A Better Story than Mine – The Contest

My story sucksThe Redhead is an active creature. She climbs rock, ice, glaciers, mountains. She rides her bike and runs (when chased) for miles. She flat water and ocean kayaks. She does canyoneering trips and sleeps in tents.

Apparently stairs are *not* in her repertoire.

The Independence Day holiday this year sent The Redhead flying down a small flight of stairs, causing a break in both the tibia and fibula on her left leg. Hence, she’s going under the knife on Friday the 10th and will emerge the Bionic Woman (and thanks to my Facebook friends and Twitterati who have insisted that Lindsay Wagner is “hawt”).

Here’s the problem: my story sucks.

You would think that if I was going to fuck-up my ankle that I would have done it in while engaged in some outrageous outdoor adventure. Apparently my muse left me on Saturday night (perhaps for one of the martinis I’d been drinking). So I turn to you, my readers, to develop a better story than mine.

Here are the rules:

  1. Stories must describe HOW I fucked-up my ankle in LESS THAN 300 WORDS.
  2. All stories must be left in the form of  a comment on this blog.
  3. ONE entry per person (and please don’t be an asshole and try to skirt the rule with multiple email addresses)
  4. Stories will be accepted until Wednesday, July 16 at midnight.
  5. Stories CANNOT involve a single modicum of truth (which means those who were present for the event cannot write what really happened, even if it’s hilarious/interesting as all hell…you know who you are).
  6. At that time, The Redhead will choose her top 3 “better stories.” These 3 stories will be posted in a subsequent blog entry.
  7. Readers of the blog will VOTE for the top story, which The Redhead will then tout on a move-forward basis as the *real story* of her ankle calamity.
  8. Winner will be announced on August 1, 2009 and contacted one day prior via email.
  9. Your entry constitutes written permission to use your name and other shit in the announcement of the contest winner and gives The Redhead permission to republish your story on this blog and use it in social settings when people ask, “Hey—how’d you fuck up your ankle?”

The WINNER of “A Better Story than Mine” will receive:

  • A pat on the head from The Redhead
  • One 16G iPod Touch
  • If you have a blog, a link back to your blog on my “Shit I Like” page

Got it? Get it? Good. Check back for gory pictures from pre- and post-surgery. And come up with a better story than mine on how I screwed-up my ankle. My story…SUCKS.

Some Fun Facts about The Redhead’s July 4th & Injury that CANNOT be used in YOUR Story

  1. She was playing beer pong at one time during the evening.
  2. She was drinking Absolut Pear Vodka mixed with Vitamin Water.
  3. She made a homemade granny smith apple & rainier cherry pie for the party’s host.
  4. She has complete memory loss from the period of the injury to waking up in the ER the next morning (no shit – the human body is weird that way, huh?)
  5. She BIT her host following her injury. Quite impressively, from what she hears.
  6. It took 2 doctors, 2 male nurses and one drunk friend to hold her down so they could splint her leg.

*** As a side note, I’m completely overwhelmed by the outpouring of well-wishes and those near and far who have offered help and cocktails of consolation. From emergency sushi & chocolate cake deliveries made by new Facebook friends to multiple offers for surgery escorts to simply the right words (in humor and in all seriousness) of encouragement and support spoken in public and private…THANK YOU. My friends, both real and virtual, are making this ordeal much easier to process. While an upside to injury is honing a new set of ninja skills (crutches are the new nunchucks), the downside is slowing down your life and learning a new approach. ***

36 comments
The Redhead
The Redhead

OK, folks - entries are closed! Look back for the top finalists this coming Monday! The Redhead PS: you are all VERY sick people and I adore you.

Jon Koenig
Jon Koenig

There was no way to avoid it. She had seen the faded buick pull forward to nose out of the alleyway, creeping slowly, trying to crane it's metallic head forward inch by inch to gain a better view of the outlying road, determined not to accidentally kill an unseen bicyclist, jogger, or the occasional car that sped down that particular road. She saw the bright chrome of the front grill, curved slightly downward to join up with the rounded headlights. She saw the headlight casually glancing her way as it inched out of the alley. She saw in slow motion the eye change from nonchalant glance to wide open alarm as her left leg smacked it dead on, sending her rolling over the top of the hood and into the sidewalk beyond the car. The driver smacked the brakes at nearly the same instant that she heard the snap of bone, the sickening feeling of her leg bending in a way that was not intended. She ended with her face sideways on the sidewalk, her lower half twisted around to the front, her left leg at an angle to the right, as if she were laying on top of someone who happened to be wearing the same jeans, the same shoes. Over the rumbling of the buick engine, she heard a faintly alarming sound; the clap of shoes running – running to catch up with her. Realization hit her with blunt force, harder than the concrete had hit her as she had fallen over the hood. Caught. How the bottle had not broken during her somersault, she couldn't fathom. But the heart wrenching fact hit her regardless. All of the planning, the seemingly perfect robbery, all that she had worked for over the past 2 years, had come to a screeching halt.

HolyJuan
HolyJuan

Redhead knew that handing over her car keys was a mistake, but the guy in the bar with the crappy goatee wouldn’t shut up and he said it was a magic trick that she would never forget. She dug the keyring out of her black purse; the streamlined sexy one that barely held her keys, cash and lipstick. He stood up on his stool, held the keys up, said, “Ladies and Ladies!” and in a drunken lurch, spun around and bent over. He mostly stood, half bent over for an uncomfortable minute and then stood and spun with a “Ta-Da!” The keys dangled from his nobody’s business that half heartedly, poked out from his open zipper. Not just dangled… that son of a bitch had the keyring shoved down his dick. “Take it off!” “Come get it!” he shook his feeble groin at her. In one very coordinated move, Redhead swung her purse forward, up and cockward. Her aim was true. Goatee fell backwards, clutching his keyrung goods, and landed on the bar floor. “Give them to me!” “Here…” he croaked. “Give them.” “They are stuck! Oh my God… It's swelling up!” Everything was… an awful blue. An hour later, against doctor’s orders, Redhead stood by goatee dude, insisting that she would not leave that scumbag’s side without her keys. Lubricants had failed to release the keys and in the end, pliers were called for and sterilized. The doctor leveraged and applied force. He snipped. Simultaneously, Goatee let out a desperate howl and a gob of man goo shot out from his pent up loins. Redhead reached forward and grabbed the lubed up keys with a pre-gloved hand. “Fuck you.” She turned to walk out and promptly slipped in his load on the floor, breaking her ankle in three places.

