My friend helps to run Press Pass Mentors, a mentorship program at The Washington Post , which focuses, in part, on developing the writing skills of high school students. I attended the graduation ceremony for the program, which included poster boards featuring each mentee’s 500-word college essay.
The first one I read was written by a student who had been shot his junior year (the consensus was that the shooter was looking for his older brother). His memory about the incident was hazy and almost dream-like.
You could tell by the way he talked about his green sneakers.
He remembered that he bought them that day. He remembered seeing them as he was shot. The sneakers were one of the first things he spotted in the hospital.
They clearly stood out in his memories (and nightmares) of the incident. And because of the imagery in his writing, that story was all I could think of when I stumbled upon this picture:
PRACTICE
Take fifteen minutes to write a scene based on the photo above. Share in the comments section below.
I ran until I could run no more. My chest was tight, I could hardly breathe. The cold air turned my breath in to tiny sharp icicles stinging my narrow throat, sharply twisting their way into my lungs. I could still here footsteps in the distance, I was not alone. No matter how fast or how far I ran, the voices and footsteps would always find me, rattling the frozen cubes of thought in my brain. No, do not rattle, do not melt, do not let emotion or colour into my heart! The pain is too great. I sit in silence, my body growing cold. I look down at my shoes, my green shoes, and fall into a flood of tears. Glaringly green with great guidance and comfort, my shoes steady me again.
Those feet…in those green sneakers…bright as they may be….were so so tired….
he wondered why….
I knew why…I watched him run round and round the track..each time trying to get his speed faster…it was like trying to get your personal best at 16…the age of perfection..so they say….
He dangled his feet…occasionally looking at those feet…clad in those green sneakers…bright enough to be noticed…and powerful enough to make one run a mile in seconds flat…and leap over tall buildings…like Superman…yeah that is how he felt…
But not so bright…that they got undue notice….just enough attention…that the miles and feet ran would be seen as something worthwhile…
Maybe that was what he was trying to do…prove that his running…his great feats of physical strength and agility were valuable to some eyes…
To him they were…not so to some others…if they were..they would have helped him pay for the bright green sneakers…but they did not want him to get them..if he wanted them..he would have to sacrifice…pay the cost…and they preferred he go without…and who is they…?
They wanted him to go without and pursue his grades in math and science and maybe art…but art was like this running…this speed…it was a frivolity….
It was more important to get A’s for things that paid no use in anyone’s life…not real life…but I guess they paid something in the fantasy land of mine mine mine…
So saving by each moment…he got the bright green sneakers…and he always took them off before he went into the home…that was when he liked to blend…
But out there..on the pavement…on the concrete…on the blacktop…he was speed and light and so amazingly alive…
Why would he choose anything else…maybe someday he would….
Looking down at his dangling green clad feet…he felt life….like the Earth…he jumped down…with bated breathe…and tested his ankles…teased his toes…took air into him like life…because well it is…and he began to run…did not dawdle or hesitate….
This is what he was going to be….
This is what he held in him…what we all hold in us….but some settle for black…bleak he thought…
This was what he was going to be…this is what he was…
Not running away…or running to…but rather running in….and never leaving….or settling….
He would run…and then rest those feet….the ones that looked like green mossy velvet in any light…using any words….
He asked…he believed…he received….
He wished others would do the same….
I like this. I’m not a runner, but my husband is, and has been for many years – and you capture a taste of how he describes the experience. There’s something about being free in it all. Thanks for sharing this vision of the runner’s heart and passion.
He wanted to fly.
The thought struck him as he sat on the bridge overlooking the river. The ducks paddled in the water down below. Green winged teals, to be specific. When they flapped their wings in flight he could see the emerald patch of feathers flash quickly and then disappear, like a magic trick. He loved it when they flew, though they didn’t often. His sister had shot one in the eye with a BB gun when they were little kids. He remembered the duck toppling backwards without a sound and then bobbing in the water, up and down, up and down, as blood seeped out in a halo around its head. He remembered his sister hopping up and down, up and down, buoyed with pride, “I got one! I got one!” He had felt an inexplicable pang of loss as river water lapped over the
teal’s wings. It had died with the green feathers covered.
In the here and now he sat, thinking about ducks and flying, banging the heel of his green sneakers against the railing of the bridge. The railing was old and rusty, probably not safe, but it was his favorite place in town and he came here nearly every day. Sometimes to look at the willows on the riverbank. Sometimes to count the fishermen’s trucks as they trundled by into town, heading home. Today he was watching the ducks, kicking his green sneakered feet.
He had bought these green sneakers at the beginning of the year and they had served him well, carrying him through dozens of track meets, down to the corner store, out here to the bridge. Running, always running. That was what everyone said about him: “Look at that kid run. Burning the soles right off his shoes. Running, always running.” It was nearly the same shade of green as the ducks’ feathers and that both cheered and discomfited him for reasons he had never let himself think about. Feeling kinship with
waterfowl was strange enough, why did it also have to cause this tangle of emotion in his chest? But for whatever reason today was different and as he watched the ducks swim the tangle started making sense. Especially when one duck honked a loud signal to the rest and they all lifted into the air at once, a perfect storm of wings and tails and flashes of green.
What must it feel like to fly? he wondered. To lift up and up and out, clear away from everything. Shaking the dust of this place right off and watching it fall back down. He wanted to fly. He wanted to wear his badge of green and crow, “Look! Look at me go! Look at me fly!” He’d fly right out of his house, of his school, of this town. If his little bit of green could take him that far. And it couldn’t, ‘cause the dust always stuck.
Running was no substitute for flying.
Very powerful!! I enjoyed reading this and feeling the range of emotions from despair to hope. I could envision the boy’s life and feel within myself the hope that he would be one of the lucky few to make it out of his neighborhood to set and reach his high goals. Loved the connection with the ducks, and the back story to the ducks was effectively intertwined.
