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View Full Version : Short Story Challenge #9 - 'My balls itch'


King_Ghidra
20-09-2007, 13:08:27
Welcome to the ninth CG short story challenge!

For this contest, your story should start with the words 'My balls itch', but from then on you are free to go wherever your imagination takes you!

Write as much or as little as you like, but please respect the fact that your peers will have to find the time to read your entry

For this one we'll try roughly a two week entry period, so the deadline (insamuch as anyone cares about it) is c. the 5th of Oct.

As always, only one entry per poster.

Comments on stories should be posted in a seperate thread, this thread is for STORIES ONLY

mr_B
20-09-2007, 14:40:35
My balls itchy pitchy spider

BEST STORY EVAH!!

MoSe
26-09-2007, 06:43:20
hmmm... "itching balls"...


...are you seeking new inspirations for your current state of still-young single-again rampage-ready male ?

;)

(sorry, this is not a story, but neither a commment on a story: it's a comment on this thread's theme :D)

MoSe
02-10-2007, 10:02:00
please, don't blame me for killing your thread!

Should you require it, I'll edit out this post!

:lol:

The Bursar
10-10-2007, 00:05:51
Sting

My balls itch when goblins are nearby. That's not the only time they itch, obviously. They itch after swimming, and during long coach journeys, and in chapel, and a bunch of other times when it would be impolite to get up and give my nuts a good scratching. But those are all natural itches, it's the goblin thing that makes my balls special.

I never really noticed it as a child. There were a few incidents at the spring carnivals when I'd leave the Curiosities tent looking uncomfortable, writhing in my pants. After a particularly bad occasion, one that resulted in me being hosed down behind the serpent enclosure, my parents decided that I shouldn't go to the Carnival any more. I kept no memories of those events, only a lingering sense of discomfort around all Faerie Folk, grotesques, and bearded ladies. I thought everyone felt that.

The first time I noticed the preternatural itch was on a class trip to the Eastwood Preserve. Our schoolmaster was a dull fellow, determined that we should learn not just the history of the kingdom, but the local thaumopolitical history as pertaining to the ongoing biological and economical well-being of the kingdom, blah blah blah. Usually he was content to cast such pearls as he would by the medium of sonorous lecturing. Luckily for us younglings, kinder heads had persuaded him that an outing was a suitable way to teach us all that stuff, and here we were, to see its culmination.

So we arrived on the Preserve, and a ranger took us out to the warrens and showed us the goblins. My balls began to itch. Badly. The goblins were not pleased to see us. They hurled rocks, and abuse, in that rough tongue they have. The ranger kept them at bay, and began his rehearsed speech on the social history of Goblinus vulgaris. By now my balls were in pain. A single goblin in a carnival tent gave me an itch. A whole warren of goblins on an open hillside made my bollocks burn, as if a thousand fire-ants were nesting in my scrotum. Apparently I passed out.

After that I didn't come close to any goblins for some years. I would say I avoided them, but after the Faelaws were passed and the Folk moved out of the Cities, they just weren't there to avoid. Occasionally there'd be twinges as I took a stagecoach through bandit country, but mostly life went on as if my balls were the regular kind.

I don't know how the army found out. Wizards, I guess, scanning for new potential. They call it telesympathetic sensitivity to Gobelinus vulgaris. I call it a pain in the nuts, but they still have me out scouting the Wilds for them. Goblins mostly rove in troops now, attacking stagecoaches and haywagons, occasionally raiding farms who haven't made the proper protections. Groups of about five I can locate without too much irritation. We move closer, it itches like hell, and then the firemages do their stuff, and the pain subsides. I can get a pretty good handle on numbers and distance and such now, by judging the quality of the itching. It's hard to describe to anyone who doesn't feel it. It's even harder explaining to my wife.

Anyway, the reason I mention all this is because my nuts are itching again. They're itching pretty badly already, and its going to get worse. I reckon this is going to be another blackout job. A warrenful? Try a legion. Thaumopolitical history is about to get really interesting again. I got a feeling in my balls.

King_Ghidra
04-01-2008, 13:30:07
‘My balls itch.’ Morris says to himself.
On Steve Biko Way, the snow falls gently on Morris’ head, settling across the hood of his bright red puffa jacket. Across his face, a tightly-drawn black scarf leaves only a patch of brown skin and dark brown eyes visible. He blinks against the few flecks of snow that penetrate, and shakes himself with a shiver, spinning from left to right and back again. In the pocket of his camouflage combat pants he hears the crackle of his radio. He fumbles for it with woollen-gloved hands, turning his back to the road as he puts it close to his face.
‘Yo.’
’2 o’ clock.’
‘Clear here. Still clear and still freezing my ass off.’
A low chuckle comes from the radio and it crackles dead.