Cupcake Mafia
Cupcake Mafia

It was a lovely day of climbing the Golden Cliffs on 4th of July . The weather was perfect, the company was perfect and the Redhead's movements were so fluid and graceful that we all paused a moment and wondered why she wasn't climbing professionally. Then the skies turned dark, the temperature dropped 10 degrees, and gale force winds dropped remnants of a pirate ship, along with a dozen salty wretches at our climb site. While it may seem odd that pirates would be found in Colorado it is known fact that fresh water pirates frequent the nearby Clear Creek. The pirates were enraged at the destruction of their ship and in order to reclaim their dignity they attacked. While a few panicked and many took cover the Redhead sprung into action. There was swash buckling, there was dueling and in a mere 3 minutes the Redhead had taken all but one of the pirates out. Unbeknownst to the Cupcake the Pirate (we'll call him Captain Stenchy) was sneaking up on her about to claim her as his hostage at knife point. The Redhead tackled Captain Stenchy however this left them rolling down the side of the hill. As we all rushed to the bottom praying our dear Redhead was alive we found the dead Pirate impaled on his own knife. The Redhead lay a few feet away unconscious. With a little coaxing she awoke with a shattered ankle and the new title of Pirate Smackdown Mistress.

Tim
Tim

THERE WAS ONCE A PUPPET WHO WAS ONE #SCREAMINGVICTORY AWAY FROM BEING A REAL GIRL. A MAGICAL WITCH OF FURIOUS PROPORTIONS SET ABOUT THIS REDHEAD A SERIES OF TASKS, MUCH LIKE HERCULES BUT WITH BETTER HAIR AND A SASSIER ASS. THE FIRST TASK WAS TO SCALE A TALL PEAK, WHICH THE REDHEAD PUPPET ACCOMPLISHED QUITE EASILY DUE TO HER WELL-PRACTICED GLUTES AND QUADS AND DELTS - FUR SHUR BRO! THE SECOND TASK WAS TO REMOVE A MAGICAL BEAST FROM THE NORAD FACILITY AT CHEYENNE. THE REDHEAD PUPPET TRAVELED WITH FLYING POWERS AND FOUGHT THE BEAST, WHICH WAS LIKE A PUPPY BUT WITH ANGER TOWARD HUMANKIND. SHE SLEWED IT WITH ROCKS. THE THIRD TASK WAS TO EAT SOME MUSSELS WITHOUT SAUCE. THIS WAS A TRICK TASK BECAUSE PUPPETS CAN’T HANDLE SHELLFISH, LET ALONE DRY SHELLFISH. THE REDHEAD PUPPET NEEDED TO THINK FAST, SO SHE CREATED A DIVERSION BY HASHTAGGING #WHATTHEFUCKISTHATOVERTHERE, AND IN THE COMMOTION, SLIPPING THE MUSSELS INTO HER DOONEY & BURKE KNAPSACK WHICH SHE PURCHASED FOR CHEAP AT THE TJMAXX. THE FOURTH TASK INVOLVED THE REDHEAD PUPPET TRAVELING TO PATAGONIA (THE REGION, NOT THE STORE) TO FETCH A RARE PLANT FROM THE SIDE OF A RIVER. SHE TREKKED FOR WEEKS TO REACH THE RIVER, FINALLY LOCATING THE MAGICAL PLANT AND RETURING IT TO THE WITCH. THE FIFTH AND FINAL TASK, AND BY FAR THE MOST OUTRAGEOUSLY SPLENDOROUS, WAS FOR HER TO ENGAGE THE SLAP-CHOP IN A ONE-ON-ONE BATTLE. THE FURIOUSLY-PROPORTIONED WITCH KNEW THIS TASK WOULD BE BAD. THE REDHEAD PUPPET PERSEVERED! THE SLAP-CHOP, DEFEATED AND HUMILIATED, TURNED ON ITS CREATOR, THE WITCH, WHO ACTUALLY TURNED OUT TO BE VINCE. THEN, WHILE WALKING HOME, THE REDHEAD, NO LONGER A PUPPET BUT A REAL GIRL, SLIPPED IN SOME MUSTARD AND TWISTED THE #BALLS OUT OF HER ANKLE. T’WAS THE OPPOSITE OF RAD.

Ant
Ant

“Ankles just don’t get up and walk away now do they?” “Yeah they do. That’s all they do. That’s their job. And it looks like yours is gone for good.” But it wasn’t gone. The skin had kept it there. But it looked obvious to anyone that it was broken. It didn’t pierce through the skin. It was just tout against it. Making the skin appear bone white. And my foot just hung there flaccid. It was as if my ankle were trying to leave my body. “Shake it off! Shake it off!” I said over and over in my head. Doing the best Bela Karolyi impression I could manage while trying to stand up. I was in bed, my left ankle in shambles and my doctor, Dr. Greene sitting by my side. “Shake it off! Shake it off!” I was now saying this out loud, shaking my head to get my jowls moving as I said it. The doc smirked. Mind over matter I thought. Jesus Christ, what happened? I obviously stuck the landing. Better get all 10’s from whatever happened last night. “Take it easy there. You’ve heard of restless leg syndrome?” Dr. Greene asked “yeah.” “well you have restless ankle syndrome. R.A.S. for short.” “Your kidding, right?” “No it’s a very serious condition where patients ankles want to keep moving, so much so they either sprain or break. Sometimes the movement is very sporadic and random or very organized and can be trained. Some of the best dancers in the world have R.A.S. It just looks like you had a ankle seizure.” “Will it get it better? Do I need medication? Some painkillers would be nice. “ “I would suggest wearing hightops or tall boots to keep those ankles in order. And I’ll give you a prescription.”

