The moment I chose is a moment that I will never be able to forget. A moment that is so picture perfect in my mind I couldn’t forget it if I wanted to. It is a moment that gives me a feeling like no other. I cant find it anywhere else. Probably my favorite place in the world, entering the chute on my horse faith just before I give her head and let her go to work.
I cant see the announcer stand in front of me over looking the main arena with loud speakers booming at the crowed. The gates and fences all around me guide my way to the arena where the freshly dragged sand lies smoothly complimenting the three barrels of fate. I can see one of them, the second barrel shining in its new red, white, and blue paint job. The bleachers are filled with people eagerly waiting and watching for the champion of the day. People even crowded the covered arena to my left. They sat on fences, stood on buckets, anything to get a good view. The other riders with in that round try to ready and steady their horses behind me in the holding pen. But most importantly I can see the fiery passion roaring in
Faiths wide glistening eye.
As I close my eyes and try to relax and prepare myself I can hear everything around me. I hear the announcer introducing me to the crowed. Last minute tips yelled out from my friends and trainers. Everyone was roaring with excitement. Not a quiet person in the place. The crowed yelling and encouraging me and everyone else to do their best. Horse feet and grunt surround me mostly. Their anticipation is too much and they cant stand still. I hear their feet prance and hop around as powerful blows from their nose burst flames almost. The squeaking of leather helps sooth me as the soft sound hums with every movement we make. As I take a deep breath of air I smell horses and their coat conditioners everywhere. I faint sniff of concession stand food lingers by and reminds me of how thirsty I am. My mouth dry as a dessert tastes of sandy dust caked in my mouth.
Every sense runs ramped. I could feel mine and faiths adrenaline pulsing through our bodies with amazing force. The hot sun not helping the heat from my stress. I feel the rope of my reins as I adjust them to my desired length. A few pieces of Faith long soft silky mane runs through my fingers. Her coat smooth and slick as ice. I feel the smooth felt of my black hat as I swipe once for good luck. As I take one last deep breath of meditation a sensation of relaxation rushes over me and I am ready to let her go.
The intensity runs so high a mix of nervousness and excitement my adrenalin shoots through my body with every pulse. But I also feel a confidence and soothing from Faith. She has never let me down and loves racing more than anything. Even though there is so much at stake I know I do it for the love of the game. You need to be able to do it for the passion it else you will never make it. So much passion that it bundles all of your feelings into one big mess of emotions. You must a tad bit of insanity to love this sport and keep coming back for more I must admit. But it is a feeling like no other. It is indescribable really. It is the most happy, honest, and true moment I can and will ever experience. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here. I can get away from the life, people, the world, it is just me and Faith, and that is all that matters. That is my moment.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Mother Grendel-of Beowulf
Standing at the bottom of the steps into the great hall Herot, the events of the previous days played through my head over and over reminding me of every painful moment. I remember watching my dieing son stumble into our cave safe below the water. Possessing only one arm as I found his gashing shoulder wound. More and more life escaping his body by the second. As my only son lie in his own blood he told me a story of a great man with the strength of thirty men and how he fought back, but only attained an arm. As he released his last breath I made a promise to get revenge on this Beowulf.
Now I stand here in the pouring rain as did my son only a few nights before. As I exploded through the doors of Herot I watched as the helpless people scattered with fear in their eyes. Stumbling and jumping each other anything to get out of the way. I managed to grab one before he scurried off with the others, the poor mans fate dangling in front of him like a string. There was no scream he could yell or sword he could wield to break himself free of my grasp.
I clambered through the city recklessly, tearing down towers and terrorizing the people of Denmark searching for this saint who demolished my son. Nothing could have stopped me no matter what they tried. The strength of my fury was undefeatable. My burning fists plowed through houses crushing them under my mite, taking along the poor soul who was left behind. After searching and trampling through the Danes I discovered he was no where to be found. Knowing that they would soon call to him for help as they had before, I returned to my cave waiting for his return to Denmark.
I would recite the scene over and over again in my head. Planning out every detail. Imagining the god sent Beowulf’s blood spilled over my cave. Avenging my son with every rip and tare I make at his neck, decapitating him of his head. I knew it was only a matter of time before he would return, and I could get my revenge.
Finally the day had come, Beowulf returned and not even God himself will be able to guide him in defeating me. I was enraged and wanted nothing more than his destruction . I spotted him at the bottom of my lake, now was my chance. I made my move running in and snatching him inescapably in my mouth before he could blink. It felt natural having him clutched in my mouth helplessly as I dragged him to my domain. I was tempted to swallow him whole but knew he needed more torture, more pain, more humiliation. Screaming and struggling knowing there was nothing he could do, no strength he could find to release himself from this terrible horror that was his fate.
