writer | creator | story teller
RACE DAY
The grass crunches underneath your weight. It hasn’t rained in months and brown is the overwhelming color that stretches across the ground with only tufts of the usual Kentucky blue growing here and there. You step up to the white line as you inhale the lingering scent of spray paint. Clearly they were running behind and the uneven line was a last minute addition. You wonder if the white will adhere to your spikes, not that it matters; in a few short months they will be covered with mud anyway. Jostle for a good position. You are surrounded by teammates, but once you’re on the line, it’s just you and the ground. Sure, you’ll meet up afterwards, give a pat on the back and say “glad that’s over.” For now, though, you must stay focused on what lies ahead. “Runner’s take your mark.” The fat man in the faded gray shirt and black shorts raises the gun. You silently say a prayer, though are distracted halfway through with thoughts about officials and why they are always overweight. Seems a bit ironic to you, that the ones officiating a race should be in poor condition themselves. Return to finish your prayer as you stand poised, front knee slightly bent, back calf flexed and ready to take off. You hear the gun ring out and your body responds.
Only twenty minutes, you tell yourself. Twenty minutes of pure hell and agony and then it’ll be over. You knew as soon as you started running that you would regret it. Those little voices in the back of your mind would have the loudest protests of all. You’re not good enough, why don’t you just slow down, maybe no one will notice if you drop out. Silence those voices, it’s mind over matter, after all. Just put one foot in front of the other, pump your arms, attack the hills. That’s it. You can hear someone you don’t recognize yell your name. Maybe they were cheering for someone else. You aren’t the only one with that name, but it doesn’t matter. That voice of encouragement cheering your name gave you an extra boost of energy and you surge ahead to catch the runner in front of you. After following them for the past half mile, you are ready to finally see another part of her rather than the backside. As you go to pass, you hear her exhale and you understand. It’s the sigh of defeat when someone passes you; it makes you feel like a balloon that gradually gets deflated. No time to sympathize, though, you have to stay focused on the course ahead. Pay attention to the ground, you don’t want to trip on a tree root. Look up ahead of you, it’s important to focus on catching the next competitor. As you wind around the course, the race begins to physically take a toll. The muscles in your legs ache and beg you to slow down. The lactic acid in your arms feel like a fire raging in your veins and you remember that you shouldn’t have skipped that arm workout last week. “You don’t use your arms in running.” You regret that decision now and promise to listen to your coach next time. Your form slowly faltering as you hunch over, trying to gasp for more air and fill your lungs. Just a bit more to go.
There’s the inevitable fan at the three-mile mark, screaming to run faster. You don’t even know them, but it doesn’t matter. They are talking to you, and you hate them for it. Despite your ill-wishes, it works. Your legs somehow find that next gear and pick up the pace. You can see the crowd lined up on either side of the course and know that the finish line is up ahead. Time to surge. You no longer care about form; all that matters is crossing that finish line as soon as humanly possible. Lean forward, widen your stride, and take a deep breathe. As you finish the race, endorphins surge into your brain and you’ve got it. The Runner’s High. The sole reason runners do what they do. It’s that feeling that makes all the pain worth it. You know that you gave it your best shot and that you could do it again, if you had to. And you will. For now, it’s important to soak in the moment. The same official who started the race tells you to move through the line, don’t block the way for the others. You numbly move your legs through the chute to where your coach stands, ready to congratulate you. As you navigate through the crowd of runners, you see girls throw up their breakfast and girls lying on the ground struggling to breathe. You know you’ll see them at the race next week, though, despite their experiences because that’s how runners are. There is an animal instinct inside you that makes you come back for more.
Back at the tent you unlace your spikes. Put a Band-Aid on your baby toe; you lost that toe nail somewhere past mile two. Change into warm ups and do a cool down jog. There is a feeling of contentment that fills you, and you are at peace with your life. You’re ready to do this again next week.
THE RECIPE
Add 1 Cup of Sugar.
You must be sweet. Always wear a smile and look like a lady. Take care of yourself, and take pride in your work. If you love yourself, others will love you as well. Don’t argue for argument’s sake; try to go with the flow when at all possible. Men are not always right, but don’t put him down. Thank him when he brings flowers, even if you absolutely hate daffodils. Make him feel as though he wears the pants in this relationship, though you both know that’s not really the case. It is important for men to feel masculine, so don’t try to belittle him. Allow him to make plans sometimes, or suggest ideas that you know he will like; men can only handle so many chick flicks. Let him hold you in his arms and tell him that he is the only one you ever need. Act cute whenever you can get away with it, but always remember that maturity is important. Be kind, loving, and encouraging. Don’t ever give the impression that you are really a heartless bitch.
