When your face is against the dirt, and you have a lifetime to idle dreams, you push harder.
The sun hadn't crested the horizon yet, and a light fog glides across the lake like dancers . A cacophony of birds ring through the tree tops, shouting back and forth(more) like road workers. I reached mile five for the first time since I quite drinking. It feels like hell, but it'll be the only hard thing I'll do with my day so I push through it. Sweat stings worse than acid down my face, my calves are ready to buckle, my chest is heavy, stuffed full of cotton like I had the lungs of tiny animal. I want to stop so badly. I can feel that scratch in the back of my throat that I want a cigarette. I can feel the whiskey ooze out of my system like expelling bad demons. Every step I take is a reminder of my weakness, of my failure. Every step leads me to salvation. (less)
Words are flowing out like pulling teeth from a rabid dog. Every sentence is a crime against literature, every paragraph an abomination that should not live. The fact that you're even allowed to share these words with anyone is a testament to the failure of social media's golden age.(more) No amount of eye bleach could ever remedy this vast sea of incompetence that you have spewed. The famous writers of old have mercifully died before having to be subjected to your idiotic ramblings. Perhaps the greatest works of our time would have never seen the light of day had those writers known that they would one day be sharing the field with the likes of you.
But push harder, because the next thing you write will be your masterpiece.(less)
Brink rocked rhythmically on the moist bathroom tile. The winter breeze seeped through the cracks in the broken window. It froze the post-shower dew that clung to the air and crystallized intricate fractals on the mirror.
Three years. Three fucking years. Today marked the end. A final shower sought to cleanse the body of sins and give the coroner something clean to work with. Of course, much of the baptized tissue would be rearranged in a matter of minutes; seconds if this damned thing would just fucking work already.
"Is the trigger broken? Did I load it wrong?"
Brink had never held a gun before. He considered his discovery of this rusty object to be divine intervention. Divine? Yeah, right. Divinity is not so much dead as has never existed in the first place.
It had been three years since the incident. Suicide was the only answer. Hell, even his old pastor had told him that. Maybe there was some truth to religion if that was its message. Of course, Pastor Sherrik hadn't been the same since the incident either.
He was positive Pastor Sherrik had done it by now. He spent five years in Vietnam and likely knew how to operate a simple a handgun. He justified it as reuniting with his wife in heaven; Brink scoffed at this lie. Even if there was an afterlife, his wife would surely wrap her legs around his own waist, as she did in this life. He could already smell the sweetly sour odor of her cheap perfume as he collided with the safety of her embrace.
He snicked the switch and prepared to collapse onto the same tile that he sent the Pastor's wife to three years earlier.(less)
Well, looks like I got pretty well stuck this time. It's not every day you can get a motorcycle stuck in a pool of peanut butter. Hell, it's not every day that you even find a pool of peanut butter, let alone one big enough for a motorcycle to fit in,(more) deep enough to get stuck in, and in a location where you can drive anywhere near the peanut butter pool, let alone get the bike into it.
How did I get my motorcycle stuck in peanut butter?
Okay, it started as a simple trick. Ride the bike up the ramp, jump the pool and land on the other side. For added interest, it was over an above-ground pool filled with a couple thousand gallons of one half of the best sandwich ever. This should have been a routine trick. Problem is, the routine easily turns into the disastrous with one, small, insignificant mechanical failure.
What broke? The throttle cable snapped halfway up the ramp. Too fast to brake without crashing, too slow to make the jump. My only hope was landing in an allergic child's nightmare. Funny thing is, when you land in peanut butter, it is quite unlike landing in anything else. No huge splash of water, no crunching of metal, just a weird 'plop' and the feeling that your spine got compressed by a smelly mattress.
So, now that I'm stuck in three feet of peanut butter, how in the blue hell do I get my bike out? Pushing doesn't seem to work. Pushing harder is not an option. If only I had a hundred dogs, they would clean this up in minutes. Maybe if I had several thousand loaves of bread and some knives, this would be easy.
It was impossible. There was no way he could continue as he tried to move from under the suffocating mass of debris that had fallen upon him. He thought he was safe when he'd run for the shelter when the storm had hit. But the cyclone had demolished the(more) house, and now he was trapped under the remains of the building, unable to move, barely able to breathe.
He could feel his mind slowly coming to understand the depth of his situation as consciousness returned to him. He began to register the white hot pain beginning to sear up his leg, alerting him to a shattered ankle under the weight of a support beam. He glanced over at his left arm and saw a rusty nail stuck deep into the soft flesh of his forearm, the nail stuck so that blood was minimal, but he knew if he removed it, it would gush in floods.
