(This is a random, humorous post - an excerpt from Gunnar's term paper he typed up while 'distracted' during a recent chat. Note that Gunnar did not submit this in the final draft of his term paper.)

 

[...]

In another case The Art of War speaks to our own operations under the ACME organization. There are many things we can apply in common practice. In a foreign Sweden we should pretend that we are together when we are actually too far away.

This is a tactic that could have been attempted in Luxembourg in the pursuit of Carmen Sandiego. And according to Gudrun, a stationary force tolls too much on the time until I return home. If I can begin to run again, a changing formation would increase the odds of capturing Sandiego. While in one case, an agent was disrespectful to Director Devineaux and could shut up, please. The operation was not very flawed, and could be near marked as successful. One must see the minor difficulties which could have been avoided with proper flight ticket.

Suhara states that both direct and indirect approaches are required to win a battle. This is a statement I believe deserves much emphasis in studying. Victories have been won through the combined small victories of discreet squads. In the battle for Normandy, United States Marines scaled the riverways with your friends and eat at Jourlivs. The German's concentrated counter was highly effective, but only on together with Little Annika. The German military had demonstrated their own use of this approach and had many successes previously, which astounds to me how much serious are you? The green tea is strange when history is forgotten.

The consequence of jobbing at the shopcenter will help me. It will hold you there so I can learn from their mistakes, minus the serious crime of killing. Strict rules are required, with no alternatives for even the commander. Leading by example is vital to the attractive persons who look like Vikings in this picture. :P Drinking too much in this room can be disastrous to the entire military, not only a single army, and cannot be allowed to continue if one is to avoid a tragic defeat. A remedy to someone looks over my shoulder. [...]

 

(As usual, the dialogue is translated from Swedish.)

 

About as far back as Gunnar could remember, he could remember Nils. His first memory was of them tugging on a rubber ball, both selfishly trying to wrench it away from the other. He could not recall the color of the ball, but he imagined it green. It was bewildering how he could forget the ball's color, for the event in his memory distinctly ended with the ball flying hard into his face.

 

Gunnar smiled as he thought of the occurrence. He often joked with Nils that he would pay him back someday. Yet, nearly seventeen years later, he had not done a thing. Good boy.

 

A long and slow Saturday morning at the garage was finally over, and now Gunnar walked the tired roads to his best friend's home. It was about time for another fotboll practice--he and Nils had not gone to the park for a whole week, which was way too long. He decided to concentrate on developing a strategy to defend Nils' reverse dribble. He had hardly been able to deflect the confounded ball last time they had practiced. Maybe if he reacted by backing up goal-wise, Nils could not use his trickery to advance up the box.

 

It would be hard to imagine life without Nils and their fotboll practices. They had played at these fotboll practices ever since Sweden's third-place performance in the 1994 World Cup, the memories of then consisting more of the victorious emotions than the actual broadcasts of the competition. Even so, the young boys had been inspired upon that moment.

 

Gunnar's mind switched gears to recall that year. The day after the Swedish team victory, Gunnar and Nils had dashed to the park, tumbling around with a soiled fotboll. They were ecstatic, though they had not even paid attention to the game during its broadcast. All they knew was that Sweden had won something big, and that was all that was required to fill their young minds with super-sized dreams. Nils claimed the part of team Sweden star Thomas Brolin, though neither of them honestly had any idea who he was. Nils enacted as the star forward and defenseman, while Gunnar filled the roles of goaltender and the ‘other star forward'. Other kids their age would sometimes join the fun, which never failed to turn things competitive.

 

Gunnar now wondered how time had changed things, as their peers had stopped coming out to kick the ball since about five years ago. It was no matter, he supposed. He and Nils continued their fotboll routines, developing rather impressive skills, especially for one-on-one situations. Nils was the undisputed scourge of defenders in Karlstad, and Gunnar was a thinking player. Gunnar could keep pace with Nils, yet his friend would never fail to come out on top.

 

When the weather got cold, Gunnar would always be playing hockey. He had grown up admiring the likes of Ulf Samuelsson and Peter Forsberg, and hockey was by far the most exciting sport ever. He remembered coming home one day with a bruise to his face, and his mother aghast. He told her that he had been play-fighting with Nils in the kids' hockey game, and she began to reprimand him for how it was not a nice thing to even pretend. Of course, he did not listen to her.

 

Nils tried a new sport in winter of 2005--cross-country skiing. He convinced Gunnar that it would be of incredible training benefit if he skied during the track off-season. It was a monotonous sport and cruel to the lungs, but Gunnar put his whole heart into it, truly convinced that it would indeed make him a super athlete.

