Author's Note: These are just two simple stories I wrote for this week's column. I thought, "What a better way to get into my Creative Writing side?"
How To Rock
From as far back as I could remember I had always wanted to be in a punk band.
I looked uneasily into the dusk, my heart slowly making its way to my throat and back down to my chest again at every movement in the night air. This wasn't a good idea. This was not a good idea. I shifted the bass guitar from my left shoulder to my right, wincing at just how knotted up the left one had become. I had been waiting to long, he probably wasn't even coming . . .
There was a flash in the darkness, to my left, and I recognized the shaped, elfin-like face crouching behind a row of bushes. Finn. I had so many things I wanted to spew at him, but as always, I remained silent. He had come to get me. This was it. I owed him everything. Besides, no one could yell at Finn. Likely no one ever will. He stayed to himself, a quite, dark and lost, creative mind, trapped in a teenage boy's body. Even though when I thought of Finn I saw his smooth, detailed face, his chestnut curls straying past his ears, and those draining green eyes that drank up everything about you, I could not stand thinking that he was a normal human being Finn only showed himself sparingly to people I called in my head "outside his circle" it seemed the only people Finn opened up to were his band mates, and even then, it felt like he was always holding back, breathing in the thought that he knew much more than he was telling, much more than he would ever let us know.
I felt myself lucky to be one of them. One of them. Pandemonium Disorder. Them. It had been so long ago I had seen them on the steps, so long ago that I had yearned to belong with them. Top a passerby, they were nothing but a group of boys. The boys were not muscled, or Abercrombie-worthy. They did not flutter over their souped up cars, or other trinkets. They were not fit for a football field, soccer, or any type of sport it seemed. In fact, the obvious leader of the group was applying a coat of thick black coast of nail polish, raising his fingers once or twice to the light. They were labeled as cast offs and rejects, but when I saw them, I saw the only dream I had ever wanted. They had it. I knew they had it. I was sure when I saw one of them lean over and a pair of drumsticks clattered out of his back pocket. They were band boys. Hardcore boys. Punk boys. I had found them in the most fitting place for them to reign over. The steps.
The steps were legendary around the rock strings in Berkeley. If you knew where to listen, you could here talk of them everywhere. If you didn't, then the steps didn't exist. They had once led up to one of the most secret and underground rock venues in Berkeley. It had gone through many changes in the two decades in which it had been up. Old rock, grunge, hardcore, metal, punk. It had been a praised place to play for any traveling band. The venue had been torn down a few years ago, I had been told, in favor for condos. But the condos were never put up, and the steps led into nothing but a dirt pile. But it didn't need some fancy condos to show them off. The steps were full of deliciously dark carvings and stone shelves jutting out from the sides railings to serve as a place to sit for any weary musician. And right in the middle the boys were sprawled out, knees on knees, head son shoulders. Laughing, scoffing and one musical voice raised above the others. He was the black-nailed leader, in charge of the conversation. " . . . And the driver wouldn't let Smith on the bus!" The leader half-smiled. One of the boys broke in "You mean Smithette."
Another one piped up. "I can't believe he took the dare. Earned him fifty bucks, but what guy walks around like a girl all day?" "Hey! I was wonderful! People loved me as a chick! And with your 50 dollars, I bought myself a new . . ." the next words were droned out by laughter, but one of the boys, one with ridiculously long dark brown hair that had maroon streaks in it, looked insulted. "Please, Smith. Waste your money on that? At least I won't be pumping gas until I'm 39" The leader gave a rueful laugh. "Give Smith some credit, Steven. Smith is only pumping gas till 35. Then he's moving on to the car wash business." Another one called out "I hear it's high in demand now." The one called Smith leaned back and socked both guys in the arm, making them laugh harder.
There were four boys on the steps, near the center, blocking all traffic to anyone stupid enough to climb the top to see dirt, and then another lone boy near the wall of the stairs. He was silent and his green eyes had flicked over me blankly, looking at me and past me at the same time. Then he smiled. It was not a nice, sweet smile, but more of a flash of white teeth that made the boy even more intriguing. But then he fell silent and motionless again, occasionally rolling his eyes at something one of his companions said. He seemed to be paying mind to the other four boys meaningless conversation, while all the while looking as if he was in a dream state. Then all of a sudden he spoke, gazing at my lucky guitar pick I had been fingering in my hand. "You play?"
The Color of The Mat
Onyx - Present Day
The blur of colored belts swam before my eyes, which made it even harder to block out the explosive cheering and noise coming from the audience. I took a moment to glance up at the scoreboard. The board said I was behind by six points. I felt like I was behind six miles. One more point scored by my opponent, and I' done for.
As fast as I could, I attacked with a roundhouse kick. Smoothly, the black belt in front of me countered with a back kick. We each had made a point, and I lurched up, effortlessly, and scored with a double roundhouse. Don't stop now, Onyx. Without wasting time, I hit the opposing fighter hard with a nataubon roundhouse kick. He stepped backwards, and threw forward a replacement kick that landed cut clean on the center of my hogu, which is the pad that the opponent scored on. I'm going to lose. I'm going to go down without glory, and the dreams I've chased for years will funnel away from me. I knew I had 30 seconds left to do something extraordinary. For a moment, time stopped. Then, with a last effort I made a single point.