He had to get free. He had to get help somehow. His left side was trashed, but he still had some movement in his right arm and leg. Gingerly, painfully, he tried to push himself upright. His arm shook as he put his weight and the weight of the debris on it, trembling under the strain. The wood and drywall that coated him scratched and splintered his weak body. He could feel more nails poking threateningly at his sides and belly.
He could hear sirens. Ambulances rushing through the leveled town. They had to see him if they were going to be any help to them. Pain was coming more insistently and he knew he'd pass out if he didn't free himself from the suffocating mass. He pushed. Pushed with all his might. Flesh tearing and a scream rising on his throat.
Help is coming.(less)
"Just stay awake."
That's what the doctor told me with a grim expression across his face. I suppose it was grim, for the light that shined behind his shadowed out his face grew brighter with each passing moment, making it harder and harder to see.
"Amy, are you there(more)? Stay with me."
His voice broke through the ringing in my ears. I managed to nods slowly, but the pain was unbearable.
The white light became intense and seemed to pull new if the hospital bed. I knew that this white light that felt so comforting was just a facade. The light was death and the feeling of comfort was an anesthetic fit the terror. Death is a rope that yanks you from the works where there are people who enjoyed your company, your emotions, your very existence. I pushed away from the light. I fought it's pull with every fiber of my being. The doctor's voice sunk away into into the ringing as I clenched up my jaw and tensed my while body. I resisted the light more and more, passing harder and harder to get away. I trekked at it. I told it I still had purpose. I to let this thief take me away. After what felt like years, the pull subsided, the ringing faded, and I could breathe a sigh of relief. The face if the doctor finally became clear. I skilled at his glittering blue eyes.
I had fought.
I had won.(less)
Damien loses his grip and scrabbled down the stairs, skin burning and red where his tears leave tracks, fabric coming apart at the seams that touch his body. He runs into the metal door and pushes against it, feeling the cool metal burn and dip under his fingers and(more) palms. The door will not move, and Damien leans against it, tears pressed against the material that scars with their contact.
There's a gentle hand on his back, massaging the skin between his wings. It would be relaxing, except for the fact that those were the hands he hurt. Damien moves to the side, jerking away, and falls to the floor. He leans against the wall, in the corner between it and the door, and feels his life dissolve around him.
His nice leather gloves are rags on his fingers, and he can feel the ground through the holes he's making in his jeans. Damien sobs and sobs and hits the wall, hits the door, willing himself to push through to the other side and outpace the man who whispers sweet nothings at his ear.
He hurt that man. Why is he still here?
Damien shudders and feels the energy leave him in one last cresting sob. He closes his eyes and lets his forehead hit the wall on the way down.
The man stands above him, angry red marks on his cheek where Damien had touched him, and kneels down. Damien feels hardly as acidic as he did, but he wants to move, though he can't. The man helps him to his feet, and opens the door, and tells him it will all be okay. (less)
Sara whipped the truck around, backing it as close to the maintenance stand as possible. She maneuvered as closely as she dared to avoid hitting power units and AC carts, but there was no time for finesse. She left the truck running and threw it in Park, then leapt(more) from the truck, dropped the Motorola talkie on the ground, and sprinted for the stand. It craned above her in an elegant, massive arc. Its towbar was too far from the truck's hook. She would have to move it. Normally, it took two people to move a B-2 stand, but there was nobody to help her; they were all desperately trying to repair the huge cargo plane carrying the nation's most precious cargo. That plane needed to get off the island right now, before it and all of them were destroyed.
Sara released the brakes on the stand, angled herself low, and began rocking it. One, two, three … “ugh!” Nothing. She would have to push harder. One, two … Something in her lower back crunched and a warm, tingling sensation spread out from the source. Then came pain. She ignored it, flipped around, and flattened her back against the stand's ladder. Using her strong legs, she rocked the stand again. One, two … it began to roll. She pushed harder. The casters were not locked, so she had to steer as well as keep it rolling. Finally! She couldn't halt the momentum and allowed the looming beast to crash into the truck. There would be no trouble hooking it up, now. She locked the rear casters, slapped the towbar into the hook, picked up the talkie, and flew into the cab.
In the distance, Sara could see the ominous illumination of the eastern sky. Soon, it would be upon them.(less)
Now with your back, now with your thighs, now with your buttocks...
