Previous Challenge Entry (Level 1 – Beginner)
Topic: SMEAR (03/10/16)
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TITLE: Flag Ripper | Previous Challenge Entry
By Don Buschert
03/15/16 -
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He drove down to his favourite building supplies store; bought some lumber, constructed a wooden box and in large bold black letters painted the words 'SOAPBOX' on each side.
Then he bought a large flag, the kind found unfurled in front of public places.
On a sunny Saturday morning he wandered down to 8th and 17th, right in the heart of the Beltline. He stood up on his box; and looked around. A dozen meters away, a lone musician stood playing an acoustic guitar; amateurishly trying to sound like Bob Dylan, but bobbing more like Neil Young. On a park bench sat a lesbian couple, holding hands, both decked out in excessive facial rings, tattoos and rainbow hair.
“Oh Canada,” he hollered. “What have you become?" He held out the flag and ripped it six inches down the middle.
Tim began shouting out a long tirade of grievances against his country. A frail, antiquated military. A self-absorbed populace; preoccupied with rights and entitlements at the expense of responsibilities. Weak leaders. And none of their NHL teams made the playoffs! After making each point; for added emphasis, Tim would rip the flag.
People walked by, politely ignoring his rants; in fine Canadian fashion - proving his point.
The lesbian couple pretended not to notice him, and soon left. The musician continued playing; bobbing erratically. A few curious bystanders stopped briefly to listen; then gave disgusted glowers, and turned away.
A tall, thin man in tattered clothes shuffled slowly up to Tim. He listened for a moment, then motioned for Tim to come closer. Tim guardedly stepped off the soapbox, the man looked harmless despite appearing incoherent and high on something. He patronizingly and humorously patted Tim on the shoulder, and with a toothless grin, turned and shuffled away.
Undeterred, Tom hopped back on the soapbox and continued. By now the flag was a ragged, frayed heap in his hands. His voice was going hoarse.
An older man appeared, wearing a scowl. Tim stopped; staunchly looking him in the eye.
The man spoke up, "You shouldn't be doing that to our flag. Shame on you!"
"I agree, sir," countered Tim, stepping off the soapbox. "I'm really frustrated with this country, with our complacency, our cynicism."
"Well, why don't you write your MP?"
"MP?" Tim gasped. "My MP exemplifies what's wrong with our federal government. Sticks to his ideology and pays no attention to the red lights on the dashboard. Out of his mouth comes platitudes, glib and blather – and no action."
The man looked at Tim with empathy and congruence; yet did not walk away. Rather, he seemed intrigued, somewhat bemused by the analogy.
Tim listened as the man related his story of how he was a veteran, serving in the armed forces years ago. He agreed with Tim, the country was different. Times were different. But the flag should always be respected.
So Tim told the man his story, his successes in the petroleum industry, which was now a shambles. He shared his disappointment and failed expectations of government promises; the anger at losing his home, and all he had worked for. His voice was spent and rasping, now a mere whisper.
"You're gonna have to do something else," the man said. "You're a smart, bright fellow. Don't waste your life feeling sorry for yourself,” he continued, pointing to the tattered flag.
Tim felt like a balloon which had slowly released its air. There was nothing left to say. The man was right. He felt like a fool, awkwardly standing in a public square holding onto this torn, shredded flag. The man could sense Tim's shame.
"You're better than this," he said firmly, yet with a benign smile. "I don't believe you’re the kind who would stoop this low."
Tim exhaled, a resigned, grateful look in his eyes; as if something burdensome left him. He sheepishly glanced around at the crowd of people, none of who were paying attention. Had he really made a difference? Nothing changed. His face wore an expression of despair.
"Come with me," asked the man with an amiable smile. "My name's Roy; I'd like to buy you a coffee."
Tim nodded, looking down at the torn flag in his hands; then glanced over to a nearby fence. He slowly walked over, draping the flag atop the fence, the ripped, frayed strands gently swaying in the breeze. Leaving it; and his frustrations behind, he and Roy walked off together.
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Blessings~
I sense you're working on doing more showing than telling. You have done a great job in places of painting a picture, but occasionally, you slip into telling. The beginning is a nice attempt at pulling the reader in, but I'd take it a step farther and show what made him feel like he had enough. For example: Wadding up the foreclosure notice, Tim's stomach bubbled. Clenching his fists, he kicked the chair and stormed out of the house. That's it. I can't take it anymore.
It's not perfect, but I hope it shows you what I mean. It also let's the reader know why he's frustrated, which allows you to leave that out later on when he tells the man his story. That was one of the parts where you slipped into more telling than showing.
Politics is a tricky topic these days, and I think you did a great job of using it in the topic. It certainly fits. As someone discouraged with the US election potential this year, you also reminded me that we're not alone. Things are happening in the world, and we need God now more than ever. Keep writing and read and comment on other stories in other levels. You'll be moving up the ranks in no time. You have a great foundation, and the more you read and write, I've no doubt you'll continue to blossom and spread God's word to many.
I enjoyed the descriptive words you used to draw me into the conflict right from the beginning.
Blessings~