Paddleboarding

Squish, Sploosh
Squish, Sploosh
I place the paddle to the right of the board
Push the water
Cut it like a knife
Squish, Sploosh
I place the paddle to the left of the board
Push the water
Cut it like a knife
Squish, Sploosh
The board glides through the water effortlessly
I stand
Sit
Kneel
Lay with my feet dipped in the water to avoid the sun
Squish, Sploosh
Squish, Sploosh
I place my ear up against the board
Listen to the waves
Lapping the blue board,
In it's own rhythmic way.
Squish, Sploosh
Squish, Sploosh

Life in Mill Halley (8)

~~~~~~Roslyn Royel~~~~~~

~~~~~~~It Never Hurts to Have a Friend~~~~~~

 

I sort of lucked out with the pastels. The next day, Linnette was vomiting all over and Skyler was visiting with her grandmother. Instead, Ginger and I hiked over to the park where Ginger played soccer last night. She kicked her ball happily as we trotted down the brick sidewalk on Hamilton Street.  She brought up the subject abruptly.

“What are you going to do about those pastels?”

“They’re tempting.” I respond. “But I’ll get in trouble.”

“So?” She asks it like a plead for more information instead of a question.

“I’ll wait for permission, I guess. But they are so tempting!” I let out a whine that sounds shriller than I was expecting. Ginger ignores it, and turns to face me.

“Don’t do it. Cover the red saran wrap with a painting or a drawing of something cool. I don’t care what, just forget what’s under there. And next time Linnette and Skyler ask about it, make sure you check with me and your parents before lifting the cover.  

I nod as we approach the crossing. Together, we cross Jackson Road and enter the green paradise. She sprints to the goal, slides in the mud, and attempts to score a goal. It hits the goal posts and bounces back. Ginger bounces back up to her feet, and though her forest-green shorts are now darkened with mud, runs in for another attempt.        

Life In Mill Halley 7.5

<><><><><>Ginger Laces up Cleats<><><><><>

<><><><><>Part Two<><><><><>

        They were bright green. 

        Soccer started on March 14. The pie from school's Pi day was topsy-turvy in my stomach. The kids there acted as if they were right at home. 

        We started off running around the field. I tried forcing myself to be unhappy, but the grass felt so... soft under the cleats. My feet fit perfectly, and as I ran my flyaway hairs from my pigtails swirled around my face. I felt at home. 

        The stretches were nothing that I hadn't done in gym class. I felt the tension in my legs, but the pain felt good. It was a strange feeling- that I loved this, but at the same time I shouldn't be. 

        We began kicking balls. I loved every second of the drill, and when I glanced back to my parents, they were smiling. I didn't say a word to any of the other kids, and that was okay, because we didn't need to. It was soccer, not school. 

        But it was over all too fast. All I knew was that I would lace up cleats again. 

    

A February Blizzard

I remember, when I was young
Valentines day snows
Taking cookies to the man
who manned the snow plow
That blizzard was one
we will always remember
When our cheeks were red and rosy

Then several years later
Trudging through ankle deep snow
for what felt like a mile
Dragging sleds
Bundled in hats and gloves and scarves
Flying down the hill
Cheeks red and rosy

I remember
Traveling to the north
Skating across the frozen lake
Skiing across the snow
Sledding down the hill
Cheeks red and rosy

But now, as the wind howls outside
The snow shooting toward the ground
I'm inside
Warm
Just writing.
With warm cheeks.
Warm words.

Riding on the Wind

My legs pedal fiercely
The wind whips my hair around my neck
The wheels make a whirring sound
A breeze chills my face
My fingers feel slightly numb
But in a good way.

My legs cycle, pushing away ground
The wind makes my stray hairs blow
My feet thud, one after another
A breeze chills my nose
I'm out of breath
But in a good way.

My feet kick softly.
The wind stays outside.
Spectators cheer from the sidelines.
Water floods my nostrils
I'm under pressure
But in a good way.

The Moments Before the Race

        My legs nearly froze in the moments before the race. I had warmed up previously, so I was all wet, but, at least, my arms had my Nike jacket over my wet swimsuit.
        The announcer breaks in onto the intercom, announcing my race in five minutes. I unzip my jacket throw it on a littered bench in the hallway and shudder at the breeze. Feet away, a girl in a red swimsuit shakes her arms. I look down at my own purple one, pull it up, and stride out to the pool deck, opening my lungs by raising my arms.
        While I get with my teammates to perform our school (GO MINNOWS!), the other team scoffs at our childish behavior. My cheeks heat up, and I'm sure I blush a crimson red.
        The announcer gets on the intercom once again, announcing the 100 Freestyle lineup. I take my spot next to the #8 starting block.
        "Swimmers," I take a deep breath as the voice cackles throughout the silent room, "Step up."
        I step up the metal step to the plastic board. I can look out to the still, empty water, placing one of my feet so the tips of my toes hang over the edge of the platform and the other behind in a ready stance, but still stand straight.
        "Take your mark."
        I bend over, the tip of my fingers resting on the edge of the block. My rear sticks up in the air, and I stare into the blue water and the blue stripe.
        I am intent on winning, or at least not allowing the red Cheetahs to take the medal.
        My lungs expand and contract.
        A horn sounds in the distance, ringing in my ears. I push off  the block, arching my back and pointing my fingers in a triangle over my head. My toes curve like a ballerina going on point and I plunge underneath the icy water.