J C Hoot
J C Hoot

Drink to remember; don't drink to forget. Much like “say it out loud”, it is one of the axioms I live by. However, no amount of drinking will be able to erase what I witnessed on independence day. My typical holiday is anything but conventional; I try and avoid traveling and large events. My target, for that Saturday, was to learn bouldering. The idea is simple, a short and challenging problem that does not require rope as a fall should not cause serious injury. Plus, catering to all levels, the gym provides a crash pad to break falls for greenhorns like myself. Erika, unlike me, is not new to climbing. A page click away “a climber with a writing problem” is part of her opening sentence. This avid cragswoman is exactly the other type you find in a climbing gym on a holiday morning. I could easily tell you what I saw as I was eating lunch to reprieve my falling practice. No matter what I tell you, though, it doesn't do justice to the sound. Imagine a crunch, much like the winter in the northeast, that you can feel in your teeth and fingernails. If that's not enough, the crunch was followed by screaming. Screaming that stopped everyone from moving; screaming that put hair on my chest. Erika was soon rushed to the hospital. This is where most people stop. Day 1, horrific injury ingrained, common sense is supposed to take over. I said it out loud, “I am going to continue; I'm excited by the danger, especially as it is more likely that should happen to a first timer.” I climb on, as what is life without testing yourself, and because some of those screams were because she had to stop.

Stephanie
Stephanie

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls of all ages, presenting, with her new high wire act, The RedHead!” Horns flourished as the spotlight found me, high on the platform, hundreds of feet above the ground. Ok, so it wasn’t a flourish so much as that canned fanfare you can download from any ol’ sound effects website. One of the many things that made me reconsider my decision to run off with a traveling circus. “I should’ve joined Ringling Brothers instead,” I muttered through a clenched-teeth smile. I slid my right foot out… then the left, and I was free of the platform. A thunder of applause rose from the crowd. That was more like it. The waves of adulation rising to greet me, the cries of little children saying “Mommy, I want to try!” and, most importantly, of fathers saying, “Damn, THAT’S one skilled woman” I reached the center when I realized – I forgot to update the blog! #Fuck! I laid down the pole, balancing it carefully, and pulled the phone out of my tights. It’s like an AmEx – never leave home without it! Cautiously, I stood, thumbs seeking out the right keystrokes. The crowd was awestruck. Silent. You could hear a pin drop, except for that noisy elephant in the next ring. Hell, may as well tweet this while I’m here too. “All eyes on me in the center of the ring. Or in this case above it #britneyspearseatyourheartout” I tucked the phone into my tights again and reached for the pole. At that moment, the Fourth of July fireworks show began, spooking the pachyderm. She reared on her hind legs then charged out of the ring… and into the pole supporting my wire. The vibration carried all the way down the steel, to where I stood, only one foot on the wire. I felt the foot twist, the bone crack, and I decided I was better off hanging on with hands than toes, so I dropped over the side and hung on, watching my phone clatter to the ground. An #ohFuck moment and I can’t even tweet it.

David Stark
David Stark

As Marilyn Manson sang 'it's six AM, Christmas morning'.. and honestly I don't know how I got here. But I knew, instinctively, that it was over. The unrelenting pain in my ankle - no , it's now a cankle - let me know I paid a price. But not nearly as dear as the price paid by my foe. Clearly, this wasn't how it was supposed to be. Last night was filled with wine, dine and romance.. the sounds of Bing Crosby, the Frosty the Snowman special, all so warm and comforting to my soul. It didn't help much that I imbibed a stifling hot mint hot chocolate with whip cream and cocoa shaving earlier that night. But who can resist it? I didn't need my tongue for anything anyway.. And the chocolate chip cookies dipped so inelegantly in the frothy mess, well that became just delicious. But little did I know what would happen with the crumbs I carelessly dropped onto my shag carpet. Later that evening I was nestled quietly in my bed, when I heard a weird noise downstairs. I live alone, and as such hoped the noise was the realization of a childhood dream - that Santa had arrived. But I'm a realist and knew that wasn't likely. I grabbed my trusty flashlight, put on my fuzzy slippers and headed down the stairs. I put on my most fearsome voice and asked somewhat sheepishly 'is anyone there?', hopeful to get no response. But alas I heard a clank and bang, a meow in response to my question. My cat flitted by in a shadow caught by the beam of my flashlight, retreating from the culprit. I quickly dashed down the stairs to see what kitty was evading. To my surprise and horror there was, crouched in the corner a tiny little Christmas mouse eating the crumbs from my cookie. Aren't cats supposed to eat these things? Anyway, in my haste to get rid of this home invader, I lurched forward and tripped on the damn cat under my feet. And as I fell I reached for something to hold onto and grabbed a kitchen chair. The chair toppled, turned my body sideways, my fuzzy slippers slipped, I twisted my ankle and I fell backwards onto the mouse and crushed him with the back of my head. Next thing I knew I woke up at six AM on the floor in my kitchen.