I collapsed on the hard floor, and I lay for what seemed hours. No matter how hard I tried, I could not force enough air into my beaten lungs. Finally, I pushed myself up, my hands clawing for something to hold on to. I trudged to the other side of the ring, and not as gracefully as I should have done, I bowed out. Dizziness played with my mind as I stood there, on the outside of the ring, staring up at the walls of gleaming trophies and posters. Those achievements by the great Taekwondo leaders before me. Almost painful thoughts clouded my mind. How could you have lost? Your competitor scored most points by simple roundhouses. I thought you were better than this! Truthfully? I felt like a yellow belt instead of the experienced black belt I was.
As soon as I saw the dark brown head bobbing in the crowd toward me. I made a quick frantic turn to the left of the arena, But she caught me on my shoulder in mid-turn. Kaylie smiled broadly. I just scowled, and continued walking away from the din of the crowd. It was only when we reached the quiet back room in which I was supposed to get ready for my third match, that I ushered her off my side.
"Kaylie, I can handle warming up alone," I hinted. Kaylie fell into a fit of giggles. Finally, she calmed down, and skipped off. I smiled, hoping she would go bug someone else. When she came slinking back, I almost spit out the water I had been drinking. I was about to open my mouth to speak, when she shoved a piece of paper into my face. The bold black manuscript shown out brightly on the white paper. 7/7. It said. 7/7? "It's the scores, Onyx," Kaylie replied.
"We Tied?" I shrieked. Kaylie grinned so wide, I think her smile touched her ears. She fiddled with the blue belt around her slim waist. When she looked up at me, her eyes sparkled.
"Yes, Onyx! What did you think?" Kaylie teased.
"I was thinking something way different," I admitted. I brought up two folding chairs for us to sit down on, while Kaylie busied herself getting my sparring gear ready. It was only when I had my things assembled, did she sit down. While I washed my mouth guard with warm water, Kaylie settled into the chair.
"This is how it happened," Kaylie started. I listened intently, not wanting to miss any of the details on my second match.
"You started out with only one point in the beginning, and Chow Wang, that's the black belt you were sparring, he took the early lead. Near the end, you scored 4 or 5 points, and . . ."
"Even if I did score 5 points near the end, that still wouldn't have gotten me a tie," I interrupted.
Kaylie frowned. "Let me finish," she warned. "Chow Wang lost two points for kicking you under belt level near the end. That made it tie with your final point. Which was phenomenal, by the way," Kaylie sighed.
"I thought I had lost for sure," I mumbled.
"I thought you had, too." She handed me a cloth, and I dried my mouth guard, and then set it by my hogu.
"When do you spar?" I asked Kaylie after a moment of silence. She shrugged.
"After the red belts spar, which will be after your third round." My stomach tossed, and a wave of nausea passed over me. My third round. I sat down on the floor, and started to stretch.
Chow Wang - Present Day
I paced back and forth, breathing deeply. I forced all colorful thoughts from my mind, and concentrated on the subtle movement. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. I traced my steps in key with the music playing out behind me. When the meditation tape stopped, I paid no attention to restart it. I expected that I would have to start getting ready for my third round of sparring soon. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe . . .
The wooden door to the small room burst open. A harsh, bright light shown onto my face. For a moment, I could see nothing but the fierce white light. I looked up and shielded my eyes, trying to configure what the shape in the doorway was. The door slammed, and Conto's, bass voice echoed in the small room. It filled it with rough sound, but I did not turn away. I heard Conto's boots thud over the thin carpet, and in a moment, he was towering above me.
"Chow Wang," he said "As your coach, I've been with you for five long, long years. I've brought you over mountains and rivers to train in the best martial arts schools. I spend time and money having you train along side the best instructors in Korea, and America! Have I not? Have I not?" Conto paused. When I didn't utter a word, he continued.
"Now, I bring you to the Taekwondo Junior Olympics to train for the 2008 Olympics. It cost so much effort to get you here, Chow! And what do you do? What do you do! You lose to a little girl in your second round!" Conto boomed. I looked up, anger burning in my eyes.
"I did not lose. We tied," I said. At this, Conto blew up.
"Tied! Tied! A tie is a loss because you did not win!" The tiny room shook with Conto's voice. I looked down just in time for Conto to storm out of the room. I sat down. I knew Conto would be back soon to prepare me for my third round. Preparing, I supposed, as in yelling at me, but he would be back, all the same.
Time inched by, and I knew eventually I would have to get up, and get my sparring gear ready. But why now? I slipped into a deeper meditation state. After another 30 minutes or so, I slowly roused myself from my meditation, and put together my sparring things. I slipped safety pads over my arms, and my legs. I tied the hogu to my body. With nothing to do but wait, I sat down on the hard bench to think.
