cool thing 8

I know many of you think the pictures to extend february are very cool. (they are) however, they are not replacing the cool thing for week 8. you can find that below!

COOL THING FEB 19th - FEB 25th:

please enjoy this excerpt from a great american novel I am working on. the novel currently exists under the working title: it pours.

Chapter 1.

     State final. Fourth quarter. Four seconds on the clock. Fourth and goal from the, in a strange twist of fate, four yard line. The South Central Sharks have just burned their final time out, and, down by four points, are standing on the threshold between living legends and loser lame-rods.

     Sam Growler's boy looks down at his palms, pretending to read the play card on his wrist. The number four emblazoned on his uniform. He looks sick. He feels sick.

     The referees' whistles shatter existence. Almost as if in a trance, the teams take the field. Sound is reinvented as the rhythm of heartbeats. Blood pounding in ears, coursing through bodies of these brave warriors on the field of battle.

     After what feels like an eternity, the gridiron boys are lined up over the ball. Twenty-two on the field; twenty-four on the play clock. The rain starts to fall. The clock ticks. Twenty-three. A drizzle at first, but it builds as a crescendo into a maddening din. Twenty-two. Fans in the stands hold their breath--parents, grandparents, siblings, peers, girlfriends. Twenty-one. All eyes watching. Twenty. The lone cry of a baby is quickly hushed by it's mother. Nineteen. Waiting for something to happen. Eighteen. Waiting for anything to happen. Seventeen.

    A single quivering voice pierces the silence. "Sharks..." Sixteen. The ruffling of raingear as fans crane to see what champion dares step into this moment, with eternity looking on. Fifteen. "...for you and me..." The voice falters under the tension. Fourteen. Whispers through the crowd. "Who is that?" "It's just the equipment boy." "It's the McDowell kid." Thirteen. The Tilly boy rises on his crutches--all 320 pounds of him--from where he was sitting on the bench. If he hadn't been injured against the Stangs four weeks ago maybe things would be different. He cannot lend his body, but he lends his voice. Twelve. "...I'd do just about anything..." Eleven. One by one, the players on the sideline stand tall together, shoulder to shoulder.

     Ten. "...we are a team..." The fans rise to their feet. Arm-in-arm. Generation with generation.

     Nine. Calling out in one voice. "...we are A TEAM..." Drowning out the sounds of the rain.

     Eight. Drowning out self-doubt. "...we ARE A TEAM..." Drowning out thought itself.

     Seven. All boldly standing together. "WE ARE A TEAM..." Together.

     Six. "...AND THIS GAME WE WILL WIN." Pure unity. Pure unaltered belief.

     Five. The chant echoes through the cosmos as the very heavens are split open by great cracks of thunder.

     Four. Lightning strikes the metal bleachers. Screams. Wailing lamentations. The smell of smoldering flesh fills the air.

     The rain continues to fall.

I hope you enjoyed this little excerpt. coming from the next great american novel, it is the 8/52 cool thing posted here on frank's new blog. thanks.

-frank