See Brown
See Brown

Ten minutes earlier: Overheard at a rocky canyon overlook: "What a beautiful day for a hike." "Kids, stay close to Mommy, okay?" "Wow, look at that view!” “Melissa, Tommy, hold the rail. Have you ever seen such a view?" "Mommy, we're so high up... I'm scared." "Just hold the rail tight, hon." "Melissa-is-a-scaredy-cat-Melissa-is-a-..." "Tommy, stop teasing your sister! And c'mon, do you really HAVE to open the M&M's now?" "I want a snack." "Just hold the rail so you don't fall, okay?" "Let's walk on, guys. It's getting late." "I can't find any red ones.” "Tommy, you can find red ones later. Now, come on!" "But i want a red one!" --- click clickety click clickclickety clickety click click click clicketyclick click clickety clicketyclick click click clicketyclick click clicktdety clicketyclick click --- "For gosh sakes, Tommy, now you've spilled them all over the rocks!" "Ha ha ha!" "Be quiet, Melissa!" "What about my M&Ms? Let's pick them up." "Tommy, they're all over the rocks. They're dirty.” “Don’t step on them – you’ll slip.” “I want M&Ms! I want M&Ms!” “Not now! Just leave them.” “Come along... there's some hikers coming up the path. I'm sure they'll enjoy this overlook a lot more if we’re gone."

Eric San Juan
Eric San Juan

You’d think visiting the moon would give a man a sense of humor. A bit of humility after being made to feel so small on that lonely and remote chunk of rock. The notion that, hey, nothing wrong with laughing at yourself once in a while. Turns out that if Buzz Aldrin is any indication, you’d think wrong. It wasn’t supposed to work out that way, of course. I had just returned from Mount Fuji, where instead of climbing I got lost in a world of seedy sushi joints, Sake, and skee ball. But that’s another story. Anyway, I’m at Valdosta Regional Airport in Georgia, not really sure why, something about three too many Sake shots and a jumping jack contest, when this guy comes up to me and says, “You’re the redhead.” What? Yeah, sure, I guess. Whatever. Who are you, Crustyman, and why are you bothering me? I did not say this out loud. “Pleased to meet you, Red, I’m Buzz Aldrin.” And he extends his hand. Now, I’m well-educated. I know my stuff. And I knew that Buzz Aldrin was the second man on the moon, just behind (the much better looking) Neil Armstrong. So when I said, “It’s nice to meet you. I LOVED you in Toy Story,” I was just being cute. Or snarky. Maybe a bit of both. Only Buzz didn’t much like my quip. He hit me. Not just slugged me like he did that guy who claimed he never went to the moon, either. He picked up a folding chair, smashed me on the head, then climbed up to the third turnbuckle and performed a Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka on me. Crack, onto my ankle. I collapsed. He ran. And all I could think the entire time was, “To infinity, and beyond!”

Wumpie
Wumpie

A redhead encountered a duck About to be hit by a truck She grabbed for the bird And slipped on his turd Now her leg back together is stuck.

QuinnCreative
QuinnCreative

Skritch. The dry sound of match dragging on wall was followed by a violent blue spark. "#Fbomb" "I never knew how to pronounce #," a voice in the dark said. "Go back to sleep. I'm leaving," hissed the RedHead. "They'll bring you back," the voice in the dark said. " The #fbomb they will, when I'm gone, I'm gone." "RedHead, there's razor wire on the 12-foot fence. Guards. Dogs. This isn't some joke, it's rehab for #fbomb users." "So what SHOULD I use? 'Linoleum?' It doesn't have the force. Although I liked it fine when I dropped the #Fbomb on the floor in the French Kitchen. What a reaction! Linoleum Blown-apart! HAH!" Then, in the dark, the sound of a chain dragging. A pause. Dragging. A pause. "RedHead, the walls are wired for #fbombs. One more and they'll throw you in solitary. I didn't want to tell you, because I wanted you to love me for me, but I can grant you one wish. Just tell me, do you want me to set you free?" "No, I can do it on my own." "Just say the word. I can make it come true." Gritting her teeth, she dragged the heavy chains toward the window. This was the second floor, right? Not the fifth? She threw the chains out the window and their weight pulled her out, too. Too fast. She'd miscalculated. It HAD been the fifth floor. One word. One wish. Could he still hear her? A moment of weakness. Rehab was working. "Oh, snap!" Her wish was granted. Her leg snapped. "#fbomb. I should have used the #fbomb."

Jeremiah
Jeremiah

As the Fourth of July evening waned, giving way to the encroaching shadows of the night, the city prepared for its impending municipal fireworks show. If anyone was aware of the lone figure crouched atop the steeply pitched roof of city hall, they gave no outward indication. Yet sitting here upon this rooftop our heroine with the head of red peered out over the city with a watchful eye. For she knew something that the others did not. Kayaking in the open ocean one week earlier, she had encountered a suspicious looking boat. As she drew closer to the vessel she recognized one of the men onboard. It was the city's most notorious crime lord. The redhead latched on to the larger vessel and called upon her excellent climbing skills to silently board the criminal's boat. Secreted away in a small nook off the main deck, she overheard the villain and his dastardly cohorts recounting their devilish plan to switch out the city fireworks with high explosives currently being brought to harbor by this very boat. These faux fireworks cum explosives would pack enough punch to bring the city to ruin. So it was that our redhead sat vigilant and waiting for the perpetrators to show themselves. The approaching night brought with it an unseasonable chill that seemed to speak of the terrible events to come. The redhead pivoted slightly, reaching for her jacket in response to the growing cold. Suddenly she lost her footing and fell swiftly from her perch. As the ground below rushed up to meet her, our would-be heroine spouted an impressive litany of swear words. The tirade of potty-mouthed curses did nothing to thwart gravity and soon our beloved redhead collided with the earth, shattering several important leg bones in the process.

