The Momentun of Opportunity

Chapter one (This is the first chpater of a novel)


The bamboo stock, how interesting of a plant it is. Out of all the household plants it surpasses the rest as a stoic symbol of “survival of the fittest.” It manages to maintain its structure without any nurture, care, or even the slightest guidance of a green thumb. Sometimes it is even difficult to realize that it is in fact a living organism. You simply add enough water for its roots to soak and it can survive for months, maintaining its vitality and dexterity while still never failing to entertain. Sometimes it is even bounded together with other bamboo stocks, strapped and forced to stay short, to stay pretty. Perhaps this is why it maintains its height and seldom does it grow leaps and bounds.  Now wouldn’t this make one wonder? What if we were to give this plant a proper pot with rich soil just like the rest? If life can be maintained or even flourish under the weight of suppression, then what feat would it reach if it were to be presented with the luxury of opportunity?
         
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The train rolls along the French countryside, speeding through the brisk November air, stretching across the rich fields of wheat and corn rolling and swaying towards the sleeping horizon. Though it is the southwestern region or France, the winter has already hinted its arrival. The locomotive submerges underneath the hills and floats to the top of the bridges, like a submarine, loosing control of her pressure. Shifting and turning through the winding tracks, gliding absent of direction but perhaps full of purpose. The sound of the rhythmic beating from the engine hitting each individual crossbar blurs into his conscience. The loud clashing bombards heavily through the thin little blue earmuffs and snaps at his thoughts. Lately, his thoughts have not been in much order anyway, perhaps it was best to let them sink along with this colossal iron submarine.

“Tallison say something, don’t do this, don’t clam up to me, I’m your mother for god’s sake.”

His head pressed against the glass window, gazing into the fields of wheat and the specs of crows fluttering above the crooked wooden fences.

“I hate Trains.”

She lets out a deep sigh and pinches her temples.

“Now, you know it isn’t my fault, we had no choice, sometimes you need to put yourself in my position for a bit, and you know this is not what I want. But this is for the best mon cherri.”

Her voice pleads to be convincing but against walls of resilient lies they prove to be useless.

“Tallison, look at me, look at your mother when she’s talking to you…….Please.”

Reluctantly he lifts his head just enough to turn towards her, his cheek leaves an imprint on the glass. Blending with the grey clouds that blanket the sky and denying the sun from lifting the day’s darkest souls. His mothers face would’ve been invisible in those clouds, her blood seemed to have been drained and her eyes sinks into their sockets, it took effort to search for them. The wrinkles she wore across her cheeks pinches the corners of her eyes, folding around the outlines of her mouth where dimples once made a home. Now they merely draw a timeline of all the battles she had fought, some victorious, many a failure.

“I am trying Tally, I am trying. But I need your help. France is my home, but we have nothing left here.  Friends come and go; anyways you will find more friends in America. I work very hard for us, you need to start appreciating and start losing your selfish attitude. I’m doing this for you, without you I would not be in this situation.”

She tries to convince herself as her voice quickly grew stern in hopes of grasping the smallest piece of confidence and reassurance.

“It’s not about how many friends you have,” His voice solid a dry.

“Your 16 now, start acting like it. It’s bad enough that you choose to fail in school—“

“I didn’t fail.”

“Fine, you barley passed, but that’s not enough to do anything in life, at least not in this life.” Her voice grew colder and sharp as her breathing slowed.

“If you didn’t do it, I’d still be with your father and…… we’d still be a family.”
She leans back and stares into the dead sky, captured in some distant memory.

Releasing the tension in voice with a sigh she stares at her son.
“But what’s done is done right?”

“Yes, mother, it’s my fault.”

His cheeks resume their position on the window as the glass quickly fogs up.  He winces as he pushes the anger as deep as he could, shoving them pass the lump in his throat as the urge to scream becomes far too familiar.  Pushing his forehead into the glass he tries to close his eyes and disappear, hoping to sink into the hills and praying to fade away as he listens to the sound of the beating tracks, now providing comfort as they mute his silent screams.