Must Write!

This will be a very short post, but I have to write some fiction. It's been two weeks. I'm not even sure what I'm going to write about yet, so don't expect a masterpiece (and no, Judi, this is not the promised story involving music and colors. Hang tight, 'kay?) I'd love to write about my crazy long run on Sunday, and how ticked off one of my teammates got at the guy who suggested this particular park to run at, but I'd have to do a lot of editing. Language issues and all. Don't get me wrong on this, but it was really funny. Of course, I also tripped and ate dust the day before, so maybe my brain was just rattled...

Alright, I"ve got an idea. This is total off-the-top-of-the-head, inspired by The Iliad. I finished book 8 this morning. (And no, this is not brought on by the Percy Jackson books).

My opponent brought down his sword with what seemed a casual turn of his wrist. His blade hit mine with enough force to clack my teeth together. I cursed myself for not anticipating the blow and took a half-step back, tightening my grip. Our blades met again, and my arms felt like they were being pulled from their sockets.

I couldn't decide exactly what about this man worried me so much - aside from the fact he was in a group ambushing a small pack of travelers. And that there was something about him physically that seemed...almost superhuman. Even without a helmet, he stood just enough taller than the rest. His shoulders filled armor inches wider than even my father's friend Argos. It was unnatural. By nature I was one of the best swordsmen - swordspersons - in Greece, and my father theorized that Artemis blessed me in my toddling days. Never had I met one who could put so much force into a stroke.

Sunlight flashed against his sword, the bronze throwing specks of light into my eyes. I continued parrying, dodging. He was a giant, yes, and I was a girl masquerading as a boy, but I was by nature quicker. At one thrust, however, I could not dodge, and shoved my shield arm forward. Pain exploded in my arm as the blow knocked me backwards three steps. Teeth gritted, I scanned the ground near his feet. A rock the size of my fist laid on the sun-baked ground a few feet behind my opponent. If I could trick him into stepping backwards onto it, I might have the advantage for a few crucial moments.

"Yah!" I shouted and swung my blade at his head.

A startled expression broke across his sun-tanned face, and he skipped backwards with surprising agility. His left heel came down on the rock, and he stumbled, shield swinging sideways.

With a grunt, I slashed sideways. I hated killing, but I would hate to be killed more.

Somehow, with some impossible maneuver, he twisted at the last moment, regaining his balance. The blade bit into his arm instead of plunging into his side. At the least his sword arm was injured, giving me a hope of survival. I pulled back a few paces, glancing at the top of my sword. The other metallic rings of swords faded in my ears, the thuds, shouts, wind in my ears died. I thought I would see crimson tipping my sword.

Over the bronze of my sword, golden liquid gleamed, flecks of silver glinting in the sun, droplets sliding toward the hilt.

It fell together. A man stronger than all the rest. An unnatural fighter. Golden blood.

Ichor. Blood of the gods.

It could not have been a breath later that I looked up, eyes wide. The word was a whisper. "Ares."

The edges of his lips curved up, smooth as a new archer's bow. No doubt he was pleased with my paralysis, my awe, my fear. With no warning change in his posture, he attacked.

Three strokes later my wrist snapped. A choked sound of pain split my lips as pain rushed through my right arm. My sword clanged against the ground. I bent for it, knowing I had no time.

A blur of glimmering, flashing bronze, and a wall of metal slammed into my chest, driving me backwards into the rock wall. A spur of jagged rock dug into my skull, and light flared in my eyes for an instant. The edge of his shield dug into the base of my neck. I prayed to Pallas Athena and to Artemis, to act in these last few moments, to perhaps spare my life.

The goddesses had other business than to interfere with this pitiful mortal's affairs, because Athena did not appear with her shield, nor did an arrow of Artemis the Huntress strike. A sharp edge pricked under my chin, and I forced my eyes open. I would not die as a coward.

"That would be Lord Ares to you, boy," said the god of war.

I repressed a last impudent comment. Dying quickly and cleanly appealed than some of the more grisly deaths Ares was famed for. All I wanted to know was why, why me, why an immortal deigned to meet swords with me.

I did not ask, because something slammed into my temple, and the dark mists of unconsciousness swirled over my eyes.

Insomniac?