This was terrific! Reading it, I felt his urge to fly. Loved the strong emotions it evoked. HIs compassion for the ducks, his urge to fly away (maybe the way he had wanted the ducks to fly away the day his sister shot one?) Great story.
Arden walked along the edge of the old train bridge, dragging a finger against the brick as she went, humming softly. She tried to think of what she was humming but wasn’t sure, in fact she could only remember a single bar of whatever song it was. It was exactly ten minutes before she was supposed to be somewhere, if only she could remember where. The bridge came to a low point, Arden stopped and traced the grooves in between the bricks, she braced the toe of one green sneaker against a low groove and pushed herself onto the edge of the bridge. The tune that she hummed grew louder in her ears and in her head and she kicked her feet a little, the sunshine making her feel carefree. Or maybe she actually was carefree, it was hard to remember her cares to care about them. Either way it felt good. She kicked her feet in time to her own humming and tried to think about where she was supposed to be headed. It was like a shape in front of her eyes, only not quite held together with lines the way thoughts were supposed to be, structured and formed so that she could identify it. Arden closed her eyes and raised her face to the warmth of the spring sun, she could feel each freckly heat gently, like tiny stove burners coiled onto her face. She tried to remember whether or not she carried a mirror so she could see her face, she thought it probably was glowing red. In a good way. She opened her eyes and saw someone standing in the street looking at her expectantly, or angrily, or maybe hungrily? Arden wasn’t sure exactly what their face was trying to do but they clearly were aiming some kind of emotion at her, so she let herself down off the wall and walked to the person standing in the street. As Arden walked toward the figure emoting at her the street began to stretch, the concrete of the road warping and cracking as it pulled itself apart to create miles out of inches. Arden didn’t mind. The sun was warm and she felt like she was remembering more of her song so she skipped a little and hummed louder.
I’m sorry your timer beeped. I wanted to find out what happened to Arden and why she couldn’t remember. I especially liked “or maybe she actually was carefree, it was hard to remember her cares to care about them.”
Today is Monday. It’s sunny out and slightly chilly. I needed to go to the mall so I threw on my favourite green sneakers and headed to the bus stop. I took a seat on the wall near the stop because I was tired from the walk. It’s about 2.5 miles from my house to the bus stop. I plugged my headphones into my iPod and hit shuffle. I hit the skip button a couple of times until I settled on an Ed Sheeran tune. It seemed an appropriate complement to what I could see from my seat on the wall.
As The A-Team filled my head I could see an old woman about 200 yards away enter the nearby deli. I wondered what she was going to buy. Perhaps some lunch meat, or a pint of potato salad for a family gathering. As she dissapeared into the building I turned my attention to the nearby pigeons who were causing quite the ruckus. Looks like someone dropped some food and they were fighting each other over it. Suddenly the loud roar of the bus engine drowned out my music. It was time to go.
I hopped of the wall and my feet hit the ground with a loud thud. The jump was farther than I expected. I walked thru a small puddle towards the bus entrance. I waited for some people to get off and then I stepped aboard. I gave my money to the driver and headed to the back of the bus. I always liked to sit at the back of the bus. No on ever bothers me there. Except today.
People must have been headed back to work because the bus was more crowded than usual. I decided to sit down next to a girl who was probably two or three years older than me. “I like your sneakers” she said. “Excuse me?” as I removed my headphones. “I like your sneakers, where did you get them?”
It was quite the unusual occurrence that someone on the bus would talk to me, but even more unusual that they would be asking about my ratty old sneakers. I explained to her that my father had given them to me 3 years ago. He had passed away recently and I can’t bring myself to get rid of them. They represent so many good memories for me.
Slipping on her running shoes, Jen admires them as she takes
a last look in the mirror before heading out the door.
Green. Jen wears green…all…the…time. It’s her favorite color
and these shoes shine.
Stepping out the door, Jen pauses for a few short lunges
before heading out on her usual route. It’s turning dusk so she gets her pace
going so to be back before it gets too dark.
Jen loves taking her run through her neighborhood. She feels
safe while enjoying the diversity of the modestly aging homes.
She grew up here, and now owns the home she was raised in.
Her parents gone now. Quite suddenly.
Jen listens to the rhythm of her pace. Feet propelling while
her breathing keeps her focused.
Rounding the corner she begins the descent down the old gold
course road. Jen’s mind takes it all in.
Yes, quite suddenly…her mom was running, too.
They enjoyed that time together. It was their mom and
daughter tradition since Jen was in high school.
She was timid about joining the track team – yet, she wanted
to fly, Jen told her mom.
Ok, was the reply. How ’bout we try that flying together,
her mom suggested.
Wow, that wasn’t what Jen expected, but maybe it would help
her get over her shyness.
And, so it began.
Jen and her mom researched running attire. As they selected
what they could afford, they knew the shoes needed to be the best if they were
going to take this running business seriously.
They were measured and given an assessment of their stride
with the trained store clerk. Deciding on the right shoe was more work than the
women anticipated.
Price, size, brand…the clerk was helpful to narrow down
appropriately. And then, Jen saw them. Second shelf on the right. The green
runners were calling her name. Would these work? She asked the clerk.
Trying them on, and jogging a bit, Jen decided these were
the ones. But…looking over at her mother she saw the price tag on the inside
sole.
Go for it, Mom said. Let’s do it right. And, besides…you
can’t pass up these green shoes.
So, it was. Jen and her mom started running that day. And
most every day after.
Jen loved this time with her mom. They were close before, and
this time shared together brought them even more close.
Jen breathed harder as she began the ascent up the hill.
Almost there, she breathed deeply.
