TUESDAY’S CHALLENGE:Write a Virgil Flowers tale; let the dialog do the heavy lifting; the conversation depicting the characer, the surroundings & local attitudes. Your article doesn't have to be long; just long enough to make me love your Virgil. I don't mean to discourage any longer pieces by this; in fact, take as long as you need, as long as you are having fun with it. Just get Virgil Flowers into your title, & I'll keep looking; keep reading! Tag it Tuesday Writing Challenge & publish to GWE. HAVE FUN!
* * *
“Damn, it’s hot today,” Vince Weeds said as he ran the ice-cold bottle of Seagram’s Wild Berry Vodka Cooler across his forehead and stared across the sand at his girlfriend.
His best friend, Honda Yamaha, looked over at him, chuckled, chugged down a Bud, and said, “Ah, come on, man, it’s only about 110 degrees today. You guys have been up here several times when it was really hot.”
Vince squirmed a bit, trying to find a soft place in the rock on which he was sitting. He pulled out his cell phone, hoping to see that he had missed a message -- nothing! Even though he was off duty, he was hoping to get a call from his office or anyone else so that he wouldn’t have to spend more time in the heat or -- with his girlfriend.
Honda noticed his discomfort and said, “How many times has she won this?”
Vince looked over, saw Virago getting ready for her next throw, and said, “I think this is the sixth Women’s Desert Shot Put Championship she’s been in.”
“Has she ever lost?”
Vince shook his head slowly, looking at Virago and comparing her to a hippopotamus. “Nope, there’s no other woman that can match her. She doesn’t waste her time throwing the women’s 8.8 pound shot; she throws the men’s 16.01 pound shot.”
While most women used the glide technique, Virago used the spin as did most men. She spun around, launched the shot, and then stood there waiting to see how far she outdistanced the other women. Honda watched as the officials measured her throw and said, “Wow. That’s got to be at least seventy feet. None of the men have even done that.”
Seeing Virago walking toward him, Vince said, “Honda, how about doing a pal a favor? Go over behind the truck and call me so I can pretend that I have to go to work?”
Honda laughed, slapped him on the back, and said, “No way, man, she outweighs me by twenty pounds and could probably toss me across the Grand Canyon.” He paused and then said, “Dummy up, man, here she is.”
Vince was afraid to look, but heard the familiar bass-baritone voice saying, “Come on, Honey, I won that round and I need to recharge my batteries for the final throw.” She leaned down, picked him up in her arms, and said, “I got the tent set up out of the way and we’ll have a full hour to help me get my strength back.”
As Virago carried him off to the tent, he kept hoping his cell phone would ring. Surely, he thought, there has to be something to call me back to duty. This county has thousands of miles of roads; somewhere along there must be at least one road-kill that needs to be picked up.