Category: 1000 words

There it is, looming of the horizon. The setting sun illuminates the nauseating yellow brick build. I keep my gaze fixed on the small glass door that will lead to my inevitable doom. Well, not directly to my doom. It will lead first through a maze meant to beat down my very last will before plummeting me into the sealed chamber where I am meant to suffocate until I finally pass out. I can already see the blinding light at the end of the tunnel. The light is so bright that I move my hand to shield my eyes. I find that I am not really dead, not yet; I am just blinded by the light reflecting off the grimacing glass door. Even the black tar paper that covers the stair tunnel seems to be sucking life out of my being. It knows that all too soon I will be inside its evil clutches.

I check the time before opening the door. I am early and I contemplate waiting the ten extra minutes before I had to be inside. Reason grips me as I reach out and grip the door handle. I know I that I need to go now or I’ll never go. I pull the heavy glass door open. It feels like rolling back the stone to my own tomb. Others have done this same thing and never came back. What was the secret of their failure, I asked myself. What was it that they had done wrong? Unfortunately their secrets have died with them.

I climb the tall stairs, counting each step, trying to distract myself from what I was about to do. I pull open the inner door, to my dismay there is no one inside. I proceed through the open door. Panic strikes me as my hand races to my face. I rub it across my cheek and down to my chin, the smooth skin tingling under my touch. I sigh in relief. Long gone are the days when I could just pay money for the indulgence of not shaving in the morning. I almost wish those days were back but then again–

“I can help you here,” the young man behind the counter says. I proceed through the open door and hand him my traitorous card. We had once been friends, that was before it betrayed me to this, its true master. He smiles as he runs the traitor through his machine.

“Biol-,” my voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. “Biology 100 please.” He smiles before returning the traitor to me. I jump back as he lunges across the counter, opening his mouth to reveal missing teeth and an infestation of gum disease.

“Make sure your backpack is COMPLETELY UNDER THE DESK,” he says before laughing psychotically. I hug the wall as I inch past his desk. The woman at the next desk doesn’t lunge at me but instead locks her black eyes on mine as she hands me my papers.

“Y-o-u can use n-o-t-h-i-n-g on this test,” she says. Her gaze striking horror into my soul.

“Can-can I use a pencil?” I manage to ask. She sternly points to the door and rolls her eyes. I’ll take that to mean ‘yes’. I proceed through two more doors before arriving in the testing room. I take a deep breath. An unpleasant mixture of stale air and sweat invades my lungs. The door clicks behind me. I run to an empty seat not wanting to know what came in after me. I open my test and start marking reading the first question, “You know you are a redneck if ____”. I flip the test closed and reread the cover sheet. It states Biology 100 in large black letters.  I turn back to the first question and mark ‘C’ on my answer sheet. C is for “your dog and your wallet are both on chains.” I move to the next question.

BOOM! My desk vibrates as we both feel seismic waves rippling through us.

BOOOOM! The guard is approaching from behind. She purposely wore her biggest high heels so that she could send tremors of terror shooting through her victims.

BOOOOOOOM!! Her menacing black shadow is cast over my desk. I can barely read the words on my test but I try anyway hoping that if I look busy she will move on. She doesn’t. I can feel drop of sweat gathering on my brow before rolling slowly down past my cheeks to hang on my chin. Out of the corner of my eye I see her hand moving. I see a whirl of red as her hand contacts my answer sheet and test. Both are whisked away from me. I jerk my arms back in surprise. My hand lets go on my pencil sending it flying through the air for the CSI to find after I disappear. I look up at her as she shreds my test giving the evilest cackle I’ve ever heard. My heart stops beating. The air thickens so much I can’t breathe. I reach desperately for my test but her hands keep it just beyond my grasp.

I shake my head bringing the blurred question back into focus. I look around; the guard has passed me and continues her rounds. No one else seems to have heard her cackle, but then they would never admit it with her standing there. It’s safer that way. I go through the rest of the test as fast as I can while still hoping to get some of the questions right. C’s get degrees, I remind myself. “Done!” I almost shout as I pop up out of my seat. I force myself to calming walk to the exit. I turn to push the door closed. A sigh of relief escapes my lips as I walk away from the nauseating yellow building into the sunset

I know that I will have to return some day. Maybe the indulgences will be back by then.

