AKIRA S

FLYING WHEELCHAIR
by marco balsamo

Hey everyone! Below is Chapter One. Keep in mind that it is a rough draft and the content may be
subject to change. Feel free to give me any feedback at marco.balsamo@faeuro.com
Love you all,
- Marco


Chapter One
A Change of Pace
San (), ni (), ichi ().
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, ), filled in bright yellow paint, is labeled onto the

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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

FLYING WHEELCHAIR
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An elated voice comes
overmarco
a loudspeaker, balsamo
piercing the silence.

anticipation. A long breath is released, calling for calm and demanding focus.
On your marks!
San ().
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 outside
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 stricken 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 nights potential offerings, flock from
their schools and migrate to their favorite hangout to meet their friends at the nearest karaoke
bar, arcade, or caf. Worried mothers remain awake throughout the long hours of the night,

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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

FLYING WHEELCHAIR
by marco
balsamo
A healthy crimson Japanese
maple leaf drifts
playfully in the ebony sky. Were it not for

a city that never ceases to take in a moment.

But tonight is far from typical.

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 song hooks. 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 quasi-emptiness. Inside cafs, 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 happenings 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
for 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

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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

FLYING WHEELCHAIR
by marco
continues to lace up. Seemingly
unfazed by thebalsamo
thunderous chanting around him, he coolly
gently onto the shoulder of a participant who is busy tying his shoelaces.

Noticing the leafs presence, the young boy brushes it off his shoulders apathetically and

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
sprinters flashy outfit. A handsome 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 hazel eyes cannot be cloaked by
the flickering reflection emitting from his rectangular framed eyeglasses. The young boy forces a
slight smile, looks back down to continue tying his sneakers. Without looking up, he subtly nods
his head.
Im 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.
The adult is about to say something when he is cut off by a event coordinator in passing.
Coaches, trainers parents! Anyone who is not a runner, you must all make your way to
the waiting area right now! We are less than five minutes away from race time!
That means I have to go now. We love you very much Akira-san, good luck.
The man leans down to kiss Akira on the top of his head and departs.
Ni ().
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

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majesty happening around him. Before his eyes is a galaxy of camera flashes going off amongst
the sound 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

FLYING WHEELCHAIR
blur, an endless sea of waving arms and jumping bodies hysterically salivating for the start of a
by marco balsamo
historic race.
onlookers, Akira is unable to make out a single face in the crowd. All he can see is just a giant

A rambunctious woman, armed with a clipboard and an assortment of multi-colored

highlighters, heaves her way to the athletes. On her blazer lapel, theres 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 Ill be the death of you!
Akira and the other runners oblige obediently, if not fearfully.
The supervisor hastily reads/screams off her list:
Tsubasa, youre 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, lets 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 agony. 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, the ecstatic voice of a commentator erupts over the stadiums 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 tonights 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

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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 at such a young age, labelling him a prodigy of the sport.

FLYING WHEELCHAIR
marco
balsamo
Under Fourteen Age Group by
One Hundred
Meter Dash.
However, only eight qualified and made

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

runners have competed fiercely to earn the privilege to run in tonights competition for the Boys
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 crme de la crme! 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 years 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! Shinjukus fourteen year old wonder child Nakashima
Junichiro! Anzai Kazuma from Toshima, thirteen!

Akira closes his eyes, controls his breathing by inhaling with his nose, then exhaling with
his mouth.
Otas thirteen year old champion, Hazuki Ryo who is celebrating a birthday today!
Superstar Kago Makoto from Nerima, fourteen! Meguros golden protege Saruwatari Masaki,
age fourteen!
We see Akiras eyes as they gaze forward intently. the cerulean hue of the boys 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 and already a two-time champion, at the tender
age of eleven. Yes, you heard that right, eleven. Dont be fooled, this kids 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.

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

Now, time for the moment weve all been waiting for. Runners, please get in your set
positions. The time to race is upon us!

FLYING WHEELCHAIR
by
balsamo
blocks first. Making sure that
he ismarco
last, he plays to
the crowd by smiling and casually propping
Chiaki commands the runners. Everyone, prepare yourselves, ninety seconds!

