Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

From the Gazebo

I sit with my back against the wood pole of the gazebo, my legs stretched out along the whitewashed beam that connects the posts. The small structure is empty save for the weeds that crawl across the floor and the lazy moths that flutter through. I gaze out at the field beyond, the vibrant grass moist and slightly overgrown. It swallows your shabby white tennis shoes as your feet pound the ground. It’s almost rhythmic, how you run, a perfect pattern of contracting muscles and heels kicked up.

Though the sky is overcast with wispy grey clouds, you have become annoyed by the muggy heat, and your shirt lies discarded by the side of the field, a sky blue pile of fabric. I can see the dewy sweat drip in rivulets down your shoulder blades, evidence of your physical exertion. It dampens your shaggy hair, turning the dark locks black. You swipe it away, impatient that something so mundane is such a hindrance.

The black and white tiled ball flicks between your feet as you dribble down the field, nearing both the goal and the gazebo from where I watch. Your leg arcs back before the strike, and even though I am no soccer player, I can appreciate the predatory grace of the attack. The ball flies, catching in the center of the loosely woven net. I note a glint of white as a brief grin lifts your features, but it is gone in a flash, replaced by concentration while you retrieve the ball.

Your eyes flit towards me as you finally become aware of my presence. I know that you see me watching you. I know that you’ll never say anything. Your determination, your focus, your vigor; they are all hidden for your eyes only. Your eyes and mine, as you catch my glance.

Am I the only one who has seen your talent? Am I the only one who appreciates your agility, your skill?

I slide off of the gazebo, drawing my perceptive eyes away from your form. I flip closed my notebook, the blank white page I was supposed to fill with words splattered instead with imperceptible observations. You head back down the field, and I head home. I understand your movement, your characteristics, and your form.

Will I ever know your name?



Join the Discussion

This article has 4 comments. Post your own now!

mimirocks124 said...
Sept. 5, 2010 at 5:54 pm
wow great piece. very discriptive
 
CallMeFelix said...
Aug. 23, 2010 at 7:40 am

I love the ending =) and I love how you wrote this in general...it sounds so real, as if its a person musing to herself (which it is, I'd say).

Keep writing!

 
Minderella said...
Aug. 14, 2010 at 8:07 pm
I really like how you mixed first and second person.  It was great!  And I like how you gave the soccer player determination that could be appreciated by the person watching.  It was nice.
 
riley... said...
Aug. 10, 2010 at 1:28 pm

wow. excellent piece! its a tremendous showcase of your writing talent. if this isnt published in the TI magazine, ill be shocked :)

 

great job. 5/5

 
Site Feedback