So in advertising class last week they were talking about the idea of using storytelling in advertisements.  It makes sense, but I’ve been kind of bored through the recent segment of the class because they’ve been going over all these techniques on how to be “creative”.  Not only do I not feel the need for  any help being “creative”, but the exercises they did were so easy I didn’t even bother trying.  Free association and free writing exercises, stuff like that. 

Advertising doesn’t seem hard at all to me.  I can go through all the formal processes they were laying out in my head and cut the chase.  Just come up with something wacky and keep tweaking it till it makes sense.  I don’t know, working on ads would either be insanely fun for me, or a terrible drag, it’s hard to say. 

Anyway, the whole point of this is we were asked to write a story based on one of four words.  I chose the word “concentration” and came up with the following story.  After I finished it I gave it a look over and decided it wasn’t half bad for a first draft short story based off of a single word.  So here it is:

The buzzing sound of tires on hot asphalt faded to the back of Jackson’s mind.  All external noises were now blended into a white hum that was drowned out by the steady, rhythmic sound of his breathing and the pounding of each valve in his heart.  It was the only thing he was able to focus on that could distract his attention from the fire creeping up his legs.  Each turn of the bike pedals was accompanied by a searing pain that ran the length of his leg.  It had begun as a tingling sensation near his ankles.  Now, nearly an hour later, it felt as if his quadriceps were separating themselves from his skeleton and his calves had turned to quivering lumps of gelatin.  But still, he kept pedaling, and the tires continued to sing the same soft song at a constant pitch as he rounded the long curve.

            His mind drifted back to the starting line.  What was it like all the way back there at the beginning?  Had he truly been prepared for the type of pain he was now facing?  Wasn’t it nice to sit at the start with the anticipation of riding your first 150-mile race?  It was surely nicer than the ugly reality of almost being finished with it.  He knew he was within the last two miles of the race, almost there, but then the pain began to creep back into his consciousness, making each push like a self-inflicted knife wound. 

            “Try to focus on the breathing again” Jackson thought to himself.  His tongue and lips tried to form the words, but only noiselessly flapped in exhaustion.  It was no use.  His breathing only reminded him of the rhythmic pain pulsating in his legs, but he was able to overcome it by imagining calm, golden sunbeams shining through a window in the afternoon. 

            His bike was nearing the end of the long curve which he knew led to the final stretch. 

            “How far back are the other riders?” he thought.  “Is there anyone else in front of me?”  He couldn’t remember and quickly pushed those worries out of his mind, returning to the small grid of light created by the window the sunlight in his mind shined through.  It created a small rectangle composed of six smaller illuminated rectangles that, if watched long enough, could be seen creeping across the hardwood floor away from him as the day passed.  Jackson found some type of comfort in these things, such as trying to watch the moon move through the night sky.        No matter how hard you stared at that bright disk in the blackness it was almost impossible to detect any motion, but by checking against a point of reference such as a roof eave or a tree, the moon always was definitely moving.  Slowly and steadily, it traced an arc across the night sky just as it has for eons. 

            The moon never got tired, and Jackson needed that kind of determination to finish this race.  The final stretch was a long, low grade hill that demoralized the rider with each foot travelled up it.  Jackson had some idea of what he was in for from his training runs on the course, but he hadn’t pushed himself as hard in training as he had during the race.  Or maybe he had pushed himself too hard in training and not given his leg muscles ample time to recover.  Jackson knew he had a bad habit of pushing himself too hard through the pain, and had probably caused his joints and ligaments to suffer damage that hurt him in the long run, but now was not the time to give up that habit.  The finish line was in sight!

            The red banner across the crest of the hill marked the finish to this grueling journey, but like seeing the light at the end of a tunnel, the view of the finish makes the distance to the goal seem deceptively short.  Jackson lowered his head and pumped harder in an effort to sustain the speed he had been travelling at before the hill, which turned out to be a mistake.  The pain in his thighs was so severe it almost caused him to fall sideways.  Plus he accidentally looked at his legs and allowed his mind to focus on the knotted balls of muscle on his extremities.  He raised his head slightly and evened his pace, focusing his vision on the ground directly in front of his tire.

            The asphalt passing before his eyes reminded him of time-lapsed photos of stars blurring across the sky.  The stars themselves didn’t move.  That motion was caused by the rotation of the Earth.  The pavement wasn’t moving, it appeared to move because of the rotation of his wheels.  The surface of the tire, like the surface of the Earth, spun and spun and spun.  Jackson rarely considered the fact that the planet was spinning him through space.  How was his body moving in relation to space as he moved across the surface of this rotating object? 

            “No, don’t answer that” he thought.  “Just focus on what is in front of you.  There are no other riders, there is only you now.  This will not last forever, the race will be over.  You have no legs.  You have no arms or body.  You feel weightless.  Just watch as the ground passes beneath you.  You don’t have to keep those wheels spinning as long as the Earth has rotated on its axis.  You will make it.  You will make it.”

            Jackson’s mind faded into this mantra as he entered the final 100 meters.  He thought about after the race.  He thought about going home.  You will make it.  He thought about his room in the back of the house, his fortress of solitude.  He thought about how when this was all over he would enter his room and lay on the bed until he was ready to get up.  You will make it.

            He would lay there for a whole day if he wanted to, maybe even two days, but he wouldn’t have to use his legs at all.  There he would lay in a state of bliss, with the knowledge that he had finished the race, that he had made it.  You will make it.

            He would be able to lay there and watch the sun beam shine through the window around eleven o’clock.  It would begin on the wall by the head of the bed, cast as a rectangle composed of six smaller rectangles.  By one o’clock it would have shifted to the foot of the bed, partially on the floor and partially on the white bed sheets.  By late afternoon it would begin creeping up the wall, and take on a darker golden-yellow hue that nicely complemented the steel blue paint.  You will make it.

            And after the sunbeam disappeared towards the top of the wall, he would be able to see the stars, and maybe the moon if it was the right time of year, pass by the window panes in their silent journey across the sky.  Yes, you will make it.

            Jackson thought about all of this as he continued to focus on the road in front of him, and all of a sudden there was a yellow flash.  A bright yellow stripe passed through his field of vision and went underneath the surface of his tires.  The finish line.  He had made it. 

            Raising his head, he saw a small crowd had gathered and was clapping.  He still couldn’t hear outside noises very well, but made his best attempt at a smile.  Off to the side were three or four other riders who had finished and lay on the ground next to their bikes, not moving at all.  He let the tension drain from his legs and the rest of his body, and as he continued to coast down the shallow backside of the hill he let the air flow easily into his lungs.  He was not first, but he didn’t care.  He was finished and now free to bask in his own satisfaction.  He wheeled off to the side of the road and collapsed in the shade of a tall oak, letting his body melt into the cool soil below it and staring up through the dancing leaves while the light shone through them.