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

himself in the set position which draws a couple of sneer remarks from his opponents. Assuming
a crouching position, he posts his feet against the starting block of track 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 secretly always 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 now is the sound of his beating heart. He continues to take long, deep
breaths.

He assures himself and mutters apprehensively, Relax, just relax. The sound of
Lightnings heart beat storms throughout his eardrums.
You got this, cmon.
Fifteen seconds! can be barely heard from a highly caffeinated and bloodshot Chiaki.
Akira exhales once more when water vapor slowly escapes from his mouth. Perplexed,
Akira bewilderedly watches his breath expand and diffuse into a thin mist that quickly spreads
and rises across everything around him. Within seconds, everything within hindsight is murky.
Akira looks to his left and can just barely make out Saruwatari at block seven. Only silhouettes
of the runners further down the track can be made from Akiras point of view.
The announcer, now sounding as if he were a kilometer away.
On your marks!
The entire arena is now engulfed by a silver, foreboding fog. Lightnings dauntless

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disposition exhibited earlier has completely faded away. His forehead is drenched with
perspiration and he shakes anxiously.
Get set!

FLYING WHEELCHAIR
byAkira
marco
balsamo
state of confusion and anxiety,
becomes totally
discombobulated. He begins to gasp so
A pint-sized snowflake unexpectedly wafts in front of Akiras face, softly settling on his

right hand. It quickly melts upon contact as water droplets drip down the side of his dorsum. In a

vigorously that it hurts his chest. He lifts one hand and clamps on to his shirt, right above his
heart and grinds his teeth. This subdued cheering reverberates and the commotion of the event
surrounding Akira grows in crescendo. Akira roughly shakes his head and tries to regain his
composure.
Ichi ().
The starting pistol blasts, instantly snapping Akira back to reality. He automatically
propels his entire body from the ground. His arms wind, darting up and down the side of his
torso. His hands ball up into two clasped, clenched fists. His toes barely touching the ground as
he takes long, flawless strides. He is level with the other runners, sprinting forward with wicked
speed.
The announcer, earning himself a paycheck, calls the action.

Great start from Makoto who passes Ryo and Naozumi! Makoto, Makoto, Makoto! Oi,
Koizumis just a hair away from him! Followed by Junichiro. Kazuma, Kazuma takes a slight
lead! Lightening is in the mix along with Masaki but dont you dare count anyone out! Its too
close to call, impossible to predict a favorite!
Akira turns on the turbo, gains momentum, and starts to pass the other runners with jaw
dropping acceleration and impeccable grace.
Whats this! Our cheetah cub has taken off out of the blue! Lightening is distancing
from the others! Incredible, just incredible! Such a combination of class and power! Lightening,
Akimoto Akira! Remember the name! Akira, Akira, oi Akira! Youre almost there!
Akira is in a league of his own, with the closest runner already several meters away. He
paces himself with quick rapid fire breaths as beads of sweat tumble down his face. Theres no
stopping the little stallion as he gallops closer and closer to the finish line. This is nothing new,

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just another typical race which precedes another typical Akira Lightening Akimoto victory.
Thats how he earned his semi-celebrity status after all. But as it was concluded earlier, tonight is
far from typical and this is race is just not one of those typical trophy grabs.

FLYING WHEELCHAIR
balsamo
unwelcome entrance. Akirasby
left marco
tibia contorts unnaturally
snapping inward at the knee. A split
Akira darts past the races midway point when the sound of an appalling crack, a shrill

crunching howl that would make the mightiest of men mask their eyes in dolor, makes an

second motion that sends the boy screaming in affliction. He stumbles but keeps himself from
falling by using both hands to stay afloat. He winces and can feel tears flood his eyes
immediately but endures and races on despite slowing down excessively.
The crowd, realizing what has happened, lets out a collective gasp. The impassioned
announcer shoots up in the press box and bawls into the microphone.
Whats going on Akira! Keep going! Go, go, go! Dont you stop now!
Akira isnt stopping, but the overwhelmingly expected outcome of him passing that finish line
before the seven other competitors is now in dire jeopardy. Hearing someone gaining on him, he
quickly glances behind to see Masaki closing distance.
The announcer chimes in on the looming threat. Whats this?! Masakis right on
Lightenings tail! Akira, watch out! Youve got company!
Akira resets his sights on the finish line and trudges on, despite the worsening condition
of his leg. Masaki is merely just a couple of split seconds behind and will shortly acquire the

