Ten to Seven (A dubious promotion)
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: In a world of queues, the queue jumper reigns supreme.
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No one knew how they came to be there. At a rough count fifty apprehensive and unrelated adults gathered in a warm, cavernous room but with a most obvious connection, they were all as naked as the day they were born. That seemed to be the only available comparison since they appeared to have been selected completely at random, being of varying age, build, sex and race. Speculation was rife among those who could voice an opinion and maintain eye contact, with many others finding the nudity to be something of a turn-off when so confronted. Safe to say they were all like fish out of water and intensely worried as to what exactly lay in store.
No clock on view either. No way of knowing when they last ate, washed or used the bathroom, in fact, no sign of any such facilities in the room. Most unsettling of all, there appeared to be no one of authority they could put the questions to. This only served to quieten those who had been most vociferous in their anger, likewise those who questioned their whereabouts when it became evident they were all tied into the same situation.
One woman, Middle Eastern in appearance, fainted after a quite strenuous bout of theatrical hyperventilation and natural human behaviour saw several people go to her aid. When she came to she immediately panicked again, her innate sense of propriety regarding the need to cover her naked body taking another shame filled hold. She lost the plot with those trying to help her and they in turn lost interest in her welfare.
Many had tears to accompany their fears but one or two had that stoic attitude about them to the point others turned to them for leadership. That didn’t last long. The stoics were as bewildered as the rest of them and had merely chosen to try to handle the situation differently.
Exhaustive searches for a way out of the room proved worthless in that there was no obvious door, and certainly no windows. The room gave off the impression it was a sealed unit, yet they were able to breathe quite freely, a circumstance so utterly mind numbing as to beggar belief.
For whatever length of time they had been there, no one seemed inclined toward sitting, taking a load off, all seemingly preferring to stand in case an opportunity to flee arose.
When the aperture in the far wall appeared, the instinct was to back away from it, an instinct which proved to be absolutely correct as it turned out. The opening had introduced itself noiselessly, as from nowhere and it lent another edge to an already confusing and eerie atmosphere.
Jaws dropped as six figures filed into the room, their uniform of lurid, almost luminous pink body stockings leaving nothing to the imagination, thus letting those assembled in on the assumption they were at least human in origin, a notion enhanced by the fact one of them, an Amazonian type female, had a heavily bandaged leg.
One former stoic, a heavily muscled individual moved cat-like towards the six with the quite obvious intention of doing one or all of them some serious harm. He indeed looked capable of such but in the end allowed himself to be shepherded meekly through the door.
No one spoke, no one volunteered but somehow they found themselves lined up single file behind the former stoic. No force had been applied and still they had full use of their limbs, their voices too as many asked questions of the guards, the same questions they had been asking since their incarceration. The guards, to heighten the suspense somewhat, remained mute.
The first ten captives found themselves to be in a chute of sorts, a glass alleyway and immediately realized the source of the heat; they couldn’t very well miss it. Up ahead stood six more uniformed guards and beyond them, a long table upon which an intense fire glowed menacingly.
The former stoic was led from the alleyway to a metallic chair situated to the left of the fire and invited via hand signals to take a seat. This he did, there was no fight in him although his eyes betrayed the fact his lack of get up and go was frustrating in the extreme.
One of the guards approached the fire, withdrew what looked very much like a branding iron, one of ten, and pressed it to the flesh of the man’s upper right arm. His face distorted and his screams alerted everyone to his pain. When the brand was removed his arm bore a deep representation of the figure '1’. The scar was still smouldering and the recipient continued to scream in obvious agony. Strangely, he kept his arms rigidly by his sides as he was led away, apparently unable to tend to or interfere with the wound. The second person in line, a young woman, allowed the guards to lead her to the same chair and seat her in similar fashion, feeling the shock of the burn before the iron was applied. Her brand, the figure '2’ was applied to the accompaniment of even louder screams.
On inhaling the aromas of burning flesh, the remaining eight in the chute immediately, and to their great shame, found themselves to be ravenously hungry but that sensation was easily tempered by what they had witnessed, by what was about to happen to them.
The alleyway was spacious and, since being fed into it, one or two had tried to make their way back into the original room, make that all of them. They made it as far as the aperture and no further although there was no visible barrier. Three, four and five were invited out in turn; their screams when their own numbers were put in place were a match for those who had been branded earlier. Still those left in the chute tried to retreat and, taking the others by surprise, the original number ten let seven, eight and nine work their way in behind him, so promoting him to number seven.
Call it one-upmanship, call it what you like, he didn’t know what the script was beyond the actual branding but his sly smile suggested he had worked a flanker of sorts. He couldn’t avoid being branded, that much was patently obvious but what he could avoid was being branded twice when it came round to double figures. Number ten and those following would find out about that soon enough.
Swearwords: None.
Description: In a world of queues, the queue jumper reigns supreme.