Her nostrils flare as the strong smell of chlorine hits her face. She pauses for a moment to let the air move past her then steps across the threshold. The door slowly closes behind her. She feels the rough concrete push against her soft feet urging her forward. She steps, flexing her ankle like a gymnast moving into position. She steps again scanning the large open room before choosing a spot. She picks it because of the barely recognizable number sixteen nestled between two number fifteens.

Her feet fit nicely over the one and the six further wearing the black tiles down. She looks to the left, the lifeguard is busy talking to a friend. She looks to the right and sees the bold black and red sign. “No Diving” it proclaims to all who happen to glance its way. She squints hers eyes and looks back to the lifeguard, the sole representation of authority and enforcement of the sign’s demands. A devious smile creeps across her lips. She avoids making eye contact with the lifeguard who has taken some notice of her. It is too late, he knows. The lifeguard stops his conversation and is focusing intently on her as if by the sheer force of his stare, backed by all his lifeguard super powers, her dive can be adverted. She takes this as a challenge.

She had been planning a quick and simple plunge but no longer. It is her powerful will against the mighty powers of the lifeguard. The smile leaves her face as she diverts all of her concentration on the dive. Normally she wouldn’t need much thought for such a simple dive, but this one was different. She is fighting the lifeguard, locked in a battle of wills, struggling to prove dominance and she is determined to win. She starts her countdown.

Ten. She presses her goggles firmly against her eye sockets. She can both hear and feel the suction of the goggles on her face.

Nine. She claps her hands together. The sound of flesh on flesh echoes from across the pool. She knows there is no going back now. She shifts her hands, carefully placing them atop each other. She wants to look at the lifeguard, but stops herself, knowing that any distraction after the countdown has begun can ruin her entire setup.

Eight. She raises her hands high above her head. It feels like every eye in the room is on her. The sound of frantic splashing surrounds her. People are trying to get out of her defiant way.

Seven. She inhales a deep breath and feels it swirling in her lungs, the chlorine giving a slight chemical burn to everything it touches.

Six. She slowly breathes out. This is it, she says to herself. She knows this will be amazing.

Five. She breathes in her final breath before the dive. She closes her eyes envisioning the perfect dive and the complete defeat of the lifeguard’s tyrannical rule of the pool.

Four.  Her knees bend almost instinctively. Then without thinking she is moving.

Three. Her motion is too great to stop. The powerful contracting of her knees has almost immediate resolved itself into a powerful release sending her surging forward. The smile creeps back across her face.

Two. As her fingers brush the water her body responds by straightening itself ensuring one of the most perfect and flawless dives she has ever made.

One. Her forehead touches the water causing her lungs to slowly expel the air that she had so carefully contained there. The steady stream of air keeps the invasive chlorine rich water out of delicate lungs. They are grateful for the care she has put into keeping them safe.

Her whole body is submerged beneath the glassy ripples of the pool. Her dive has propelled her nearly to the bottom. She flexes her legs to push herself the rest of the way there. Extending her hand she touches the perfectly preserved number sixteen written on the pool bottom. She has, in a moment, accomplished what few ever have and what few ever will. She has defied the almighty lifeguard authority, dived into the pool and touched the sacred sixteen all in one fluid motion. She pulls her feet into her chest and spins on the pool bottom. Like the launch into the pool the curling of her legs triggers their powerful release. The burst of motion pushes her to the surface just feet from where she had first entered the water. At the surface she rewards herself with a breath of fresh air. She doesn’t need to look at the lifeguard to know the distain on his face right now.

She feels the cool current flow across her hand as she reaches through the clear waters. Each extension of her hand splits the water, letting her glide like an angel. Her legs kick in rhythm to her arms moving her to the pool’s end. The other patrons are starting to get back into the pool now that the threat of a dive is over. She now slides through the water innocent of the accusing looks others are giving her.

One lap. Two laps. Three laps. Four laps. She stopped in the shallow end and pulled herself back onto the rough concrete. She smiles and looks at the lifeguard as she thinks about diving in again. She has already given the lifeguard one heart attack; he doesn’t deserve a second. Instead she winks at him then turns away leaving a trail of water drops in her wake. She doesn’t even know who he is, not that it matters much to her. She wants to at least give him a chance before he dies. She grabs the dressing room door handle, but stops before opening it. She turns, tiny water droplets falling from her hair as it swings through the air, and gives him one last look. He winks at her. She smiles and blushes then ducks into the dressing room.