The Water Round

The day of the Family Olympics Water Division, I dressed in my blue swimsuit and trotted down to the lake, where Uncle Tom was stretching in his rippled speedo. His hairy chest wobbled up and down as he struggled to touch his toes. I look away, disgusted at the sight. The sky was as blue as a cerulean crayon, white clouds skimming the horizon liked stretched cotton balls. I uncapped the sunscreen and sprayed my bare arms before a stampede of cousins come dashing down, dressed in bikinis and floating rings. But there he was. Lucas. Lucas had trained, back in Colorado, to become an Olympic swimmer. He had been swimming, every morning, for about an hour. Practicing. I only practiced 30 minutes in the morning, and only took a conditioning class back home. We were the top competitors. The swimmers lined up in the shallow water. Though I was only covered up to my waist, younger family members were practically drowning in the chin-deep water. When Aunt Autumn blows her whistle, I kick off of the sandy lake floor and position my foot on a leg of the dock to push off. I spiral through the murky water. I feel so alive, as I see fish scattering below me through my purple goggles. When I am feet away from the far dock, I curl into the smallest ball possible and spin. My bare foot grips the dock's post as I push off. I streamline through the waves, 'squeezing the cheese' as Coach Geoff instructed me to back home. The flip turn was extremely over-rehearsed, but it all paid off as I streamed forward, pushing off the minuscule post. Lucas is ahead of me, but barely. I cycle my arms frantically as I perform the crawl stroke. I can see his knees. Then his hips. He, too, is swimming freestyle. It's the fastest stroke. I can see his shoulders. His head. I kick as hard as I can. Think of everything you love. Do this... For them. My legs become a kicking machine as I thrust one arm forward, feeling for one of the dock's legs. Everything around me goes dark, as if I've floated under a cloud. Where sunlight can't exist. I continue kicking, determined to win, and emerge on the other side of the dock, breathless. I stand up and see Lucas sitting on the other side of the dock with his face in a beach towel. Uncle Tom has just now reached the far dock, and 2-year-old Rebecca is not even there in her pink arm floaties. I laugh as I pull myself up onto the dock. I don't care if I won anymore. I had fun, isn't that all that matters? Aunt Autumn hands me a blue ribbon, and I step up onto a tree trunk. Lucas sulkily accepts a red one and takes his place next to me. "Well, Lucas," I smile. "I guess you need a bit more training before you become the new Michael Phelps."

A field of Snow

I slipped into thick socks and laced up the white skates, and stood up to face a field of snow. It lay like a sheet before me, so thin that the silver blades could reach the thick ice below. I stepped forward with my left foot and glided forward a little bit before stepping forward with my right. It took a bit, but before long I was gliding across the lake like a swan.

The sharp blades cut through the soft snow, leaving behind a trail of cut marks on the lake. In the summer, you could never see the lake like this. You could never look back and see the cabin from this view. In the summer, you would be drenched in water if you attempted something like this. But winter does something to the world. A white sheet has been laid upon the ground, and icy gusts are brought by the wind instead of relieving breezes. Water is frozen and turns into a substance as smooth as glass, so smooth that skates fly over it.

An icy stream of wind comes dashing by, nipping my nose and tugging on my ears. My fingertips turn white, and I massage them as I continue to skate across the lake.

I stop dead in my tracks as the ice lets out a hollow groan  Before I know it, CRACK and I'm under. I feel like I am being sucked into a vacuum, pulled by the metal on my skates. My heavy peacoat pulls me under, but I paddle. It seems endless as my lungs run out of air to breathe. I continue to paddle, determined not to drown.

My lungs gasp for air the second the water breaks above my head. Chunks of ice float around me, covered with snow. I scramble to the ice, but it breaks off. freezing to my arm. The bitter cold surrounds me as dusk begins to fall, but I still have not succeeded in reaching land. It seems like so long ago when I was skating across the ice that now I pull off, stuck in the water that used to be below me,

I can't take it much longer, I am freezing, my belongings are weighing me down and my eyelids are drooping. They close and I feel myself floating away. I see my body disappearing beneath the surface of the water after letting out a strangled cry. I feel so young, so sad, so vulnerable, but I'm warm. I'm wrapped in a blanket of angel wings and I just....

fall...

asleep...

Running at the Track

"Carmen." I stare into my friend's bright blue eyes. "What food do you love, more than any other food in the world. We were running the mile in gym class, and it had to be under 9 minutes to pass. I may have been a motivated runner, but Carmen wasn't so much. By the second lap I had looped her.

Her eyes sparkle. "Popcorn."

I laugh. "Popcorn it is!" We run around the corner, approaching the 100-meter sprint finish. I peek at my watch. 8.14.

I begin to sprint, bellowing "POPCORN!" at the top of my lungs. Carmen, engaged in the fantasy of a bag of freshly popped popcorn sitting at the end of the track, sprints like never before. Her shoulders rotate back and forth as she dashes past me. "POPCORN, CARMEN!" I scream, slowing to a jog. I walk to finish my 5th lap, and there she is, sitting on the ground with a wide grin on her face.

"8.58." She smiles. "Next time, it'll be 8.57. And maybe they'll be a bit more popcorn, too." We laugh Some stories are never forgotten.