terça-feira, agosto 15, 2017

Micro-Fiction, Text 012: "Go Team Portugal!" by MySelfie


How the crowds would roar. Like a vast wave crashing onto the shore they would rise, pink mouths stretched into a row of noughts. How many, Santa Camarão wondered. 10,000? 100,000? It wouldn't just be the ones packed into the stadium, line after line, like tailors' stitches. There would be many more watching images beamed across nations; images sent speeding into space and back, faster than the fastest athlete, as fast as thought. So, how many? Santa could feel his heart pumping, hot and quick. His time was approaching, hurtling towards him like a meteor. This was his moment: this was it. Was it fate or was it chance? His mouth was dry. He wanted to stride but his feet would only shuffle. Lisbon had changed since he was last there: taller, faster, traffic and people swarming thick. A shadow fell across his face like a slap, a ten-foot smile snatching the sun: Welcome to the Olympics, the billboard read. The windows of the buildings glinted like dark water. Unauthorised posters will be seized a notice warned. It would take more than that to stop Santa. He slipped a hand into his coat, felt the comforting coolness of the metal. He felt calmer now. The stadium entrance flashed in the sunshine, reflecting the sky; shattered pieces of blueness shimmering like splinters along the polished steel. This would show them. He walked through the turnstile. No one paused to look. No one gave much thought to Santa Camarão anymore. He gripped his bony hands into fists. There had been a time when these hands would have held back lions. He had been a giant once: legs like pistons pounding on the track, shoulders broad enough to carry an ox. But, everything was changing. Time was unraveling: hours, days, years unwinding from its spindle, drawing out his strength like a thread. And he was breaking, he knew that with certainty; slowly he was breaking. But, right now that didn't matter, for ahead where the sky arched hot and blue, his crowd was waiting. He stumbled forwards. At first no one saw, then there was a shout. A man waved, wide-eyed, frantic. Reaching into his coat Santa's fingers worked past the cool metal and grasped. Around him, uniformed men were closing in, neat like tailors' stitches, pistols glinting. But, that didn’t bother old Santa. So then, right there, he pulled. The shots were swift: faster than the fastest athlete, as fast as thought. If only he could have heard how the crowd roared. Pink mouths stretched out like rows of noughts along the terraces, and there on the track, fluttering like a schoolgirl’s ribbon, Santa’s banner of support: Go Team Portugal! Beneath its folds his body seemed so small. Against his chest his medal lay cold and smooth.


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