Morris looks around at the empty road, the white road with black streaks of tyre tracks and the white pavement mottled with footprints. He stares at an old Vauxhall Cavalier parked some hundred yards away. He looks back up the empty road in the opposite direction quickly and then springs into a jog towards the car.
Inside the car, Prince is sitting, mouth pursed, looking straight ahead towards the junction at the end of the road. He is darker than Morris, more African than Caribbean. He wears a black puffa jacket, denim jeans, and Caterpillar boots.

Morris bangs on the door and Prince looks up, surprised and somewhat concerned.
‘Open the fuckin’ door ‘bro!’ Morris shouts, the muffled words barely reaching Prince’s ears.
Prince winds the window down and looks up at him.
‘What is it?’
‘Let me in.’
‘You ain’t supposed to be here.’
‘Do you see the snow? I’m freezin’ my ass off out here. Do you want to change places with me?’
‘Why would I want to change places? I’m in the car.’
‘Just let me in the fuckin’ car for five minutes.’
Prince shakes his head several times, then finally leans over and releases the passenger-side door.
Morris jumps in urgently.
‘Shit, it’s just as cold in here! Can’t you run the heater or summin’?’
‘Can’t run the heater without the engine. You know I ain’t supposed to run the engine.’
‘Just run it for a little bit, heat us up, then turn it off.’
‘Aren’t you going to be in enough trouble when Kwame finds you here?’
‘No one’s finding anyone. Now turn the fuckin’ heating on before I die here in this seat.’
Prince begins the same headshake he made earlier, finally relenting again, turning the car key and feeling the car shake as the engine desperately whines, trying to turn over.
‘Oh my god, your car is dying.’
‘It’s not my car. That’s why I’m not supposed to start it.’
Eventually the car starts with a growl, sending a cloud of black smoke from the exhaust.
Morris leans forward and begins to play with the heater controls.
‘Don’t take the piss.’
‘Chill.’
A couple of minutes pass in silence, the car slowly warming.
‘What the hell am I doing out there anyhow, no-one’s buying shit today.’
‘You’re still getting paid, who cares?’
‘Fuck the money, I’m dying out there. I’m gonna catch pneumonia.’
‘Maybe I’d take that over listening to you nagging like my momma.’
‘Ah, shut the fuck up nigga. I got to talk or my mouth will freeze up.’
They exchange glances at that comment, and Morris adds quickly, ‘and don’t say nuthin’ about that either, you smart motherfucker.’

A small figure rounds the corner ahead of them. No face visible, just boots, a big padded coat and woollen hat, all bunched up against the snow.
‘What’s a kid doing out on his own in this weather?’
‘That ain’t a kid, that’s Gary.’
Morris laughs to himself, slapping Prince on the arm.
‘Well oh shit, so it is! Look at that little motherfucker! Damn, do you see him busting his ass in the cold for a few quid?’
‘Nigga’s on benefit. He don’t have to work. Anyway he’s a midget, you wanna change places with him?’
‘Sheeiiit. Look at him.’
‘He’s good with the hash though, I’ll give him that.’
‘He got those little hands ain’t he, cuts it up real nice.’
‘Smokes more than you too, and he can take it.’
‘Fuck you, nigga!’
Prince breaks out into a chuckle.
‘Be careful he don’t see you sittin’ here Morris, or he’ll tell Kwame.’
Morris hunches down in the seat.
‘Shut it you, why you got it in for me?’
Morris watched as Gary slowly trudges past the car and walks on down the road.
‘You better get back.’
‘It’s C-O-L-D cold out there man.’
‘You gonna get in trouble.’
‘Yeah, with fucking Kwame, I know. Sheeiiiit. This is fucking inhumane.’
Morris gets up and gets out of the car, slamming the door. As he walks back to his post he hears the car’s engine die.