Mom hated this hill, she remembers. But, she was determined
and made it all the way, even if she did climb at a snail’s pace.
As Jen neared the last stretch toward home, the evening sky
was finally dark. Reaching the wall at the corner house, she slowed to a walk.
Panting as she recovered from the hill, Jen slowed and began to pace back and
forth along the sidewalk. She hopped up and sat along the wall, resting.
Remembering.
Mom – I miss you, Jen whispers.
Looking down at her green shoes, she smiles.
My mother gave me these green
sneakers not very long ago. They still appear to be new despite the miles that
I have run. Sitting up on the wall looking across the street I noticed many
other people wish is not nearly as nice and neat as mine. Black shoes, white
shoes, sandals, and high heels all walk by in pursuit of the nightly
activities. Some days I wish that I could join in, but that just would never
do. I live on one end of town, they live on the other. My family is not very
wealthy; these shoes were all that my mother could afford for my birthday
present. I was proud of these shoes because they were different from all of my
friends. Just looking at these shoes it didn’t look like I was poor; however, if
you looked up at my coat and all of it’s worn through holes, I still appeared
poor.
Eventually,
some of my friends catch up to me and join me on the wall. We joke around and
tease as we look at the fancy costumes and dresses of the women are wearing and
the suits that the men are wearing. Even though we are joking, most of us long
that we could be in their places. My sisters would die if they had the
opportunity to where the just one of the dresses. I personally wouldn’t mind
having a nice dress-up outfit so I could take a girl out to dance. Alas, I will
be poor for a long time yet, as I am not old enough to get a job.
The cars going down the road seemed endless, Jordan thought as he watched from the stone wall. It was his ritual, every day after school, to come down to the road and watch all the cars speed by. The zooming and droning of the engines soothed him, calmed him down after the fury of the day. Watching with unblinking eyes he saw each car go by, and as each one passed, his anxieties went with it.
When fifteen minutes or so had passed, Jordan jumped down from the wall and paced along the roadside, hands behind his back. As he walked, he cast a glance down at the green sneakers on his feet, grinning like leprechauns. He had to grin, too, every time he saw them. These were his magic shoes, so to speak. It made him feel like he was five years old again to think of them like that, but he didn’t care. There was something about those shoes, Jordan had always noticed. Every time he wore them, something really good always seemed to happen. Nothing miraculous, like the answer to a prayer. When he wore those green sneakers, the world seemed to open up. He became more aware of the inherent beauty of things that eluded him the rest of the time, like the glint of mica in the tar on the road or sunlight sparkling through the elms on his block. And whenever these sights caught his eye, Jordan would always feel better, even rich, perhaps. Once he’d caught a glimpse of something beautiful that he hadn’t noticed before, he felt like he could take on the world.
Having calmed his mind by watching the cars and looked down at his sneakers, his head felt clearer now, and he could think about what to do. Carefully, he examined the situation from all angles. Should he tell her, or should he just play dumb and continue to let her think everything was all right? What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, but he knew that he’d be caught when he looked into her eyes and he just wouldn’t be able to lie.
Caught up in his thoughts, Jordan turned a corner where a grassy field lay with a wooden fence running through it. At that moment, he saw it. The moment of beauty. A vine of tiny blue flowers was growing along the bottom of the fence, decorating it like icing on a cake. Jordan stopped to take it in. The soft blue and sharp green leaves warmed his heart, filling it with the month of May. Was there an answer in those little blue blossoms? Could this be telling him something?
Just then, he heard the sound of voices approaching. His stomach gave a lurch when he recognized them. Ryan and Kyle came around the other side of the fence. Their eyes lit up when they saw Jordan and their lips curved in menacing grins, as leopards at the sight of easy prey. “Hey, buckteeth,” Ryan sneered, “Wanna pick the pretty posies? They’d look so nice on your new hat!” Kyle snorted at Ryan’s joke, but Jordan wasn’t going to let them rain on his parade.
(Not my best work, I know, but it’s been a really long time since I’ve written much. My muscles need flexing! 😉 )
I like your use of descriptive phrases. Very well done. I especially liked “the soft blue and sharp green leaves warmed his heart, filling it with the month of May.” Really painted a picture I could feel.
Thank you! 🙂
I agree – your ability to show what Jordan is experiencing – “..tiny blue flowers…decorating it like icing on a cake”…I loved that. Your story keeps moving – taking the reader along. Nice flexing 🙂
I look forward to flexing some more. Thanks! 🙂
I love the visuals, like the ‘glint of mica’ and ‘sharp green leaves’. That’s exactly what they look like.
“There’s a Chevrolet,” I said, eyeing a brown sedan passing from our left.
“Studebaker Champion,” Danny shouted, pointing in the opposite direction.
“They’ve got good engines,” I said, eager to air my knowledge.
Both our heads swivelled in the opposite direction. “Plymouth,’ we shouted simultaneously as the next car approached.
This is how we spent afternoons after school, perched on the brick fence next to the street watching the passing traffic.
As kids growing up in the Fifties our attention focussed on cars, competing with each other to see who could name all the models that graced our roads after World War II.
“I bet you don’t know what that one is.” Danny was eyeing a light blue one still two hundred yards away. I was quiet as it whizzed past. “Citroen,” he shouted triumphantly.
His father owned one of those foreign cars, so he’d know, I thought, disgruntled.
I looked down at my feet. my eyes fell on my sneakers. I kicked hard with my heels against the wall, scuffing them in the process. Ma insisted I wear them. A Christmas present from my grandmother. Poor Gran. The next best thing to a bicycle, I should have been jumping over the moon when I opened her present Christmas morning.
It’s their puke-green colour that I can’t stand. I kick against the wall, harder this time, and reluctantly go back to watching the street
I enjoyed reading that. So true about cars in the fifties too. I learned about that obsession in Bill Bryson’s autobiographical book. Your writing reminded me of reading that book.