Maybe not. The thing is, I'm tired, but I don't want to sleep. I do, in a way...am I just rambling here? Something in me doesn't want to surrender the day yet. *siiighs*. It's been a long week. Highs. Naps. Lows. Naps. Laundry. Study. The Iliad. A Presocratic reader.

Right, the Iliad. It's the next assignment for one of my classes. I wasn't sure what to expect - I've read Rick Riordan's modern-day take on the Greek gods/goddesses, so I do have a background, in a way :-) (If you haven't read the Percy Jackson books, get to a library. Or a bookstore. They aren't super-high reading level, but they are so fun.) The Iliad is interesting in that it's Greek poetry translated into English. It has a completely different feel to it; alien, almost, but beautiful. In sometimes a violent sort of way.

I am so sore. It hasn't been an easy week on the cross-country team. At least tomorrow is an easy run, but it's followed by weight lifting, which does something to nix the 'easy' part. Ugh. That's another 6 am wakeup. How about 9? or 10? What a lovely thought. As it is, I'll be squeezing in a 45 min nap between Spanish IV and Shakespeare (grooooan! Julius Caesar is a favorite play, but we're covering a play a week...) If I skip lunch, I could make it a bit over an hour nap, but food is just one of those things runners do poorly without. *passes out, nailing forehead against Norton's Shakespeare Anthology*

Hmm...tempting, except the book's already a headache.

My eyelids keep sinking, and I'm typing this sentence blind. Not too hard, actually. In a strange way, I can picture the screen and the words dancing across the page as I type them into existence.

Wow. I am tired. As I drifted toward sleep last night, I started playing with a vague concept I've had for a while, about music and instruments and the rainbow. If I get the time, and the sleep, there will be a forthcoming story. Maybe not even a short - probably a wee bit longer.

Buenas noches!

Quick!

Enna Isilee is having a massive giveaway on her blog - check it out!

I think I'm going to give up now. On being the queen of smooth, poise, etc. It's not that I ever was; perhaps I harbored the idea that going to college would enact an immediate change in my personality.

Hah (or as one of my suitemates likes to write, ‘hahahahahaha’). I have stuck my foot in my mouth more times than I care to think about in the last few days. And believe me, with Houston weather, my shoes are nasty.

The story: Until this past week, only one, maybe two people who know me have read this blog. I'm still mostly anonymous to most of my readers (although I might get to meet Raewyn soon...). One of my suitemates started reading last week. She laughs a lot when reading. (Let this serve as a hint I'm glad I'm worth at least a good laugh.

You know that last entry about the unexpected teammate? Well, while we were talking a few days ago, I foolishly mentioned I had a blog, and even more foolishly forgot the URL was on my facebook page.

An except of 'Aaron's' comment: "Charafictiphobia- The fear of becoming the inspiration for a fictional character created by a writer."

Yeah. The flavor of the day is Brooks GTS Adrenaline, model 7, color blue, size 8.5. The dirt from this morning's run is particularly crunchy. And I detect more vegetable nutrients in the grass shards from the soccer fields than I usually eat in a week. So those fire alarms you heard this morning? That was the heat rising from my ever-reddening face. (Such a character marker! Except I don't remember having quite this reaction before. Maybe being a secluded homeschooler wasn’t so bad after all. JK.)

The last two days had been good, maybe not what I'd call 'average' days, but nothing particularly bizarre/irritating/embarrassing (*clears throat, addressing ‘Aaron’* And meeting you again falls into the category of straight unbelievable). I thought the bulk of the weirdness/jaw-drop factors had passed. And therein lies my fatal mistake: I let myself get lulled into boredom. Now I shake my head at my naivety. I should have known.

A friend gave me this piece of advice before I started school: Don't get cocky.

I don't think I ever was cocky, but I am now definitely humbled. There is no possibility of me pulling any high-hat look-down-the-nose stunts now (I certainly hope and don't think I would have done that a couple weeks ago, but still). All I can do is laugh at myself now. I am past hope of being idolized as the flawless queen of cool.

________________________

I sigh, shaking my head dolefully at the computer screen. I hoped it would not come to this. But it is time. I crack my knuckles (not really) and pull up Internet Explorer. Soon enough I am slipping through the dark corners of the Web, searching for the software I need most urgently. I pass over several items as inferior. It is time for a new level of subterfuge, deeper cover of my identity. "Ah, yes," I murmur. I find my prey, a cute little program disguised as a package of Twinkies on eBay.

