	RodMer Short Story Package PP Scrabbled
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Here is Short Story Package PP, a short story by Merike Lugus.

You can also download this package in rtf format.

SCRABBLED

Approximately 1,300 words

Outside, snow is falling softly, muffling the sound of traffic. In another hour the sun will be behind the houses across the street. The Scrabble board sits between them. Tommy knows the outcome already: Dad wins. Though Dad says it's not about winning. It's about playing the game. Dad says there's honour in losing, if it's done right. Doing it right means not whining. Anyway, Tommy sees no way out of it: this is his allotted Quality Time With Dad.

You take the first piece, he says politely, already his mind starting to wander, even though he's been practising the sporting attitude. But there is one thing he looks forward to: he genuinely likes the little wooden squares, likes reaching into the silver bag, his eyes searching the heavens, his heart on a tightrope, his fingers flirting with Lady Luck. Seven stabs at FORTUNE. Seven little slick squares all with the precision he lacks, all capable of amounting to something, the way he supposes he might if only that mind of his would settle, focus, stop staring out of windows. Tommy's chest is filled with hope.

But he's not surprised to see the "A" Dad pulls out of the bag, establishing his right to make the first word. And he's only a little struck by the T-H-U-N-D-E-R he lays down: seven squares slowly across the middle of Tommy's brain. The rules give fifty bonus points for something that should be pleasure in itself.

This will be a long game, Tommy thinks, trying to admire THUNDER, not feeling well with the handicap rumbling inside him.

But he loves the letters, loves fondling all those little wooden chunks capable of adding up to V-I-C-T-O-R-Y. Though rarely they do, and certainly they are not there all together but backed up, clogged inside a silver bag. As you wait your turn to put your hand inside, there is that glorious moment of sun rays and cloud swell.

At this moment, though, all he has is a small r-o-a-r to drop from the tail-end of THUNDER. From the corner of his eye he sees Dad's eyes widen to fresh opportunity. Indeed, to a stupendous lead. A big mistake to offer him an "A". Another fifty bonus points.

So this time the M-O-U-N-T-A-I-N slams up against Tommy's face. Usually he sees it from afar, coming in steady increments. Or it's not so high. Well, his sporting attitude quivers like a bottom lip. The whine in his throat is difficult to discipline. He sees Dad's face flushed with pleasure.

Tommy says wow. Raises his arms and shakes invisible maracas, Losers forever inventing fresh ways to hide bruises.

Someone really ought to write the Emily Post on this. Grace Under Slaughter. Though this one should be easy to swallow. Such a high mountain anyone could see. No way around, it's obvious to anyone. There is grace in being underdog. Though what he feels is...redundant. He's careful not to think the loser word.

Dad looks pleased. Tommy wonders maybe winners, too, feel awkward, though it's hard to believe. Surely they love to run the laurel stretch, never stopping to eavesdrop on losers, who are left to sort out how much was luck how much technique, finesse, smarts.

But Tommy knows. He knows with that mind of his needing reeling in, he'd never have heard the THUNDER even if it spoke to him. No way. He's slow, or, distracted. But reasons, without him, Dad would have no game, no board-attacks, letter-lining, squeezes, bridges. Losers, too, serve in the scheme of things.

He wants Dad to look up and say, Tommy, this can't be any fun for you. But he doesn't. Dad's adrenaline is pumping, spurting blood to his neck, his cheeks, his brain. He knows nothing of the places Tommy must go, must slink into, invent, dream. At braver times Tommy thinks his Dad is blind and cannot see the many windows he stares out of. As now, Tommy sees the snow has stopped. A bluish hush has filled the streets like a prelude to a desperate act.

Eventually the game slows down. Tommy tries to get this brain in gear. Overlook no MOUNTAIN. And anyway, later he'll burrow into bed with the Science & Nature magazine which just arrived today, the shortest day of the year. Sweetness serves double when there is no light.

Eventually Dad says impatiently but kindly, make your move, I'm getting bored. Kind impatience smiles with a scowl. Scowls with a smile. Like sweet and sour, it complicates Tommy's concentration but he sees Dad's predicament, thinks: more evidence the brain's a computer. Mine is smaller than his. It'll do the same thing, just takes too long.

But his computer goes unbidden, goes like a kite cut loose. Clouds whiz by, patterns swirl. He looks down at his pretty letters:

T EE II UU

With different rules, these letters could fly.

But Tommy's hopes have been under the mountain for some time now, and he's running out of oxygen, and not at all sure what face he's wearing. Not sure what the sporting attitude looks like. Which smile should he wear?

Then he remembers: When buried by an avalanche, spit to know which way is up.

It's that smile he's after. He feels it now .

I think I should surrender, he says. Give up. Give in. Collapse.

You mean...you want to quit the game? Dad looks...he looks surprised. Astonished. Almost hurt.

Tommy knows this posture. The standing up to be punched down. Pretty soldiers in blue, in red. Or green. Winners say there is glory in this. To stand up to be punched down. He supposes, yes, and anyway there's still pleasure to be found in smaller hopes, fitting them into the game no matter. He supposes etiquette's on his Dad's side. The grace-filled rule-bound unfolding. Going in formation to the bitter end. Comfort for those sinking into feathered victory. Afterwards sipping sherry, discussing strategy. Praising the honesty, nobility, the silence of the dead. Death is not embarrassing they say, just the necessary and hidden roots of the mountain.

Posture. Attitude. The right one means not using the loser word. As in I'm such a loser. Dad won't allow it. He says it's in the situation. As in a losing situation.

Only the young crowd uses it freely: Ha ha what a loser. Tommy's friends huddling at malls, in school hallways, locker-rooms. In laughter, in furtive nudges, the cover-up. How they felt when they found the fat black loser wedge in the pie someone's got to eat. They might have to eat. When the music stops, someone has to fall when the chair is removed. Ha ha laughter of children with cigarettes dangling from soft mouths, children with red lips and beauty spots. Someone always has to fall. They never add an extra chair. Dream on. Ha ha. This is life. Ha ha, guess you forgot to be in the right place at the right time.

Tommy ponders this, ponders attitude. If this were chess, his king died an hour ago. He's been dragging a corpse for an hour.

It's not that he doesn't appreciate the letters, the letters he pulled out.

T EE II UU

He glances out the window, and just then, he can hardly believe his eyes, a guerrilla fighter in a white winter suit grabs his chance and runs for cover across a long stretch of snow. He's huddling out of view just outside the window. Tommy can hear his heavy breathing. Crash! A fist punches through the window sending slivered glass flying. A hand reaches out and grabs all of Tommy's letters and a white figure disappears to where the sun was last seen.

.........................................................Copyright © 2005 Merike Lugus

Merike Lugus
'SwallowHill', 1940 Hill 60 Rd., R.R.5
Cobourg, ON, K9A 4J8
Canada
merike@rodmer.com

[RA1] distracted?