I recently found this website, http://thewritepractice.com, that has encouraged me in my writing. Every day, I get an article and a practice assignment that gets me writing for 15 minutes. With the normal interupptions that life with a six year old brings, that 15 minutes of writing normally takes about half an hour, but that's okay too, because it gives me time to think about the next paragraph while I'm kissing bumped knees or wiggling almost loose teeth. Yesterday was the first day that I wrote anything for this website, and today when I went to post my story, I found a sidebar button for my blog. It is underneath my archives, and it will only take you to the main page of the website. Since I have a category of "stories" here on my blog, I will just post what I write there here too. I'll just leave that button there in case anyone wants to go there and read the comments on my stories. :-)
This story is found in the comments section of "What Poetry Teaches Us About Writing Prose."
This story is found in the comments section of "What Poetry Teaches Us About Writing Prose."
Four Minutes
written on Feb. 25, 2013
written on Feb. 25, 2013
Four minutes. That’s all the time in the world I had. If I didn’t do this right in four minutes, I was done. Over with. Finished. I had to do this right.
Sweat trickled down my neck, and as my timer echoed out its countdown, I considered wiping the sweat away. At least I could go out semi-comfortably. I glanced down at my arm and realized that comfortable had fled about ten minutes ago.
The numbers meticulously lowered. Two minutes and ten seconds. I could feel the weight of defeat clamping down around my throat already. My grip on the plastic handles loosened, and I hoisted myself a little higher. Up, down, in, out. Repeat. Then spin around and hold. The hold part was what was killing me.
At thirty seconds left, the warning chime rang out. I was almost finished, and I let my mind wander for a split second. The image of victory flashed into my mind, and if my face hadn’t been strained from all the work I was doing, I would have smiled. In those short, several milliseconds, my focus wavered and my spin spun out of control. My eyes darted to the time. I was going to fail with fifteen seconds left. I panicked as I felt the sweat from my palms mingle with the sweat running down my arms. All that worry and sweat made me lose my hold and I dropped. Five feet of air, and my feet plowed into the mat. My body crumbled into a pile and I lay there, unable to move even as the buzzer officiated my demise.
“Jackson, are you alright?” I felt my coach breathing fire of anger even as he spoke the words softly. I moaned in embarrassment. “Get up.” His command wasn’t helping matters any. I just wanted to go home.
“Coach, I’m sorry.” He helped me stand, but one step off the mat proved my landing had been anything but graceful. “Ow. My foot—” We both looked down at the mat and saw my left toes and ankle, pointed in the wrong direction and already swelling. I felt relief all at once. With a broken foot, I wouldn’t be able to compete anymore. If I played this right, maybe Dad would think pursuing my own dream was his idea and he would stop trying to compete through me.
“Son, let’s get you to the doctor. You’ll be okay. You might not get to compete anymore, but we’ll find a new dream for you.”
I smiled as we hobbled away from the crowd.
Sweat trickled down my neck, and as my timer echoed out its countdown, I considered wiping the sweat away. At least I could go out semi-comfortably. I glanced down at my arm and realized that comfortable had fled about ten minutes ago.
The numbers meticulously lowered. Two minutes and ten seconds. I could feel the weight of defeat clamping down around my throat already. My grip on the plastic handles loosened, and I hoisted myself a little higher. Up, down, in, out. Repeat. Then spin around and hold. The hold part was what was killing me.
At thirty seconds left, the warning chime rang out. I was almost finished, and I let my mind wander for a split second. The image of victory flashed into my mind, and if my face hadn’t been strained from all the work I was doing, I would have smiled. In those short, several milliseconds, my focus wavered and my spin spun out of control. My eyes darted to the time. I was going to fail with fifteen seconds left. I panicked as I felt the sweat from my palms mingle with the sweat running down my arms. All that worry and sweat made me lose my hold and I dropped. Five feet of air, and my feet plowed into the mat. My body crumbled into a pile and I lay there, unable to move even as the buzzer officiated my demise.
“Jackson, are you alright?” I felt my coach breathing fire of anger even as he spoke the words softly. I moaned in embarrassment. “Get up.” His command wasn’t helping matters any. I just wanted to go home.
“Coach, I’m sorry.” He helped me stand, but one step off the mat proved my landing had been anything but graceful. “Ow. My foot—” We both looked down at the mat and saw my left toes and ankle, pointed in the wrong direction and already swelling. I felt relief all at once. With a broken foot, I wouldn’t be able to compete anymore. If I played this right, maybe Dad would think pursuing my own dream was his idea and he would stop trying to compete through me.
“Son, let’s get you to the doctor. You’ll be okay. You might not get to compete anymore, but we’ll find a new dream for you.”
I smiled as we hobbled away from the crowd.
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