Thanks for the encouragement. I recently read Bryson’s “One Summer America 1927” and I find I’m always trying to emulate his lighthearted approach. Because of my age – 74 – I find I write easiest when I do memoirs and nostalgia that recalls the late forties and fifties. The younger generation are always surprised how we managed without today’s gadgets.
This is crazy.
I’m not an athlete. A wanna be, maybe. A spectator, definitely. The loudest in the cheering section, always. How I ended up on the senior volleyball team still has me baffled, but while it seems like it might be the cruelest prank being pulled on me and this could all fail miserably, I am in love with the very thought of it. Deep down inside I am jumping up and down squealing like the little girl I always feel that I am, that everyone thinks I am…..yet waiting for the other shoe to drop.
That’s the best part I think, it is all worth it for these glorious shoes. Everyone has Adidas runners and I never get what everyone has but for some miraculous reason the gorgeous green ones were one sale at Walmart the day my mother finally took me shopping.
“But I neeeed Adidias shoes for the volleyball team, you have to have Adidas!”
You don’t need anything just because everyone else has them, is her standard reply. As usual I was ready to spew out my standard albeit, teary, rebuttle about how I always feel so embarrassed by my homemade dresses and hand-knit sweaters and knock-off denims.
OHMYGODTHESHOESAREONSALE!!!
So here I sit.
In these normal, nothing special Adidas with the three glistening white stripes that mean ghe world to me. I’m waiting for the others to show up for the first practice on the initial day of my new life.
I’m on a team! These shoes will not let me screw up, even though I’m scared as heck, because this is where I want to be.
This is crazy.
Cool! I like how the stressful emotions are understated, allowing the joy of possibilities to come bubbling through.
Thanks Susan. This writing thing is pretty new to me so I appreciate a comment. I have discovered a photo can get me telling a story that is already there and just needs to be written down!
I’m not afraid of heights. I’m not afraid of fast cars and screaming motor-bikes, nor football scrums or fights after school. I’ll jump in. I’ll get dirty. I’ll stick up for my buddies. I’ll take a dare or trump a challenge. I’m scarred from head to foot. Each bunch of purple puckered stitched up skin has an awesome story. I can tell the adventure of my life starting with the zig-zag scar on my ankle and work my way through the years all the way up to the broad twisted mauve mound of healed skin on my shoulder.
My Mum tells me I’m fearless. My Gran tells me I’m a worry. My sister thinks I’m mad. And my Dad just tousles my hair and tells me to look out, I’ve still got years of living to do. And then they laugh, go through a series of ‘remember when’ yarns and family tales and return to their lives. I’m in the background of their daily hum. Unseen. Again.
I want to ask Wendy Jackson to the end of year school party. In the gym at school last week I heard her say green is her favourite colour. And then she fell off the bars and broke her ankle.
Wendy Jackson is well cool. But she doesn’t even know my name. And I’m to scared to tell her. I wonder if she’ll like my old green sneakers.
The idea that the narrator’s scars tell the story of his life is what I like most about this, as well as your use of color and alliteration: “puckered purple stitched up skin,” “mauve mound.” Your description of his family life further adds to our appreciation of him and his situation and makes him all the more likable. Nice! 🙂
Thanks Heather. It needs some grammar editing, but I’m always surprised by the creative push these 15 minute prompts call to action.
Regard Dawn
This is awesome. I can’t tell whether you’ve done a great job of describing yourself or created a memorable character in only a couple of paragraphs. And it doesn’t matter. You have a real gift for words, Dawn. I look forward to reading more of your work.
Ha ha… No not me.
Just a character that popped up with the prompt.
Thanks for the feedback. Much appreciated.
Regards Dawn
I find it difficult to write fluidly without going back to make correction when I’m using the keyboard. Much easier to do when I’m writing with a pen. But here’s my attempt. I wrote it in just under 15 minutes but I must confess I did back up a couple of times and make some corrections. This was easy for me to write because it is somewhat autobiographical. I’m not a boy, I don’t play basketball and the shoes were purple. Otherwise this happened to me many years ago.
He stood at the far edge of the court leaning against the concrete wall, arms crossed, staring down at his shoes. Green. He couldn’t believe they were green. She said that’s what made them special. That’s what made them stand apart. They had special power. They would cause his legs to be stronger; he would jump higher, push the ball into the basket. Just believe. That’s what she had said. Just believe in the power of the green shoes.
He tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat, sounding a little like a sob. He knew where these ridiculous shoes had come from. He knew they were charity, given to his Mom by her church. Everyone knew his Dad had walked out and today was the first day of school. Everyone knew how much he wanted to fit in, be part of the group. But most of all to play basketball. Maybe not on the school team, but at least here, on the court after school. When he saw the green shoes he knew his dreams were not going to happen. The other kids would look at him and know. They’d know that everything he was wearing was hand-me-down. They’d know he came from nothing, had nothing, was worth nothing.
But Mom didn’t see that. She saw a future for him, and for her. She wanted to believe it could be there — wanted to make him believe too. So she had told him the shoes were magic. If he tried hard enough and believed strong enough these shoes, these awful green shoes, would allow him to play basketball like Michael Jordan. Forget about his five foot tall, skinny frame. He could make that basket. He could.
He wanted to believe. It was important to her, and if he admitted it to himself, important to him too. He knew his father wasn’t coming back. It was time to forget the past and move on. His Mom was willing to try, and he would try too. He glanced doiwn at the basketball in his hands. He rolled it around, shook the pesky tears from his 12 year old eyes.
He leaped.