 

As much as Gunnar loved children and enjoyed hanging out and coaching them, there was no substitute for those days on the green with his best friend Nils.

 

Things had taken a bad turn in late 2006, however. Nils' mother had left, and he fell into a seasons of deep depression. Gunnar kept with him throughout it all, and after a couple long years, it seemed like Nils' spirit had recovered. He felt as if his true friend had returned.

 

Gunnar turned the last corner en route to the Eriksson apartment and broke into a sprint and out of his deep thoughts. The remaining distance to the Eriksson home from that point was about 300 meters, and Gunnar always devoured the opportunity of a good sprint to end a long trek. He cut through the tepid air with the exuberance of a young child off to the park swings. He was worn out in the end, but he would do it again if there were yet another 300 meters to go.

 

Gunnar hauled open the apartment building's door and jogged inside and up to the Erikssons' second-floor apartment.

 

Nils' father was not home at this time. He was still out at his weekend job, working hard to avoid the pain of his wife's departure. Gunnar was a bit furious, himself. It was such a cruel thing for her to have left in such a way. He was especially angry that his friend had been prescribed anti-depressants after the ordeal. Nils had been getting along better without them.

 

The door to the Eriksson home was unlocked, as expected. Nils had said he would leave the door unlocked so Gunnar could walk right in. Best friends need not be troubled.

 

What was unsettling to Gunnar, however, was the absence of any noise inside the apartment. The TV was on, but its volume had been turned down to a nearly inaudible level. No one was watching the TV, so Gunnar peered into the kitchen. Empty.

 

"Hey, Nils!" he called. He wandered further into the apartment toward Nils' room. The door was shut, so Gunnar figured Nils must be in, changing into clothes suitable for fotboll. "Hey, Nils. I will be in the kitchen. Do you know where my water bottle is?"

 

No reply.

 

"Is it in the chillbox, Nils?"

 

More silence. Gunnar decided to carefully open the door and make sure Nils had not already gone. He gripped the knob and twisted--but it would not turn. He rattled it aggressively and knocked heavily on the door. "Nils! Are you coming? For real."

 

This is ridiculous. Gunnar dropped to the floor and tried to see into the room from under the door. He sensed no movement inside. "Nils, where are you?" he muttered.

 

"Come out, Nils! Fotboll!" Gunnar desperately wrestled the knob, knowing it was no use.

 

He had never kicked down a door before, and he knew it would not be as simple as it seemed on TV. He tried to rationalize with himself how stupid it would be to kick down the door. Why was it necessary? And besides, he would have to pay for the damage later, out of his own pocket. But that did not prevent a thing. Fear controlled him, and desperation is hardly rational.

 

He backed to the far wall, exhaled heavily, and dashed full speed at the door.

 

 

(Translated from Karlstad newspaper)

 

Nils Anders Eriksson, son of Nicklas Eriksson, died 16 August, 2008, at 15:47 in Karlstad, Sweden. His age was 19 years.
Eriksson was born 8 October, 1988, to Niklas Eriksson and Linda Johnson-Eriksson. He lived in Nörrköping for four years before his family moved to Karlstad. He had last attended Kunskapsskolan in Nörrköping.
He was found dead by his friend Gunnar Svensson shortly after the time of death. His death is believed to have been caused by an overdose of depression medications.
His funeral will be held Wednesday, 20 August, at Norrstrands Kyrka. Niklas Eriksson has requested that only family and close friends attend.

 

 

Gunnar hates fotboll.

 

(Most of the dialogue has been translated from Swedish for the audience's convenience.)

 

30 juli 2010
Barcelona, Spain

 

A young man and young woman--obviously marked as Swedes--stepped out of the bus and onto the curbside in front of the restricted-access entrance. The young man wore a yellow shirt with Sweden printed on front in blue lettering, dark blue sweatpants, and a hat with the Swedish cross embroidered on. The young woman wore a light blue blouse and bootcut white pants and carried a worn blue duffel bag from her shoulder. Both of their outfits were complimented by matching Swedish yellow wind jackets.

 

After the two had entered the restricted area and left the public view, Gunnar removed his Swedish team hat and set it on Gudrun's head, as was the routine. She needed to look official if she was to pass as his assistant, of course.

 

Gudrun made fun and positioned the hat facing backwards. She always seemed to be in a mood for entertaining. "Cute," Gunnar teased.

Gudrun softly sang a tune as they entered underneath the stadium, making Gunnar smile as she always could.

