Long ago, there was an encampment of hunter gatherers in the African savanna. Among them was a father and son. Every time the men would leave to hunt, the son would ask his father if he could join, but the father had to refuse him. "My son," he would say, "you are not old or strong enough. You can not keep up with us."
One day, after the men had left to find their game, the son sat and cogitated. It occurred to him that if he could learn to run faster, his father would not deny him. All he needed, then, was a teacher. He looked around and saw a gazelle. He said to himself, "A gazelle runs effortlessly and surely faster than any man. He will be my teacher." So the son followed the gazelle, got on all fours and learned his ways.
When the father returned, his son bounded up to him. "See, father," he said. "None of the other children can catch me, I am so fast. May I join the hunt now?"
The father pointed to the gazelle they had killed and brought back. "My son, you must learn to run better than that, for we hunt the gazelle." The son was disheartened and sought after a new teacher.
When the hunters left again, the son set out to learn to run like a predator instead of prey. He finally decided on the cheetah. He crouched low and when the cheetah chased his dinner, the son would splay his arms in front likewise. His father eventually came home, and when the son ran to greet him, he could barely stop his momentum.
"My son, you have become very fast," the father laughed. He then pointed to a cheetah pelt over his shoulder. "But we must also outrun the cheetah. Don't worry, you will come with us when you are ready."
The son was greatly disappointed and would fall asleep every night trying to come up with a new idea. One night, when most of the men were gone from camp, the son noticed a pair of eyes in the darkness. Thinking that the eyes were set on him, and not wanting to endanger his mother by calling for her help, he slipped away from camp and led the owner of the eyes away.
At first the son walked carefully, but he noticed the eyes gradually gained distance on him. He started to jog, and it seemed the owner of the eyes did as well, but just slightly faster. The son utilized the speed he learned from the cheetah and finally put great distance between him and his pursuer. When he grew tired and slowed down, he saw the eyes again and became afraid, but no matter how many times he could muster his cheetah speed, he could not lose his pursuer. Finally, after being chased the entire night, the son was crawling back into camp, lacking the breath to call for help.
His mother came out from their shelter with a smile on her face. She called out his father's name and gave a warm welcome. The son collapsed into the dirt, knowing his father would save him. The son felt a strong hand on his back, and when he was turned over, he realized the one pursuing him was his father.
"My son, you now know what it means to run like a man."
The son nodded and was allowed to chase prey with the other men.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
End u ran
Slap slap go the Saltwaters on my eight year old feet against the pavement. The trees shed their leaves, their branches caught in autumn's breath. Two laps around the man made lake is two laps more than my dad thought I would run. My brother only cared because his run was interrupted in order to look for me.
How far did you go, Rachael?
Two laps. I went two whole laps.
That's over a mile. If I had known you would get so far ahead of me, I wouldn't have let you run after your brother. I thought you would get tired sooner.
It was that day, I think, that the idea was planted. Not during Spring, when kids normally run around blissfully barefoot after the months of chill and snow, but during the Fall, when the big kids trained for cross-country, when my brother was training. The idea that I could run longer than others, this endurance, did not take long to sprout, though its vine would first scale around basketball before bursting forth on its own.
Clap clap go the converse against the cement. My bike has a flat and so I must catch the bus everyday to work. 7:00AM. If I miss it, I'm late, so I run to maintain that balance of sleeping as much as I can and getting to work on time. My legs roll downhill. It should be effortless, but I huff and puff and perspire slightly. I certainly got a bang for my buck.
Tap tap goes the metal rod against my fibula. Does that hurt? the trainer asks me. My face contorts. Yes, I answer.
So that's the spot. 2cm. In likelihood you have a stress reaction.
A stress reaction means no running. It means hours of elliptical or biking. Hours of keeping one's heart rate for that singular end. It is not fun. There are no endorphins. There is no banter between comrades. I sit out a race. I run to race, without competition it's a silly pastime indeed.
Pad pad go the Nike Zoom Miler against the red, flat 200m track. It's my third race in two days. I'm just happy that I have the opportunity to keep racing, though the first of my races ended in vomiting and left me stumbling. It's a new day, a new race, same distance. First lap, I'm in last. Second lap, I'm in last. Third lap, some girls are starting to falter, those first two laps were killer. My grandpa's dead? Fourth lap, smooth...relax the face...grandpa...breathe...toe plant below my center of gravity...and push off. A blast off in my mind, but I know it appears to be a typical, dying throw of a stride across the finish line. Seventh. People ask me about my race, I tell them seventh with pride and joy. They're awkward for a second. In the nation, I remind them. In the country. They nod their head, oh, that's good, then. Nice job. Way to go.
Pat pat go the hands on my back.
How far did you go, Rachael?
Two laps. I went two whole laps.