Add 2 Cups of Spice.
Men like a challenge, but not one that is out of reach. Tease him, but let him play along as well. Be up for an adventure, and don’t be afraid to try something new; whether that is out to dinner or in bed, men like a girl who keeps things exciting. Don’t be afraid to think for yourself. Intelligence is sexy, and eventually guys will see that when they’re through wasting time with bimbos. Be versatile. It’s okay to be one of the guys as long as you maintain an air of feminine mystique. Challenge him when he needs to be, but never push him to become someone he is not. Remember, you are not his mother and he doesn’t need you to be. Show him that you are independent, sexy, and strong. Don’t let him see how much you doubt yourself.
Add Everything Nice. Mix Thoroughly.
Is there such thing as a perfect woman? No one is perfect but yet you strive for perfection. Men like long hair best so do not cut yours too short; it’s a scientific fact. A bigger chest is better, but do not compromise that thin waistline. An hourglass figure is perfect; there you go. Now make sure you work hard to maintain it. If that means passing up on birthday cake, well, then you best keep your priorities straight. Don’t be a prude, if he wants to sleep with you, society accepts that so why shouldn’t you? Don’t get mad when he talks to other girls, you’re the one he loves, remember? You don’t want to come off as one of his crazy ex-girlfriends, do you? Never cuss, it’s not ladylike. Accept his explanations, but don’t be afraid to challenge him when the story never quite adds up. If you are too demanding, he might get sick of the bullshit and leave, so maintain that fine balance. Got it? This is the recipe for girls to follow. It’s all about proportions and reading directions. Don’t fight what has already been laid out for you. You’ve been hearing it since you were a little girl, but now you know it’s more than just a silly rhyme. “Little girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice.” Now it’s time to grow up and start acting like it.
REWIND
As soon as he came through the door, it was over. The seemingly little old man looked at the reporter with a sense of defiance, as if daring him to challenge his actions. Barely to the reporter’s shoulders, old man wore a baggy white tshirt with a WWII hat tilted to one side of his head. He was ninety-one years old but it didn’t matter. He’d done what he needed to, and the reporter didn’t question anything.
Rewind.
A bleeding body in the neighbor’s front yard, John, a doctor, rushes out to see what the commotion is. A doctor of twenty-odd years, he pushes his way to the front and takes the boy’s pulse. Dead, he proclaims. He’s been dead for at least ten minutes. The hospital will be a futile effort. What the hell happened?
Rewind.
One gunshot, still ringing in their ears, the two boys grab the limp body of their friend and rush out the front door. The shadow of the gun’s owner is visible in the moonlight, and they no longer want anything to do with this venture. As they struggle to drag the body to their getaway car, they hurriedly dial 911 and report a gun wound. This can’t be happening; the plan had been going so well.
Rewind.
Old man carefully loading his rifle and taking a seat in his familiar, ragged chair. Waiting. The sounds are still below him but soon enough they will make their way up the stairs, there is nothing in the basement of any interest. As the stairwell strains under unfamiliar weight, he calmly chambers a round and takes aim. The basement door, locked seconds ago, comes crashing down as it is kicked in. With his finger on the trigger, he pulls back with confidence and fires off just one round. That’s all that was necessary, and he sees the damage of his marksmanship. The first intruder through the door goes down in a heap of body and blood. Hit in the chest. Old man knows he won’t need to fire again, and he sits back in his chair.
Rewind.
Unfamiliar sounds stir old man from his already restless sleep. As he struggles to take in his surroundings, he hears the noises again. They, whoever they are, are downstairs. And they are unwelcome. And old man will be damned if they, whoever they are, get away with this again. He may be getting up there in years, but he defended the country in the second great war, and he resolves to defend his house and take it into his own hands. He’s not putting up with this crap anymore, and the only way to do it properly is send a message. It’s self-defense, he grumbles, as he silently makes his way down the hall to his gun cabinet.
Rewind.
Three young men plan to break in to the old farmhouse on the hill. They don’t know who lives there, but they really don’t care. They’ve seen the house on the news, twice before actually. Whoever else has already been there got away with money and guns, even cows. Might as well give it a go, right? Clearly the owner isn’t very threatening, and there is nothing to lose. The boys have nothing better to do anyway. Life of crime seems as good an option as any, and petty theft hardly constitutes as crime as they reckon it.