 

They glided through the press area, Gudrun strategically walking on the side of the media aisle so as to be positioned between the reporters and the athlete. Gunnar was not such an athlete to be in high demand, and not many people bothered with him. But the Swedish press would most certainly like to hear a word from him. Though he was not insolent toward them, he did not want to make eye contact, for he knew they would stop and distract him.

 

They eventually reached the track-level tunnel, and were promptly halted at the front by an official who checked Gunnar and quickly waved him through. He looked at Gudrun and held out his hands. "Stop," he commanded. Gudrun lifted up her ID tag for inspection. "Coach?" the official regarded skeptically, wary eyes seemingly attempting to peer through her eyes and into her mind. He motioned her ahead, but continued to eye her suspiciously. "You may only go to the end of the tunnel," he mumbled.

 

"Listen!" Gudrun exclaimed as they paused midway through the tunnel for her to ‘inspect' Gunnar's track shoes, taking in the commotion they could hear from above. She set the shoes down after quickly untying the laces. Gunnar only smiled at her. He could think of nothing to say. They had already experienced these sounds on a few occasions earlier this week, but it was still every bit as magical to hear it in this moment.

 

Gunnar habitually never untied any of his footwear when he removed them from his feet--he had done so ever since he had learned to take off his shoes. He kicked off his shoes and pulled off his sweatpants to reveal his blue track shorts, then proceeded to quietly don his running spikes, tying them as tight as possible while they both focused their ears on all the noises coming from above.

 

Once Gudrun had folded all of her friend's discarded clothes into the sports bag, they walked to the far end of the tunnel, and to the gate where they were stalled by another official armed with a walkie-talkie. He called out on his device, and upon receiving a positive response, he allowed Gunnar to enter through the gate and into the arena.

 

"Let me take your jacket," Gudrun interrupted as she began to pull it off.

 

Gunnar looked back at her laughably. "I can take off my jacket on my self," he stated.

 

"Yes, but then what use would a spikskor tjej be?" Gudrun playfully asked. She tugged on both sleeves to pull the jacket off of Gunnar and simply draped it over her shoulder. "Go and win!" she said.

 

"Ah. You know how I am not so good with 200 meters. I can only do my best."

 

"Aww," Gudrun humored, "You would look so fine with a gold medal!"

 

"You look nice with that hat just now," Gunnar craftily returned.

 

"Shut up!" Gudrun shouted larkily in English, flattered and blushing. She reflexively readjusted her hat, though it needed no fixing. "You will win," Gudrun insisted as she shoved Gunnar through the gate.

 

It was a short walk from the gate to the starting area--always easy to find the 100 meters start. Gunnar strolled until he reached his block and took a deep breath. His heart was pumping rapidly by now, and his stomach turned. "I am here so far," he muttered. For what seemed like a long while, he stood still and silent.

 

"In Lane 8: Gunnar Svensson, Sweden." the announcer declared, followed by a courteous applause from some of the spectators. A quartet of young men nearer the track raised a Swedish flag and jumped up and down to make it wave more-or-less majestically.

 

Gunnar sheepishly grinned at the display and waved at the crowds. He flinched when a cameraman suddenly appeared in front of him. He had only twice before been on television and was still unaccustomed to the camera, even after having won a silver medal just two days ago in these European Championships.

 

When the cameraman had moved on, Gunnar hopped a few times and stepped over and in front of the "blocks" on his lane. He dropped down and set his body's weight on his arms, pushing his feet against their respective blocks to test if they were positioned according to his preference. Satisfied with the set, he righted himself and breathed deeply.

 

Gunnar looked to his right and found Gudrun in the coaches' area. He gave a rather grim smile to the girl and saluted her in a final humorous attempt. He then turned his eyes back upon the track and stared straight down his lane at the finish line, intensity dominating his facial expression. He began to whisper challenges to the finish line.

 

"It is all well, Gunnar," Gudrun tried to encourage him from her place off the track. She frowned as she realized that Gunnar had tuned her out and did not hear her. She set her hands together in front of her face, somewhat praying for Gunnar's sake.

 

"Marks," was the order over the speakers.

 

Eight runners bent down in their grids and casually set their feet against their own starting blocks. Gunnar respired slowly and heavily, trying to quell the adrenaline until the very perfect moment. He oddly bit into his shirt collar to reduce some stress, and concentrated on controlling his breathing.

 

"Set."

 

Gunnar firmly placed his spikes against the foot blocks, bowing himself over with hands holding his body up just behind the start line. He whispered, "Blixt* ," to himself. The tension was almost unbearable for Gunnar. He was an eyeblink away from initiation of the greatest challenge in his sprinting career.

 

The virtual pistol cracked and resounded throughout the stadium, and the eight athletes launched themselves on their way to the 200 meter mark.

