This story is by Rey Marlowe and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
Ruth stood before the mirror, staring back at herself, at every scar, wrinkle, and bruise. Her fingers traced over leathery patches, not with despair, but with curiosity. These marks told stories—of battles fought, survived. She wasn’t just aging; she was collecting memories. This time, she didn’t want to fight against the changes in her body; she felt empowered by them. “I should get a tattoo,” she thought. It would be a testament to her strength, not a rebellion against aging, but a celebration of her life.
It was an overcast September day, the last whispers of summer still lingering in the air. The wind carried the scent of decaying leaves mixed with the sharpness of fall. Ruth grabbed her blue running pants and an old shirt, ready for her jog. As she stepped outside, she spotted her neighbor Corrine and her daughter. The little girl wobbled on a bike, Corrine cheering her on. Ruth’s heart clenched with nostalgia—how many times had she chased after her own kids, encouraging them, patching scraped knees?
After a brief chat, Ruth resumed her run, earbuds in, the rhythm of her feet steady against the pavement. Her mid-fifties body felt both familiar and foreign. Just a few days ago, she had run this same path, but today she hesitated, adjusting her pace. She stopped by the little free library along her route, a small birdhouse-like structure brimming with new books. Ruth’s eyes lit up as she spotted a copy of The Old Man and the Sea. She picked it up, thinking about sharing it with her high schooler.
As Ruth flipped through the book, her thoughts were interrupted by frantic barking. Across the orange bridge in the park, she spotted a black-and-white dog with a leash but no owner. The dog seemed distressed, barking loudly and scanning the area. Ruth, with her unusual ease around animals despite never owning one, walked toward the dog. It barked again, glancing toward the woods as if urging her to follow. Without hesitation, Ruth grabbed the leash and followed the dog into the trees.
About 100 yards in, Ruth saw a small, trembling figure with a red shirt. It was a little boy wedged between a shrub and a large rock. A small bike was on its side next to the rock. His small hands gripped his knees as he sat quietly, tears welling up in his eyes. Ruth’s heart pounded. She knelt beside him, feeling the familiar tug of maternal instinct. The boy reminded her of her son when he was younger, lost and crying for her.
“I lost my dad,” the boy whispered, his voice trembling. “We were together, but I fell off my bike. He didn’t come back.” Ruth reassured him, telling him they’d find his dad together. The dog, Jack, sat calmly by the boy’s side as if protecting him. Ruth introduced herself and asked the boy’s name. “Roman,” he said, his voice still shaky.
They ventured deeper into the woods. The path became treacherous, roots twisting underfoot. Ruth stumbled but caught herself, her legs protesting the uneven terrain. Roman tightened his grip on her hand. “Are you okay?” he asked. Ruth smiled, pushing away her fatigue. “I’m fine,” she said, even though her heart was racing.
A cool breeze swept through the trees as they approached a pile of rocks. Roman’s eyes widened. “That’s my dad’s jacket!” he cried. Ruth’s pulse quickened. Where was the man? She scanned the area and finally saw him—a motionless figure trapped beneath a fallen log and his bike wedged into the mud and rocks missing a front wheel. Blood trickled from a gash in his leg, mixing with the rainwater now pooling on the forest floor.
Roman started to panic, shouting for help. Ruth placed her hands on his shoulders, calming him. “We need to act fast,” she said, trying to maintain her composure. She knew she couldn’t move the log alone. “Roman, take my phone,” she said. “Walk toward the park with Jack. Call for help when you get a signal.”
Roman nodded, his fear giving way to determination. Ruth watched him and the dog disappear down the path before turning her attention to the boy’s father. She carefully elevated his injured leg, using his jacket as a makeshift pillow to slow the bleeding. The rain poured down in sheets now, soaking Ruth to the bone.
Minutes later, she heard voices. Roman had returned with help—two EMTs with a stretcher, followed by Roman’s frantic mother. Relief washed over Ruth as the medics stabilized the man and loaded him onto the stretcher. Roman’s mother rushed toward her son, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if you weren’t here.”
Ruth, soaked and shivering, smiled. “I’m just glad I could help.”
As the ambulance pulled away, Ruth stood for a moment in the rain, watching the taillights disappear. She had come to the park for a simple jog, but today had become something much more—a reminder of her strength, of her ability to protect and care for others, even now. Maybe she would get that tattoo after all, not as a symbol of rebellion, but as a mark of resilience, of the woman she had become.
The rain was still heavy as Ruth made her way back towards the shared library. She squinted and noticed a book left underneath an adjacent bench. Hemmingway. Its pages were slightly damp, and the edges of the cover started curling back. Ruth headed home, the book still tucked under her arm, her heart full.
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