I know what lurks behind the innocent picture of cake tubes stuffed with white goop. Anyone who gave it a few moments thought would know as well. Twinkies have undergone the most rigorous scientific testing (i.e. being baked for hours, being dropped off a building, being submerged in water for 24 hours, etc) without suffering severe structural damage. They're nearly indestructible (not to mention indigestible). No one in their right mind would buy these from a grocery store (goes to show we have some serious problems in America), much less from eBay for twice the going rate.

I place my order, rubbing my hands together (yeah, so you all know I'm not doing that either. Just play along?). Once I hack into 'Aaron Nessick's' facebook account (shh!) and get his IP address, I will program it into this software. The instant he tries accessing my blog, the software will send the electronic equivalent of a Twinkie to his computer.

A sappy Hallmark e-card embedded with a virus.

Think about it! It looks okay from the outside, rather common, but sweet. Once it's opened - destruction! (Alright, I admit, you won't die from biting into a Twinkie. I think).

So, Aaron, you've been warned. Beware Hallmark cards.

____________________________

The rest of the day has been painfully placid. Before I would yawn. Now I am wary, checking my surroundings, waiting for the next embarrassing incident surely lurking in the shadows.

I wonder what Crocs taste like.

Am I going to be able to breathe today?

Well. As much as people have been flipping out about my age, I find it ironic I forgot today was my birthday until one of my suitemates said something about it. That may have to do with the mental exhaustion of reading an entire Presocratics book in a day, along with two acts of Julius Caesar, and two chapters of Bible commentaries. I'm not complaining, mind you. I just haven't been reading at a level of this intensity or sheer volume in a long time. I'll live. And thrive, hopefully.

I don't feel any older, really. I usually don't on birthdays, so no disappointment there. Until about three today, I have no classes, so I'll stretch, study, stretch more, organize, etc. At about two or three o'clock, I'll pack - my first cross-country race is this evening. Here's where the busy part starts: I'm following the school vans in my car. And then I'm racing. And within thirty minutes of finishing, I'll be driving down the road to my little sister's race. And I'll cheer for her, and then spend the night at my parents'.

Hopefully, I’ll remember to breathe – very well. I can’t decide whether I’m anxious or anticipatory about the race. Maybe both. The last couple years of cross-country, to put it in an ineloquent but precise way, sucked for me. I think this year might be different. I’m praying it is. That’s about all that’s gotten me the past couple years of running. Although having a rough time was good for me, in some ways. I think that’s when I discovered I had a passion for writing, and I threw myself into that (too much at times) instead of running. Maybe it’s coming full-circle, and I’m working on a balance now. I don’t know. Just my thoughts for the day.

Craaazy

Well. I have to say, I've had more excitement the last four days than almost the last four months. Besides the entire XC team knowing I'm the young punk. And realizing Spanish will no longer be a fluff class, thanks to my former teacher who did not make us speak Spanish (what the heck?) I told one of the Spanish teachers here that.

Her first words: "Ay, Dios!" I thought that was kind of funny. She looked horrified.

And then a couple days ago I had dinner at my cross-country coach's house, and yes, something totally weird, cool, and out-of-the-blue happened. I'm starting to think anything is possible at this point. But instead of tell you, I'll just write about it. It' s just more fun that way.

(Most names altered for privacy J)

____________________________________________

I perch on the edge of the wooden seat, which I think was made for someone much larger than me. Granted, I’m a runner, so I have a relatively slim build. Nothing like Elise, who sits quietly at the opposite end of the table. She has such a sweet smile, but she’s sooo quiet. I’m not the chattiest person in the world, but I do talk in paragraphs when I get rolling.

A couple more people come in the door, a girl who looks vaguely familiar and a lanky guy. I guess they’re sophomores or juniors. Some of the older crew sitting on the couch exchange greetings. I check the open spaces around the table. There’s room for one-and-a-half people to my left, and if Briana scoots over, there’ll be room for both of them.