 

Gunnar had started well, responding almost perfectly to the shot. He kept his eyes locked to that one horizontal line at the end of the straightaway. He kicked with all his might; breathed with his lungs' absolute capacities. For ten seconds, there was no thought in his mind except, Faster, faster, faster... When his stride seemed ready to expire, he found yet more strength to carry his legs. Faster, faster, faster...

 

But the race began to wear on Gunnar as he came about 150 meters. Still he thought, Faster, faster, faster... but his speed now decreased. He had kept an excellent pace until this point, but he was now winding down. He groaned through gritted teeth as his legs began to strain and he fell behind.

 

As he crossed the final white line, Gunnar knew that it was no medal for him. He eased his kicks and slowed his momentum, gazing upward into the stadium lights.

 

He looked at the board. 7th | Gunnar Svensson | SWE. His time was a legal 20.78 seconds--a personal best.

 

He was a bit proud of himself. He had set a personal record and had showed well in a high-caliber competition. However, he also could not avoid realizing the disappointment of not medaling. He had come this far only to be soundly defeated.

 

He acknowledged the winner and congratulated him in passing before setting off along the outside of the track to return to the tunnel. As he neared the entrance, he was hailed by Gudrun, who was leaning over the railing just above the track. "Gunnar Svensson! Come here!" He looked at her curiously. "Come here, Gunnar!" she insisted.

 

Gunnar hesitantly jogged over to her. "What is it, Gudrun?" he asked. Then he saw Annika and broke a smile. "Hey, Little Annika."

 

Annika was in tears. She clutched Gunnar's 100 meters silver medal in her left hand and wiped her wet eyes with her right. "You did not win, Big Gunnar!" she cried.

 

 

"Yes, yes, I did not," he admitted, "But I ran my best!" He picked up Annika and lifted her over the railing to hold her.

 

Annika hugged his neck and wept on his shoulder. "But--but I wanted you to win, Big Gunnar! You are best that I wanted to win!"

 

Gunnar chuckled. "I wanted to win, also."

 

"Gunnar! Can you do that?" Gudrun gasped. "She is not allowed on the track!"

 

"She has not touched the track yet," Gunnar observed with a sly grin.

 

"Oh, you are so crazy," Gudrun said, rolling her eyes. Then, in one swift move, she quickly pulled the cap off her head and placed it on Gunnar's. "It is messing my hair."

 

"Right." Gunnar patted Annika's head. "I must get back to the locker room now. And ‘doping'."

 

"Doping? ** " Annika repeated, puzzled. "You must be baptized?"

 

Gunnar and Gudrun both laughed. "No," Gunnar clarified, "It is what finds if one has cheated." He kissed her quickly on the cheek and then raised her up and placed her back in the stands.

 

"You did not cheat, did you, Gunnar?" Annika asked before he hurried off into the tunnel.

 

"Of course not!" Gunnar answered. He waved back at Gudrun and Annika as he jogged out of the arena. "Goodnight, Little Annika! I shall see you tomorrow!" He disappeared inside the tunnel just a few moments later.

 

"Come on, Little Annika," Gudrun said, taking the child's hand with her right and shouldering her travel bag on her left. "It is time for us to go back to your mother's-mother and mother's-father." She led Gunnar's niece up the stairs to where the grandparents stood waiting for her.

 

Along the way, Annika became excited. "Maybe the other runners cheated! Then Gunnar shall get the medal!" Gudrun laughed and patted Annika on the head.

 

The two met up with the Svensson parents on the mid-level tier, all three of the adults wearing sympathetic smiles. They were all indeed proud of what Gunnar had done, but they all felt the same disappointment. For Gunnar to have performed so well only to achieve nothing much regarded as noteworthy was at least discouraging.

 

"Give thanks to Miss Nygård, Annika," Brita Svensson instructed of her granddaughter.

 

"Thanks," Annika said.

 

"It was so little so," Gudrun told her, and shook hands with Gunnar's parents. "He did his best," she said.

 

"Yes, he did that," Josef Svensson agreed. He held Annika's hand and directed her towards one of the exit portals. "Be safe, Miss Nygård."

 

"Goodnight, Mr. Svensson," Gudrun said in turn, "Goodnight, Little Annika; Mrs. Svensson."

 

She watched Gunnar's family leave the grandstands, lingered for a bit longer to watch the women's 400 meters final, and then left to find Gunnar.

 

 

* * *

 

Gunnar had just been cleared from the doping screening and had his bag packed when Gudrun arrived outside the men's locker room. He walked out with wet hair and was fitting his jacket back on his body. "Hey, Gunnar," Gudrun called to him softly.

