Sparkly Things and Magnets

I work at a bead store. I see some very interesting people.
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She strolled nonchalantly into the room-- oversized black sunglasses hiding her face and a slim jim dangling from her hand. A man stumbled behind her; his plaid shirt barely covered his large belly.

"Oooh, look at all this stuff." She snapped her gum and tugged at her ruffled shirt.

He went to the crystal section. "Hey, these are really sparkly. I wonder how much they are."

Her heels clunked on the wood floor. "These are pretty...so pretty."

He peered over her shoulder. "I wonder how much they are."

She lifted a chunky purple bead. "This is nice."

He twisted his face up. "It is...but I wonder..."

"Oooh! Magnetic beads!"

His eyes grew wide. "Hey, these are all really good prices. You know that magnet I have? The amethyst magnet that's like all amethyst?"

"Yep." She tore off a piece of the slim jim.

"It was five dollars. Five dollars for the whole magnet."

"Huh. You ready? Let's go."

"Yea. I'm ready."

"Let's go."

I watched them leave. "Have a nice day."

She turned and snapped her gum. "Yep."

"Hey, you know those magnets?" His voice faded as she slammed the door.

"Yea."

I could hear him through the window. "I wonder...how much they were..."

Summer Afternoon

The top of his head and his eyes were the only parts I could see. White-blond hair paled against the rusty brown of the castle under the immense pine tree. He had a dangerous weapon by his side, I was sure, but mine was far more deadly. I carried a staff slightly shorter than me; the length was smooth and shiny from months of use. My fingers had left small indentations in the wood over time. His was longer and rougher- a little harder to swing and throw in the heat of battle. He moved- some branches fell off the fort. I stood and lifted my staff to step over the barrier. His eyes narrowed, and our sticks met with a bone-jarring thud. Back and forth- wood hitting wood- narrowly missing noses and fingers. Our concentration was intense: our footwork precise. It was a dance to the death on a pine needle carpet.

We both stopped.

"Aw, man." He moaned.

We surveyed the wreckage. I kicked at the remains with the toe of my pink sandal.

"It's ruined now. Let's go play something else."

"No more house," He wrinkled his nose, "your salad didn't taste so good last time."

"Cars, then?"

"Yea. In the mulch pile."

Heat

My arms windmilled as I waited for my heat. I could feel my muscles loosening and warming up. Adrenaline shot through my veins with vibrating intensity. Bathing suit straps dug into my shoulders-- a small price to pay for decreased resistance. The speakers shrilled a piercing note: "Women's 15-18 200 Breastroke. Heat eight, please step up." Nothing else existed besides the clear strip of water before me. Rolling my shoulders, I stepped up onto the white square- Lane 3.

"Ready," the announcer's voice.

My arms hung down, touching the block. My torso hung over the water. My legs trembled with shaky pre-race energy.

"Swimmers, take your mark."

Body tense-- every muscle ready to fire on command.

Fingertips brush the block-- ready to push.

Feet in a track start-- necessary propulsion.

The light flashes. Bodies coil. The sound. Time starts as I fly through the air. Seems like forever, but I have one goal. Fingers part the water. My shoulders and hips follow; hardly a splash. I glide: follow the black line on the pool's bottom. Shoulders tense to pull hands to my waist, and I hunch my shoulders into my neck-- nothing to break the water. Legs separate and kick out, scribing to small circles to either side. I surge through the surface as I form my first stroke. Mechanical efficiency- my head tucked in tight to my chest. Elbows and hands attached to my arms shoot out and grab water. Glide- rest on the speed created by the kick. The turn. I look up at the audience. So many of them, but they don't matter. They're in a different world.

I duck back under the water and form my body into a sleek line of muscle. Concentration-- pace myself. Overpush and I'll tire long before the last lap. I zone completely and cruise, sprinting, till the seventh lap. This lap is different. I look at my competition: my race will be against the clock. I'm tempted to hurry my stroke, but I stretch it out longer and create more power. This lap is for reserving strength.
The turn again- the wall- cool and smooth white tile. Peeling grout in the gutter.

The eighth lap. Sprinting past exhaustion. Energy fires and fades far too quickly- bring it back with my mind- but don't think. Stay low to the water. Flow-- no resistance. Muscles aching- doesn't matter- seems like forever. Precision through exhaustion.

The wall-- the final push. Shoulders and fingertips strain and stretch. My head is tucked between my shoulders, and my feet and legs are fused together. Hands slam into the wall and I feel the jolt through my spine. My fingertips might be bruised later. I wait for the black clouds to disappear as I fall back into the little waves sloshing into the gutters. The clock flashes-- the crowd is still screaming for the other swimmers. I tread until they finish. Voices: good race. Hands clasp over the lane line. Fatigued muscles pull my body out of the pool-- copper stars in my eyes. Look up at the audience-- a thousand people making noise.

They're already concentrated on the lean men crouched on the blocks.

A Strange Mix of Unrelated Families

Guffaws and infectious giggles accompany the humming of lazy crickets. The late summer afternoon vibrates with sunshine and a tinge of drowsy, food-induced sleepiness. I detach from a boisterous conversation and walk to a white table crowded with trays of brownies and lemon squares. The edge of the plastic tablecloth slaps my leg as I make a selection and retreat from the crowd of ravenous young children. The clanging of grill lids rises above the clamor- rich, metallic scents of roasted meat accompany the sharp noises. Pulling a plastic chair up to the table, I set my plate down and exchange smiles with a white-haired woman cradling her grandchild. My eyes wander to the surrounding tables. I see old men grinning at teenage boys' halting stories- mothers reprimanding their children in between incredulous shakes of the head- young girls, still awkward in their bodes, comparing purses and new outfits. I feel safe and at ease with these people; a strange mix of unrelated families. The tang of the lemon square brings water to my mouth as I watch the reflection of the setting sun in the church's steeple.

The Dulcimer Man

A class assignment...use a list of objects to describe a character.

My grandparents took me to a baseball field.
I sat beside my Oma and read the game rules printed in wavery cursive. I read them out loud:
Only gentlemanly behavior. No spitting around ladies. Now swearing. No picking noses or scratching.
We giggled at the women warming up in their striped shirts and knee high white socks. The men wore high waisted tight pants that ballooned around their knees as they walked.
The game started- my interest in the aged men hobbling delicately around the bases quickly waned; I wandered off and found a tree to play with.
I was completely absorbed in constructing barricades around an ant hill when I heard the tinny twang of an instrument.
A man sat on a canvas stool- idly plucking as he watched the baseball sputter between the bases.
He was picking at a dulcimer- it had a heart shaped cutout at the top and red whorls scattered over the wood.
His denim overalls were dark blue, and still had stiff new creases along the legs.
He wore a baggy nurse's shirt underneath his overall straps- colorful solar systems against a blue black starry sky.
He had a chess board box at his feet. It held the little pieces inside, and opened on tiny hinges.
His sneakers were big and sturdy- grey white with velcro straps to keep them closed.
A worn baseball cap hung over his twinkly eyes.
His thick white beard flowed over his chin and onto his starchy shirt.
I stared at him until Oma came and led me away from the tree.
"The game is taking a break, they have caramel apples..."
I looked at his shirt again as we passed him, and he gave me a crinkly smile and nodded.