The VHL Story Book - ALL MAY CONTRIBUTE

[thadthrasher 1,692]

Alright, I'm trying something new here (at least I think it is new). I don't know about the rest of you, but sometimes I struggle with what to write next. My entire week is spent reading and writing, and when it comes to fun writing I can often find myself lacking ideas and motives. Frankly, writing can sometimes become cumbersome for me, even here in the VHL. So, as someone who often suffers from writer's block, I want to try a crazy idea.

 

The VHL Story Book

 

Here's the idea. I'm going to write out a chapter to a story. You read over the chapter and then IN THIS THIS THREAD, write the next chapter. If you want to claim your chapter as a media spot simply claim it the same way you would for a review or a press conference response. I'm hoping this sparks some creativity from all of you, and from me, and it's a neat way for us as a community to create something truly beautiful (or probably terrifying and repulsive...knowing some of you).

 

So....here we go.

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Chapter 1 - The Mysterious Box

 

No one in his family could believe that it actually happened. He worked for so incredibly long to get to where he was about to go, yet despite that, no one could begin to fathom that it would eventually pay off. As the little kid stumbling around on skates, to a professional hockey player in the Victory Hockey League. How incredible.

 

Philip Moyer wasn’t the biggest guy around. He was tall, sure, but he had legs that resembled toothpicks and an upper body that often made others think he was malnourished. He wasn’t the greatest looking guy, what with his larger nose and thinning hair, but he did have a smile that could capture the room. Quite the strange thing for a hockey player to have. Nevertheless, Philip, or Phil as his friends called him, was the kind of guy who didn’t need great looks to be well liked. He was cunning, quick, intelligent, and could often talk his way out of most corners he would back himself into.

 

This was actually how he started playing hockey. Phil picked up an interest in hockey later than most kids in school. While the other children were practicing and on teams around the age of 8 or 9, Phil didn’t start wanting to play hockey until he was around 14. He wasn’t very good, and with no actual game time or hockey practice behind him the coach of the U16 league wanted nothing to do with him. But, Phil had the ability to change most anyone’s mind. After a brief conversation with the coach Phil found himself on the team. He worked harder than any of the other guys, and eventually, through a lot of extra practice and the limited game time he saw, he worked himself up the lines and became one of the starters by the end of the season.

 

After Phil turned 15 he was selected to be the team captain, and his career continued to take off at an exponential rate. Before long, Phil was finding himself playing in college, setting school and league records, and he did all of this while everyone thought he couldn’t. It was truly an unbelievable and remarkable thing to witness. Then, he received the call.

 

“Phil, it’s Kris Ricer. I wanted to let you know that you’ve been selected by the Calgary Wranglers 1^st overall. Congratulations. It’s time to let you shine.”

 

Joy erupted out of Phil, and out of his family as well. He packed his bags, grabbed all that he had, and headed to Calgary to meet the team. But, something peculiar happened when he arrived to the locker room. He found his locker without much of an issue, but someone had left something inside of it. It was a black box which sort of looked like a shoe box. It was in perfect condition but was taped down on all four sides. There wasn’t any writing on it, and Phil thought for sure it was a present left for him. He set down his bags, pulled the incredibly light box out of the locker, and sat on the bench. Grabbing the skate from his bag, he used the sharp blade to slice through the tape so that he could flip off the top.

 

Phil flipped the top off of this mysterious box and nearly fell backwards off the bench as he saw… [pick up the story from here and make it “Chapter 2”]

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563 words, claiming week ending 26 September

 

[thadthrasher 1,692]

Chapter 2 – A Murder in Calgary

 

            His heartbeat went so incredibly fast. It was like a train barreling down the tracks with a rhythmic “chugga, chugga, chugga, chugga.” It felt like his heart was going to pound right out of his chest. “What could this mean?” he thought. “What am I going to do with this?” he said out loud. Knowing he was alone in the new locker room he lifted the knife out of the box and examined it closely.

 

            The bright lights of the locker room glinted sharply off the blood that coated half of the knife. The blood was stagnant, not moving at all. It was as if it had been painted on, but Phil could smell the iron that assured him that this was indeed blood. As he went to put the knife down into the box he remembered seeing the criminals on Slightly True Crimes wiping down their finger prints, so he made sure to do that with his sock. While wiping his fingerprints off of the handle he noticed a little note in the box.

 

            “Congratulations on being drafted to the Calgary Wranglers! Unfortunately for Ricer, that was the last mistake he would ever make. I hope this was worth his blood.”

