Welcome.
I'm the sort of writer who pumps out 3000 words in one evening and then crashes for the remainder of the week. Because of this, shorter stories and oneshots are a much more natural form for me.
I can only look upon those who put out longfics and entire routes over the span of years with awe and reverence.
So, here you'll find a compendium of all my little narratives, musings and other literary odds and ends.
I hope you enjoy.
Index:
Bleachers | Hisao catches a flight (this post)
Godot [Pilot] | All the world's a stage...
Bleachers
Hisao is beginning to regret his choices.
University students aren’t supposed to buy intercontinental plane tickets on a whim, even if they are on a postgraduate physics scholarship to the Tokyo Institute of Technology.
Reclining back in his seat, mentally tallying up the costs, Hisao sighs as he fully comprehends how much this heat-of-the-moment jaunt will cut into his already tight finances. Looks like it’s back to another month at least of instant ramen and overtime shifts at the lab.
The rays of the sunlight slowly rising above the stratospheric clouds stab at his eyes, forcing Hisao to close the window shades with a dull shunk.
In any case, it’s far too late to change course now. It’s not like he’s going to get his money back by hopping out of the airplane at 37,000 feet over Siberia.
At least, up here, high above the ground, his worries seem so distant, so very far away. As though, for a few hours, he can escape from his earthly reality.
He can face it when he returns to the surface.
Hisao squints at the dim, pixelated moving map on his tiny seatback IFE screen and closes his eyes.
It’s another eleven hours until he lands in London.
…
Everything goes by in a blur.
It’s as though Hisao has been teleported into an alien landscape. He can hardly recall getting off the plane, nor collecting his luggage, nor the frantic deciphering of byzantine signage, trying to figure out where on earth he needs to go.
He finds himself on the Tube, the carriage gently rocking from side to side as it speeds through the darkness. He clutches his backpack and wheeled travel case as the train lurches and the lights flicker.
A croaky voice laughs at some unheard joke, while a group of high schoolers behind him speak in rapid, hushed tones about something he can’t make out.
Hisao has never been to London before. Hell, he’s never been outside Japan. Surrounded by unfamiliar people speaking unfamiliar words, he’s never felt more alone in his life, like a castaway adrift in a metropolitan ocean.
“The next station is: King’s Cross St. Pancras…”
The train jolts as the brakes engage, their metallic screeching like the howls of banshees reverberating through the tunnel and into the carriage.
Clutching his few possessions even tighter, Hisao really begins to question why he decided to come here in the first place.
…
Somehow finding his hotel. Stumbling through the door and collapsing onto the small single bed.
The flight took more out of him than he thought.
It’s only when the morning sun warms the back of his neck that he’s fully aware of his surroundings. Of the tiny, one bed room with a bathroom the size of a locker. Of the bags laying sprawled, unpacked on carpet near the door.
Of the thing he came all this way to do.
Wash, shave, dry. Rubbing his face with the hand towel, Hisao becomes aware of the lost look in his eyes, as though he’s searching for something that can never be found.
He wonders how long he’s had it.
Outside the hotel, Hisao hails a cab. He’s not making the mistake of trying to navigate a Tube station twice.
The shiny black car with the oddest bonnet Hisao has ever seen pulls up, a wrinkly old man with greying hair but a kind face behind the wheel. In halting English, Hisao manages to convey his destination, to which the driver responds with something cheery but totally incomprehensible.
Winding through the narrow alleys and crammed arterial roads, Hisao can only look on, dully, at the streets lined with shops with unpronounceable names, the crowds surging like water down sidewalks and across streets. At once, familiar and totally alien, like his home of Tokyo viewed through stained glass.
The car accelerates onto an overpass, giving Hisao his first glimpse of his destination: the gleaming white trusses of a stadium, its wide, circular structure looming over a sea of tents, flags and parked cars. The white, triangular metal finishings hang like gigantic icicles from the roof’s sheer edge.
His kindly driver speaks again, the old man’s accent mangling any hope of understanding his words on the first pass. Hisao has to ask him to repeat himself three times before he has a chance of untangling his driver’s speech.
