the stoic looking  cameraman behind us, and even me. Maybe I am good for something.

I wait until everyone's  calmed down before giving my real answer. "Pills and talking, that's  all. They give me some Prozac, I explain to some white coat how I feel,  and they send me home with more medicine until next fortnight."

"That must be hard."

"It is."

She takes a look at her  notes, then her watch, and gives a start. "I'm really sorry, Liz, but we  must be getting on. Time constraints and all that. Onto the actual  games then, and the big question: What's your plan?"

"Go to the Winchester,  have a nice cold pint, and wait for all of this to blow over." A few  people laugh, but not many to get it. "It's a quote," I explain. "From  an old film. Shaun of the Dead?"

Helvetica's laughing.  "Very good. A subtle way to avoid revealing your strategy, too." She  winks. "In all seriousness, though, what do you think makes you a  contender?"

This was a tough one,  but I'd prepared with my mentor earlier. Be honest, we'd decided, except  if she asks you why you're in with a shot. "I'm stronger than I look," I  say, flexing my muscles and pulling a comical frown, "And I've got  brains too. All the planning I could need is up here."

"I wouldn't want to be  the one to try and prove you wrong. Again, sorry to be rushing you, but  we really must push on; we've only got time for three more questions.  Why do you want to win, and how far, realistically, do you think you'll  make it?"

Oh, there were another  two I had to lie for. I knew there was something I'd missed. "I want to  win because I love my mum, and I need to see her again." I paused,  looking right at the camera. "And I'll make it all the way."

"I'm sure you'll give it your best shot! Last but not least, Liz: Who do you think your biggest obstacle is?"

Easy. "Me."