That's over a mile. If I had known you would get so far ahead of me, I wouldn't have let you run after your brother. I thought you would get tired sooner.
It was that day, I think, that the idea was planted. Not during Spring, when kids normally run around blissfully barefoot after the months of chill and snow, but during the Fall, when the big kids trained for cross-country, when my brother was training. The idea that I could run longer than others, this endurance, did not take long to sprout, though its vine would first scale around basketball before bursting forth on its own.
Clap clap go the converse against the cement. My bike has a flat and so I must catch the bus everyday to work. 7:00AM. If I miss it, I'm late, so I run to maintain that balance of sleeping as much as I can and getting to work on time. My legs roll downhill. It should be effortless, but I huff and puff and perspire slightly. I certainly got a bang for my buck.
Tap tap goes the metal rod against my fibula. Does that hurt? the trainer asks me. My face contorts. Yes, I answer.
So that's the spot. 2cm. In likelihood you have a stress reaction.
A stress reaction means no running. It means hours of elliptical or biking. Hours of keeping one's heart rate for that singular end. It is not fun. There are no endorphins. There is no banter between comrades. I sit out a race. I run to race, without competition it's a silly pastime indeed.
Pad pad go the Nike Zoom Miler against the red, flat 200m track. It's my third race in two days. I'm just happy that I have the opportunity to keep racing, though the first of my races ended in vomiting and left me stumbling. It's a new day, a new race, same distance. First lap, I'm in last. Second lap, I'm in last. Third lap, some girls are starting to falter, those first two laps were killer. My grandpa's dead? Fourth lap, smooth...relax the face...grandpa...breathe...toe plant below my center of gravity...and push off. A blast off in my mind, but I know it appears to be a typical, dying throw of a stride across the finish line. Seventh. People ask me about my race, I tell them seventh with pride and joy. They're awkward for a second. In the nation, I remind them. In the country. They nod their head, oh, that's good, then. Nice job. Way to go.
Pat pat go the hands on my back.
Monday, August 23, 2010
To Stare Down the Moon
There was once a time when the king opened a great contest to find the best painter in his kingdom, for he had wanted a portrait done of his fine and elegant wife. To the artists he had it decreed that they should capture the beauty of their magnificent country, and then they would be allowed the honor of portraying their queen onto canvas.
When a farmer had heard this, excitement crawled all along his spine, for he had it in his heart his whole life long to be recognized as an outstanding painter. Surely, he thought to himself, no one knows the magnificence of this land better than I. It is not only my eyes that have taken it in, but my bare feet have taken root in the earth, my hands are filled with its vegetation, and my lungs draw in the whole day and night its fresh air. The farmer quickly went to work on his masterpiece, taking the entirety of three days. When his painting of rolling hills and a herd of sheep was completed, he took it by foot to the castle. Amongst the throng of other hopeful artists, the farmer was pushed and jostled until his painting dropped into the mud.
Horrified by the incident, the farmer did not notice when the king himself came out of the castle. The throng respectfully retreated back and provided their king with room. The king saw the farmer had not moved, and interpreted his stillness as boldness. Upon command a guard picked up the farmer's entry into the contest and displayed it before the king. The king pointed at the mud caked canvas, and along with all present, began to laugh and ridicule the farmer until he ran away in utter humiliation.
Taking refuge on a lonely hilltop, the farmer sobbed into his hands. When he raised his face again, it was night and the moon stared at him.
"Why must you stare at me? I have been ridiculed enough," he said to the moon.
The moon replied, "You are a funny little man. Only funny men present dirt to their kings when they ask for art."
"You did not see me paint it, then," the farmer answered him dejectedly.
The ornery moon goaded him, "I wish I had, for then I would have seen a funny man at work at his funny art. I will not miss what amusing thing you will do next.”
“Stop staring,” the farmer said angrily. “Stop staring and do not add to my humiliation.”
But the moon continued to stare the whole time the farmer marched to his home. The farmer briefly entered his lodge and came out again. With his back straight and his voice strong, he declared to the moon, “If you will continue to stare, then I will stare right back.”
The moon laughed, “You will not beat me at my favorite game.”
The staring contest had begun. Minutes passed by, then hours. The moon slowly inched away, but the farmer strolled so as not to lose sight of him. Dawn broke, and still there was not a winner to declare. The moon tried to get behind a curtain of clouds, but the farmer climbed a mountain. The moon attempted to hide behind the sun, but the farmer bravely asked the fiery tempered sun not to interfere with the contest, and he acquiesced. The moon was worried he might lose and tried inciting the farmer. “You can not win. Your eyes will become dry and tired. Your stomach will ache from hunger. Your throat will become parched. The breeze will carry pollen into your nostrils and you will sneeze. Achoo!” The moon feigned sneezing.