“Got a ticket to the Paralympics, my boy? Must be lookin’ forward to it, eh?”
Hisao can only nod noncommittally. The truth is far too complicated to tell.
…
The atmosphere is raucous, and Hisao can’t feel a bit of it.
The inside of the stadium is positively rumbling, the air filled with music, loudspeaker announcements and the general rolling hubbub of the crowd.
Yet, even as he is jostled to and fro by the many bodies moving up and down the stairs to the bleachers, the excitement never makes its way into Hisao’s heart. None of the fanfare, the pageantry, not even the other events, interest him. He is in the stadium for one of world’s most prestigious sporting competitions, and he may as well be in the waiting room for a doctor’s appointment.
Hisao is only here to see one thing. Nothing else matters.
Pushing his way through the mass, he finally finds his seat, one amongst thousands filled with spectators.
Hisao fiddles with the ticket in his hand, his fingers curling the paper, over and over in an endless loop. A blonde- and black-haired couple beside him talk animatedly, their excitement for what is to come clearly overflowing.
He is silent. His brown eyes scan over the empty track, irises flitting between the various cameramen and support staff standing about on the grass and by the sidelines.
It reminds him of his third year of high school. Sitting on the bleachers in the early morning air, watching the academy athletics track, far away from home and everything he knew. Waiting for a new life. Waiting for someone.
Waiting.
Waiting.
…
The loudspeaker announcements reverberate throughout the stadium, their echoes melding into one continuous wall of noise assaulting Hisao’s ears from all directions.
Cheers go up as the latest set of athletes return to the sidelines, heads and hands raised high in triumph, the end of yet another race.
Hisao watches, impassive, vigilant, waiting for them to finish and the next event to begin. The spotlights hitting the field from across the stadium hurt his eyes, forcing him to squint, yet he remains steadfast, his index finger tapping impatiently on the laminate paper programme he holds in his hand.
The loudspeakers start up again, roaring, deafening, but this time Hisao perks up. The athletes for this particular race are being called up.
It’s what he’s been waiting for.
They file out of entrances embedded into the stands and onto the track, dressed in running jerseys labeled with their nations and numbers. Their long hair is tied back into neat ponytails, eyes glimmering with excitement and determination.
They are all different heights, different ages. A bespectacled girl, who could not be older than 16, waves to the crowd with both hands, smiling all the while. An older lady with short, red hair, marches determinedly to her position on the start line.
But there’s one thing they all have in common.
One leg is missing, their lower appendage replaced by a smooth, curved running blade, shining in the spotlights like drawn swords.
Then, Hisao sees her.
His heart jolts.
She immediately stands out. Her short stature, her bright green eyes. Her trademark light brown hair, glowing almost pink in the stadium’s light, is no longer in the twintails he once knew, but in the same regulation ponytail, the tips swinging side to side as she walks, a bounce in her step.
It’s because she’s the only double amputee on the track. Whereas everyone else at least possesses one good leg, she springs into her position on double blades.
But the thing that gets Hisao the most is her expression.
She’s smiling, widely, wildly, grinning at the crowd as though she’s on top of the world, that there’s no place she’d rather be.
Even in his memories, Hisao cannot recall her face so luminescent, so clearly brimming with joy and trepidation. Like so many things, it’s a face she never let him see. Pure, unadulterated excitement, even for a girl as excitable as her.
It pains him. It really does. All the memories he’s kept securely locked in the deep recesses of his being bubble back to the surface, fighting for space in his consciousness.
She’s smiling so much, and she had left him behind.
The announcements are rolling again, announcing each of the competitors in turn, accompanied by the roars of supporters and well-wishers with each name called.
Her name is suddenly on the tannoy, echoing around the stadium like the voice of God. A great ruckus immediately erupts from all sides, deafening him, as people stand, clap, cheer for the little young lady on twin blades, who raises both arms to the crowd as though attempting to embrace them all. He can see, in one of the stands opposite, a giant Japanese flag being waved, the crowd matching her exuberance.