            “My God,” Phil thought. Did the blood on this knife really belong to his new General Manager, Kris Ricer? Why would anyone in the world want to take the life from Ricer? Why would the killer want Phil to know about it? Unless, Phil was supposed to solve the mystery.

 

            Phil set the knife and the note back into the box, covered it again, and slid it into his locker. He set his bag of gear on top of it, threw on his newest team shirt, slid on his favorite running shoes, and decided to go exploring. He was going to see if there was any way he could find out what happened here, and what in the world was going on with his new boss Kris Ricer.

 

            Fortunately for Phil, he arrived to the arena the day before he was supposed to. The rest of the team wasn’t scheduled to show up until the next day, so he had plenty of time to explore the arena with no one having an eye on him. The freedom was nice, but there was a leery feeling that came along with this freedom. If something were to happen to him no one would know. But, it was a risk that he had to take. He couldn’t chance anyone else getting pulled into this craziness.

 

            Walking around the dimly lit arena, it quickly became apparent to Phil that this was a huge move in his life. Just looking at the size of the arena he knew there would be many more fans in attendance at games, which made him nervous and excited at the same time. Shaking those thoughts away he said out loud, “Come on Phil, you have a murder to solve here!” As he turned the corner into one of the bathrooms there stood a short old man. He had a dirty ball cap on, a pair of grey slacks with suspenders, dirty shoes, and trailing behind him was a mop bucket. It was the janitor. The older man looked up, “A murder you say? Who is it this time?” [pick up the story from here and make it “Chapter 3”].

 

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551 words, claiming week ending 3 Oct

[bigAL 2,176]

Chapter 3 - Welcome to Calgary

 

 

Phil stared dumbfoundedly at the janitor. How could he be so nonchalant in the face of a MURDER?!

 

"I'm dumbfounded. How can you be so nonchalant in the face of a MURDER?!" he asked the janitor.

 

Taking a long drag off his unlit dart, the man gave a thousand yard stare at something over Phil's left shoulder. "Boy, I've seen some shit here. Come with me." 

 

Phil, always the schmoozer, knew how important it was to get to know all the team staff, even the humble toilet scrubbers, and followed the stranger. The man left behind his mop bucket and took off towards the lower bowl. 

 

"The Wranglers have a long and storied history in the VHL. Calgary's been here since Day One. Not just that, they've been wildly successful as a franchise. Look," he said, pointing at the Wall of Fame set on the wall between the world famous DOGGERS hot dog bar, and the bathrooms.

 

"Legends, all of em. Check it. I know you're new to the league, but you know these names. Scott Boulet, the Cowtown Hammer. Friggin guy was a force. He'd score on you, but you wouldn't score on him. If you had the nerve to pot one, he'd make sure you and your team all paid for it in blood next shift. He was the top two-way forward four of the first six seasons in the league. The fans love em some Scotty." Phil nodded in awe, knowing his slight frame wouldn't ever fill the shoulder pads of Boulet.

 

"And how about this guy, Brett Slob--" was all the janitor got out before Phil interrupted him.

 

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, they're good. I also see there's space for me up there someday. What's your point here, guy?" Phil questioned, looking annoyed. He had lots to do today to settle in to his new home, and didn't want to spend the whole day looking backwards when he had to look forward.

 

"Well, the point is, the fans are used to winning. Everything. All the time. Any less is... deadly." The glint in the janitor's eye made Phil very uncomfortable, and the events of today made him think that the statement was not a metaphor.

 

Suddenly feeling like a slab of meat in front of a lion, Phil began to turn on the charm. "Say friend, I never actually got your name. What do you do here?" he asked, trying to humanize himself to the newly scary stranger.

 

"Don't worry about it. I keep my head down, I do my work, I do my part to help keep Calgary the best franchise in the league."

"Like I was saying, the fans expect to win. They expect to win games. They expect to win trades." With an cocked eyebrow and a stare that pierced through Phil's soul, the janitor added, "They expect to win drafts." 

 

Gulp. The first overall pick suddenly felt a lot of pressure.

 

"Let's go, there's more to see here."

 

Phil followed the janitor away from the six faces of the Wall of Fame, through a small maintenance door, and into a dark basement. The janitor flipped a switch, and the bare lightbulb flickered on, revealing a dingy concrete room.

 

On the far side of the wall, above rows and rows of framed headshots, were three words stencilled onto the wall with black spray paint and Comic Sans font:

 

"Rest in Pieces"

 

 

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569 words, claiming week ending 3 Oct