© 2015 AKIRA’S FLYING WHEELCHAIR | ALL RIGHTS RESERVED | WGAE REGISTERED

by marco balsamo

AKIRA SFLYING WHEELCHAIR

Chapter OneA Change of Pace

San (三), ni (⼆), ichi (⼀).

Translation: three, two, one. A pair of youthful hands press firmly against the tartan track, hard enough that all ten

nimble finger tips have turned white. Beads of sweat trickle down branches of veins that pulsate in sync along to a thumping heart. Between every synchronized beat, stifled cheers can be heard

in the near distance. Calf muscles tighten, revealing razor sharp tendons that are geared for take

off. A large number eight (hachi, ⼋), filled in bright yellow paint, is labeled onto the

polyurethane surface directly ahead as a pair of fixated blue eyes peer on. A platoon of baby arm

hairs stand at attention, so perfectly upright that even the most stringent of lieutenants would be

pleased. Those fingers gently tremble, practically lifting off from the ground in eager

anticipation. A long breath is released, calling for calm and demanding focus.

An elated voice comes over a loudspeaker, piercing the silence.

“On your marks!”

San (三).

It is a cool, clear night in the heart of Tokyo. Usually on evenings like this, swarms of businessmen and women battle their way through crowded subway stations, wrestling one other

so that they may jam themselves into overfilled compartments resembling crammed chickens in a coop. Countless waves of humanoid livestock (seasoned with blazers, loosened neckties, and

briefcases) overflow from the open sliding doors. Stewards, much like wranglers, forcefully shove passengers inside while keeping others attempting to enter at bay in order for the train to

successfully depart. Shinjuku Station alone receives more than half a million people, commuters who repeatedly participate in the same routine of organized chaos, on a daily basis. The world

above ground is no different, as an enormous organic mass of people by the thousands hustle and bustle their way through the streets, with everyone having a place to go and seemingly in a rush

to get to wherever that place may be.

A symphony of blaring horns and sirens, orchestrated by drivers anxiously awaiting to

finally arrive home after a lackluster workday can be heard from Rainbow Bridge. The traffic,

perpetually congested like a sickened child with the flu, is a boundless haze of gas exhaust,

cigarette fumes, and overly repeated radio jingles. Along the avant-garde skyline, massive

skyscrapers emit a kaleidoscopic assortment of bright and glistering colors, complimented by a

non-stop barrage of neon lit advertisements. A myriad of billboards that feature exquisitely

airbrushed models, new shiny European cars made out of premium plastic, and cosmetic

products display messages (mostly subliminal) that constantly remind citizens how they can

improve their lives. Slogan after slogan. Trademark after trademark. Conditioning after

conditioning. Teenagers, excited by the prospects of the potential offerings of the night, flock

from their schools and migrate to their favorite hangout to meet their friends at the nearest

karaoke bar, arcade, or café. Worried mothers remain awake throughout the long hours of the

night, counting down the minutes for their little sparrow to return to a broken nest of a home.

Daughters, donned with lipstick and mascara, attempt to emulate their favorite actress or singer

in order to catch a flattering whistle or two. All playing their part in a typical weekend evening in

a city that never eases.

But tonight is far from typical.

A healthy crimson Japanese maple leaf drifts playfully in the ebony sky. Were it not for

the rapture of light beaming from the city edifices, the night would be a starry one. Long

removed from its tree of origin, the leaf now belongs to the wind as it sails throughout the city.

With the exception of a handful of zipping cars, it hovers nonchalantly across a relatively

deserted Rainbow Bridge. There is no obnoxious honking, outstretched arms, swearing mouths

or irritating but admittedly catchy pop songs choruses. Tonight the cars peacefully coast by over

a beautiful, rare lull. The jungle of people weaving in and out amongst one other inside train

terminals has transformed into a barren desert of near emptiness. Inside cafés, karaoke tunes play

on a loop, but without the accompaniment of fairly poor tween wannabe singers. The hulking

towers that peer over the landscape seem almost unoccupied. Corporate advertisements can only

preach their indoctrinations to an audience of crickets. The city streets are a blank canvas as the

leaf brushes across it.

In the distance, near the city outskirts, feint muffled cheers are heard. The maple leaf rises

past Tokyo Skytree, the highest tower in the city, and embarks towards the bedlam. The chorus of

jubilation grows louder in intensity as the leaf begins its descent, propelling its way toward a

sporting event stadium. The businessmen and women, the teenagers, the fretful and overbearing

mothers seem to have all gathered together sitting among the tens of thousands in attendance.