I like the way you describe the boy’s insecurity: “They’d know he came from nothing, had nothing, was worth nothing.” It’s a feeling we’ve all had at some point in our lives and it really makes you want to root for him. I also like the ending line for the same reason, it makes you hope with all your heart he made that basket. Well done! 🙂
Thanks for the encouraging words. I put away my writing for many years. Time to begin again.
As you should. This is a wonderful story.
Thanks!
Thanks Helaine. Appreciate the feedback.
This is a wonderful story. It is very well written and create the character that can be related to. Both the mother and the boy have hopes and dreams that the reader can relate to and find. I like how the boy kind of trust in the green shoes a little bit, even though he doesn’t want to. Good job.
Beautiful Story! Very moving and well written.
Thanks for the feedback Caroline. Always appreciated. You make me want to keep writing.
Wonderfully crafted story! The fact that your not the best seller in the world stumps me. This is a great story! Beautifully written!
Wow, Pedro. Thanks for those great words. I think i needed that encouragement today.. ‘Scuse me. Gotta go write!
Monica, your opening is missing a few words. “…he bought them day” I think is missing “that. “…were one the first things…” I think is missing “of”.
Thanks!! Fixed!
Maybe it was not the best choice, in practical terms, like my mother tried to explain to me when I got home. But at the same time, she did tell me, before I left the house, that I should I get whatever catches my eye and would make me happy. So why then she contradict herself questioning my decision? OK, so next month is the prom and I could have looked for a dress, or a new swimsuit, or a backpack. I couldn’t argue with her that none of those items were available at this years bazaar. She has been part of the organizing committee for the past eight years and the bazaar is known for having the best designer clothing for under fifty dollars. I was thrilled to go for the first time alone, since my mother had a broken ankle and had to stay in bed. After just a couple of hours, I walked in with nothing in my hands and she was shocked, asking me why I didn’t get anything. Obviously, she had not looked down. I placed my right foot forward and her eyes rolled down and widened back up. “That’s what you got? Green ugly sneakers?” I replied “Yes. I really like them” and walked out of the room and out of the house. On Monday, I know for the first time, kids at school won’t be looking at my face and making fun of my crossed eyes.
The glass grew foggy under my hot breath, and I lifted a gloved hand to wipe away the moisture. I pressed my forehead against the cold glass, like I did every Thursday after school, at the same old shoe store down the road. I barely even felt the gentle snowflakes landing on my brow, the winter breeze against my neck. Those same green shoes had been on display in the window for the last month, and I couldn’t imagine why no one had bought them yet! Who wouldn’t want to show off their style with vibrant hues of forest green and shamrock? How often I’ve fantasized about seeing my big cousin’s face when I walk through the door, the sun setting in the background, light angling off my shiny new shoes to hit him right in his smug eyes.
Just thinking about that fat, self-righteous loser makes me angry. He always gets the best things for himself; last year he got an ipod touch for his birthday, and all I got was a pair of socks and leftovers. But this year I’ll show him. I’ll buy those shoes and wear them on his birthday, just to rub it in his ugly face.
The shopkeeper sees me staring through the window , and waves. I try to hide my embarrassment but end up tripping over my hand-me-down pants and falling into a pile of slush. I hear the jingle of the door, a concerned stranger offering his aid, but I’ve already scurried away. My jacket is wet and freezing, my lips are turning blue, but I don’t feel like heading to the warmth of my aunt’s house because I know that fat bastard will be waiting.
I make my way to the small library that occupies the center of the square we call ‘downtown’. It’s warm inside, but I ignore that and head over to my favourite corner to hide. If I wait here long enough, while the days away, maybe one day I’ll have enough money for those shoes.
Then we’ll see who makes fun of who.
He got tired of pretending to watch TV, while secretly listening for the sound of the truck pulling into the drive. With heavy feet he stomped outside and hopped up on the fence surrounding his house. Staring down the empty street, the silence gave freedom to the thoughts swirling around in his head.
At eleven, Ryan was old enough to know that after three hours, his dad was probably not going to show up. He knew this , and yet part of him clung to the hope that maybe somewhere he was stuck in traffic. Maybe his phone had died, and that’s why he didn’t call. At eleven, Ryan knew every excuse real and imagined when his dad was late. He als knew how it was going to go when he
What is your favourite colour?” She asked me.
“I don’t know. I have never thought about that before. Is that important?” I whispered in the end.
“Well…It could be.” She said without being very confident.
“Anyway, I have to go. See you later.”
She barely could say good bye before I left the park. And to be honest, I wasn’t in a hurry, but I just didn’t have time for these silly things.
On my way home, I decided to take a different path. It is shorter than the one I usually take. However, it is less safer. In that moment I didn’t care, deep down I think I was looking for something exciting in my life, something different, so I took the dangerous path.
Around this alley, a lot of bands usually meet to not do good things…They sell drugs, guns, they bet in illegal fights…a colourful range of possibilities.
So there I was, walking disarmed along this lovely alley. Why the hell did I make that decision?
At the beginning it was quiet, but after four minutes walking I heard something that put me goosebumps. I heard a group of people walking faster and faster towards me. When they were close enough, one of them pushed me and said me: Who do you belong? What do you want?
I was paralyzed, I didn’t belong to anybody and I didn’t want anything. I just wanted to go home having a bit of adrenaline in my body, I wasn’t looking for bad guys like these ones, but I found them…So I said: I took this way by mistake, I am going home. Bye.
That guy gaped, he didn’t expect an sassy answer like that one, so he pushed me again. This time it was more agressive and they started to ask me to give them all the valuable things I had. The big problem came when they realised that I only had two bucks with me, that fact really pissed off the shorter one, he was constantly saying: is that all, little brat? how do you dare to come through this way with this? you need to learn, you need to learn!
In that precise moment, they started to beat me, more violently every time. I didn’t know what it was going on, I only could feel one punch after another once and again.