A part of Hisao feels that he should join in the revelry, to show his support, his enthusiasm.
But he can’t. He doesn’t feel anything, save for a sinking, longing sadness the longer the cheers go on. He feels like she’s a million miles away, that he’s watching her through a glass box, disconnected from everything around him.
He’d cheered for her, once upon a time. He’d rooted for her success, her happiness.
That time has long passed.
She’s never appeared happier in her life than now.
So, he sits, frozen, impassive, as though he’s back in his university apartment, watching on the TV like every other sensible person. He sits as the last few names are called, the ruckus dying away and the crowd resuming their seats as the air turns heavy, nervous.
He sits as the athletes are called to their positions, jumping, bouncing, the last few warmups before the final race.
He sits as the officials give the thumbs up and the cameramen train their equipment on the eight women lined up across the maroon running track.
Hisao has eyes for no one else but the girl with the glowing pink hair. It’s a scene he can recall countless times in his high school memory, now playing out for an audience the world over.
Her wide, open smile is now gone, replaced with a powerful grin, determined, unyielding. She bounces on her blades, then bends, her back arching as her hands find their positions on the white line, like a cheetah ready to pounce.
Hisao’s heartbeat steadily rises, even as his emotions remain as placid as a lake. It’s the memory of it all, the adrenaline he once experienced, sitting on the bleachers, watching as The Fastest Thing On No Legs made herself the darling of the academy.
Now he’s in the same position, again. She’s still there. Better than ever. She’s broken through the walls and is poised to claim the world for her own.
He had no part in it. He’s just the detritus of another person’s life, another person’s fame, another person’s glory.
A man on a podium raises his starting pistol. The stadium holds its collective breath.
The pink-haired girl jostles, adjusting, then raises her head to lock her eyes straight down the track. Nothing else.
The pistol fires.
At first, it’s disaster. The other runners shoot off ahead, barrelling down the track, while she fights to gain speed on her twin blades. As only single amputees, her competitors have a good start.
For a few heart-stopping seconds, she’s last. Hisao’s heart seems to be beating out of its chest.
Then, something miraculous happens.
She accelerates, at first slowly, then rapidly, gaining speed as though some mythical wind is pushing her from behind.
Eighth place. Seventh. Sixth. The frontrunners begin to lose their lead as she breaks through the formation, her blades swiping through their air like knives.
Faster, faster, faster. Hisao can only watch as she approaches, and he can get his first good look at her face.
His breath catches. It’s an expression he knows all too well.
That fierce joy that comes alive in her poplar green eyes. As though there’s nothing else in the world except for her and the track.
His shining star, his comet.
It’s no longer his. It probably never was. That girl belongs to the world now, to the thousands cheering her on and the cameras trained on her face.
Fifth, fourth. Faster still, shooting past where Hisao is sitting, gradually pulling ahead of everyone else, nearing the apex of the formation, her ponytail bouncing lightly with each measured pace, every swing of her arms.
She’s close to the end of the track now, the wind ripping through her hair, her eyes becoming ever steelier on the big screen, focused on the white line that is her prize.
One last effort, the last few meters. She seems to burst with energy as she careens forward, ever so slightly passing third place, her body tilted as though reaching for the goal with every fiber of her being.
Almost there. Almost there.
Then she’s across the finish line, arms wide like a bird as she slows, regaining her balance on her blades as she comes down from the sprint of a lifetime.
The other athletes scatter as they cross the threshold, relieved, exhausted, breathing heavily from the enormous effort of the past few seconds.
The loudspeakers crackle, declaring the gold medallist. It’s not her name on the announcer’s lips- that goes to her French colleague- but she’s second. Silver. A silver medallist in the Paralympics, with the eyes of the world upon her.
She jumps, quite literally several feet into the air, arms raised in victory, screaming, laughing, overflowing with exultation. Her mouth is stretched into a wide grin, hollering at the crowd, which is roaring at the excitement of it all.
She looks as though she won gold. She may as well have won thirty golds. She, with no legs, has made a name for herself. She’s beat the best of the best, those with all the advantages stacked against her, to claim her prize.