Forget sitting. They are standing, clapping, jumping, and rallying at the top of their lungs. The

city has converged into the arena, its citizens transfixed at the euphoria of the events taking place

down in the middle of a track and field. Those, unable to be present at the event, have their eyes

glued to their television screens within the confines of their homes.

The leaf, as if attracted to the ruckus, disembarks toward the grounds where a

congregation of several young runners warm up in preparation for a race that will soon begin.

The athletes are young boys, ranging between twelve to fourteen years old. They are the reason

behind the ovation of those eagerly watching, if not worshipping. The athletes/idols stretch their

core muscles in various positions, lunging their legs forward while others jog in place discussing

strategies with their trainers. They constantly hydrate themselves with flavored sport

performance drinks, each complete with their own catchphrases labeled on the bottles. The leaf,

still swirling gleefully with an impish nature, sails past several runners before finally resting

gently onto the shoulder of a participant who is busy tying his shoelaces.

Noticing the leaf’s presence, the young boy brushes it off his shoulders apathetically and

continues to lace up. Seemingly unfazed by the thunderous chanting around him, he coolly

attends to his other Nike running shoe, fastening the volt colored laces. “Akimoto” is proudly

embroidered above the trademark swoosh as a sole of gold studded spikes support a vibrantly

designed upper; a silver sleeveless top and shorts accented with sky blue details complete the

sprinter’s flashy outfit. An older man in his early thirties, wearing jeans and a chambray collared

shirt, approaches the runner and reassuringly places a hand on his shoulder. The boy

acknowledges him and looks up, revealing a pair of striking azure eyes.

“Akira, are you ready?” the man asks excitedly, albeit with a hint of uneasiness.

His jet black hair is neatly parted to the side, the glisten in his eyes cannot be cloaked by the

flickering reflection emitting from his rectangular framed eyeglasses. A light scar over his right

eyebrow is the only blemish of what is a very handsome face. The young boy forces a slight

smile, looks back down to continue tying his sneakers. Without looking up, he subtly nods his

head.

“I’m good.”

Good is an absolute understatement. Akira is oozing with confidence, possessing a demeanor ripe

with certainty and assurance. He suddenly springs from the ground, pistons his legs like a

revving engine, pumping back and forth with venomous speed. He stretches, allowing the blood

to circulate throughout his body.

“We love you very much, good luck.”

The man leans down to kiss Akira on the top of his head and departs.

Ni (⼆).

Akira finishes loosening up his hamstring and stands still, his face bursting with concentration,

and looks up. He finally seizes the moment and takes in the grandeur of the majesty happening around him. Before his eyes is a galaxy of camera flashes going off amongst the sounds of roars

that would send the mightiest of lions into hiding. The amount of people jammed into the venue is staggering, almost overwhelming. But despite the multitude of onlookers, Akira is unable to

make out a single face in the crowd. All he can see is just a giant blur, an endless sea of waving arms and jumping bodies hysterically salivating for the start of a historic race.

A rambunctious woman, armed with a clipboard and an assortment of multi-colored highlighters, heaves her way to the athletes. On her blazer lapel, there’s a name tag: Chiaki.

Placing her index finger onto her earpiece to hear instructions, Chiaki does what Chiaki does best and hollers.

“All runners! Please make your way to the starting blocks, we are about to begin. Hurry or I’ll be the death of you!”

Akira and the other runners oblige obediently, if not fearfully.The supervisor hastily reads/screams off a list:

“Tsubasa, you’re at block one. Yamada, block two. Nakashima, block number three. Anzai, Hazuki, Kago: four, five, six. Saruwatari, you're positioned at block seven. Akimoto,

block eight. Rise and shine boys, let’s go! We do not have any more time left!” The group make their way past others who previously finished an earlier race. Akira

passes by an injured runner, carried off by a stretcher, who is crying and hugging at his ankle in sheer pain. The brash youngster pays no mind and continues to make his way to block eight.

Like they say, no pain no game. As he nears the block, an ecstatic voice of a commentator erupts over the stadium’s public announcement system.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the final event of the seventy-first

annual Tokyo Track and Field Competition! It has been a remarkable evening thus far, but rest

assured that it will be an even better one in what's guaranteed to be another unforgettable

spectacle in tonight’s main event!”