Suddenly, I heard a shot and everything stopped. All I can remember it is a pair of green sneakers and somebody calling the ambulance.
When I woke up next day, she was next to me in the hospital bed and all I wanted to say to her was: “Now, I know which one is my favourite colour, it is green”
I kicked my feet against the hard concrete wall staring at the worn green fabric of the sneakers that covered my otherwise bare feet protecting it from the broken bits of glass smashed from beer bottles drunk from those who value the few moments of forgotten reality then facing it. The distant sounds of children laughing and muffled car horns on the sides clouded my already dangerously full mind. My family said I need to either get help you have a grip on my sanity but it’s awfully hard to when I don’t even understand the line between sane and insane. Much like my sneakers time wore me out and like everything else it’ll be one big puddle before I’m thrown out.
I had run so fast, through the park, past the closed snack shack, with its stupid red-striped cover thing that looks like a circus, and I hate circuses. I have to catch my breath because my chest hurts, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here. No one, Mom or my brother, was coming after me anyway. She don’t care if I live or die, as long as I wear these horrid shoes. I had slipped out my bedroom window, tip-toed over the wooden eaves, that were really slippery, and slid down the trellis where Mom grows her dumb roses, breaking some branches. So what?
My backpack slides off my shoulder and wonder if I took enough stuff for the rest of my life. How would I know? I’ve never run away before. I dig inside and find my sling shot, a bag of Skittles, a mushy apple from lunch, my soccer towel, my soap-on-a-rope, some socks, and two protein bars. I look down at the ugly green tennies hanging on my feet. How could she buy them? I’m eight, for crap’s sake. No one wears green shoes, except maybe Cindy Parker. A girl! Shit. I can say that, because I’m my own boss now. No one tells me what do any more.
Uh oh, the street light just came on, and there is something in the bushes behind me. All of a sudden, my heart is in my throat, and it’s thumping loud in my ears. My feet are tingly, too, and my hands are sticky, as I pull up my backpack. It’s nighttime, and I almost forgot I’m really afraid of the dark.
With a glance over my shoulder, I tear back towards home, sure something is close behind chasing me. The green shoes may be ugly, but, man, can I run fast in them.
“Where’d you get your shoes?”
Christopher Springsteen – That was his name. Reba knew much about the young boy in front of her, but strange enough she never uttered a single word to him before. Now, the gum-smacking redhead was staring right at her, and conversation was inevitable.
“Excuse me?” Reba asked. It took a moment to register what Christopher had said, For Reba was not inclined to making conversation. Anything more than a “hi” or “goodbye” took her awhile to think through. It was a strange question, no doubt about that. Out of all the things he could have asked her, he asked about her shoes.
“Your shoes – where’d you get them?” Christopher repeated, a hint of a southern accent evident in his voice. He kicked the dirt around Reba’s dangling feet, which wore the prized shoes.
Reba studied her shoes for a second – taking careful note of the green duct tape that was coming undone on the left shoe. The shoes had been under many repairs over the last few years but they kept up well, considering she had rarely taken them off in five years.
Reba looked back up at Christopher, who was still waiting for his answer. “I made them,” She replied, lifting up her feet for show. Christopher leaned in to get a closer look, but Reba threw her legs back down, causing them to hit the brick wall behind her.
“They look funny,” Christopher said. Reba wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she just shrugged. It was true, the shoes were a bit lopsided. The tape was peeling and uneven, the dirty laces falling apart. Her sneakers had seen better days, she knew that for sure.
“Say,” Christopher said, “Mind if I bought them off your hands for you?” He put his hand in his jean pocket, as if he were preparing to pull out a thick stash of dollar bills.
Reba twisted her face into frown. The shoes weren’t the most fascinating sort, but they did hold a place in her heart. When there wasn’t a familiar face to hold onto, Reba held onto her shoes. It would be silly to sell them – that’s like giving away a child’s security blanket.
“What are your intentions?” Reba asked, eyeing him up and down. Christopher was the cleanest and well-dressed boy around – He seemed to have everything he wanted. Why would he want Reba’s beat up sneakers?
“I don’t know,” Christopher said, shrugging. He put his hands in his pockets and waiting for Reba to reply. Of course, the boy thought that he could have those shoes. He got everything he wanted, so why would this time be an exception?
Reba shot Christopher a dirty look. “Even if you did have a reasonable excuse, I would never give you my shoes.” She pulled her legs in, as If he was going to snatch a sneaker off her and run away with it.
Christopher replied with a smug smirk. “How much do they mean to you, if they mean so much?” He crossed his arms in satisfaction, an arrogant gleam sparkling in his eyes.
“They mean a family to me,” Reba said. Christopher was not going to win, not this time. He might win a lot of things – like basketball and soccer – but he was not going to win over Reba’s shoes. She was sure of it.
“You mean you love those silly shoes as much as you love your family?” Christopher asked. “Pathetic.” He crossed his arms, waiting for Reba’s face to fall. Of course, some manipulation could make Reba hand over the sneakers. It worked every time for him.
However, Reba’s face didn’t fall. She wasn’t a fool – Christopher knew how to play the game, but Reba knew how to win. He was just a spoiled brat, just a kid looking for trouble.
“You can’t love something as much as your family if you don’t have one,” Reba replied, glancing at her green shoes. You can’t take away my family, Christopher Springsteen.
This is a bit of a story wrote about what happens after May and I find the lost city of gold when we’re seventeen. (To be fair, May did most of the work. I was pretty much her sidekick.) Anyway thanks for the exercise! I hope you enjoy the story!
After that I didn’t see her again for a few days, maybe a week. I kept tossing that name around in my head she’d told me at the end of our adventure. “Scott Peterson,” she had said, before leaving the city of gold, and me in it to be hounded by the press. She’d really just said it more to the air than to me, but either way I couldn’t get it out of my head. I was a pretty obsessive kid, to be honest.
