The Winter OlympicsA Story by AleekaeA 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. © 2010 AleekaeAuthor's Note
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