Tim
Tim

It would be a crock of shit to say I was doing anything remotely adventurous when I tore myself open, but for the sake of keeping you around to buy me another drink I’ll entertain the idea of embellishing just a bit. You see the real story sucks: I fucken fell down like an idiot. The type of fall that might resemble what happens when a freshman pigtailed blonde girl walks by the senior quarterback while crossing paths in the parking lot. Just in my case there was no fucking quarterback, just a momentary loss of balance. Pathetic I know. I guess that’s why I now tell people I was saving the world or some other shit. You know the type of stuff 30-second Michael Bay studio pitches are made out of. The ludicrous stuff that makes 13-year-olds cream their pants as cars transform and Nicholas Cage sticks foot-long needles into his heart. Last night it was running away from some drunken 16-year-old on a cougar hunt. Two nights ago it was from drop kicking a midget out of my favorite Irish Pub. (Rumor has it he was a leprecon, but there was no fucking pot of gold to be seen.) Last week I told a pathetic looking old lady it was another old ladies fault when she ran over my foot in the grocery store on one of those motorized cart things. She however, did not seem to appreciate the bullshit as much as I did. So for the sake of you sacking up and throwing down another ten spot on my love for alcohol I’ll tell you what happened. Lets just say for the sake of time it was epic. There was a panda, a bowl of orange chicken and one really pissed of pair of chopsticks.

Mike Roe
Mike Roe

FOOTAGEDDON IT (aka How I Fucked Up My Ankle) Dear Redhead Heads, Rumors abound on the interwebz as to how exactly I broke the tibia and fibula in my left leg. Before Percy carries me off to bed, let me put one theory to rest: If The Redhead could put her foot in her mouth, she never would’ve left Vegas. As I’m never gonna tell a lie and hurt you, let me just say with complete honesty that it was a case of the oldest confession: It was an accident. Or, karma. At the time of the incident in question, I had two computers. One for writing my two blogs, and the other for twittering, facebooking, etc. And, yes, to save time, I used the computers simultaneously, typing a post on the former, while using the latter, along with a headset and voice-recognition software (#yesiaddedmotherfuckertothevocabularybuilder), for updates. Well, there I was writing and dictating, when I got to thinking about ways I could be even more efficient. *WTF, toes?!* They weren’t doing anything, but sitting there looking pretty. So, I decided I should run out and buy another computer so that my toes could crank out the Great American Novel I’d been thinking about. And that’s what I did. And then I… Blogged. Updated. Authored. And that’s when *it* happened. I was so thrilled with my accomplishments, I spun around in my chair, and jumping up and out of it, grooved a little (too much) to “Never Gonna Give You Up.” Crack. Pop. #snapifuckingrickrolldmyself. Still, if that dude from Def Leppard can drum with one arm, The Redhead can certainly type with one foot. In fact, while toe-ing this, I also wrote Chapter Three. Oh, Percy... #gentleplease

Vicki Wilson
Vicki Wilson

So there was a dog. A little one. Chihuahua maybe? How the fuck would I know? The point is, it jumped from some chick's purse in an arc that could only be described (by my friends who were watching and failed to warn me) as legendary. It landed behind me as I walked backward on the sidewalk, talking to the delicious pyrotechnic gentleman who was in charge of the Fourth of July fireworks. Yes, I can walk backward. Anyway, Mr. Pyrotechnic yelled "Wow!" or "Watch it!" or "Look out, little dog!" or something like that, but it was too late. I tumbled over that runty rat-dog in a spectacular flailing of red, white and blue (I had dressed for the occasion). My ankle cracked like a Roman candle. Before I passed out from Pain Like No Other, I extinguished someone's discarded cigarette butt on the sidewalk next to me with my martini. I am that kind of person. Mr. Pyrotechnic raced to the dog's aid.

Scott W.
Scott W.

Then the Redhead asked the rather large imposing gentleman "Yeah, well how'd you like my foot up 'yer ass!" She incorrectly assumed he would know she meant this rhetorically ...

Hirvimaki
Hirvimaki

(You know me well enough to know I could never keep his under 300 words... Oh well. 594 in total.) It was bone-chillingly cold and that cold crept through the thin material of the redhead's black vinyl pants making her shiver. The moon, a dull yellow and full tonight, was covered in a wispy sheet of clouds that softened the shadows of the headstones. The quiet was so complete that Erika could hear her own beating heart. The emptiness around her felt almost palpable, but she knew that he was here. For three nights she had tracked him through her beloved Mile High City. He had left a wake of fear, but he had not fed yet. She paused, leaning against a large, garish statue of an angel holding a mighty stone sword, and thought about why he hadn't fed. The stone of the statue was cold, seeping through her pullover and thin Led Zeppelin t-shirt. A sound made her straighten up, her senses suddenly back on full alert. Straining her ears she looked around her, taking in the expanse of the graveyard. Suddenly she giggled. She knew that stealth was not going to work. "Rasmus!" she called out in a clear voice. "Quit fucking around, you fucktard!" She waited, holding her breath. She was suddenly aware of the pinch of the three wooden stakes she had tucked in her pants at the small of her back and shifted slightly to try to ease the pressure that was making them bind. And in that moment he was there, appearing in front of her in that creepy, otherworldly way the supernatural seemed to all posses. "Hello, darling Erika," he said. Rasmus was tall, towering over her despite the three-inch heels she was wearing. His porcelain-white skin was stretched across his muscular frame like the thin skin of a grape. His eyes were completely black. His mouth was slightly open and his words distorted by his protruding fangs. "I'd love to chat," she said as she smiled sardonically, "well, no, actually I was at a party. A good one. And I need to get back." Erika punched forward, striking Rasmus on the shoulder. Rasmus struck out with his own attack, his hand curved in a claw-like hook. Erika ducked low and spun on her heel, kicking up with a roundhouse. She aimed at his chin, hoping to snap his head back, but the attack never struck. Rasmus caught her foot in his iron grasp and twisted. She heard the snap before she felt the pain. Rasmus twisted over and down, forcing her foot at an odd angle. Erika gasped as the red fire of pain flooded her brain. She fell to the ground, grunting with the impact. Rasmus was on top of her, pushing down against her chest with one hand while he reached down to caress her vinyl clad leg with the other. "I've always had a taste for redheads," he said. "And I've always hated assholes," she said through clenched teeth. She brought her fist up struck Rasmus as hard as she could in his chest with the stake she had pulled from behind her as she fell. Rasmus' eyes opened wide in shock and horror. "Not very smart for a 300-year old, are ya?" she said. But whatever answer Rasmus might have given was lost in the shower of embers and ash. He disintegrated around her, covering her with a layer of sticky soot. "Well, fuck," she said looking down at her oddly-angled foot, "how am I gonna explain this at the office?"