The man bore his teeth into a smile. “Sir Moon, even if I should blink first, I would still be the victor, for I have stared you down despite all my faults. I have stood, I have walked, I have you chased you at the cost of my own needs while you, sir Moon, have sat in the sky with nothing to press you.”
The moon, afraid, attempted to elude the farmer, but could not. Soon people all across the kingdom had heard about the contest and came out to watch the farmer, cheering him. After a day, the moon’s brightness was cut by a sliver, then another and another, as each day passed by. After fourteen days of the contest, the moon finally blinked.
The king himself had started spectating this extraordinary contest, and upon its completion he called the farmer to his side.
“My good man,” said the king, “I am greatly impressed by your resolve to stare down the moon. How did you find it within yourself to accomplish such a feat?”
The farmer bowed his head while looking into his king’s face. “My lord, please watch closely,” and he blinked, revealing his eyelids to be perfectly painted irises.
The king gasped. “You have captured your own eyes! If you are able to perfectly mimic the very windows to the soul, then you are truly worthy of painting our queen. Allow my patronage and be honored in the manner you deserve.”
The farmer answered him, “I will paint our queen, but I ask for payment as well, enough to allow me to move all I have beyond the mountains. For, as an artist, I can no longer stand to live in a country that has lost its beauty to me.”
The farmer was then known as Master Painter, and his wishes were granted.
When a farmer had heard this, excitement crawled all along his spine, for he had it in his heart his whole life long to be recognized as an outstanding painter. Surely, he thought to himself, no one knows the magnificence of this land better than I. It is not only my eyes that have taken it in, but my bare feet have taken root in the earth, my hands are filled with its vegetation, and my lungs draw in the whole day and night its fresh air. The farmer quickly went to work on his masterpiece, taking the entirety of three days. When his painting of rolling hills and a herd of sheep was completed, he took it by foot to the castle. Amongst the throng of other hopeful artists, the farmer was pushed and jostled until his painting dropped into the mud.
Horrified by the incident, the farmer did not notice when the king himself came out of the castle. The throng respectfully retreated back and provided their king with room. The king saw the farmer had not moved, and interpreted his stillness as boldness. Upon command a guard picked up the farmer's entry into the contest and displayed it before the king. The king pointed at the mud caked canvas, and along with all present, began to laugh and ridicule the farmer until he ran away in utter humiliation.
Taking refuge on a lonely hilltop, the farmer sobbed into his hands. When he raised his face again, it was night and the moon stared at him.
"Why must you stare at me? I have been ridiculed enough," he said to the moon.
The moon replied, "You are a funny little man. Only funny men present dirt to their kings when they ask for art."
"You did not see me paint it, then," the farmer answered him dejectedly.
The ornery moon goaded him, "I wish I had, for then I would have seen a funny man at work at his funny art. I will not miss what amusing thing you will do next.”
“Stop staring,” the farmer said angrily. “Stop staring and do not add to my humiliation.”
But the moon continued to stare the whole time the farmer marched to his home. The farmer briefly entered his lodge and came out again. With his back straight and his voice strong, he declared to the moon, “If you will continue to stare, then I will stare right back.”
The moon laughed, “You will not beat me at my favorite game.”
The staring contest had begun. Minutes passed by, then hours. The moon slowly inched away, but the farmer strolled so as not to lose sight of him. Dawn broke, and still there was not a winner to declare. The moon tried to get behind a curtain of clouds, but the farmer climbed a mountain. The moon attempted to hide behind the sun, but the farmer bravely asked the fiery tempered sun not to interfere with the contest, and he acquiesced. The moon was worried he might lose and tried inciting the farmer. “You can not win. Your eyes will become dry and tired. Your stomach will ache from hunger. Your throat will become parched. The breeze will carry pollen into your nostrils and you will sneeze. Achoo!” The moon feigned sneezing.
The man bore his teeth into a smile. “Sir Moon, even if I should blink first, I would still be the victor, for I have stared you down despite all my faults. I have stood, I have walked, I have you chased you at the cost of my own needs while you, sir Moon, have sat in the sky with nothing to press you.”
The moon, afraid, attempted to elude the farmer, but could not. Soon people all across the kingdom had heard about the contest and came out to watch the farmer, cheering him. After a day, the moon’s brightness was cut by a sliver, then another and another, as each day passed by. After fourteen days of the contest, the moon finally blinked.
The king himself had started spectating this extraordinary contest, and upon its completion he called the farmer to his side.
“My good man,” said the king, “I am greatly impressed by your resolve to stare down the moon. How did you find it within yourself to accomplish such a feat?”
The farmer bowed his head while looking into his king’s face. “My lord, please watch closely,” and he blinked, revealing his eyelids to be perfectly painted irises.
The king gasped. “You have captured your own eyes! If you are able to perfectly mimic the very windows to the soul, then you are truly worthy of painting our queen. Allow my patronage and be honored in the manner you deserve.”