They eventually make their way over with plates loaded with barbecue. I scan both of them, which is automatic habit. (A girl I sat with at dinner a couple days ago told me that she noticed I was really observant, that my gaze kept flitting around. Obviously, this tells me something about her observation skills J)

The girl (this is one of my writing difficulties: I don’t like saying ‘girl’, because sometimes it sounds too young, but ‘lady’ or ‘woman’ is too old, so I’m sticking with girl) is wearing a plum camisole, which oddly is the same color as the square-neck shirt Zelda is wearing (she’s absurdly pretty). She smiles at me. “Hey, I’m Melanie. I think you’re the one I met at the running store I work at in The Woodlands.”

Cha-ching! I smile and nod. “Yeah, that was me.”

She slides onto the bench next to Briana, and the new guy sits directly to my left. Melanie waves to get the table’s attention. “Hey, you guys, this is...” The name is lost as a couple guys wince and groan at something on the TV.

We all introduce ourselves. Somehow the topic of ages comes up, possibly in relation to R-rated movies. Someone was kind enough to forget how old I was. That might have been fine, but John decided to remind everyone. He meant nothing by it, but I’ve been the young one for so long I’d like to shed the image at college. At least everyone (and I mean everyone) says I don’t look sixteen. That always makes me feel better.

The new guy looks at me. Sadly, his name is a distant memory, driven out by the occasional snatches of the Closing Ceremonies I see on Coach’s big TV. He also looks vaguely familiar, but most distance runners by nature of their sport share a lean build. There are a lot of tall, thin runner guys out there. And it’s possible I’ve seen him at a meet before. “So, wait, you’re only sixteen?”

Grin. Bear it. I don’t even sound like I’m talking through gritted teeth. “Yeah, but only until next Friday.” Conveniently the first cross-country meet.

“Cool,” he says. “So, did you graduate early, or were you homeschooled?”

We talk about that for a while. I find out he has a little sister, and he’s a sophomore transfer from Arkansas. The real surprise comes when I find out where he went to high school. “Seriously! My sister and I both ran summer track with Coach G. I thought it was hilarious how he could totally chew out the high school guys, turn around to the track kids and say ‘I’m sorry you had to hear that’.” I glance at one of the other girls, whose eyebrows are lifted. “I mean, he was totally sincere. It was just kind of scary. He’s the greatest guy. Just bipolar.”

Half the table cracks up at that.

He smiles, ruefully. He probably got the nice Coach G track-kid side and then upon turning fifteen, the much scarier high school coach side. “Yeah, that’s about right.”

Coach’s husband comes up with a couple DVDs and hands them to the new guy. (What was his name, dadgummit?) “These are copies of the Congress Mile. If you want to copy them, feel free. I have no idea how to.”

I sit straighter. I know how to work computers. Unless they know I’m coming and block me out, in which case I just post voy a pegarle un tiro a mi computadora on Facebook. “I can copy those on my computer.”

We work out the details, which takes thirty seconds, and I take the DVDs. I’m really curious now. I know one runner from New Kid’s school who ran the Congress Mile a couple times. This school is notorious (in the best way) for having super-fast runners, so this guy is probably one of them I didn’t know.

So we talk on and off for the next hour or so. It’s dark outside, and I’ve lost track of time. All I know is that I get to sleep in tomorrow, something that thrills me. I’m whooped.

The group migrates into the kitchen, just a circle of thin runner-people chatting about who knows what. I refill my cup with water and stand on the fringe of the group next to the new guy.

“So,” I say. “If you went to TWH High School, you’d know Aaron Nessick, right?” I ran summer track and some middle-school club cross-country with Aaron, obviously years ago. I doubt he remembers me, but I’m just looking for connection points with my new teammate.

He half turns, giving me this weird look like I just chanted a transfiguration spell.

In Sanskrit.

I feel as though I should say something, but I don’t know what to say. I don’t even think I muster an awkward smile.

Eyebrows half-lifted, he lifts one hand and points to himself.

This would make a great movie scene. I display all the stereotypical facial reactions. Like, my mouth falls open. That’s never actually happened before. It’s just something I write about. “You’re-”

He nods.

I’m too stunned to kick myself for not remembering his name. I clap both hands over my mouth (again, only book characters do this, right? It’s just an evening of firsts.) “Oh my gosh. I am such an idiot.” I mean this, too. All the puzzle pieces I didn’t realize were puzzle pieces snap into place. Sophomore transfer from Arkansas. Younger sister (who also ran). Ran the Congress Mile twice. It played out like a perfect scene from a mystery book. All the clues were there. I just didn’t realize it until it all fell together.