I walked through the slumps of Miami on my way to Vicky’s house on the other side of town, just to see what she was up to. The projects were in between. I didn’t like going through the projects too much, mainly because I am afraid of gangs like a small dog is afraid of a hawk, but I’d left my wallet at home so I couldn’t drive or take the bus, so I just walked it. Glad I did, because that’s where I found her.
“May?” I ask, walking up to the edge of a torn-down store that had, presumably, been built six-feet off the ground on concrete blocks to protect it from hurricane damage. You can see how that turned out. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, hey Colby,” she responds, her gaze still fixed on the building opposite us. She’s sitting on what used to be the floor, wearing the magic denim jacket she can’t seem to ever shake, an ImagineDragons hoodie, jeans, and her green soccer cleats. She’d won a lot of games in those cleats, and she always told everyone it was due to the fact that they blended in with the grass, her cleats did, and the other team could never tell which way her feet were pointed when she had the ball. But it was winter now. She probably just wore them by accident; but then again when have I ever known May Lakewater to do something by accident?
“What are you doing here?” I repeat. Her eyes are still locked on a project home across the street. It’s almost rotting, the graffiti-ridden mess of brick and plaster, with just as many windows on it broken as not. “Where have you been?”
“Shh…” she whispers, holding an index finger out. She’s staring intently. I can see it in her eyes, through her huge nerd-glasses. They magnify the size and ferocity of her green irises, the exact green of the inexplicably worn cleats. I actually think those glasses are kind of adorable, but I never tell her this. I don’t know why.
“I’m investigating a crime,” she said. She did that often. The ironic thing is that she didn’t actually have a license to investigate crimes, so technically what she was doing was a crime itself, but she really couldn’t care less. “See that building?”
“Yeah?”
“That building is home to the largest gang of organized crime in the city of Miami, all suburbs and outskirts included. That building is home to one Dr. Michael Scott Peterson, the greatest criminal mastermind to ever live under the roof of government housing.”
“What’s so special about him?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing really,” she replies. She looks down at me through her glasses. “He’s only a master of martial arts, a speaker of twenty-two languages, a doctor of mathematics, a pioneer in the genre of rap music known as, ‘gangstah,’ a man who feels the need to let the world know that he owns fifty different styles of underwear but not a single belt, a backstabbing Alexander the Great of burglary, robbery, and blackmail, and to top it all off, a semi-professional player.”
“What the h*** are we doing within a thousand miles of him then?!” I shout. I’m telling you, I am terrified of gangs. I don’t even know why, really, but I just am. They freak me out. The only thing I’m more scared of than gangs, though, is gang-members. And I know exactly why: I had a friend who was mugged by a few gang-members, and that friend has never been able to walk right since.
“Well how else are we supposed to shut his empire down?”
“May, we are children. Don’t you think this is a job for the police or something?”
“We found the freaking city of gold, Colby!” she exclaims. “That took the police 600 years to do! We can’t wait that long on this!”
“But we’re unarmed minors walking into an abandoned project building!” I protest in vain.
“You mean you didn’t even bring your sword?” She says, hopping down with a finger on the ground as she lands. “Honestly, Davidson, I’ve come to expect better of you.”
“What, so you’re going to bring your sword into criminal-occupied territory?”
Her glasses had fallen down her nose a bit as she fell, so she adjusts them back to where they were. “Of course not! I‘m not an idiot, you know” she says. “I brought yours.”
UPDATE: I rewrote part this story at reccommendation by Pooh Hodges’ article on smells and sounds. Please enjoy! (c) 2015 C. Davidson
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After that I didn’t see her again for a few days, maybe a week. I kept tossing that name around in my head she’d told me at the end of our adventure. “Scott Peterson,” she had said, before leaving the city of gold, and me in it to be hounded by the flashing lights and drowning inquiries of the press. She’d really just said it more to the air than to me, but either way I couldn’t get it out of my head. I was a pretty obsessive kid, to be honest.
The next week I walked through the slumps of Miami on my way to Vicky’s house on the other side of town, just to see what she was up to. The projects were in between. I didn’t like going through the projects too much, mainly because I am afraid of gangs like a small dog is afraid of a hawk, but I’d left my wallet at home so I couldn’t drive or take the bus, so I just walked it. The area smelled exactly like pure carbon monoxide fresh out of a factory, as though the “project” in question was to cause global warming. I started to regret having come this way at all as I began to hear fading sirens coming from at least two or three different directions. Glad I did though, because that’s where I found her.
“May?” I ask, walking up to the edge of a torn-down store that had, presumably, been built six-feet off the ground on concrete blocks to protect it from hurricane damage. You can see how that turned out. Two beams that supported the front wall of the shop remained upright and holding part of the destroyed nameplate of the building. I surveyed the inside and found no one besides my girlfriend, but definite evidence of previous tenants, including busted coolers, old blankets, and a number of used syringes. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, hey Colby,” she responded blankly, her gaze still fixed on the building opposite us. She was sitting on what used to be the floor, wearing the magic denim jacket she can’t seem to ever shake, a black ImagineDragons hoodie, jeans, and her green soccer cleats. She’d won a lot of games in those cleats, and she always told everyone it was due to the fact that they blended in with the grass, her cleats did, and the other team could never tell which way her feet were pointed when she had the ball. But it was winter now. She probably just wore them by accident; but then again when had I ever known May Lakewater to do something by accident?
“What are you doing here?” I repeated. Her eyes were still locked on a project home across the street. It was almost rotting, the graffiti-ridden mess of brick and plaster, with just as many windows broken on it as not. “Where have you been?”