_____________________________________________________________________
No one knew how they came to be there. At a rough count fifty apprehensive and unrelated adults gathered in a warm, cavernous room but with a most obvious connection, they were all as naked as the day they were born. That seemed to be the only available comparison since they appeared to have been selected completely at random, being of varying age, build, sex and race. Speculation was rife among those who could voice an opinion and maintain eye contact, with many others finding the nudity to be something of a turn-off when so confronted. Safe to say they were all like fish out of water and intensely worried as to what exactly lay in store.
No clock on view either. No way of knowing when they last ate, washed or used the bathroom, in fact, no sign of any such facilities in the room. Most unsettling of all, there appeared to be no one of authority they could put the questions to. This only served to quieten those who had been most vociferous in their anger, likewise those who questioned their whereabouts when it became evident they were all tied into the same situation.
One woman, Middle Eastern in appearance, fainted after a quite strenuous bout of theatrical hyperventilation and natural human behaviour saw several people go to her aid. When she came to she immediately panicked again, her innate sense of propriety regarding the need to cover her naked body taking another shame filled hold. She lost the plot with those trying to help her and they in turn lost interest in her welfare.
Many had tears to accompany their fears but one or two had that stoic attitude about them to the point others turned to them for leadership. That didn’t last long. The stoics were as bewildered as the rest of them and had merely chosen to try to handle the situation differently.
Exhaustive searches for a way out of the room proved worthless in that there was no obvious door, and certainly no windows. The room gave off the impression it was a sealed unit, yet they were able to breathe quite freely, a circumstance so utterly mind numbing as to beggar belief.
For whatever length of time they had been there, no one seemed inclined toward sitting, taking a load off, all seemingly preferring to stand in case an opportunity to flee arose.
When the aperture in the far wall appeared, the instinct was to back away from it, an instinct which proved to be absolutely correct as it turned out. The opening had introduced itself noiselessly, as from nowhere and it lent another edge to an already confusing and eerie atmosphere.
Jaws dropped as six figures filed into the room, their uniform of lurid, almost luminous pink body stockings leaving nothing to the imagination, thus letting those assembled in on the assumption they were at least human in origin, a notion enhanced by the fact one of them, an Amazonian type female, had a heavily bandaged leg.
One former stoic, a heavily muscled individual moved cat-like towards the six with the quite obvious intention of doing one or all of them some serious harm. He indeed looked capable of such but in the end allowed himself to be shepherded meekly through the door.
No one spoke, no one volunteered but somehow they found themselves lined up single file behind the former stoic. No force had been applied and still they had full use of their limbs, their voices too as many asked questions of the guards, the same questions they had been asking since their incarceration. The guards, to heighten the suspense somewhat, remained mute.
The first ten captives found themselves to be in a chute of sorts, a glass alleyway and immediately realized the source of the heat; they couldn’t very well miss it. Up ahead stood six more uniformed guards and beyond them, a long table upon which an intense fire glowed menacingly.
The former stoic was led from the alleyway to a metallic chair situated to the left of the fire and invited via hand signals to take a seat. This he did, there was no fight in him although his eyes betrayed the fact his lack of get up and go was frustrating in the extreme.
One of the guards approached the fire, withdrew what looked very much like a branding iron, one of ten, and pressed it to the flesh of the man’s upper right arm. His face distorted and his screams alerted everyone to his pain. When the brand was removed his arm bore a deep representation of the figure '1’. The scar was still smouldering and the recipient continued to scream in obvious agony. Strangely, he kept his arms rigidly by his sides as he was led away, apparently unable to tend to or interfere with the wound. The second person in line, a young woman, allowed the guards to lead her to the same chair and seat her in similar fashion, feeling the shock of the burn before the iron was applied. Her brand, the figure '2’ was applied to the accompaniment of even louder screams.
On inhaling the aromas of burning flesh, the remaining eight in the chute immediately, and to their great shame, found themselves to be ravenously hungry but that sensation was easily tempered by what they had witnessed, by what was about to happen to them.
The alleyway was spacious and, since being fed into it, one or two had tried to make their way back into the original room, make that all of them. They made it as far as the aperture and no further although there was no visible barrier. Three, four and five were invited out in turn; their screams when their own numbers were put in place were a match for those who had been branded earlier. Still those left in the chute tried to retreat and, taking the others by surprise, the original number ten let seven, eight and nine work their way in behind him, so promoting him to number seven.
Call it one-upmanship, call it what you like, he didn’t know what the script was beyond the actual branding but his sly smile suggested he had worked a flanker of sorts. He couldn’t avoid being branded, that much was patently obvious but what he could avoid was being branded twice when it came round to double figures. Number ten and those following would find out about that soon enough.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in his 50s, an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in sunny Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing. He is inspired by the Ayrshire coast and likes what he calls "real music". He also enjoys pool, snooker and is a big fan of rugby league side, Wigan Warriors. He has written several novels and one poetry collection and says that writing gives him "endless pleasure". His two ebooks can be viewed by clicking on the images below.
Angus tells us that all his stories on McStorytellers have been inspired by the titles of songs written by Paul Kelly, who is often described as the poet laureate of Australia.
Angus tells us that all his stories on McStorytellers have been inspired by the titles of songs written by Paul Kelly, who is often described as the poet laureate of Australia.