The farmer answered him, “I will paint our queen, but I ask for payment as well, enough to allow me to move all I have beyond the mountains. For, as an artist, I can no longer stand to live in a country that has lost its beauty to me.”
The farmer was then known as Master Painter, and his wishes were granted.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Moonblade, Ch. 1
Escape From Hiberia
Ch. 1
Playing in the shade of a requiem
"I don't think that's going to work," Akari commented as she furrowed her brow. She sat where she spent most of her lunchbreaks, beneath the large oak a hundred meters behind the school. Unlike most of her lunchbreaks, however, she was surrounded by the majority of her classmates.
As last years, they had gathered together under the oak's shade to discuss their farewell prank. Akari had little interest in the topic, but felt even less interest in leaving her favorite spot. Though often alone, when she leaned against the elderly trunk she felt a far away echo of an embrace, like a friend was nearby. The notion sounded somewhat insane, therefore she never expressed it aloud. Then again, no one had ever cared to ask her about her insistence on sitting here, and Akari knew herself that enjoying the company of trees was the least of what made her unusual.
Ch. 1
Playing in the shade of a requiem
"I don't think that's going to work," Akari commented as she furrowed her brow. She sat where she spent most of her lunchbreaks, beneath the large oak a hundred meters behind the school. Unlike most of her lunchbreaks, however, she was surrounded by the majority of her classmates.
As last years, they had gathered together under the oak's shade to discuss their farewell prank. Akari had little interest in the topic, but felt even less interest in leaving her favorite spot. Though often alone, when she leaned against the elderly trunk she felt a far away echo of an embrace, like a friend was nearby. The notion sounded somewhat insane, therefore she never expressed it aloud. Then again, no one had ever cared to ask her about her insistence on sitting here, and Akari knew herself that enjoying the company of trees was the least of what made her unusual.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Neglect
A graying man seated by the water jet
a sign in his lap asking for charity,
a pen in his hand, the tip no longer wet,
his belt revealing help is a scarcity
I'm curious, so I ask him one time
why do you sit here alone with a sign,
having people toss up a nickel, a dime
isn't there some charitable hotline?
He shakes his head, surly and sour
I tried speaking, but no one had heard
so rather than waste another hour
I saved my breath and wrote this word
But your sign, I reply, says help please
I believe that is two words, isn't it?
He grimaces at my joking tease
the problem is no one else notices
A young woman enters the fray
offers the man a sandwich and turns
It's my friend who vanished one day
she says to me, you know what burns?
When you feel you have to disappear
for people to finally remember you
as if by being mute, they'd want to hear
everything, but that's just not true
wait, I interrupt, where did you go?
You felt ignored? Why the pretension?
It's your fault, you had let no one know
No, she breathed, no one had paid attention
a sign in his lap asking for charity,
a pen in his hand, the tip no longer wet,
his belt revealing help is a scarcity
I'm curious, so I ask him one time
why do you sit here alone with a sign,
having people toss up a nickel, a dime
isn't there some charitable hotline?
He shakes his head, surly and sour
I tried speaking, but no one had heard
so rather than waste another hour
I saved my breath and wrote this word
But your sign, I reply, says help please
I believe that is two words, isn't it?
He grimaces at my joking tease
the problem is no one else notices
A young woman enters the fray
offers the man a sandwich and turns
It's my friend who vanished one day
she says to me, you know what burns?
When you feel you have to disappear
for people to finally remember you
as if by being mute, they'd want to hear
everything, but that's just not true
wait, I interrupt, where did you go?
You felt ignored? Why the pretension?
It's your fault, you had let no one know
No, she breathed, no one had paid attention
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Magic Notebook part 1
I clutch my red spiral to my chest as I lean in for a drink of water. It's passing time, and I have but four minutes to make it to History of Western Civilization from "the stupid math", the level of math that means I'm just average. They happen to be on opposite sides of the poorly designed, oblong campus. At a leisurely pace, it takes easily six minutes. I'll have to jog part of the way, because there is no chance I am going to let my mouth stay as dry as that math class was. I really should start bringing a water bottle.
"Kim, we gotta go!" someone says right before they pull my backpack in the direction of History. I get a little water sprinkled on my notebook and shirt.
"Thanks," I reply a little sarcastically before I turn to my friend. I see that it's Michelle: brown hair, blue eyes, befreckled. She must have hooked my backpack right after coming out of the bathroom.
"Kim, we gotta go!" someone says right before they pull my backpack in the direction of History. I get a little water sprinkled on my notebook and shirt.
"Thanks," I reply a little sarcastically before I turn to my friend. I see that it's Michelle: brown hair, blue eyes, befreckled. She must have hooked my backpack right after coming out of the bathroom.
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