Swift Shot

by Kyna, 16
Salt Lake City, Utah

 

Pressure hits my hands, draining me of all emotion, reliving thousands of tide turning moments,

the second passes as if it is an era, presidents are reelected, tragedies become memories, living, dying.

Sound is dead. Breathing is only a feeling.

The horror. Horror of my past overconfidence draining through my body, a sewer, filled with destruction and terror.

Straying for a century, my mind becomes a pit of quicksand, wiping away the bad and good.

My grip becomes tighter like the center of an infinite ball of yarn.

Appalled by the height, setting myself in place to make the swift movement,

my mind again bleeds through the flimsy barrier that had once been set like the rubber soles of my shoes against the polished wooden floors.

A breath makes its way through me like ghosts and leaves my body, the warmth could make silver swirls in the cool wind.

A shiver passes, an electric flash of lightning that brings my body out of trance.

My grip tightens into a grip of death, pulling out a feeling of adrenaline that until now, had been nonexistant.

The adrenaline shifts into the jump.

The ball leaves my hands, nimbly departing my fingers like the delicate pull of a needle.

Watching eyes trace every centimeter the ball travels, traveling through centuries, era after era,

until it reaches its long awaited destination.

 

 

Written in response to "Fast Break" by Edward Hirsch.