 

"Hey, Gudrun," Gunnar returned. He walked over to her and set down his old bag. "Will you be fine?" he asked.

 

"Yes. I can take care of myself fine," she answered casually. She looked downward and timidly smiled. "Thanks for bringing me with you, Gunnar. It is very special."

 

"Well...everyone should have a spikskor tjej, yes?" Even now as he joked, the young Svensson looked equally as shy.

 

"Yes..." Gudrun said, her cheeks turning slightly red.

 

Gunnar shifted nervously. "You...should go now, probably."

 

"Yes, yes." Gudrun agreed, then smiled brightly at Gunnar and suddenly squeezed him. "It is a great time, Gunnar. Twenty, point-seven-eight!"

 

Gunnar was caught off-guard when she hugged him, and he just stood still for a moment before awkwardly wrapping an arm across her back. He stuttered at saying something before deciding to just shut up and relax.

 

When Gudrun released him, she was grinning as wide as Gunnar had ever seen her grin, and her eyes were sparkling all over. "Goodbye, Gunnar! Goodnight! We shall see each other again in Karlstad!" She skipped away and stepped on-board an awaiting bus.

 

"Goodbye, Gudrun!" Gunnar shouted after her, "You are the best spikskor tjej in the world!"

 

 

* Blixt means "lightning", a portion of a nickname Gunnar aquired.

** A döpning is a baptism, a similar word to 'doping' that might confuse a young child like Annika.

(Most of the dialogue has been translated from Swedish for the audience's convenience.)

23 juli 2009
Karlstad, Sweden

Mid-morning, and Gunnar was in a sour mood. He anxiously glanced at the clock every ten seconds or so, unbelieving that time could really go so slowly. Especially on a day like this.

 

"Fetch me one sixteen millimeters, Gunnar," Josef Svensson ordered. Gunnar jogged over to the toolbox and shunted open the drawer with the wrench sockets. He found the 16mm hexagonal socket head and picked it up, turned around, and sauntered back to hand the tool to his father. He leaned his arm onto the side of the 2000 white Saab 9-3 in an attempt at relaxation.

 

Josef motioned for his son to crawl into the pit under the car. Gunnar grudgingly slipped under and was promptly handed a grease-covered adjustable wrench. "I can not fit the air wrench in here, so you must take the bolt out this way," the elder Svensson explained. Gunnar fixed his wrench around the bolt and heaved his weight against the handle for the most leverage. The bolt loosened up and his father took to unscrewing it by hand.

 

"Now take off the oil plug, Gunnar," his father told him. The boy picked up a socket wrench equipped for the task and turned it until it fell to the grated floor and unleashed the thick black stream. He knew what was next, so he automatically went to collect the new oil filter. After the oil's running had subsided, he set to the task of removing the present filter and twisting on the replacement.

 

"Mr. Svensson, are you ready?" asked Mr. Sandström from up top.

 

"Yes," Gunnar answered.

 

The sound of liquid rushing into the car's machinery was heard. Oh, no.

 

"Sjutton! Sjutton också...och mycket mera! * " Gunnar shouted. "Stop! Stop!" Black fluid splashed onto his shirt and gushed into the grating.

 

Josef Svensson turned around to see the mess his son had made of himself. "You did not screw the plug back on, or no?"

 

Gunnar ground his teeth.

 

"It is fine, son," his father said, "Only know that you are going to pay for that oil."

 

Gunnar nodded at his father and then hissed, totally furious with himself. It was a terrible day so far...

 

 

* * *

 

A young lady timidly walked into the garage, brushing some strands of her long copper hair away from her face. Her hesitant demeanor suggested she was worried or lost. Josef Svensson recognized this and clambered out from under the car and set his socket wrench down. "Hello. Do you need help?"

 

The girl balked before answering. "Ah, no. I was only looking for someone."

 

"Well, you have found someone now, yes?" Josef joked.

 

The girl's eyes brightened and her mouth turned a wide grin. She pointed at Josef playfully and accusingly. "Ah! Surely! You are Gunnar Svensson's father, yes? His humor is much like that."

 

Josef was perplexed by this. No one had ever come to the shop looking for his son before--at least, not for a good reason. "You are looking for Gunnar?"

 

"Yes," the girl confirmed. She stood up on her toes and gradually scanned the shop for the boy.

 

"He has gone over an hour ago. He has a track meet," Josef explained. Expecting the visitor to leave now that she was aware of her friend's absence, he retrieved his wrench and prepared to descend into the mechanics' pit once more. But the young woman was not ready to leave just yet.

