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Slowing Down
Black pavement lays alight with some strange morning glow. The yellow lines, denominating methods of movement, sparkle as the sun pounds hotly away. A cloud hides the glare from my eyes but when it returns it’s worse than ever. The King of Hearts (that was papa’s idea) cackles wildly as I gain speed and my shiny blue bicycle follows my pace like some over obedient steed. My kicks and whips are seen as simple pedaling and I spur my horse on by standing from the seat to create power. Papa always told me if I was going to ride I should ride fast. The hill ends and the bike wobbles back and forth as young brash balance fails to the sluggish pace. My body topples but it doesn’t hurt. I wasn’t going fast enough. A passing car slows and lowers its window for a dark eyed man to say “are you alright?” I’m up and riding again by the time he’d finished talking. “Rude kid,” he’d probably say as he drove off, but I was told not to talk to strangers – especially those with dark eyes. Gusts displace my hair and sting my eyes as I go back the way I came, down the hill and into the valley only to climb again. Papa always told me to try and try again. This time I didn’t fall. I reach the top with salty sweat in my eyes and on my lips. My bangs are wet and my breath ragged – searching desperately for air. Five minutes later, after inspecting my trusty bike with mock and childish scrutiny; I’m riding again. Trees run past me, whizzing and whirling until I’m almost dizzy with my own speed. A car turns a corner close by but I cut it off and ride in front of it, confident that it wouldn’t – couldn’t keep up. The black ford pickup honked, revved its engine and then passed me. My eyes wandered from the road for only a split second to admire my reflection in the mirror-like exterior of the truck. The front wheel of my bike sank fatally into a pothole – the only remains of a harsh winter, and my body came forward from the chassis of my bike. My arms shielded my face but I screamed anyway when I hit the hot street. Somehow the heat made it all seem so much worse – sweat seeping into my cuts and scrapes. I didn’t cry though – I toughed it out. Papa always told me to keep my head up. I left my blue shiny bicycle and walked the two miles home.
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"Good critics, who have stamped out poets' hope,
Good statesmen, who pulled ruin on the state,
Good patriots, who for a theory risked a cause."
-Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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