She’s shown the world her prowess, her skill. That’s what drives her smile.
Hisao can tell there’s no place she’d rather be.
Her overwhelming joy breaks his heart.
He’s failed. He’s failed. He never got to see what he came here to see.
That disgusting little part of him that drove his decision to buy a plane ticket, to come all this way, to watch this in person. The tiny, niggling, horrid hope that, even in her finest hour, she would still show a sign, however small, that she is as lost as he is, as empty as he feels.
That what they shared together still means something. That the pain of how they tore everything down still lingers.
There’s no evidence of that. None. She is as radiant as the sun.
The silver medallist sprints to the sidelines into the arms of her waiting staff, the crew that must have stuck by her side and travelled with her all this way to aid her in victory.
They are crying, hugging, a picture of a group of people at the peak of their careers, like climbers at the summit of a mountain.
Hisao can’t participate in her happiness. He doesn’t have a right to.
She hurt him, and he, in turn, hurt her. He was merely a speedbump, an unpleasant episode in an otherwise grand journey.
This girl, wrapped in the flag of her country, feted by the crowd here and almost certainly at home, is far beyond him now. He is an observer on the ground, watching a spaceship climb higher and higher into the sky.
“See you around.”
That’s the last thing she said to him. It’s her last lie, too.
She didn’t see him. Couldn’t have. He is but one face among a distant sea of thousands, sandwiched between the adrenaline of the race and the roar of the crowd.
She only ever looks ahead to the next curve of the track. Never to her side. Never to the back. Forward, forward, forward, until the only thing that’s left of her is her wake.
She’s mere meters from his fingertips, yet the gulf between them couldn’t possibly be wider.
She was always faster than him. That was the nature of their relationship. He could close the distance ever so slightly, but it would never be enough.
Even now, years on, it could never be enough. He’s still in her wake, left to flounder while she soars higher into the sky, untethered by their shared mistakes, their shared failures.
It’s as though Hisao has been left carrying the emotional baggage while she runs ahead, over the horizon, to her destiny.
Coming halfway around the world wasn’t enough. All the technology, all the science, even the airplane that carried him here on silver wings at a thousand kilometers an hour, it’s still not fast enough.
She will always be faster than his heart.
The athletes begin to exit the track, singly or in twos, coated with sweat and victory.
Hisao gets up from his seat. He can’t bear to watch the scene any longer. Staying for the medal ceremony would only hurt him more.
As he leaves the bleachers and turns for the stairs, he catches one last glimpse of the girl he once called his love.
She stares at the sky, smiling, her eyes glittering emeralds, as though she stands at the entrance to a whole new universe.
A universe he can never reach.
…
Hisao is beginning to regret his choices.
The flight is already a done deal. He may as well enjoy the return journey as best he can.
Reclining in his seat, Hisao gazes out the window, at the sun slowly setting beneath the stratospheric clouds, casting a purplish-orange hue over the clear sky.
At least, up here, high above the ground, his worries seem so distant, so very far away. As though, for a few hours, he can escape from his earthly reality.
The reality of the choices he can’t take back. Of the mistakes he can’t unmake. Of a past he cannot return to.
Here, cocooned in the quiet hum of the engines and the cool, rarefied air, he can forget, at least for a little while.
He can face reality when he returns to the surface.
Hisao squints at the dim, pixelated moving map on his tiny seatback IFE screen and closes his eyes.
It’s another eleven hours until he lands in Tokyo.
This was mostly written over the course of a single feverish evening. I just couldn't get the idea out of my head and had to write everything down.
The real-life silver medallist in the Women's T44 100m Final of the 2012 London Paralympics was Marlou van Rhijn of The Netherlands. She is also a double amputee, the only one in that particular race. I more or less inserted Emi into van Rhijn's performance verbatim.
The Japanese competitor in the T44 100m was Saki Takakuwa, a single amputee, who came seventh.
I'm looking forwards to the 2024 Paris Olympics, and I hope y'all are too.
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