Literary Triathlon: Picks
By Martin Wallace
Today's Literary Triathlon pick of the day is from Martin Wallace of Halifax, NS :
Poetry: Relative Speed
that thrum in your thighs
distant slap of sole on pavement,
your breath, a wind tunnel in your head.
You are still,
a stationary point,
a reference that the world moves past,
of houses, lawns,
traffic, and people lost
in perpetual motion.
Short Story: The Last Run
It was always just us three. I used to think that Mom just didn’t want to come, but I know better now. Dad could always outrun us, even when we were teenagers. After a race, he would take off his shoes and run around barefoot, teasing us and laughing, joy in his body, as if nothing could stop him. He was fast, faster than most, although he couldn’t outrun the cancer (though he tried - goddamn it - he tried). Ben and I left his shoes by the track. Mom had the ashes, but this she left for us.
Creative Nonfiction: The Top of the Hill
“This is NOT the body that I remember,” I’m thinking as I run my late 40s legs up the steep Point Pleasant Park hill.
The body I remember, a - it should be noted - younger body, is flabby and round, the passage to the lungs easily shut by cat dander, pollen, and, worst of all, by exertion, the legs easily tired, the arms weak. This earlier body cannot ever be late for the bus, because it’s certainly not going to run to meet it.
This is not that body. This body twists and turns, jumps and runs. This body is not scared of hills; it makes little bites of them, breathing easily, neck casually turning to take in the sight of trees whizzing past.
This body, this new body, which startlingly, unbelievably, IS the body that I remember, reaches the top of the hill.
And keeps going.
Martin Wallace is from Halifax, NS.