Finally reaching my home of cold rock, I released him only to rebound him with my overpowering claw. But he had grabbed hold of it and with the strength of thirty men was pulling and clutching. I could feel muscles, tendons, and bones cracking and snapping as he pulled. Each nerve plucking away like a guitar string. I thought of how Grendel had felt, being defeated the same way. It gave me the strength to wriggle away. I heaved him across the stone and he soon skidded to a stop. I trudged my way over to him, my heart pounding, adrenaline rushing, the images of his blood playing over and over once more, this was it. It was my time to finally obliterate this God sent warrior who had defeated my son only weeks before. As I rose my claw high preparing to crush him under its power he reached up and with a swift wield of a sword he sliced my neck instantly sending my to the ground.
The pain of my wound refused to subside. Although brief and quick, the engraving paralyzed me with its pain. I felt the cold blood slowly dripping out of my vein trying with all its might to keep a pulse. It slowed and slowed with every breathe I took. My chance had come and I let it go. Never again be able to take vengeance. I had failed to keep my promise, for this I will slowly die in shame. Unable to redeem myself or anyone else.
The last breath of evil escaped my lungs, leaving my body cold, stiff, and alone. My blood still slowly dripping from my stagnant vain as it surrounded my motionless, lifeless body. I watched as he retrieved my head as a token, proof of what he had done. I was left in my cold, empty home. Left to rot alone, seeping my evil into the ground. My soul had returned to the pits of satin. Unsure weather or not to be rejoiced to see my son face to face. For nothing could mask the deceit, the shame, the deception that I had let my son and myself down.
Now I stand here in the pouring rain as did my son only a few nights before. As I exploded through the doors of Herot I watched as the helpless people scattered with fear in their eyes. Stumbling and jumping each other anything to get out of the way. I managed to grab one before he scurried off with the others, the poor mans fate dangling in front of him like a string. There was no scream he could yell or sword he could wield to break himself free of my grasp.
I clambered through the city recklessly, tearing down towers and terrorizing the people of Denmark searching for this saint who demolished my son. Nothing could have stopped me no matter what they tried. The strength of my fury was undefeatable. My burning fists plowed through houses crushing them under my mite, taking along the poor soul who was left behind. After searching and trampling through the Danes I discovered he was no where to be found. Knowing that they would soon call to him for help as they had before, I returned to my cave waiting for his return to Denmark.
I would recite the scene over and over again in my head. Planning out every detail. Imagining the god sent Beowulf’s blood spilled over my cave. Avenging my son with every rip and tare I make at his neck, decapitating him of his head. I knew it was only a matter of time before he would return, and I could get my revenge.
Finally the day had come, Beowulf returned and not even God himself will be able to guide him in defeating me. I was enraged and wanted nothing more than his destruction . I spotted him at the bottom of my lake, now was my chance. I made my move running in and snatching him inescapably in my mouth before he could blink. It felt natural having him clutched in my mouth helplessly as I dragged him to my domain. I was tempted to swallow him whole but knew he needed more torture, more pain, more humiliation. Screaming and struggling knowing there was nothing he could do, no strength he could find to release himself from this terrible horror that was his fate.
Finally reaching my home of cold rock, I released him only to rebound him with my overpowering claw. But he had grabbed hold of it and with the strength of thirty men was pulling and clutching. I could feel muscles, tendons, and bones cracking and snapping as he pulled. Each nerve plucking away like a guitar string. I thought of how Grendel had felt, being defeated the same way. It gave me the strength to wriggle away. I heaved him across the stone and he soon skidded to a stop. I trudged my way over to him, my heart pounding, adrenaline rushing, the images of his blood playing over and over once more, this was it. It was my time to finally obliterate this God sent warrior who had defeated my son only weeks before. As I rose my claw high preparing to crush him under its power he reached up and with a swift wield of a sword he sliced my neck instantly sending my to the ground.
The pain of my wound refused to subside. Although brief and quick, the engraving paralyzed me with its pain. I felt the cold blood slowly dripping out of my vein trying with all its might to keep a pulse. It slowed and slowed with every breathe I took. My chance had come and I let it go. Never again be able to take vengeance. I had failed to keep my promise, for this I will slowly die in shame. Unable to redeem myself or anyone else.
The last breath of evil escaped my lungs, leaving my body cold, stiff, and alone. My blood still slowly dripping from my stagnant vain as it surrounded my motionless, lifeless body. I watched as he retrieved my head as a token, proof of what he had done. I was left in my cold, empty home. Left to rot alone, seeping my evil into the ground. My soul had returned to the pits of satin. Unsure weather or not to be rejoiced to see my son face to face. For nothing could mask the deceit, the shame, the deception that I had let my son and myself down.
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