Prolific

"Prolific" was a short story I composed for an english assignment. It looks a little raw, but I do enjoy revisting it from time to time. Hope you fell the same.

Even today’s lethargic crowds could not help but grow excited at the prospect of a goal from the young soccer prodigy. The talented girl dribbled past the defenders with an ease that turned heads, and drew all sorts of amateur news attention. As she grew closer and closer to the goal, a few in the crowd grew even louder, cheering wildly. But the majority of the spectators sat silent, fingers crossed, reciting silent, mental prayers to the God of Heaven and Earth for this one goal.
The defense grew tighter, as did the stomachs of the girl’s parents and friends. “SWOOSH.” The sound of victory, which, to the girl had grown common place, but at the same time was a miraculous event. The following auditory orgy of cheering and clamorous noise was also familiar to the girl.

“Holy Cow, that was beautiful!” “Your talent is so huge; we may need a larger field.” “College?” “Do you score in your dreams, I’m sure your subconscious is affected by such a habit.”

Fighting her way through the small crowds of the secluded private school, these were the comments the girl would face after the obligatory hand-shakes and the post game meeting. These congratulations seemed somehow to not faze her, but one, just one would perk her ears and stimulate her brain like no other: “You’re too good, what are you doing in this Jerkwater school.” This phrase, and other similar variants on the theme, would be interspersed amongst the statements, but would never fail to catch her off guard.

“This school is fine, and I think that if I weren’t here, the team would do just fine”, she said with believable calm and just a touch of offense. But perhaps she should have tried out for the drama club, for such an answer could not have been farther from the truth. She was enrolled at a private school with a flailing athletic program, and the fact was always on her conscious mind. The school appreciated her athletic prowess; even letting her play at varsity in the seventh grade, but still, something was lacking, something….. Something terribly large was absent from her life.

After the crowds left, the field was as silent as it ever was, the bleachers just metal and wood, and the parking lot as desolate as any desert wasteland. As she walked to her truck, kicking empty hot-dog wrappers and other various litter left by the crowds, something was different. Something that brought a little life to the empty parking lot.

Sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette, was a tall, gaunt, interesting looking man. As she walked towards him to get to her truck, she was disturbed by his appearance. His suit had a very old, very elegant look about it, and his whole ensemble was rather eccentric, she thought. Wearing a navy blue fedora, and an ascot around the neck, he looked incongruous with the styles of the day. “Oh well”, she thought, “doesn’t bother me,” and walked past.

“Rhiannon James, I presume?”, the voice was fragile and strange. Executing a quick about-face, Rhiannon, in a state of shock, stood and stared at the oddly attired man. “Excuse me, I don’t….” the words had trouble coming from her lips due to the surprise.

“You don’t know me, correct. But I know you very well. Before this conversation gets any stranger, here is my business card.” He pulled a small card, seemingly out of nowhere, and handed it to her.

“James A. Devon”, she read, nervously, “but it doesn’t say who you are, and most importantly, it doesn’t say why you know me!” The tension in her voice was clearly audible now, but there was something about him, some odd spiritual attraction almost, that made her disregard all elementary laws of not speaking to strangers. “Who are you? Did you read about me from the papers?”

Peering out from under the brim of his hat, his small old voice seemed warm and friendly, “It’s my business to know you. I know most things about most people.”

“Like a surveyor or something?” she inquired. His eyes grew bright and larger than before,
“In a manner of speaking, Ms. James, that is exactly what I am!”

“I don’t have the time right now.” The spell apparently broken, she walked to her truck, equipment in hand.

“What do you desire the most, Ms. James?” The question caught the young girl off guard, but the man seemed unaffected as ever.

“What?” The spell was cast over her again, and she couldn’t help but answer.
“Your heart’s desire, Ms. James, what is it?”

“Why are you talking to an old man who you don’t even know?” Rhiannon’s conscience kept nagging at her. Walk away slowly and quietly, jump in the truck and speed away. Under most circumstances she would have done just that, but there was something about him, just something different…..

“Well…?” he inquired; his eyes seemed to glow now, attracting her even more. Finally she had it, and she sat down beside him and poured her heart and soul out to this perfect stranger. “If you really want to know, my heart’s desire is to be famous, to be the best!”

“The best actress, the best dancer, the best runner, the best what?”

“I would like to be the best, most famous at anything in the sports world”, the excitement in her voice becoming more and more audible as she spoke.

He sat there for a few minutes, carefully puffing on his cigarette, thinking. “She wants to be a prolific sports figure……hmmm, aha!” He reached into his suit pocket, digging around for something, “I know just who you can be.”

“Are we playing dress up or somethin’?” she asked, interrupting his quest through his suit. He gave a solemn glare and she was scared to death she had upset him. After a few, long uninterrupted moments of awkward silence, he broke out in a loud, throaty laugh. “What a clever mind you have, Rhiannon, dress up indeed!” The bellows of laughter soothed the uncomfortable girl.

Before long, he produced a piece of paper that looked like a scroll, a vial with a deep red liquid in it, and a quill pen, all these seemingly from no where. “Sign here,” he said beckoning her to do so. She was shocked, because, for the first time, all the pieces seemed to fit. “Is that…, and in the bottle, is that real….and you are…. Oh my Lord!”

“No but close,” he said, a small smirk stealing across his lips, “your signature, Ms. James?” She sat stunned; she couldn’t even believe it was happening to her. Finally, she came to her senses, “I’m sorry,” she said, a trace of regret in her voice, “can you come back later?.”