As Morris gets within twenty feet of his post - which is a metal ‘GO SLOW’ sign featuring a picture of a tortoise drawn by a local school kid - Kwame comes out from a side alley.
Kwame is a tall Rastafarian. He wears a long black mac, grey jogging bottoms and blue slippers.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’
‘I ain’t been anywhere, just been walking up and down a little, keepin’ myself warm. I’m dyin’ out here.’
‘You been running off indoors?’
I told you man, I been walking up and down. Do I look cosy to you?’
Kwame looks him up and down impassively.
‘It’s been dead out here man.’ Morris offers.
‘I know. We’re shuttin’ up for the afternoon. Get yourself home, come back this evening.’
‘Peace, Kwame.’ Morris says, as Kwame heads past him and down the road towards Prince and the car.
Morris turns and begins to walk back towards his mother’s house. He thinks of the three-bar heater and the sofa in the living room and breaks into a jog.

mr_B
05-01-2008, 17:39:27
summary

C.G.B. Spender
07-01-2008, 09:54:14
‘My balls itch.’

mr_B
08-01-2008, 19:39:28
scratch them a bitje

Scabrous Birdseed
17-01-2008, 15:19:45
Seven Juggling Knives

”My balls, Itch.”

Some of the audience were gawping now. Sure sign – I had them. Itch was a bit tardy as usual but he fed me seven, one by one. I arched them around for a while, then threw them back. Itch caught them lazily.

There was some applause already. Yup, I had them.

“Do you want to learn to juggle like me?” I smiled, looked some of the more likely suckers in the eye. “One set of balls you buy, the course comes free of charge.” Itch was meant to show the booklet around, but he just held it up casually, eyes half-closed.

And then there she was. At the edge of the crowd, in a simple cotton dress. She was wearing sandals and I caught a glimpse of her naked ankle before I had to do my next stunt, and I tell you it was hard to tear away. I wished she’d stay, after.

I brought out the knives. I only use six of them. I might be able to do seven but I’ve never risked it.

Itch wheeled in the target while I ran them through my hands. I threw them in a perfect line across the board. She applauded. The audience did too, but I didn’t care.

She did come up, after.

“You’ve got a lot of skill.”

“Thanks.” She was close enough I could smell her auburn hair. “Wanna go for a coffee after I’m packed up?”

“Sure.”

So we were at the diner, across the street from the fair. I was at the window and she was across from me. Itch was sitting next to me, facing away, chewing at nothing.

“What’s your name?” Her lips gleamed dark red.

“Diane.”

“I’m Frank. This is Joe, but everyone calls him Itch.”

“Why?”

Itch didn’t look up. “Last name’s Schmitz. ‘Itchy Schmitz’.” He shrugged.

She looked straight at me, and I swear her eyes were the most beautiful I’d ever seen.

“How do you keep ‘em balls in the air like that? It’s great.”

Itch turned slightly towards her. “I can show you how to do it if you like,” he said, more clearly.

She smiled at me. To apologize, I thought. “Sure.”

Itch stood up. She did too. He took out three balls from the bag and gave them to her.

“You hold your wrist like this.” He guided her arm, gently. “No, like this.”

He was standing behind her, helping her. She was a quick learner, and her eyes, her damned beautiful eyes, were looking intently at his hands. Soon, she was doing an okay three-ball for a beginner.

“Where you from?” She turned her head towards him.

“Jersey.”

“Yeah? I’ve been to Atlantic City once.” I just sat there as they talked.

Soon we were at a bar. I was sitting between two roughs, sometimes glancing at the other end of the room where Itch and Diane were dancing close together. Her cotton dress was clinging to her hips as Itch grabbed her waist.

I turned and ordered.

“A couple of ryes, straight up.”

When I turned back, they were kissing, right in the middle of the floor. Next time I looked that way they were gone.

I don’t quite remember what happened next but somehow I must have convinced one of the roughs to lend me a switchblade. I got to my motel room and I sat on the bed. The balls and rings and knives from the act were thrown all around me. I flicked the switchblade in and out, in and out. I was feeling very light-headed.

Then I heard the moans from Itch’s room next door. The door wasn’t locked. She was on top of him, her beautiful naked back arched upwards. I plunged the blade deep into it, again and again until she stopped moaning.

Itch didn’t say anything. That was what got me. He just looked at me and I think I’ve never seen Itch look straight at me ever before. I buried the blade in his throat and his eyes went back to dimness.

Then a crazy thought grabbed hold of me.

I went back to my room and got up one of the juggling knives, weighing it and the switchblade in my hand. I picked up the rest too and they started flowing through the air, six blunt knives and a switchblade. I was doing seven knives and it really wasn’t a big deal.

Then I threw them all in a perfect line on the wall and I laughed until I ran out of breath and couldn’t laugh anymore.