Lazy Yarndi and Enthusiastic Zues

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Please read my short story Lazy Yarndi and Enthusiastic Zues.

Submitted: July 09, 2013

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Submitted: July 09, 2013

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Yarndi lay on his couch in his flat. He watched the AFL (Australian Football League). He lay back on the couch, with a doona over him, with the sound of the excited, resonant commentators echoing against the walls. The lounge room was filled with grey ciggarette smoke from Peter Styvessant soft-pack ciggarettes. He was dying for a bowl of Weetbix and milk but didn't get up because he didn't want to get out from under the doona and dreaded the cold floor on his bare feet. It was winter outside, that's why the football was in season, and the trees were bare, just branches reaching, and the pavement and general hue of the air was cold. Yarndi could be called lazy.

Zues was up 6.00am that morning. The frost was white. He rode through that white world, even the tree trunks were covered in frost. He rode, a windy path, all the way to Matriver Oval. He wore his team jacket on that bike and thick mittons, that the cold got through anyway, on his hands. When he got to Matriver Oval there was a fog hanging six feet in the air and the frost, which crumpled beneath his feet, coated the blades of grass. It was seven a.m and players from both teams, the umpires and coaches and fans, all rugged up were running and doing their various things around the icey, frosty, chilly, foggy football field.

The coach had red ears from the cold and old-lady fans in team colours sat on fold up picnic chairs with tartan rugs over their legs.

Zues took off his warm up jacket, revealing his gernsy underneath, and ran out onto the field - side stepping some of the way - to his team-mates on the field. There team colours were blue and white, the kangaroos.

Old Yarndi wouldn't even be up at this time. He would be underneath his doona with brown doona cover. The sun would rise to nearly the centre, of the dome, we call the sky. The sun would shine, blue of blue-swallows neck - behind it, the fog completely lifted. Yarndi programed his heater to come on at eleven o'clock, one hour before he got out of bed.

On Wednesday Zues had training. It was on at night, and it was dark at training underneath lights. There were bare trees surrounding the oval, silouettes, reaching. You could tell they were paper barks and willow-whisps. Under those huge, false-suns, they call lights you find at footy fields the players all ran doing their drills.

Coach said, "now lets do a kicking drill."

Half the players went to one side of the centre circle and the other the other. One would kick the ball to a player on the other side and then run to the group. The other player would kick it and join the group, by running, to the side he kicked it too. This was great kicking practice.

Coach said, "Now, handball drill and don't forget to talk it up." Talk it up means to yell when you want the ball.

"Zappa, Chook, Milesy," you could hear from a hundred meters from the ground - carrying in the fog - "Wazza, Fatty, Shorty."

Training was over for another night. Zues rode home through the night which was just starting to frost up, illuminated by his bike-light casting light into a small pool just ahead of his front tire. He could feel the cool air underneath his helmet run through his hair, so lovely and cool on his scalp.

Yarndi lay on his couch covered by his doona. The phone rang:

"Hey Yarndi ya lazy bugger it's Chubs."

"Oh hello Chubs," Yarndi said, "whatcha up to."

Chubs was one of Yarndi's friends. He had a high voice for such a round man. He squeaked:

"Wanta go to the movies tonight?"

"Nup. Too cold," Yarndi said. "And I couldn't be bothered walking."

So Yarndi turned down going out to the movie with Chubs. His one chance to get out of the house. He watched the AFL footy show on the TV and wanted a bowl of Weetbix again but it was still to cold to get up. The street lights outside seemed to absorb mist but he would never see it. It'd even been years since he had flipped a footy in his hands. Yarndi turned, in longevity, thirty, forty, fifty, and then started to alk the question, "Had I really LIVED life?" and there was Zues, riding on his bike, in crisp Winters, who never even had time to ask it.

THE END.


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