Comments on: Word Shot – 20 October, 2008

By: Gloria

Gloria — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 22:04:27 +0000

As I walked through the playground at 3AM, it was entirely too hard to believe that it was actually 3AM, and not 3PM. The swings cast their shadows in the golden sunlight, and all I could hear was the wind. This would take some getting use to. Of course, since it was three AM there was no one at the park–least of all families with children. They were, of course, at home sleeping–in bed. But this, being my first night in Alaska, in the Summer made it entirely too difficult to sleep. The fact that it was daylight at 3AM was hard enough to fathom. Almost as hard as it was to fathom that I had left everyone I had ever known, to come to this richly blessed potion of God’s Earth to study Salmon.

Sitting down on the swing, I grabbed hold of the chains and began pumping my legs. The temperature was warmer than I’d expected. The wind felt wonderful in my hair. I felt free. Just as I had as a child on the swings. I’d pump and pump until the swing was at its highest, and then I’d jump off, to see how far I’d go. It really was a wonder I hadn’t broken a bone as a child. If I tried that today, I’d surely break an ankle. The air felt crisp. In just two short days, I’d be off on the Charter boats with pen and paper, and computer–ready to compile information. But for now, I’ll breathe, and tomorrow I’ll begin unpacking. Tomorrow.

By: Nathan42

Nathan42 — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 23:44:45 +0000

The swings were up to something. Always up to something. Nobody suspected them, nobody questioned them. But the swings in that particular playground, they were responsible for all of mankind’s problems… all the wars, all the crime, all the racism, all the hate. They were even responsible for how everybody uses the word ‘mankind’ instead of humankind, which is sexist.

By: Gary Fletcher

Gary Fletcher — Mon, 27 Oct 2008 13:59:36 +0000

Jeesh, what an assignment. Up before the crack of dawn, ride across the city, and all to shoot an empty park.
“This Steve sure is crazy,” I thought to myself as I took a couple of parting shots in the slanting sunlight. This had to be the weirdest assignment he’d given me yet. “Hmm, what’s he do with all these wacky photos? ” I wondered.
“Me, I’m gonna start looking for more fashion work, easier hours, nicer girls for sure.” And I left the park to find some morning coffee.

By: RAJEN

RAJEN — Sun, 26 Oct 2008 13:13:55 +0000

Oh, its play time! But where are the children? This time they
must be in children’s corner. I’m afraid children have been
cornered somewhere! But where?
-I think they are still busy in towing bricks for earning
their bread!
-Or they are still waiting their parents who are busy in
daily drudgery work. They are waiting for lunch to be
prepared at evening!
-Or they are busy in militry traing to save their so
called religion. They have genuine guns instead of
toyguns in their hands!
-Or cruel barbers are shaving their heads for
observance of austerities. Holy men are preparing to
turn them into holy men!
-Or they are waiting their parents who are busy in
their divorce cases or busy in parties!
-Or they are doing their heavy homework given by all
8 subject teachers!
-Or they are busy in playing video games!
Or they are enough smart- who believe that playing in
the garden is an outdated culture!
-Or I’m afraid they are on dating!
-Or they are discussing on ‘global warming’!
-Or this time they are helping their dads to solve this
word shot!
But don’t be pessimist! Be optimistic my friend!
Its holiday time! Children are at country side.They are
enjoying swinging on trees with their native friends!

By: Robyn

Robyn — Sat, 25 Oct 2008 14:24:31 +0000

I can only come to the playground when it is empty. I sit and think about how much I would like to go back to the days when I would bring my children down here and push them back and forth in the late afternoon sun. It’s a long time ago and so much of my world has changed since then. I would go back in a heartbeat and this time I would pay attention to the tiny moments that have been lost over time. Watching little children playing here as mine did so long ago pierces my heart. I can only come to the playground when it is empty.

By: Glanda Widger

Glanda Widger — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 13:21:29 +0000

Flying. Higher and higher. Falling. Down and down. I foolishly tried to best Frankie’s highest arc record. I really did but the only way to fly higher was to flip around the pole holding the swing. Neither one of us ever did that. We tried. I was the one who fell out of the swing at the nearly, highest point and broke my arm. I gained a great deal of status amongst my peers for that trick. Today, many years later, I look longingly at the empty swing set. I am nearing fifty. No one is around. The temptation is just too much. I gotta try. I hear the ambulance coming. I see the people standing over me with confused looks. I have no idea what I broke this time. But, I did it. I flew higher than Frankie. I almost made it all the way around. Life is good.

By: desert rat'skine

desert rat'skine — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 07:10:54 +0000

“Oh my God…” I whispered more to myself than to anyone around within earshot, “son, look”.

“Huh?” he queried as he pulled the I-Pod buds out of his ears, “whad’ja say Dad?”

“Over there, check it out.” I replied, as I turned his shoulders a bit to the right so he could face the old playground before us.
At this moment we were the only ones there. You know, it’s a strange feeling to come onto a playground when it is empty, a playground is supposed to be noisy, active, a place where laughter envelops the invisible bubble around the play equipment.

The noise of P.F. Flyers dragging under the swings with each pass.

The smell of warm, slightly acrid dust of Tanbark as it hangs in the air and permeates oh so slightly into your pants and leaves a red trace layer in your socks that you know Mom will get out in the next wash so you can go back and do it again…

The burn of hot metal against your palms on a hot summer day. Hot metal slide rails, but not as hot as the stovetop burner that grandpa once pressed your palm against after he caught you in the basement with his 1966 December issue Playboy and…

“Dad”…”Dad”… “Hey Dad….”

“Yeah, sorry, I was just… uh, what?”

“Wanna have a swing race Dad?” he asked.
“Yeah, your on!” I replied as I tightened my P.F. Flyers and took a long, slow deep breath through my nose letting the smell of Tanbark erase my thoughts and we broke away for the empty swings.

By: JCR

JCR — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 15:50:26 +0000

The children are gone now, fighting a war they don’t understand nor approve of.

By: Claudia

Claudia — Mon, 20 Oct 2008 23:41:35 +0000

We used to swing those chains; swing back to back, our limbs outstretched, star sprayed as a butterfly tied to chains. How do these luminous butterflies slouch back to caterpillars? Not even that caterpillar fertile with butterfly, but a new creature, wrapped in the burnt and painful colors of dead wings. Dead wings, dead as talent and ability. How do the limbs of glowing children vanish? Like nevermore ghost, white and dewy, of playgrounds rusting with colorful curls? That was us, where we’d been. When we were children. Its a tunnel of light that was never there. I think we knew, as children, that there was no light, that we were walking away from butterflies. For those people, our parents with burnt wings, they stood away, as if the playground were some memory they were afraid of. So hopeful to us was every single, happy uncle of ours that still spun and swung, clambered with us, false wings or not.