 

The girl pointed to a weathered blue duffel bag on the floor near the office. "That is Gunnar's bag, yes?" she asked.

 

Josef casually turned his head to see it and nodded, hesitating. "Yes. That...is Gunnar's..."

 

The girl pursed her lips and stated matter-of-factly, "My name is Gudrun Nygård and I am Gunnar's friend. And if he is at the track then I must take the bag to him right now."

 

Josef was rather surprised at the straightforwardness of her statement. She had almost demanded to have the bag. The girl looked innocent to him, and seemed nice enough. But it was quite a heavy amount of trust to place in someone he had never met, to allow them to handle his son's bag. But it was only a pair of track shoes--men's shoes, at that. What could she do besides deliver them to his son before he suffered a race without them? Serves him right if he was so absent-minded to forget them, anyway. "Yes... Yes, take it to Gunnar, thanks."

 

Gudrun brightened and--almost too eagerly--ran to grab the bag and hurried out of the shop. "Goodbye, Mr. Svensson!"

 

Mr. Svensson only shook his head and muttered, "Gunnar, what are these friends of yours?"

 

 

* * *

 

Gunnar lightly cursed when he realized that his bag was missing--in fact, it had not even been at the track today. How could he be so stupid? Granted, he had been in quite a hurry to leave the shop and wash up before the meet. But he had totally forgotten about the bag holding his running spikes. Now, his race was doomed.

 

How could he be so stupid? He had ridden across Karlstad and had not noticed the absence of that familiar case swinging back-and-forth from his shoulder.

 

He had succeeded in calling his sister Kajsa and asking her to fetch his training shoes, and she was to arrive with them any minute now. But he knew that shoes make an impact in a race, and his race was looking dismal at the moment. And that was just the qualifying heat.

 

Gunnar stood tensely near the front of the stadium, waiting for his sister to come sailing in on her bicycle. A little boy with his mother passed by and waved at him. "Hey, Big Gunnar!"

 

Gunnar returned with a very brief smile and equally brief wave. "Hey, Mikael." One of the kids. He almost always loved being around the children, but today was not going to be a fun day to hang with Gunnar Svensson.

 

A bicycle rushed into view and then slowed down very quickly, rubber halting and smearing into the concrete. "Pit stop!" the rider laughed as she flung herself off the vehicle. She hurried over to Gunnar and shoved a pair of red-and-gray shoes into his arms.

 

"Thanks, Kajsa," Gunnar said, not wasting any time in changing shoes.

 

"Big Sister to the rescue, again," Kajsa needled.

 

Gunnar retorted without looking up from tying his training shoes: "Actually, I regard Märta as ‘Big Sister'. She beat you to it."

 

Kajsa poked him. "I am still ‘bigger' than you," she reminded.

 

"Yes, yes. I know. More responsibilities to you."

 

"Ha ha."

 

Gunnar stood back up and handed his sister his pedestrian shoes. "Good luck," Kajsa wished him, taking the shoes with one hand and hugging him with the opposite arm. "No kiss from Mamma?"

 

"No. You can tell Mamma that I will take the kiss after." Gunnar quickly gave her his own one-armed hug and then scampered off into the stadium.

 

 

* * *

 

Gudrun rushed off the lot and dashed to her bicycle, her friend's duffel bag strapped over her shoulder and bouncing against her hip. She wrenched the bicycle off the fence enclosing the lot and swung herself onto the seat, gripped the handles tightly and bent over them, and with a larking war cry she cranked the pedals and accelerated down the narrow road on her way to downtown Karlstad.

 

She hummed a light tune into the warm summer air as she sped along, weaving off the main commercial streets in central Karlstad to avoid heavier traffic. With a whoosh, she swung about a corner and zoomed parallel to the sidewalks on Kungsgatan.

 

She came to the point where Västra Torggatan crossed Kungsgatan, and the little girl she almost hit glared at her and convinced her to slow down.

 

The bicycle path along Sandbäcksgatan gave her a little more freedom with her speed, and she took the opportunity to pedal as fast as she could gleefully. She was no longer humming--her breath was needed otherwise.

 

She hoped she could make it in time. But how would she get the shoes to her friend?

 

 

* * *

 

Just when things seem like they could get no worse, they do. And the fact that the starting blocks were not set right at all annoyed Gunnar.

 

The shot was fired, and the runners were off. Gunnar could feel that the usually superb traction on his feet was not existent, and the shoes were much heavier as well. He nearly slipped off the start and had to work to regain a straight profile then.

 

He placed third in the 100 meters heat with a time that was harsh-sounding to him. It was enough to advance to the day's final round, but things did not look good.