Realizing how stupid I must look, I drop my hands. I never expected to actually speak with Aaron again, much less be on the same freaking team. “No way. Wow.” Memories flood my mind. “Do you remember that time you and my little sister raced a two-mile time trial and you puked on the track?”

His eyebrows fold, and he shakes his head. “Not really. Was that in the fall?”

I seriously just asked if he remembered puking on the track? Yeah, baby. I am smooth. The queen of subtlety, the master of…I don’t know. I can’t think. I can’t believe I just said that. My brain synapses are spazzing on me.

Thankfully, I think he forgets I said that like a couple minutes later. Of course, with my luck, in a few years he’ll bring it up.

_____________________________________________

And once again, this is 100% truth (I was too dumbfounded to remember exact dialogue, FYI).

My Head is Spinning

Wow. Welcome Days ended a few minutes ago. I have some time before I eat lunch with my parents, so I figured I'd update my wonderful readers.



I am in a whole new world. The going-to-camp feeling hasn't quite faded yet, but when I'm looking at my wreck of a kitchen (okay, it's not quite that bad) tomorrow, it may. Or when I get the syllabus for my Shakespeare class (junior-level, as I found out, yay). Part of it drained with alarming rapidity as I waited at the bookstore desk for my Honors College books. The guy went into the back and reemerged with two white boxes. For two classes. There are four books in the first box, which is doable.



There are eleven in the second box. Lucretius. Plato. Pre-Socratic. Aristophanes. More Plato. I'm excited about getting into this stuff, but my word, that's a lot of heavy reading. *sighs*



I think I've decided how I'm going to blog for a while. Interesting things keep happening to me, so I think I'll post something in nonfiction, and then sort-of fictionalize the second half of the post. You know, a series of College Vignettes (I like capitalizing things, becuase it makes them seem More Important. Weird, I know :-)



Wow. I just typed in labels for this post and began to tap out 'losing my mind', and blogger supplied the rest of it. This may not be indicative of good mental health...



________________________________________



We sit in the little auditorium, the cross-country team coming together the first time for the semester. I stare at the paper in front of me, and not reading it, write my signature for the 19th time. The letters start to blur, and my autograph is distinctly more of a scrawl on this sheet than the one before it. Yes, I am an amateur. No, no recruiter has ever given me or my family/friends free tickets to more than three athletic events. I have not taken HGH - hold on. I'm a skinny white girl. Seriously. Do I look like I've taken HGH?



The woman handling NCAA compliance issues begins to hand out another packet of information, and I groan under my breath. She followed the NCAA rules and read the first miniaturized version of the handbook to us. It's sixteen pages long. Double-sided. I skim the first page. Ah, the fun stuff. Yes, I give the NCAA permission to ban me for a full calendar year (i.e. 365 days) from NCAA Athletic Competition if my drug tests return positive or if I miss a scheduled drug test. That's harsh. If your alarm decides to fail you, or you're deathly ill of pneumonia, or someone T-bones your car, you will miss a scheduled drug test.

This counts, automatically, as a positive test, and you're banned for a year. Nice, huh?

The compliance woman looks at all of us. It's a small group - the team started just last year. "Before you start on this next form, are any of you under eighteen?"

I slouch and throw up a hand, with a half-smile like yeah, I'm the young one. It wouldn't surprise me if someone else was just under eighteen.

It does surprise me that no one else is. First thought: Aw, crap.

The woman adjusts her glasses and looks at me. "Alright, put a big X at the top of your form."

What if I put two Xs side-by-side with a nose and frowning mouth below?

I dutifully etch an X into the top of my form.

She glances at my form. "That's great. When will you turn eighteen?"

Next thought: Aw, Crap. (Remember what I said about capitalization?) I shrink into my chair. Can I just say August? I keep my voice low, like I'm passing off a classified secret. "Next August."

I hear a few 'Ohhhs', see a couple knowing looks.

"Cool, seventeen," one guy says.

I think for a long time about blowing my last ace, just to see the reaction. I am a sad sucker for reactions, have I mentioned that? "Actually, I don't turn seventeen until next Friday."

The 'Oohs' this time are a decibel louder, and now everyone is looking at me. I wouldn't call myself desperate for attention (by a far stretch), but I might as well go down with style.