Lance Brown
Lance Brown

Viewed through the lens of the burnt-out ball-sack that was L.A. 2012, Redd’s fragility showed all too clearly. When she was just a baby, a sadistic fuck doctor named Wentworth crushed her leg with a pair of Vise-Grip pliers, just to get his jollies. He left it on for three days, as a “surgical challenge” (or so he told himself). Wentworth was a fuck. Needless to say, the leg never healed right, and in the 30-odd—‘make that 20-odd,’ says Redd—years since Wentworth’s “challenges”, it broke 15 more times. Mostly in simple accidents, stumbles and the like. There were a few from fights, and of course the four from her two-year failed effort to complete Spaulding’s boot camp… Once she broke it just swinging her legs out of bed. Truth. But ‘these are no times for weakness,’ says Redd, and she’d spent a lifetime hiding from her adversaries—be they decked-out biker, or simple couch corner—the ease with which her left tibia and fibula would break at the slightest urging. Unfortunately, L.A. had a way of wrapping her Achilles’ heel up in neon, and cruising it down Sunset Strip with its head poking out of the limo, flashing its titties for every longhair wanna-be that happens to glance its way. That’s how Redd felt the moment she walked into the bar and saw the guy they called Pouty Pete. Pete wasn’t pouting at all; he was ogling the bare titties of Redd’s exposed weak spot with L.A.-powered intensity. She knew right away she was going to lose the leg this time. For good, probably. But she was OK with it. ‘You play the hand you’re dealt,’ says Redd. Besides, she’d been practicing a certain move. A certain one-legged move. Pouty Pete stood up, faking casualness. Here it goes.

uber
uber

After taking so many other activities to the 'extreme', Erika discovers that there is a limit to "sticking one's foot in their mouth" when this time she actually causes bodily damage. (sorry for sounding like a Far Side comic caption).

Larkin
Larkin

WOW! these are awesome and have kept me entertained at work all day. You're a lucky girl to have such creative friends with so much time on their hands. But then again you're the one with the broken ankle... If I ever die I hope someone has the sense to have such a contest to decide what "really" resulted in my death.

Doyle Albee
Doyle Albee

I don't need 300 words: I could maybe Tweet this. Chuck Norris and the Redhead. Big fight. Redhead broke bone on Chuck's beard. Declared a draw. Whoa.

Joe Burnham
Joe Burnham

The frivolity of the barbecue was shattered by the thunderous sound. Human ears had never heard such an overpowering f-bomb. Regional truckers blushed. Somali pirates, realizing they lacked testicles worthy of pirates, laid down their arms. Fish floated to their pond's surface while dead birds rained down. Those at the barbecue trembled, not sure if cowering or fleeing was safer. The unthinkable had happened. It began when some fool spilled a gallon of Frank's RedHot Sauce on the Red Head's dress. While f-bomb's ensued, they were the typical kind that only prompted small children to cry. But the event prepare the way for the tirade to come. Needing replacement clothes, the Red Head's host charged into the house but returned with great trepidation. "Um, all I have to offer is ..." nobody heard him finish over the climate altering rant, but the completion was unnecessary, everybody knew he'd said, "flannel and cargo pants." Thankfully, the Red Head recovered quickly and embarked on a quest to avoid her deepest fear. She bolted into the house, confident something had been overlooked. There it was, a laundry basket full of white t-shirts with sweat stained pits. Grabbing the basket she converted the shirts into patches. She wove grass in to thread that would add color to her new garment. The only thing lacking was a needle. With recollections of Native American history and a determination to avoid the flannel, she reached for her ankle and CRACK! Nobody's sure if she would have extracted a bone needle from her leg because she fainted before finishing the job, however, upon arrival at the hospital, the Red Head smiled knowing she had avoided her fear, for time in paper gown with her ass hanging out is superior to a moment clothed in Denver Chic.

ThatToyChick
ThatToyChick

"In which Ms. Rouge-a-tete holds a tea party, and is interrupted by the rude encroaching of discussions of faith and politics." Engaging in her witty banter Simply too caught up to canter Conversational fun broke into a run And turned quiet speakers into ranters Linguistically, on even tread Our hero of the flaming head Threw her "just one thing" into the ring But spawned several more instead Words leapt high across the table Supporting words, just left of stable Arguments swirled and derision whirled On if science or faith was the fable! Tangled in meaning, her impassioned replies Sought to speak of reason above all the cries Metaphors sundered, the dinner guests thundered And completely ignored all the pies NOW she was angry, her teeth ground like rocks Her face blushed a color as flush as her locks This topic (no kiddin!) - by good manners forbidden And this *language* belonged on the *docks*! Though wobbly with fury, she stood on her chair And spoke with a voice just as bright as her hair "No more talk!" Called out she, as loud as can be "All this nonsense I just cannot bear!" Her tea party ruined, she quivered with wrath As a one of the gathering dared then to laugh "You've nothing to land on, and no chair leg to stand on!" And she didn't - it had snapped right in half! As she fell tragically, shock leapt to her face The doctor was summoned, and to her he raced Examined and wrote down, with a most solemn frown "Etiquette: Breached in two places."

tcabeen
tcabeen

In hindsight, it was ridiculous to think I had even half a chance, but holy he'll that pie smelled good, and she had been drinking enough to knock out a rhino. I should have known better, like I said, but the pie called to me. After her first round of beer pong, I quietly slid the pie off the counter and silently moved for the door. I was relieved, almost to the car, and assured a successful theft when I heard the death cry. I didn't have to look back to know, and it wouldve slowed me down anyhow. So I broke into a full sprint for the car. I was in the seat with the door closing, but she somehow got a foot through the door. It swung shut, cracking both bones in her ankle, but she got the door open, snapped my neck in one motion, and recovered the pie. I know I haven't got a chance here, Saint Peter. It was just a really rad story, and I wanted to postpone the brimstone for a few minutes if I could.