He sat a while, and after a few seconds of reflection and deep pause, took the stationery items in his hands, and prepared to leave. “I guess you don’t want to be famous that bad,” he said, as a small playful intonation entered his voice. “Guess I will move on to someone who does.” She couldn’t stand to see him go. She knew who he was, and what he wanted, but perhaps he was right, maybe she didn’t want it bad enough.

“See,” he continued, “the world is full of people like you. This planet earth is filled to the brim with people who talk about what they want until they turn blue in the face, but when they are presented with an opportunity, well, they’d rather keep on talking then sacrificing whatever to get what they want. You’re one of a million, Ms. James and not destined to be more than that.”
He was right. Here fate dropped the opportunity of a lifetime into her lap, and she was going to drop the ball. The internal storm raging inside of her was fierce. Her brow knitted, her lips pursed, she seized her chance just as he was walking away. “WAIT!!” The yell did not catch him by surprise, evident in how he simply stopped walking, paused, and turned about face, the parchment, vial, and quill in his hands.

“Well, let’s drop all formalities and have you sign this now.” His eyes meant business, she could tell that, and so she wasted no time. She dipped the quill into the vial, slowly took it out, and placed her signature on the paper.

What happened next was strange and felt completely foreign to her. He simply took his gaunt hand and waved it in front of her face. Then she dropped, unconscious, to the ground.

If the first experience was unique to her, how she felt when she woke up was completely terrifying. She felt the same, but some things were different. In this waking state of consciousness, she felt her hands. They were larger then before. She felt her face; it was inexplicably itchy. Then she felt a stab in her thigh. Not knowing what to make of it, she looked down and noticed her surroundings were completely different from those she had fallen asleep in. There was a bed under her. There were several paintings hanging from the walls. This was extremely different from anything she had ever seen.

“Ouch!” The oddly pulsating pain in her leg continued. Not knowing what to do, she slowly reached for the covers of this odd bed she had found herself in, and grabbing tightly onto it, slowly pulled them up. Each second worried her as to what she would find. The terror of the unknown besieged her, and now there was only a thin piece of material separating her from the pain she felt. As she drew back the sheet, she saw a large, white form. She kept pulling, and what she found startled her into remembrance.

“A CAST! I have a broken leg!?” Suddenly, a flood of memories of recent occurrences came to her. The “man” in the parking lot, the deal, everything became very clear. “How can I be a famous sports figure with a broken leg?”

Other things struck her as odd. Like the amount of her body fat all around seemed to have miraculously increased. Her percentage of body hair was also different than she remembered, but she was so confused these facts only stayed in her mind for a moment.

She was struggling out of the strange bed, when a small Hispanic woman dressed as a maid came in the room. “Sir, what are you doing?” she cried, “let me help you.

Sir? It must have been an oversight in the confusion. Maybe she was just learning English. Maybe…

”Here sir, let’s get you to the restroom and get you changed. You almost missed your interview with the sports station.”

Again with the sir.

Whatever had occurred would all be cleared up with a look in the mirror. All these odd feelings would be swept away with one glance at the looking glass, she knew it. The maid helped the patient to the crutches, and they hobbled along the finely decorated hallway.

The whole place was so lavish, so extravagant in the details poured over the house. The decorations and modern art displays made Rhiannon uncomfortable. They were like nothing she had ever seen before.

But no matter how foreign the house was, she knew the image glaring back at her would be oh so familiar. The closer the odd couple came to the bedroom, however, the more disturbed she became, the more she came to doubt who she was…..

The maid left her off at the bathroom door. She slowly hobbled across the fine tile, slowly making her way towards the clamshell style mirror. What she saw was beyond her comprehension. What she saw was an old, rather rotund man staring back at her. Shock, total shock set in. The difference she had felt all the time was real, and she, or was it he now?, would bet anything it had to do with the stranger on the bench.

Slowly making her/his way to the bathroom door, she found the maid, stunned at this change in attitude. With his/her courage mustered she inquired, “It sounds weird, but tell me, who am I, and what do I do?”

The maid gave an inquisitive look, but ever the faithful servant answered anyway: “You are James Fleetwood. You review sports for a living.”

There had to be a mistake, or perhaps she was deceived by that thing on the bench. But she had to find out: “Am I famous, am I any good at what I do?

“Famous?” The answer had a shocked intonation to it. “Good? Why you’re prolific! The best of the best!”

It hit her like a ton of bricks. She was prolific; the deal had been lived up to.

As she wandered back to her room, she thought of how generic she was, how her passions controlled her and how she had gotten exactly what she had asked for. She was trapped in this old, beaten, weathered body. But thankfully for not many years, judging by this stranger’s, now her, health. Then a drastic thought came to her: why not end it early, her soul was already determined a home anyway?

She limped back to her, or was it his?, room searching for a belt or rope or something, when she noticed an object on the pillow. “Clumsy maid,” he muttered, but stopped as soon as she had said it, so discomforting was the new voice.

But the maid had not left it there. She scrutinized it closer. It was the agreement, the deal that she and the thing on the bench had reached. Something on it was highlighted in red. Perhaps it was an escape clause?! Maybe it was some way out of this wretched deal, this horrible situation that had been created by a want of something more.

But the highlighted section offered no comfort. She read: “Along with Fame and Notoriety among the Client’s Peers, and the World at Large, comes Immortality in which Client Can Enjoy Said Fame.”

She dropped the paper to the floor. She had a broken leg. Her gender had been changed. She was considerably older. But most of all she was prolific. And she would stay that way….throughout all eternity.