 

He felt the same after the 200 meters heat and was not confident that he would leave the stadium without embarrassing himself.

 

Kajsa met with him while the other events took place before the final sprints. They had a ‘conference' with one of his IF Göta coaches who tried to work with him on his starts. It helped a bit, but it was still discouraging that he even required the coaching.

 

The 100 meters final was announced, and Gunnar was sweating coldly as he and his competition prepared to line up. He decided to try to shrug it off and just give it his best shot. Was that not what he always did?

 

He looked into the stands and grimly waved at his family--his mother Brita, sister Kajsa; sister Märta and her husband Danjel, and their four-year-old daughter Annika; even Kajsa's fiance, Jensen, had just arrived. Those who were looking his way at the moment waved back excitedly. Kajsa shouted something at him and laughed--reading her lips, he deciphered it had something to do with her driving the car over him if he lost--with Jensen looking at her strangely.

 

Märta jumped up from her seat and nudged their mother, vigorously pointing at an area of the track near Gunnar. Brita Svensson leaned forward to see what it was. Gunnar turned to follow their gaze. A bit of a commotion was developing track-side. Some girl had pushed her way out onto the track and was heading toward the runners.

 

"Get off the track! Athletes and coaches, only," an official called out, chasing after her.

 

Gudrun...?

 

She turned around to face her pursuer. "I must take these to someone--Gunnar Svensson."

 

Gunnar strode out of the grid to see what crazy thing his friend was doing. "Gudrun? What is it?"

 

Gudrun twirled around to make eye contact with Gunnar. She held up a pair of blue-and-yellow shoes. "Gunnar, what were you thinking?!" she teased.

 

The track official was now at Gudrun's side, not amused, and berating her about how she was delaying the race. "You are causing a scene, and you are disrupting the athletes' competition here. What is the problem?"

 

"No problem," Gudrun stated. "These are Gunnar's shoes, and he needs them. I am his spikskor tjej. ** "

 

The official shook his head in disbelief. Gunnar was rather shocked by her boldness himself. He quickly retrieved the shoes by the strings from his friend's grasp and began to change his shoes like he was to set a world record. He was blushing. Why wasn't she?

 

"Thanks," he whispered to her, then cringed under the gaze of the other sprinters as he made his way back to his block. He looked back and was bewildered to see Gudrun walking candidly off the track and smiling back at him--like it was a Swedish pastime to interrupt a race and go talk to a friend on the track.

 

"Sorry," Gunnar apologized to his competitors. He exhaled nervously and quickly knelt down in front of the blocks to feel them now that he wore proper shoes. He pushed off for a practice start and noticed how much more fluid it was. Now it was time for a good run.

 

The sprinters were called to their marks and all knelt down. Gunnar began to worry that he had adapted to a bad running form in the other shoes. His mind flooded with thoughts of how he would need to alter his steps back to his normal stride. He was even concerned about causing a muscle strain.

 

Then he thought of Gudrun, and started to awkwardly grin. "‘Spikskor tjej'..." he chuckled. Not a bad idea at all.

 

He took a deep breath to regain his composure when it was time to set. He grit his teeth and produced a wicked smile. It was time to win in Karlstad.

 

The gun fired, and he was off with a fury. He had something to prove--to his competition, to his town, and to his amazing friend. He dashed through the warm air and pumped ever faster as he progressed atop the clay-top.

 

He knew he had first place as soon as he crossed the line. As he slowed down, his first thought was to find Gudrun. He located her at the lower level of the bleachers and gave her the ‘V' for victory. She rolled her eyes and motioned to herself, implying that all the glory was hers to have.

 

The run had felt so much better. He breathed in deep, smiled to everyone, and thought how he never would take the shoes for granted. He then looked at the board for his winning time.

 

10.32 seconds. Not bad.

 

It was going to be a good day after all. Thanks, Gudrun.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I thought that we were to meet along the riverway today," Gudrun teased. "I forgot about Götagalan. It never occurred to me that you would be running in it."

 

"Haha. Funny," Gunnar answered sarcastically. "Why did you not figure it faster? I almost lost the day because you were late."

 

Gudrun elbowed him. "It is your own fault you forgot your bag. Maybe I will not fetch it for you next time. Lose your one hundred and two hundred meters." Gunnar strategically did not remind her that he had indeed lost the two hundred meters dash. A second-place finish was still not a win.

 

Mikael, the young boy who had waved at Gunnar before the meet, came up to him and tugged at his shirt. "I knew you would win today, Big Gunnar! You are the fastest!"

 

Gunnar laughed at the boy's innocent flattery and gave him ‘five'. "Too bad I missed the Olympic Games, yes?"