Jim
Jim

She kicked me in the balls. However, my balls are made of pure steel. Hence, broken appendage.

Mari Kurisato
Mari Kurisato

A Broken Ankle for Her Reign He attacked without warning, just as she let Douglas's limp body tumble from the sloped roof. Zaibatsu. They had crossed blades before, in Tianjin, Tokyo, Moscow and Cherry Creek North. The meetings were always dangerous; he was the undisputed king of all he saw, and she was the Scarlet Sword Mistress cutting down those who opposed her ascension. Historians are divided as to whether she made a tactical mistake and turned it to her advantage, or if all the events leading up to that fateful night were an elaborate ruse to lure out and dethrone her opponent. As the halved body of her previous opponent (a brash would-be journalist) plummeted down the side of the Wells Fargo Center Tower, the blades of the Redheaded Fury sang through the wind. She always had cat-like reflexes, and her instincts warned her just in time to counter her new opponent's sword with a jarring crash that snapped one of her blades. She twisted her other weapon and ribboned open his arm, his sword narrowly missing her face. Their weapons moved in a silver and white blur of steel lightning flashes. He was bigger and stronger, but she was faster and, on level footing, could out-dance him any day. She slipped. Her ankle snapped with a cracking sound. Her opponent left himself open as he pressed the advantage, grinning, as she slid down the curved roof she took it, hurling her sword into his chest like a spear. No one is quite sure how she survived the fifty-two story fall, but one thing is clear: She limped away with the top ranking in Denver from Hubspot—and a broken ankle, and her opponent's reign ended with his impalement on the roof, where his remains still “remain” today.

Scott
Scott

Parkour. The word itself was just so fucking pretentious that she refused to say it. Still, one of her friends sent her a link to a Youtube video that made her want to give it a shot. She was fit and lithe enough, there was no doubt about that. Add to that the fact the guy in the video was local and damn hot and her sending him an email was an easy decision. He had replied with an enthusiastic yes. Perhaps she would have thought it a little too enthusiastic if she had been thinking more about his tone and less about abs. They set the date and on a clear and damned cold morning, she found herself waiting for him outside the library. The architecture of the marble and wrought iron building was apparently ideal for pretending she was Spider Woman. Fortified with a coffee, itself strengthened with some Jameson, she smiled at the man as he walked up. He was every bit as hot as the video implied and made her last two ex’s look like re-warmed Taco Bell. Without so much as a by your god-damned leave he looked at her with blue eyes that could have cut glass and nodded. “Follow me.” There was a hint of French Canadian in those three syllables. He bounded up a wall easily twice as tall as he was and grinned down at her from the height. Telling him that she was an experienced climber may have been a mistake. Still there was no backing out now. She hit the wall after a brief sprint and was halfway up when she heard the loud crack and felt pain explode up her leg. Less than a second later she felt herself hit the ground and welcomed the blackness.

Meller
Meller

The Redhead's ankle finally shattered after the society's last-ditch effort to force her foot into her own mouth failed. They did, however, receive a small compensatory prize: The explosive flak they've received over the years will be softened slightly, as she will be heavily sedated after the incident for quite sometime.

gcmandrake
gcmandrake

With a casual nonchalance which only comes from years of practiced tradecraft, the RedHead paused only momentarily to chalk a mark on a street post. She continued her walk down a crowded Denver sidewalk. Occasionally glancing at her reflection in the shop windows she checked for anyone following her. Taking a deep breath, the RedHead stepped out into the street failing to notice the dark sedan turning in front of her. "Oh f**k," the RedHead cursed under her breath. Retaking control of the situation, she allowed her ankle to twist under her and she crumpled to the curb. Gasping loud enough to be heard to the nearby pedestrians, she felt a strong hand steady her. "Miss, may I help you," came a rough voice from behind her? Turning her head toward the voice, she replied, "thank you." With a squeal of rubber on pavement, the dark sedan suddenly sped off. Looking up, the RedHead saw her contact and smiled.

Larkin
Larkin

Chapter 16: The Beginning of Saving the World Tib/fib is a good injury I thought. Sure, it’s not glamorous, but people will believe it and that’s what’s important. I winced in pain as what had to be done was done. It was over quickly, as I lay there for a moment gasping. I hoped it wouldn’t hurt so much this time, but it always does. I put my mental lens cap on and as the memories ceased and I settled into the comfortable darkness. As I awaited the trigger that would restart my memory stream 8 years of my life washed through me and were carefully filed away for later use. The worst of it, I had to bury the memories deep so they wouldn’t surface until I had taken care of initial re-integration. I didn’t want to, but it was safer that way. He couldn’t suspect. The return was always a little odd, people I hadn’t seen since before the voyage would have no idea what expanse of experiences I’d just returned from, and would expect me to remember what we were chatting about yesterday. That’s why the injury had to happen, I needed a little time to adjust, a mental break while I re-engaged in the human world, and prepared for the full-on explosion of my purpose. Difficult? Painful? Yes! But the pills helped, and it was absolutely worth it. 8 years of intense training was no seven sneezes in a clover field, but the skills I was bringing back would rock the heart of the planet forever. If they could handle it… There was always that chance I’d come back to soon, and they still wouldn't be ready. Either way the ankle would distract them while I find The Important Ones and gathered information. Then #themeaningoflifewillberevealed

