Assessment Failed
GWC ‘24 Challenge 1
I am co-judging, rather than participating in, the
writing competition this year, but all the same, I thought I’d try my hand at writing for each of the prompts. These little “flash fiction” stories will be only lightly edited, as my goal is to explore the prompt before reading the competition entries, which leaves me with less time to polish before I have to run off and read some other excellent fiction.Your Challenge This Week: Write us a story depicting a chase scene!
I hope you enjoy, and do be sure to stop by Gibberish to cheer our five brave contestants on!
I could try finding the shop owner, asking him if I could pay him back next week for a few things today… but why would he believe me anyway? Who’s to say he wouldn’t just kick me out on the spot—and then I’d be known here, I’d be on his bad side. No, better to play it safe.
Pietr looked around as he slipped the bag of rice into his backpack. No one was there. He ran through his shopping list in his head, trying to remember what meagre food was still in the pantry at home.
I wonder if I could get some meat as well. Daria would be so pleased.
He slowly made his way around the store, glancing almost constantly in every direction. The meat aisle was empty, and Pietr browsed for a moment.
The kids like chicken best, but a fish would be a real treat. We haven’t had fish in ages. But I’m not sure I’d be allowed inside if I brought home something that the little ones wouldn’t eat. It would definitely spoil before Daria and I could eat it all, and I’d never hear the end of it. Waste not, want not, and all that.
Footsteps thudded nearby. They were heavy, and somehow felt like they were coming from everywhere at once. He grabbed a package of meat—didn’t even check what kind of meat it was—and shoved it in the bag, before walking off, doing his best to walk away from the direction of the footsteps.
Please don’t leak all over everything. I don’t need blood stains in my bag, on top of everything else.
As he turned a corner, he ran right into the butcher. Literally. He was tall, broad man wearing a dirty apron. His face was set in a scowl, marred by a long scar across his left cheek. Pietr almost bounced off him, looking slowly up into the man’s face.
“I’m so sorry, sir, you see—”
“Don’t let it happen again, son.” The butcher side-stepped Pietr and made his was back behind the meat counter without so much as another word.
Did he not see me…? Does he think I was apologizing for bumping into him? What mercy is this?
Pietr almost felt bad deceiving the poor fool, and for a moment, he thought about returning what he’d taken. He shook his head firmly, as if , he had to stop his feet from skipping as he slipped out the front door, timing his pace alongside another customer to remain out of sight of the register attendant.
Daria is going to be thrilled with me. Maybe she’ll even let me see the kids for a while this afternoon—this is such a haul!
He watched his reflection in the shiny shop windows as he walked.
Although, knowing her, she’ll probably berate me for not managing to get any vegetables.
He pondered the possibility of going back to try and smuggle out some squash or peppers—even just a cabbage would go a long way—but ultimately decided against it. His bedraggled reflection warned him that appearing in the shop twice in one day might prove fatal. His face was smudged with dirt, his blond hair unkempt, and his clothes in desperate need of a wash. He looked every bit the overworked-and-underfed father of four that he was.
It’s all for them. It’s all for the kids. And for Daria.
He just hoped it would be enough.
A flash of white in the reflection in the window caught his eye, and he tried to discretely adjust his position to see more clearly.
His heart stopped.
It was the butcher. And he was staring right at Pietr.
Pietr turned as slowly as his panic would allow, walking quickly down the length of the street. With every window he passed, he glanced sideways, trying to find the imposing figure of the butcher among the passers-by on the opposite side of the street.
For a moment, he disappeared, and Pietr began to think that maybe he’d overreacted, that no one had noticed, that the butcher had been out on a different errand. Or maybe he’d just imagined the whole thing.
But then he saw that dirty apron again in another window, old and splattered with pinkish spots that churned Pietr’s stomach. He turned left onto a cross street, ducked into a shop, a tourist trap filled with trinkets and gadgets and knick-knacks.
Now, where’s that second door?
He’d walked through this shop before, and he knew that there was another entrance, further down the street. He hoped that he’d be able to blend in with the crowds and lose the butcher. He walked, casually but quickly, around racks of gaudy shirts and colorful pants. He stopped for a moment, pretending to admire some local nonsense, meaningful native symbols drained of all significance in an attempt to peddle them to visitors. Dodging and weaving between shoppers, trying to remain steady even as his heart threatened to pound out of his chest, Pietr made his way down the length of the shop. Only once did he stop to glance behind him.