“Shh…” she whispers, holding an index finger out. She’s staring intently. I can see it in her eyes, through her huge, nerdy glasses. They magnify the size and ferocity of her green irises, the exact green of the inexplicably worn cleats. I actually think those glasses are kind of adorable, but I never tell her this. I don’t know why.
“I’m investigating a crime,” she said, her voice an accent just slightly Amerindian. She did that often, investigate crimes. The ironic thing is that she didn’t actually have a license to investigate crimes, so technically what she was doing was a crime itself, but she really couldn’t care less. “See that building?”
“Yeah?”
“That building is home to the largest gang of organized crime in the entire city of Miami, all suburbs and outskirts included. That building is home to one Dr. Michael Scott Peterson, the greatest criminal mastermind to ever live under the roof of government housing.”
“What’s so special about him?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing really,” she replies. She turns, breaking her stare, and looks down at me through her glasses. “He’s only a master of martial arts, a speaker of twenty-two languages, a doctor of mathematics, a pioneer in the genre of rap music known as, ‘gangstah,’ a man who feels the need to let the world know that he owns fifty different styles of underwear but not a single belt, a backstabbing Alexander the Great of burglary, robbery, and blackmail, and to top it all off, a semi-professional player.” She took not one breath in saying it all.
“What the hell are we doing within a thousand miles of him then?!” I shout. I’m telling you, I am terrified of gangs. I don’t even know why, really, but I just am. They freak me out. The only thing I’m more scared of than gangs, though, is gang-members. And I know exactly why: I had a friend who was mugged by a few gang-members once, and that friend has never been able to walk straight since.
“Well how else are we supposed to shut his empire down?” she answers back. I then realize what she is doing here, and that I am being pulled, once again, into one of her crazy plans.
“May, we are children,” I reason. “Don’t you think this is a job for the police or something?”
“We found the freaking city of gold, Colby!” she exclaims. “That took the police 600 years to do! We can’t wait that long on this!”
“But we’re unarmed minors walking into an abandoned project building!” I protest in vain.
“You mean you didn’t even bring your sword?” She says, hopping down with a finger on the ground as she lands. One of her cleats lands right on top of an empty old paper McDonald’s cup, releasing the expired smell of long-gone Coke into the air. “Honestly, Davidson, I’ve come to expect better of you.”
“What, so you’re going to bring your sword into criminal-occupied territory?”
Her glasses had fallen down her nose a bit as she fell, so she adjusted them back to where they were. “Of course not! I’m not an idiot, you know,” she says. “I brought yours.”
Making words rearrange themselves in your minds eye to create images is what I call great writing. As in the case of your student, a good writer can come from anywhere.
Sitting on the ledge, contemplating whether or not to take the final step towards death, the young boy knew he had a decision to make. At a mere age of eleven, it was under unfortunate circumstances in which he even considered to take his own life; a life he had been blessed with whereas others may have not been. He knew it was selfish of him to put his own life in his hands, but he had become so fed up with the world around him, he needed it to stop. He could either end the world or end his life. It was obvious he chose the latter, the destruction of the world clearly not in his power.
The ominous silence that settled into the atmosphere gave him even more time to think back to his past. He never really understood when he had adapted this morbid mentality. An eleven year old child should be enjoying his childhood and relishing in the beauty of the things around him, but it seemed as if that was where the problem began. In a world full of color, it was ironic to him that he had been chosen to be born color blind, and not in the way most people think. The young boy’s disability of being color blind prevented him from seeing any color, tint, or hue at all. He was the only boy living in a world of black and white. He was sure of it.
However, like most rules, his disability had an exception to it. He had been walking around in the park, finding a bench to sleep on after scrounging the dumpsters for food, when he had stumbled across a pair of tennis shoes. That wasn’t what surprised him, though. It was the fact that they were green–a color that he could only assume from hearing others talk about it. It was so different from the black and white he was accustomed to that he needed to keep them with him. Surely, there must’ve been a reason he had seen color, especially in a pair of tennis shoes. Whatever it was, he made it his mission to find out.
The motivation quickly subsided however when he thought about just how pointless it was; to chase after something that had no answers. He knew that this was his depression talking, but that’s all he was: a depressed, suicidal little boy. It was in that moment that the color of the shoes dimmed. Lighting up with curiosity, he yearned to find out why.
That day, he had learned that in a world full of black and white, all someone had to do was believe in themselves and their own abilities and suddenly, they can see everything.
The little boy got down from the ledge, deciding that his life was worth it, even if he was stuck in a world of black and white. Although, he knew now that all he had to do was see through the monotonous images, and the colors would surge forwards; and to think all it took were some green tennis shoes.
The weight in my pocket almost stopped me. Almost. I kept climbing. Opening the hatch, I wondered if this would really be the last time. Here it is. The gravel crunching, world below me. The air was kissing me, playing with my hoodie. I leaned over the edge. The school below me and cars and people moving, walking, talking. I watched my friend’s car pull out of the parking lot, trailing along the usual path home. There was the spot I first talked to him alone, felt like I had a real friend. A little farther out was the parking lot by the stadium, where I marched for countless hours, creating something great. Doing something real. HEB to my right, beyond that Whataburger, where Eli walked straight into a car (splat), where I bought food with everyone before band practice, where we had arm-wrestle contests and debates and laughed at how ridiculous life can be. Where I first felt my age. I smiled. A tear rolled down my cheek. “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” A familiar phrase. Then I saw the edge of the roof. Green sneakers carefully on top. The same ones he wore the day he stopped me the first time. When I was here a month ago, I couldn’t even meet his gaze when he realized I had a knife in my pocket. I looked at his shoes. The weight isn’t in my pocket anymore, it’s in my hand. I put the knife in a shoe, stood on the edge, and fell. I thought of all the beautiful things before this depression made them go away. His green sneakers always had a way of reminding me…