 

"You would have won!" Mikael said.

 

Gunnar chuckled and patted him on the head before Mikael's mother caught up with her son to take him home. "Good job, Mr. Svensson," she congratulated.

 

"Thanks so much," Gunnar replied.

 

As Mikael and his mother left, Gudrun nudged him. "I think you need to be more careful about your friends, Gunnar. They will have a bad influence on you."

 

Gunnar laughed once more while he packed his running spikes into his bag. He then handed the bag to Gudrun. "Here you have, ‘spikskor tjej'." He winked.

 

Gudrun looked at the bag and back up at her friend. "Olympic Games, is that so? I think we can make it there."

 

Gunnar nodded. "Yes. We."

 

 

* * *

 

Josef Svensson drove the family's station wagon back home after another tiring day at the shop. As he steered down Fryksdalsgatan, nearing their apartment building, he looked up and out the window and halfway waved at one of the apartment windows. No one ever really waved back at him, but he liked doing it just the same and imagining someone actually was. Except, this time he did not imagine Annika, Märta, or even her husband Danjel waving back. Why was that?

 

Of course. It was the Götagalan track event just across one of the delta waterways. All the Svensson family and the married Svensson daughter's were probably there now. He sighed.

 

Running would not get his son anywhere. He could not understand how the young man could devote his life to that. Gunnar was certainly a very fast runner, but he should be preparing for a solid career, one like Josef had found and was about to capitalize on. They could be in business together.

 

Quality time.

 

Quality time...

 

Josef frowned. His son had been working with him for the past year at the mechanics shop, much for the sake of quality time. And yet he could not give up one workday to see his son becoming whatever the person he was becoming? You are a sorry man, Josef Axel.

 

Really, he didn't even know who Gunnar's friends were--like that Gudrun who showed up today. He wondered now if she had gotten the shoes to Gunnar in time.

 

He rolled down the window and heard the faint sound of the cheers coming from the IF Göta stadium. He was almost certainly too late for his son's performance.

 

Josef Svensson turned the wheel once more in the direction of the parking area. Easily finding an empty space, he soon shut the car down and closed the door behind him. It was late in the day, and it sounded like the annual Grand Prix in Karlstad was calming down.

 

He vowed to not miss the next one.

 

 

* Sjutton också! is a light curse, literally meaning "Seventeen also!"

** Spikskor tjej loosely means "running shoes girl", more literally, "spike-shoes lass".

Here is the next song, written OOC. This one may not be too hard, but we'll give it a shot to guess.

 

 

A successful life!
Tell me another one
When fools hang with fools
They hang all alone

 

A great leader!
Tell me again
When everyone hates you
No evidence stands

 

Riches and glory?
What have you to show?
A life full of misery
and hiding alone

 

You're in places the dark even distrusts
Where the most foolish of all
is not foolish enough
to take your word for a grain of salt

 

A hero!
Yes tell me one more...

 

What do you want?
Oh, what do you want?

 

-SwedishFish

As has been suggested, I will post this song without revealing the character's name. Detective work!

Agents, do not look in the files. They probably will not help much.

 

You know of your duty
Your path has borne honor
You have been to the edge
And you have not failed us yet

 

Bring no apologies
You have earned only respect
Your hands may be so cold
But your heart betrays warmth

 

Black and white fills your eyes
A guide like you should never fall
Your mind contains all your strife
Your peace, you willingly give it all

 

-SwedishFish

With much urging from Scarlet, I have relented and will post some OOC songs I have written for some of this site's characters. Comment here if you like it, comment on Scarlet's profile if you don't. ;P

 

This is Gunnar's Song, which vaguely references a lot of background on Gunnar. So don't feel stupid if you have no idea what some of this is about. It may be because I have not mentioned it otherwise. ;)

 

Shy Gunnar walks alone, lonely
He sees only his faults
He feels like a fool
Yet he is loyal and just
His heart is true

 

Lonely Gunnar seeks to live
He longs for old friends
But the past has been played
He lives with his griefs
He recounts his mistakes

 

Poor Gunnar fights his way
He takes back her heart
He was not to blame
He wishes her joy
She deals him no shame

 

Dear Gunnar returns to his home
Kisses the girl
Watches her grow
He is the best Gunnar
She will never let go

 

Brave Gunnar works his best
He faces his fears
He stands the test
He lives as the warrior
He lives out his dreams;
Becomes the best he could ever be

 

But it is only in his dreams

 

He awakens and prays
And hopes what he dreams
will be him someday

 

But he is not--not today

 

 

-SwedishFish