And now with your tongue, your eyes, and your name.
We've been here before. Sweat settles on your brow. Population: 576.
Sex is tough, but a pleasure. This is harder. The crimp of rock betwe(more)en your forefinger and thumb feels like golem's nose, all brittle and stern.
Rock climbing, to be fair, has been your thing. You're almost talented. Almost.
Now with your grace and your love and your multilingual vocabulary, curse yourself, the rock and pull yourself the fuck up there.
Resting after a victory in which you exhausted yourself is a pleasure not too dissimilar from that found in pulling a steamboat over a mountain or learning a new language. Perspective changes. The river moves out there like the street, full of little flashing lights. (less)
I can't help but to keep moving forward, no matter how bleak the situation, no matter how unlikely a satisfactory end is.
I am always there, silent but present, and perhaps underestimated and unnoticed by and large. I see no need for theatrics, for grand (but ultimately empty)(more) words. I will simply be -- even if that means sometimes coming in to work on Saturdays for an extra couple of hours to offer my aid, or staying off the clock in the rare case of emergency to offer my silent support -- even f it is without thanks, or appreciation.
Which it often is, but I am there to offer succor for the sake of it, not to hold it over someone's head for forced gratitude or recompense. Knowing that I may have lifted some strain, --however little -- off of your shoulders is more than enough.
But there is only so much one can do while functioning in the shadows, and there is only so much solace to be found in the dark.
Without even the barest acknowledgment, I do not know if what I do makes a difference. (If there is no reaction at all, how do I know my presence has an impact at all, for better or worse? Perhaps it has none at all.) Slowly, I will drift away.
I am here, then gone, without anyone being the wiser.(less)
"Push harder!" she yelled, her voice betraying the effort she was exerting.
Sally couldn't respond, but pushed with all her might, her shoes sinking into the mud. The wheels of the car were spinning uselessly.
She was about to give up, about to start figuring out anothe(more)r way to get back to town, when the wheels finally caught solid ground and rode forward. Sally stumbled but managed to not fall in the muddy dirt.
Jess let out a whoop and probably would have danced if her feet weren't sinking in the thick mud. Her shoes and jeans were filthy, but Sally knew her own were no better.
Alex pulled the car up ahead to safe ground and got out to congratulate them. Her white sneakers had escaped damage.
They trudged over to her, thrilled that their road trip had not come to an end. Having to go back would have been embarrassing. Oh who was she kidding? Jess was far too proud and stubborn to go back. She would have pushed that car all night if necessary. It was Sally who would have given up.
They tossed their shoes and pants in a plastic bag to try and clean at the next rest station. Sally had wanted to try and find her extra set of pants but Jess seemed to find the idea of driving around in her pink panties fun. Alex just shook her head at them while she carefully merged back on to the main road.
Their good mood lasted until the night when they finally pulled into a motel to catch some sleep. Jess and Alex fell right asleep after a couple beers. Sally watched the ceiling as she thought of the adventure of the day. She couldn't name it, but it was change she was feeling.(less)
it's so funny how we tell each other to move on, keep those feelings out, get over it. and out of fear i learned to push people so far away. to run. and escape. when you reached out to me and held my wrist so gently i only thought(more) that i had to push harder to get away. i thought that running was the only way out. they taught me that these feelings, that sadness and guilt, were things that had to be forgotten. (just push them away, get over, move on). but you would never let me go.
i only thought that i to push harder.
but the sobs that came over the phone that night made me so weak. the muscles in my arms and legs twitched (run away, move on, get over it, push harder) because i didn't want to feel the pain i caused or hear the crackly sobs from over the receiver. why couldn't i run? why wouldn't you let me? why couldn't i push you away?
i only thought i had to push harder.
and i cried and told you that i wasn't worth it, and that you should find someone who could give you something wonderful, but you held my wrist so gently that i couldn't find the strength to push away anymore. (move on, get over it, run away, run, run runrunrun). i said sorry so many times but you told me i was worth it all.
and i heard you breathing over the receiver.
the next day i saw you smile.
i didn't need your fingers against my wrist anymore
because i was done trying to run. i was done pushing you away.
I hate how high school kids don't push. How can you not want out? How can you not want to know WHY? How can you not want to push harder, be done quicker, and stop complaining? Why are you just letting yourself be a lamb and be led around?(more) SAY SOMETHING, DO SOMETHING! Stop letting others think for you!(less)