lead. The others are not too far behind and will surpass Akira in no time. Refusing to accept the
reality that he wont be tonights champion, Akira droops on.
But before Akira can think of a way to keep the pace, Masaki is right beside him. He
starts to pass Akira when, suddenly, the boys entire body explodes violently into a powerful
cyclonic cloud of wind and snow.
Akira staggers from the forceful blast, but still proceeds making his way towards the
finish line. The other runners close in on Akira. Akira is panting even heavier than before.
Another runner, Ryo from block five, is on the brink of passing Akira. Akin to their unfortunate,
fallen rival, Ryo savagely erupts in a otherworldly tempest of wind and snow. Akira careens,
stammering from side to side due to the burst. He still valiantly makes it to his feet and continues
running while looking back in panic. Unable to escape from the bizarre madness, another ill
fated crackling tear sends Akira down to the ground. This time, its the right tibia that shatters.

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He opens his mouth to yelp but not a single audible sound comes out. He collapses onto his
knees and hands. Akira sluggishly picks himself up but he is incapable of running. He clings on
to his thighs for dear life and just teeters miserably towards the finish.

FLYING WHEELCHAIR
marco
The rest of the pack near inby
on his
position. As balsamo
each runner passes, they blast into a vicious
The announcer doesnt lose hope. Cmon Akira! Almost there! You can do it! Energy!

Wheres your energy!

whirlwind of snowfall causing Akira to topple and slump ever so vigorously in an incessant
barrage. He grows increasingly disoriented by the blitz and flops right onto his back. All seven
runners are gone. Its just Akira and that bright yellow-taped finish line. With a weeping face,
Akira ganders at the merciless heavens above. Exhausted, he uses what energy he has left and
spits towards the sky with disdain. The stadium light towers blare down incandescently, straining
his strained, dilated pupils. His whole body is hyperventilating, the only thing he wants to do is
close his eyes and not exist. But something in his mind urges him to try to get back up. He
attempts to, but his arms quiver and give in sending him to fall stiffly on his stomach.
Whats this? Akira! Youre giving up? Youre almost there! Just a little bit more!
Akira looks down the track and makes out the finish line. It is just about twenty or so
meters away. The tapes yellow hue grows in brightness, creating an invitingly ominous aura.
Akira is all alone! No one else is around! Just him!
Akira! Akira! Akiraaaaaaaaaaa!

The broadcasters voice deforms, distorting into a mechanized jowl. The calling of
Akiras name sounds less human and articulate, mutating into an prolonged electronic screech.
Instantly, the entire crowd, ruptures into a massive mountain of snow which cascades nefariously
down the stadium tiers into an avalanche. Tens of thousands disperse into a monstrous clouds in
a torrent that gushes directly towards Akira from all sides. He desperately scratches and claws his
way to the finish line. The onslaught of snow gets closer. The announcers boisterous howls
persist, amplifying in volume sounding like a monotonous blaring horn. Within seconds, Akira is
engulfed by a gargantuan heap of snow. The numbingly freezing blizzard overtakes his entire
body. He helplessly gasps for air, shaking uncontrollably as the stream begins to mercilessly
assist him towards the finish line which is ablaze with a burning yellow radiance. Akiras eyes,
blindly darting in every direction, sees a brief flash of the man with the rectangular framed
eyeglasses, positioned on the other side of the finish line. His arms are outstretched towards

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Akira. He yells alarmingly to the boy but his words are inaudible. Akira is then spun viciously
and becomes lost in the tempests onslaught charging directly towards the finish line and man
with remorseless speed and force. Both are reflected in Akiras fearful and wide open eyes. He

FLYING WHEELCHAIR
marco
balsamo
his limp body colliding to theby
ground
along with the
man tearfully crying out his name.
closes them shut and gives in, waiting for it to all be over.

Within the darkness, Akira listens to a deafening crash and a heavy, unforgiving thud of
It all goes quiet. It all goes black.