You wince in reaction to the coldness of the wood laminate floor on your barefoot. It is always this cold and yet it always seems colder on the first step than it has ever been. You take another step and wince again. Though the shock of the first foot on the coldness prepared you for the second, nothing can ever really prepare you for the sensation of bare flesh on cold floors, especially first thing in the morning. You carefully pick your way over to the cupboard, pausing for a moment to remind yourself why you are not still in bed. Work, you tell yourself, you have things that need to be done and they won’t get done unless you leave the warm comforts of your bed. You open the cupboard door, one solitary bowl greets you. Its tall dark sides beckon you to take it, fill it and enjoy your morning. You reach in and grab it, gently cradling the smooth textures in your palms. Both of you have been waiting all night for this. Okay, maybe you haven’t been waiting all night but you are certainly looking forward to it now.

You move over to the drawer that almost glides open by itself. You look at the cloth covering the drawer bottom, not at all disappointed by your choice of not one or two, but three different spoons, a level of selection you haven’t enjoyed for several days now. You reach for the middle spoon passing by the long, narrow handled spoon that looks like it may be painful enough to hold much less actually eat with. Besides the spoon is far too large for the delicate work that will be needed this morning. You feel the gentle curves of the thin spoon in your hand, not your favorite spoon but it will work just the same. A smirk comes across your face, how could the clear cylindrical handled spoon that lay to the far right of the drawer even hope to be taken seriously at this early hour and for such a delicate task as eating breakfast. You push the drawer closed with your hip, not even bothering to give it a second glance. The chosen thin curved spoon will do nicely.

The spoon and bowl are both gently laid on the counter. You hesitate for a moment, they felt so good to be in your hands and now you have parted company. Just for a minute, you tell yourself, it is a necessary separation. You turn and reach over to the small high cabinets over the fridge. The floor isn’t any warmer but your feet are now used to the cold treatment. You grab the red colored box and in a single swift motion you pivot back around to your bowl and spoon while flipping the cardboard tabs with your thumb. The bowl is crying out to be filled. Its cries are only silenced for a moment as you hastily pull the cloudy plastic bag straight, at least straight enough to pour. The box seems to know what needs to be done and tips itself towards the bowl release a stream of tan colored cereal with small multicolored pieces. Each piece has a shape but they are all moving too fast to notice. The box slowly tips back to an upright position signaling the end of the exchange.

A short stream of milk hits the cereal adding a glistening white to the dark colors of the bowl, the tan from the cereal and the plethora of colored pieces. You pour just a bit of milk, not as much as you normally would, but enough that the cereal is wet. The milk to cereal ratio is most important, more so than science could ever appreciate. With bowl and spoon in hand you sit down on the couch, sinking into the deep cushions to enjoy this delicious nutrition.  You slowly begin the delicate work of fishing out the hard tan pieces of cereal, being careful to not capture any of the multicolor marshmallows. You carefully maneuver your thin handled spoon, weaving patterns through the milk, moving in and out of the marshmallows that are eager to cling to the spoon and the crunchy pieces of the cereal. Like a tiny glacier winding through a mountain range your spoon gathers together cereal until it is too full to collect any more.

A glacier would have just dumped all the material forming a hill that would jut up out of the ground. You however are not a glacier and instead lift the spoon to your eagerly opening mouth. You close your eyes as your hand guides the cereal laden spoon inside your gaping maw. Instinctually you drag the smooth bottom of the spoon across your lower lip being careful to make sure any remaining marshmallows can safely drop back into the waiting bowl below. Your upper lip closes around the handle. The chosen spoon is forced to deposit its contents into your mouth as you slowly pull it through tightly pursed lips. With the spoon safely out of the way your mouth starts to work. Just as your lip knew to scrap the bottom of the spoon so your jaw knows what to do with the spoon gone. It begins the work of breaking down the hard cereal. This is not your favorite part of eating the cereal, but still you enjoy it if only for the pleasure you know will come later. Your tongue tells you the pieces are small enough, you swallow and eagerly begin the process again.

If any boss, teacher or friend ever needed proof of your dedication and relentless determination this is all they would need to see. You repeat the process over and over with unwavering concentration until finally there is no cereal left, just marshmallow. You smile as you tilt your head back and slurp in the perfect mixture of marshmallow and sugar rich milk. This is why you braved the cold floor.

Now honestly, which is better, the thousand word above or the picture below?