Doug Brown
Doug Brown

RedHead was running with the geese one hot, summer afternoon when something caught her eye. A stray shimmer of light, brighter than the others, from City Park Lake was beckoning her to the shore. She carefully approached the edge and dove into the cool water, feeling immediate relief from the heat. Blowing air bubbles as her RedHead resurfaced, she began to tread water. Her left foot grazed something in the deep. Maintaining her composure, she began to slowly dog-paddle back towards land. Suddenly her ankle is gripped from below, RedHead can’t advance...a few geese take notice and begin landing near her, bobbing long necks under water...flapping wings... The scaly grip around her ankle loosens for a moment...that’s all RedHead needs. She lunges toward shore with a butterfly kick and a dyno reach...falling on wet grass...hands grasping for purchase, but is slowly pulled back toward the center of the lake...where a huge flock of geese are waiting...and ready... Wings beating in syncopated rhythm and gravity-defying strength, RedHead is lifted straight up and out of the water by the geese, as the sticky, twisting arm loses its grip on her ankle, bones break, a casualty of freedom, a moment in time, anomaly of nature, confusion, elation, emancipation RedHead is flying to shore! Deposited on the grass, gasping, and yes, throwing out an occasional F-bomb, our RedHeadedFury is safe, but hurt. A nearby bicycle taxi driver is pedaling towards her...panic-stricken...determined...he scoops up the wounded RedHead, and aims the rig towards Rose Medical. Glancing back towards the lake, RedHead notices a few concentric ripples emanating from the middle...geese slowly dispersing, seemingly unaware of recent events...her gaze returns to her knight in shining spandex...wasn’t he one of her Match.com matches?

Kevin Boulas
Kevin Boulas

"She's got to go!" "I know, Vito. She's made a lot of enemies with her bunny ears and her flippant use of hashtags; I've even heard she bites. She's a drunk, and she's a dangerous drunk, and she puts this whole racket at risk. But the heat's on, and the feds are already onto our fake mountain climbing and adventure sport business," said Alphonse. Vito, surprising given the 60 degree angle of his large, misshapen nose and cleft palate was easy to understand, though. There was a lot at stake here - the fake adventure sports racket was worth hundreds of millions to the Colorado mafia; you know, fake pictures of you on exposed rock faces, mountain peaks . . . impress your friends and buy the influence only the foolhardy pursuit of questionable goals can buy. Yeah - Vito was never going to be the belle of the ball, but he was right about the redhead. The man sitting quietly in the corner finally spoke. His voice was slow and measured, making his words all the more menacing. "Break her ankle; make it look like an accident. Have her roughed up a bit in the hospital - nothing obvious; burly docs and nurses 'controlling' her with a little muscle." He turned his burning gaze to each man in the room, to emphasize his next point: "If that doesn't keep her quiet, I want a more permanent solution. Make it look like alcohol poisoning - no one will question that. And then bring me the bunny ears of the redhead . . . "

Ann Davenport
Ann Davenport

The Redhead asked herself, "What better way to celebrate America's birthday than by climbing America's mountain?" So she hopped on her bike, blithely cycled the 76 miles from Denver to Manitou Springs, and arrived at the base of the Barr Trail to climb Pikes Peak. "A nice little 14er under my belt should inspire me to all new heights of patriotism," the Redhead told herself. "Plus, burning all those calories will let me knock back some serious booze & food this evening." She knew she'd have to hurry so she could make the party back in Denver that evening, but the Redhead is of a curious nature, and just had to check out The Bottomless Pit on the way. Alas for curiosity, but hooray for her non-catness! It may have saved her life. Our indefatigable Redhead was looking over the edge of the Bottomless Pit, trying to snap "just one more picture", when she slipped. Remarkably, the 1700-ft fall to the bottom of the not-so-aptly-named pit resulted only in a break to her leg. Even more astounding was the all-American good cheer with which she splinted it herself using vines and sticks, climbed back up the pit, and biked back to Denver to go to the ER closest to the party.

Mike Goffin
Mike Goffin

As the fireworks finale came to a close, something didn't feel right. The RedHead ate her carrots that afternoon and she was able to see further than normal humans. In the distance, she could see that a shard from one of the fireworks had landed on the roof of a 3-story home. Suddenly, fire erupted on the roof and she realized someone had to call 911. But she knew better than that. Her constant biking, running, and rock climbing meant she could run to the house faster than anyone could dial three digits. After rocketing to the home, she approached two parents outside screaming for their children trapped in this blaze of glory. Without hesitation, she runs to the front steps, jumps, and dropkicks the door in the face! Braving the fires of hell she runs up the stairs. As she reaches the 3rd floor the stairs collapse! Trapped three stories up, she finds the kids huddled in a corner with their dog "Kibbles" and cat "Bits". As she goes to grab the kids she notices a window about to blow out. She covers the children as glass flies everywhere. Standing up she realizes there's only one option. With the two kids holding on for dear life around her neck, and Kibbles and Bits in her arms, she takes to the window and jumps! As gravity pulls her to the ground she thinks "good thing I chose not to wear that skirt tonight." CRACK! She hits the ground awkwardly on her left leg, shattering her tibia and fibula. But what a small sacrifice to reunite the parents with their children and Kibbles and Bits. The firemen show up and The Redhead hobbles away, into the moonlight, in search of hard liquor and a hot doctor to fix her leg.

Trackbacks

  1. […] http://redheadedfury.com/a-better-story-than-mine-the-contest/Hence, she’s going under the knife on Friday the 10th and will emerge the Bionic Woman (and thanks to my Facebook friends and Twitterati who have insisted that Lindsay Wagner is “hawt”). Here’s the problem: my story sucks. … […]

  2. […] My redheaded friend and fellow copywriter, Erika, broke both the tibia and fibula on her left leg. How? You tell us. […]