No sign of the butcher. I think I lost him.
The door appeared in front of him, and he slipped out. He walked another ten yards before leaning up against a wall, taking in the street, trying to decide on the best route home.
But then, there he was again, white apron and all. Pietr cursed and started walking again, hoping he hadn’t been seen.
“Hey! You there!” The butcher barked after Pietr, his voice loud and firm. “Do you really think you can get away with this?”
Throwing caution to the wind, Pietr broke out into a sprint. Gasps and even a few shrieks surrounded him for a moment, until pedestrians on the street noticed him and started parting before him. He whispered a grateful word as he passed, hoping that the sea would flow back together behind him, keeping a human barrier between him and that heavyset man in the white apron.
Heavy, thudding footfalls behind him—and more screams, terrified rather than surprised—assured him that his pursuer was still making chase.
Pietr ran like his life depended on it, his bag thumping against his lower back with each step. Glancing up and down the street, he crossed it, looking for any cross road or alleyway that could prove an escape. He was rapidly leaving the part of town he knew intimately, and the realization terrified him.
Car horns exploded behind him, and a deep voice roared, “Get out of my way!” The butcher was standing in the street, flipping off a car that had braked only just in time.
Pietr turned back to the street ahead of him and realized with a start that he’d entered the city’s open market area. He darted between stalls, feeling the weight of stares on his back and hearing the angry shouts of vendors as he went. He was certain that he’d overturned a few baskets and distracted a few shoppers from making their planned purchases. Out of nowhere, in front of him, a cart appeared, laden with produce. Pietr tried to stop, to run around the cart, anything—but it was too late. The man pushing the cart watched in horror as Pietr laid his hands on the wooden edge, swung his legs up and around, and knocked over a handful of pale green cabbages. He felt the cart shift under his weight. It trembled and threatened to tip as he rounded out his vault. Pietr landed solidly on the other side of the cart, the merchant wailing in his wake.
I wish I’d been able to grab one of those! Would have rounded out our meal nicely.
He paused, hunched over, panting to catch his breath. Chaos reigned where he’d just come from, and it was difficult, for a moment, to see whether or not he was still being followed. But another roar, a loud crash, and a mournful cry of, “My cabbages!” spurred Pietr on. At this point, it almost didn’t matter whether the butcher was still trailing him. He just wanted to get out of the market, to get home, to offer his hard-earned peace offering to his wife.
He sprinted on, trying to find the exit of the market district. Eventually, down a quiet side street, he came to a wire fence about four feet high. Shouts of “Stop! Police!” echoed toward him, and Pietr let out a heavy sigh. He’d hoped to get away without involving the authorities. They only ever complicated things.
Pietr scaled the fence, leaping over easily and landing on his feet. He raced a few yards ahead, then stepped into a shadowy doorway to watch. Within moments, a parade of people—the butcher, a couple of constables, and a few curious onlookers from the market—made their way to the fence. Pietr didn’t wait around, but he counted the number of landings he heard—at least four people had made it over the fence.
He was running again, but his body was giving out. Staying in shape had not been a high priority for him lately. He’d been more worried about basic survival. A cramp shot up his leg, and he hobbled into an alleyway, hoping for an escape. Instead, he found only a large blue dumpster and a high brick wall.
Trapped.
His mind raced.
What will Daria do? How will the kids react? I didn’t know this was going to happen—”I wouldn’t have taken anything if I’d known this was going to happen!” He heard his voice as if it belonged to someone else. He hadn’t realized that he was speaking.
Slowly, menacingly, the butcher rounded the corner. His mouth spread into a grin, and he tapped his cleaver against his hand with a twisted pleasure.
“Where the hell did you get that knife? Have you been running with that this whole time?” Pietr couldn’t help it—he started laughing. All of the sudden, here at the end of his life, the entire situation seemed absurd. He watched, cackling, as the butcher raised the knife over his head and prepared to strike.
The top of the knife began to dissolve, floating away on a breeze that had just picked up. The knife was gone in a moment, and the butcher wasn’t far behind it. Around him, bright red lights began to flash, and a strange, tinny voice echoed.
“Assessment failed. Assessment failed.”
To Pietr’s right, a door opened in the side of the dumpster, a man in a long coat silhouetted against a bright light.
“Well, shoot,” the man said. “I really thought you were going to do better this time.”
[1,778 words]