Mischievous Flamingos

G. The Queens Croquet Ground

3. "Mischievous Flamingos" – Write a story about a game/match gone horribly wrong. (<1000 words)

Mischievous Flamingos

The Short Happy Life of Kickbol

“It’s called kickbol,” explained the author. “You have this round bol, see, like this one I’m holding, and you kick it until you can get it through the goldboasts.”

The veldskoen held up a paw. “Don’t you mean goalposts? And it sounds just like football.”

“Well, it is, sorta. But I can’t call it football or the Americans will get the wrong idea. And, if I call it soccer, the rest of the world will object. So it’s kickbol for our purposes.”

“It would be a lot simpler if we just had another caucus race,” said Euripides.

The author shook his head. “We didn’t get a result with the last one. If this is the Grand Caucus Reunion, we ought to play a game that gives us a score at the end.”

“Yes, and I got dizzy and fell down halfway through,” interjected Alice. “We need a game that doesn’t go in circles.”

The dodo suggested a vote and everyone started talking at once. The author shouted above the din, “A vote is a good idea. Everyone who thinks kickbol is the game to play, put up a hand or a paw.”

A forest of forelegs and arms shot up and the tailor, being the only one who hadn’t raised his hand, counted them off. “Nine,” he declared.

“Good,” said the author, “in that case, kickbol it is.”

“Hold on, hold on,” protested Euripides. “We haven’t voted on the caucus race yet.”

“It’s not going to win against nine of us,” said the author.

“Well, I think we should vote on it anyway.” The tailor crossed his arms and struck a belligerent attitude.

The author sighed. “Okay, we’ll vote on the caucus race. All those in favour, let’s see your hands and paws.”

Once again, every hand except one shot into the air. “Nine,” said the tailor.

“You can’t vote both ways,” said the author from behind the hand that covered his face. “What’s the matter with you people?”

“Well, we didn’t want to miss out on voting,” explained the gecko. “It’s our right, you know.”

“Oh, good grief,” said the author as he sat down on the ground.

Grundle the troll stepped forward from the crowd. “If the Awful is goin’ ter cry, I takes back my vote,” he announced. “Is yer goin’ ter cry, Mr Awful man?”

“Boo hoo,” said the author.

“Then kickbol has it,” pronounced the dodo. “Everyone on to the field.”

They spread out into the field and the author placed the bol in the middle. He took a few paces backwards and then shouted, “Go!”

There was a mad rush of bodies as everyone tried to get the bol. A wild scrum ensued, with every creature struggling to overcome all the others. Only the troll moved closer to the goldboasts and started pointing at his head. “On me ‘ead, son, on me ‘ead,” he shouted. “Come on, I’s open.” He danced around a bit and then repeated his entreaty.

This seemed to be the cue for the next event, for the bol suddenly shot out from the chaos in the middle, heading straight for the troll. It was too low for Grundle to get his head down to it but he drew back his foot in readiness. With all his strength (and that is considerable for any troll, especially a big one like Grundle), he released a kick that spun him over backwards and landed him full length on his back.

But not before his foot connected with the bol, sending it like a shooting star in a looping line for the horizon. The veldskoen swore afterwards that he’d seen it glowing as it neared escape velocity. The crowd watched as it disappeared from sight, only to be followed by a faint bang as it exploded in the distance.

“I think the game’s over,” declared the author.

“I told you it should have been a caucus race,” said the tailor.


Word Count: 656