Down the Rabbit Hole
By Anonymous
She was floating;
Floating far away.
Every now and then she would wake,
A nearby noise disturbing her.
Her eyes flutter open,
Seeing their faces for only a second,
Her eyes would flutter close.
No noise or shake could wake her.
She was somewhere else;
Alice called it wonderland,
She called it peace.
And as she took her last breath she whispered,
“I’m finally free.”
Motivation
By Anonymous
600 meters. Time to go. Breathe in. Out. Breathe in. Out. Stride. Stride. Stride. Arms bent at ninety degrees, pulling an invisible rope. The cheers fade. I guess I’m on my own now. Tennis courts empty on my left. Field hockey game on my right that’s too preoccupied to notice that I’m in desperate need of some cheering on. Turn the corner, giving a slight glance to my two pursuers. Stride. Stride. Stride. It’s all downhill from here. Breathe in. Out. 400 meters. Into the woods. It’s downhill here. You know it. They don’t. Hips forward. Go, go, go. Out in front. You can win. You got this. This is your only chance to win a race. You know every root and rock. 200 meters. Dart out of the woods. I heard my coach yelling, “Let’s go. Honor Roll! You’re so tough!”
I wanted to shout back, “No I’m not, Ms. Talbot! Make it stop!” But I didn’t.
I saw the crowd. I didn’t care how they thought I ran this race. They don’t understand. It happened one day when I was riding my bike in sixth grade. I wanted to do another lap around the block. In the coming days, weeks, months, and years, I started riding farther and farther. I bought a road bike. I rode every day after school. I got up at six in the morning in the summer to ride. I started racing. I was obsessed. My friend told me I should try cross-country when I got to high school. I did. I ran as hard as I rode my bike. Somehow, society placed more worth on how fast I ran than rode my bike. But that wasn’t my motivation to go faster.
I never got that hooked on running. Nobody does. Quite frankly, it sucks. It hurts. Everywhere. Toes, feet, shins, knees, hips, back, you get it and we haven’t even gotten to all the muscles yet. My first year I got lucky—no problems. Second year I got mono two weeks into the season. Junior year gave me a new school, a new team, new coaches. There was a plan every day. I was put into the machine. That’s when I started pushing myself even harder. Everyone wanted to get faster. Everybody was having a good time.
Then it was summer again. Alone. Working. Anywhere from forty-four hours a week when they were desperate for labor to twenty-five when work was slow. I again got up at 6 am. Drove to my local park. Ran it alone. Did distance workouts. Alone. Hill repeats. Alone. Speed. Alone. Abs. Alone. No one would have cared if I slept in. No one would have cared if I let myself finish a workout early. Everyone would have still cheered for me that fall. That’s why the crowd doesn’t keep me motivated. They don’t understand.
When Ms. Talbot yelled to me and said the words “Honor Roll” that’s when I knew it was go time. 100 meters left. Two Avon kids nipping at my heels for first place. Downhill. Flat. Neck and neck. 10 meters. Half a stride back. Full stride back. 0 meters. 17:34 3.1 mile course. I had done it, but none of the spectators knew—they saw me get passed. But I was running a race they didn’t see. We were getting cake. Because of me.
Cake is why we run cross-country. Cake is what every runner at Williston strives for. Ms. Talbot makes great cake. I’m all about her yellow cake with vanilla frosting. To be able to get the team cake at practice the following week, one must be ranked one of the top fifteen runners by personal record or PR since 2003. It’s an elite club. It’s full of the people who understand what running is. What it means. Who it makes you.
Sure everyone who gets a normal PR gets a lollipop at the practice after the race. And I guess that’s why they run. They run for lollipops. I run for cake.
Untitled by Anonymous
The sound of feet hitting pavement permeates the air. Lines and lines of people marching together in unison fill the streets. A cool autumn breeze dances around the lines of people. Pirouetting through the orderly mass and finding its way to a young man. He marches like everyone else around him. Foot by foot. Step by step. Following the age-old tradition just like the others in the lines of people marching. A familiar sound fills his ears, as a horn is blown somewhere in the distance. All at once, the streaks of people walking, stop, and so does he. Standing completely still. No one dares to make any slight movement. He looks forward to see the usual field of people all in gray. In front of him standing perfectly still is a girl. She wears the same gray dress, as all of the other girls do, that skims her ankles when she walks. Her golden hair is cut exactly where it meets her shoulders. No more no less. Day after day he sees this girl in front of him, yet he has never seen her face. Nonetheless he has fallen completely in love with her. The pep in her step that makes him go insane. The way the beams of light bounce on her golden and luscious hair and the way they fall gracefully to the ground. He loves everything about her. He follows her and she follows the next person, never looking back. Never questioning tradition. The smell of wet leaves and fresh crisp air fills his nostrils as he breathes in. Swiftly an unaccustomed hum fills the open air. It is lovely and sweet. To the young man’s shock it is coming from right in front of him. What started as a soft hum abruptly gallops into a belting song. Heads sharply turn to see what the source of this monstrosity of a sound is. The words that she sings kiss her lips as they escape her mouth and fly away into the fall air. Scowls and disgusted faces whip around as if trying to swat the music away. Then in a sudden whirlwind, the young girl rips her gray dress off revealing her naked body painted with vibrant colors. The darkest purples fade into the brightest of yellows. Covering every inch of her body, the dyes scream and shout, wanting to be seen. The young man can only stand there, watching this unfold in astonishment. She then takes a small but very distinct step to her left. She is now out of line. As she throws her hands up trying to touch the heavens, she screams, “You cannot oppress me! This will not sta-” and before she can finish her thought, the piecing sound of a gun being fired resonates through the air. Her body sinks to the ground and everyone is silent. She lies motionless on the floor. The young man looks down and sees the hole where the blood is coming from. It is perfectly placed in the middle of her two eyes. The stream of blood flows down and across her face, to where a pool of deep red is already starting to form. He sees her face in all of its beauty and glory. He feels as if he can get lost in the azure lakes which are her eyes. They pierce him as she lifelessly stares into the sky. The corners of her light pink lips curl up and form a smile. Then comes the second beckoning tone of a horn. One by one the lines shift forward. People break their stare at the girl and look forward once more. The young man steps over her and fills the gap in front of him. Once again the sound of feet hitting the pavement, in unison, fills his ears. Foot by foot. Step by step he marches with everyone else, leaving her body behind.
