Runner Up: Jeri Rafter
Santa Monica, CA
Congratulations, Jeri!
Jeri's Bio:
J. Rafter was born in Montana and just recently was drawn into the big city of LA. She enjoys exploring, meeting new people, and having her mind turned inside out. She loves classic novels but indulges in dirty gossip rags as well. She is still trying to decide what to be when she grows up, but somehow she knows writing will be involved.
Death By PomPom
By Jeri Rafter
My stomach turned upside down as I peered into the plain white box. I fell to the floor, dizzy with the unknown. I had been hit with a cheerleader’s worst nightmare, the unthinkable Black Pom of Terror. It was my pom-pom from years ago, the familiar grip on the plastic handle brought back memories, but it was no longer the tasteful burnt orange of my Lakeland Tigers. It was now a horrible black mass, unfit for even a Junior Varsity cheerleader. I knew who was behind this nasty deed. It had to be Jilly Jones and she was one tough squad captain. At that moment, all my fallacies and shortcomings had caught up with me.
The Black Pom was a mark that no cheerleader could ever erase and I understand why it had come into my hands this fateful day. Jilly Jones and her gang had finally found out what I had been secretly harboring my entire cheerleading career; I didn’t have spirit or pep or spunk, I wanted to go Goth my whole four years of high school and that I had covertly formed a group called Anti-Cheerleaders In Depressing Situations (ACIDS).
Wilma Dole and I had founded the group one day when a scarcely known book of Anti-Cheers fell out of her locker. She didn’t pick it up quickly enough for my hollow eyes to see what we had in common. We were slaves to cheer, but we found freedom in each other. We hid our plan to take down the cheerleading racket from the inside by becoming two of the best fliers to ever to be launched. We fooled everyone! We recruited dozens of other wistful cheerleading girls and held undercover meetings in order to sabotage pyramids and dance routines all across the nation.
The scary thing about cheerleaders is that they don’t like being double-crossed and they travel in packs. Diiiinnnggg-Dooonnngg!!! The death knell had rung. She was there, Jilly Jones and all the rest of them. A couple years on the soccer mom circuit and yo-yo dieting had made them larger, but they still lived and breathed for cheerleading. Calico Bess and Tracy Clinkenbottom were at Jilly’s side, spankies fitting extra tight with pompoms in hand. The love handles overflowing their skirts made them surprisingly menacing.
My muffled screams could not stop the barrage of pink and yellow as I sank into my soft Berber carpet. I was out numbered and out pompom-ed. Mottled plastic strings of fluff and wooly sweater pill filled my mouth with flavors of senior year. This was their revenge for all those faked yeah-yeah-yeahs and standing hitch wall stunts. As I disappeared into darkness, my last thoughts were of Wilma Dore and our friendship formed almost a decade past. I only hoped that she would never have to look down to find the Black Pom of Terror at her feet, but instead find the strength to carry on and leave our sordid past behind us.
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