(no subject)
A story I recently wrote for Lit:
Ready
I’m running and I’m running and I’m running and I stop. I fall. I’m six, and as my knee scratches like sandpaper against the gravel I cry. I run home, to my mother, to my father, and I’m given my first memory of a gift. It’s a duck: round, yellow, perfect. It floats. I’m happy.
I’m still six. I run and I stop, short of a girl. She’s not annoying like the others. She’s to me as what my mom is to my dad, I think. I’m young, I don’t know, I shouldn’t know, but I know. I give her the one thing in this material world that I’m afraid to lose: a duck. Round, yellow, and perfect.
I’m sixteen. I’ve been given the keys to a two ton machine, equipped with a block of fire in the front and a tank of flammable liquid in the rear. I jokingly refer to it as safe. She’s in the front seat.
We’re twenty-one. Two different colleges, they said we wouldn’t last. We lasted, and I’m staring straight into the face of a near-grad student. She blushes; I smile.
We’re twenty-six. I run and I run and I run to her, stopping short. I fall. Her hand extends to mine, pulling me up. She catches me, and I’m caught. As I brush the dirt off my left leg, I pull out a box. It’s the duck all over again, but with more of a shine. She says yes. I’m floored.
Her fingers wrap around my belt loops. She pulls me close. We’re thirty, at a beach in Nantes, France. The sky moves electric; thunder catches me off guard. We run and we run and we make it the hotel as the first rain drop hits.
We’re forty-eight. We’re slowing, but we’re ready. She’s ready, I’m ready, Kyle’s ready. He’s leaving for college today, and we’re ready. Is he?
Sixty-two. I’m feeling weak today, my joints actively telling me that they’re in need of a rest. I haven’t given them a break since they were first made, and I don’t intend to now.
Seventy-six. Hospital beds surround me. She’s looking at me, the wrinkles next to her eyes crease. There’s a story here, and it’s something more beautiful than most people will realize.
Seventy-six. I’m ready, she’s not. The noise is becoming more distant, my eyes fading. Something rubber lands on my chest. Rounded, yellow, and perfect. I open my eyes one last time. A duck, yellow and perfect stares back at me. I look up. She’s beautiful.
Seventy-six, and I’m ready.
Ready
I’m running and I’m running and I’m running and I stop. I fall. I’m six, and as my knee scratches like sandpaper against the gravel I cry. I run home, to my mother, to my father, and I’m given my first memory of a gift. It’s a duck: round, yellow, perfect. It floats. I’m happy.
I’m still six. I run and I stop, short of a girl. She’s not annoying like the others. She’s to me as what my mom is to my dad, I think. I’m young, I don’t know, I shouldn’t know, but I know. I give her the one thing in this material world that I’m afraid to lose: a duck. Round, yellow, and perfect.
I’m sixteen. I’ve been given the keys to a two ton machine, equipped with a block of fire in the front and a tank of flammable liquid in the rear. I jokingly refer to it as safe. She’s in the front seat.
We’re twenty-one. Two different colleges, they said we wouldn’t last. We lasted, and I’m staring straight into the face of a near-grad student. She blushes; I smile.
We’re twenty-six. I run and I run and I run to her, stopping short. I fall. Her hand extends to mine, pulling me up. She catches me, and I’m caught. As I brush the dirt off my left leg, I pull out a box. It’s the duck all over again, but with more of a shine. She says yes. I’m floored.
Her fingers wrap around my belt loops. She pulls me close. We’re thirty, at a beach in Nantes, France. The sky moves electric; thunder catches me off guard. We run and we run and we make it the hotel as the first rain drop hits.
We’re forty-eight. We’re slowing, but we’re ready. She’s ready, I’m ready, Kyle’s ready. He’s leaving for college today, and we’re ready. Is he?
Sixty-two. I’m feeling weak today, my joints actively telling me that they’re in need of a rest. I haven’t given them a break since they were first made, and I don’t intend to now.
Seventy-six. Hospital beds surround me. She’s looking at me, the wrinkles next to her eyes crease. There’s a story here, and it’s something more beautiful than most people will realize.
Seventy-six. I’m ready, she’s not. The noise is becoming more distant, my eyes fading. Something rubber lands on my chest. Rounded, yellow, and perfect. I open my eyes one last time. A duck, yellow and perfect stares back at me. I look up. She’s beautiful.
Seventy-six, and I’m ready.