The first event, Sharp Stick and Dustbin Lid, was a tested favourite. The crowd’s delight was audible, they swayed en masse in the stands, holding buckets of dry roasted and necking gallons of non inebriative sweetness.
Large swathes were congregated in the colour of their chosen, supportive chants and bawdy remarks were exchanged. Scuffles were discouraged and flags were a nuisance. The stands, packed to the gunwales, rocked.
Anywhat, that being, the contestants, armoured to the teeth guards, milled in the waiting compound, where the public may view the shine of their epaulets, deciding which ruffian might triumph, and placing their bets. Soon enough, the combaters were invited to choose their shield and weapon of choice.
A large selection of dustbin lids from way back, when bins were round, corrugated and wrought in galvanised steel against the erosion of the sun and rain, lay ranked upon the track. The bin lids had adorned in outlandish designs of monsters, with teeth, scales and faces with ears.
Nearby, a host of sharp sticks, in varying lengths, stood attendant in rows during a special stick stand. They ranged from the small, handheld poking pencil, all the way up to the pointy caber, which was more associated with the frontier fortresses fortifications, in dodgy westerns from the US. Each combatant equipped and ready, they wandered the preparation area, testing their weapon thrusts against invisible opponents before the main.
The contests began and were done. Sticks were waved and citizens were afraid, wishing it was all just words.
This raged about through the day, dust coating their spurs, until only two participants. One, a woman with a dustbin lid depicting the apocalypse and waving a vicious looking short spear, lopped forwards towards. The opponent, a small person gripping a dustbin lid painted in the like of a bull’s eye and shouldering a long stick, more liken a lance, crouched behind his shielding.
She came in like the wind, trying to fox or dodge the point of the lance, which wavered about in an uncertain manner, like a child with a sparkler. At the last, the lance tip snagged in her chain mail coat as she lunged forwards. The lancer had driven the butt of his joke into the dust, so that the lance sprang upwards carrying its mailed cargo into the high. At the apex of the half circle, her spear a tangent, the lance unsnagged, and the mailed woman of the apocalypse was catapulted into the fourth row of the stands. The crowd, up to this point more engaged with their snacks, went wild and cheered the rafters.
Next in line, the Smooth Stone throw was scheduled. It is known that throwing stoney bits is not considerate for bridge building so the loser of this contest might be considered as the represent of all humans. Words can hurt also, no bones broken.
Look at the way they move the stones from hand to hand in practiced rhythms, left to right and back once more, to balance the books, Said the Commentator, Balancing books on their heads is a waste, unless of course. He continued, filling time whilst the contestants. Don’t show me flowers that have no water and will wilt in the heat. Don’t throw me a smooth rock that has spent an eon in bed with a river. OK, no, I’ve changed my mind, throw me a rock that is smooth all over. Let me stroke its smooth surface. Provided it is not too big, and you have indicated that you are about to launch it, so I have time to prepare. Don’t throw it too high or from too far away or too near. The whole exercise has potential for disaster and I’m beginning to regret the whole thing.
There, I caught it. Holds it up triumphant, Have I won?
No! that was a practise round.
What! that was my best throw!
Number 24 is eliminated for dissent.
After all, the winner is the contestant who can throw the very smooth and tactile stone the furthest into a bin. This competition will obviously promote those competent in the art of international diplomacy. I throw and throw, next, he throws and throws, but the bin is too far away. We may not be excellent at diplomacy after all. Can we seek not the common ground or come to an understanding? Could we try to learn each other’s tunes and walk a while in each other’s shoes? Rather than throwing stones.
Luckily, I only live a stone’s throw from here and you have broken all of my windows. That being, perhaps I shouldn’t live in a glass house and participate in the smooth stone throw.
When I sit in my house, I feel exposed, so I pull down all the slated blinds and sit quiet so that no one knows. I spend the day cleaning the glass with a well-known brand of electric vacuum window thing, but there are always marks. I’ve given up trying to see through the gauzy curtains that the breeze of inevitability throws in my face, again and again, like the hair of a TV reporter covering a hurricane, with boarded up shops, bent palm trees and a traffic queue.
In my house I put crosses of strong tape across the glass, but the stones keep coming, littering the floor, breaking my flower and chimney pots. They are dark grey ovals that fit in different sized hands nicely. Curved just so across their surfaces, a light-coloured rock stripe breaks and yet describes the shape. Ago, big ago, the dark rock cracked under the strain and the white flowed in and enrocked itself.
Variation of course, the Smooth Stone Skip across the Lake and the High Throw and Intercept, almost impossible. There are no glass houses in the lake, only glass bottomed boats
Not for the faint of heart this event.
The Guardians of the Cave 