The Winter Olympics

A short story :)

He lifted his foot, one smooth, swift motion that could decide his fate on this next jump. His other foot, clad in an outfit-corresponding skate, glided across the smooth surface of the ice, strong and unfaltering were his muscles. He brought his skate down, a collection of ice shavings flew into the air as the tip of his silver blade caught the white surface. This he used to his advantage, as he propelled his weight forward in one fluid motion, and forced his feet to cross in front of one another, as he had done so many times in practice. The momentum of the jump forced his body to fly, a feeling that had overcome him many a time, and felt so casual and so uniform that he had no great appreciation for this one particular moment. It was simply a command that he gave to his body, to fly. As he descended from the jump, he untangled his legs and forced his right skate to approach the ice. Before he did so, he gracefully cast both his arms out, as if he were to embrace someone. He landed perfectly, one foot glided into the ice and the other barely touching one of his gloved hands. He had to make sure his form was perfect, so that the judges would be in his favor. For these were the Olympic Games. 

His performance was over, the curtain was drawn, and oh! How the crowd cheered as he finished. He waved to the audience, a smile forming on his face as he reviewed in his head the perfect execution he gave on his last jump. He was ecstatic; the adrenaline pumped through him as he crossed his legs and gave a bow. After his moment of glory and accomplishment, he started to skate out of the rink. As he strolled to the gate, he took a minute to survey his surroundings. These were the Olympic Games. He had to take this fact into realization.

The arena was large, larger than his home arena. It was most likely half the size, and stood for the word intimidating. The sides of the rink were decorated with green, red, yellow, and blue rings that were interlocked; the symbol of the Olympics. The audience sat on brown benches that wrapped around the rink, giving them advantageous views to the skater’s mistakes and achievements. They were practically judges in themselves, noticing every little movement that the skaters made, being entertained yet devastated whenever a stumble or even a fall happened. The actual judges were like the Japanese Shinigami’s. They delivered the bad news, as if they were announcing your death when giving your scores. Minutes seemed like years as the skaters waited in anticipation for their fate. Some had little habits as they waited, such as biting one’s fingernails or fiddling with their costumes to keep them from ambushing the judge’s skybox and demanding their scores.

This skater had his own way of dealing with his anticipation. As he coasted through the gate and the blades of his skate reached the rubbery surface of the floor, his eyes were searching for the cameras. The reporters were another factor of the scenery, and he liked them. They gave him reason to brag about his performance, to subtly trash talk the skaters that were to skate after him. The cameras were his habit to deal with the anticipation of his upcoming fate. He gave his coach, a middle-aged woman that was a former figure skater, a hug and bent down to unlace his skates. He watched the reporters in the corner of his eye, they were eager and ready to interview him; just what he wanted.

He was instructed to sit in the designated area for the interviews, and give his feelings on the performance he just gave. He made clear his happiness with the routine, using descriptive words such as “ecstatic,” and “accomplished.” When it came time for the interview, he smiled in anticipation, ready for any question they dared to throw at him.

“How did you feel when you fell?” One reporter asked him, a young woman, he noted. He gave her a confused look, concern rising in the pit of his stomach. He tried to explain to her and all the reporters present, that he did not fall. Maybe they confused him with some other skater, and he tried that explanation. However, they didn’t falter with the question. His coach strode into the interview area then, bringing with her a small hand-held camera. She held it out, and pressed the play button.

He lifted his foot, on smooth, swift motion that could decide his fate on this next jump. His other foot, clad in an outfit-corresponding skate, glided across the smooth surface of the ice, strong and unfaltering were his muscles. He brought his skate down, a collection of ice shavings flew into the air as the tip of his silver blade caught the white surface. The tip caught too much of the surface, getting stuck in the ice was a rookie mistake, a fluke. His momentum got the best of him, as his legs tangled up and his body was flung forward. All he could think of was that this wasn’t happening. He couldn’t possibly fall here, it could ruin his score! As his face hit the cold ice, he played in his mind what the jump would’ve and could’ve looked like had he not got ahead of himself and made a mistake. A life-costing mistake.

Author's Note

I rushed it in the end, so please comment on everything else ^-^

Reviews

[The Perfectionist]

Uh....huh

You're right, it's not really a story and it's not really a poem. It's just kind of a mess. Your grammar is terrible; I think I caught you switching tenses, and I KNOW I caught you using the incorrect form of a word. I've certainly read worse, but I'm going to do my level best to forget you wrote this so I'm not jaded on whatever else you write.

By the way, I'm not sure what word I'd use to describe Olympic-level ice rinks, but 'rough' would not be it.

NEW VERSION: This is much better. This one tells a real story, with an interesting twist ending. Your grammar still sucks - you may want to run it through Word, see if that catches anything - and the ending is worded kind of...strange, but hey, it's an improvement.