Akira stretches his right leg while keeping the left one bent, akin to Spiderman. Like the

friendly neighborhood web-crawler, the name Akimoto has become associated with that of a

local super hero. A hometown legend, Akira has been entitled the nickname Lightening thanks to

a nationally aired news special that lauded his feats of breaking several city records in past

competitions.

The fervent announcer continues to shamelessly plug his promo: “Over a thousand

runners have competed fiercely to earn the privilege to run in tonight’s competition for the

Under-14 Age Group Boys One Hundred Meter Dash. However, only eight made the cut. Ladies

and gentlemen, feast your eyes and give a warm welcome the fastest runners in all of Tokyo!”

The crowd goes into euphoria.

Akira slowly rotates his arms and neck.

“The best of the best! The crème de la crème! Only one of these elite participants will

achieve the ultimate bragging right, the opportunity to become immortalized in the history of this

glorious competition, to earn the honor of being crowned this year’s Tokyo Track and Field

Champion!”

The crowd erupts in an uncontrollable frenzy of clapping and cheering.

“From Bunkyo, thirteen year old sensation Tsubasa Koizumi! Warrior boy Yamada

Naozumi, age fourteen, from Kita! Shinjuku’s fourteen year old wonder child Nakashima

Junichiro! Anzai Kazuma from Toshima, thirteen!”

Akira closes his eyes, controls his breathing. Inhale with the nose, exhale with the mouth.

“Ota’s thirteen year old champion, Hazuki Ryo who is celebrating a birthday today!

Superstar Kago Makoto from Nerima, fourteen! Meguro’s golden protege Saruwatari Masaki,

age fourteen!”

We see Akira’s eyes as they gaze forward intently. the cerulean hue of the boy’s irises

radiate luminously.

“Last but certainly not least, this runner is from another planet. He is the youngest runner ever to

qualify in the history of this competition, at the tender age of eleven. Yes, you heard that right,

eleven. Don’t be fooled, this kid’s got the blood of a lion and the speed of a falcon! A natural

predator on the track, he is Akimoto Akira from Koto!”

The crowd reaches the zenith of delirium as they begin chanting “Lightening” in unison.

The clear fan favorite grins and waves in gratitude to the warm reception.

“Now, time for the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Runners, please get in your set

positions. The time to race is upon us!”

Chiaki commands the runners. “Everyone, prepare yourselves, ninety seconds!”

Akira employs a psychological tactic by waiting for everyone to arrive at the starting

blocks first. Making sure that he is last, he plays to the crowd by smiling and casually propping

himself in the set position which draws a couple of sneer remarks from his opponents. Assuming

a crouching position, he posts his feet against starting block number eight and places both hands

securely at the edge of the starting line.

Akira peers down to the ground and focuses his attention on the finish line draped with

yellow tape directly ahead. Despite the bladed strides of confidence displayed through the facade

of a magnetic smile, Lightening has always secretly had the jitter bugs moments before a race.

He closes his eyes and envisions the precise details of his forecasted performance, from the

trajectory of take off to which pose he should go with when its time to celebrate.

Chiaki counts down. “Forty-five seconds!”

It all goes quiet.

All Akira can hear is the sound of his breath as he inhales and exhales deeply.

He assures himself, “Relax, just relax.”

He continues to breathe heavily, the sound of Lightning’s heart beat crashes into his eardrums.

“Fifteen seconds!” can be barely heard.

Akira exhales again when water vapor slowly escapes from his mouth. Bewildered, Akira

watches his breath grow into a thin mist that quickly spreads and rises across everything around

him. He looks to his left only to hazily make out the runners closest to him while the others on

the farther tracks have become only silhouettes.

The announcer, now sounding as if he were a world away, “On your marks!”

Within seconds, the entire arena is engulfed by a silver fog. Lightning’s dauntless disposition

exhibited earlier completely fades away. His forehead is damp with sweat and he begins panting

anxiously.

“Get set!”

A small snowflake unexpectedly falls in front of Akira’s face, settling on his right hand. It

quickly melts upon contact and water droplets drip down the side of his dorsum. Almost in

fearful horror, Akira seems totally discombobulated. This subdued cheering reverberates and the

commotion of the event and everything surrounding Akira grows in crescendo.

Ichi (⼀).

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© 2015 AKIRA’S FLYING WHEELCHAIR | ALL RIGHTS RESERVED | WGAE REGISTERED