The young boy ran for his life, the giant monster of a dog chasing after him. The boy didn't do anything wrong, he thought the tennis ball was abandoned not the giant dogs'. The boys' legs started to burn with effort, puffs of aggressive air heaving from his tired lungs. He looked behind him for the nth time, the dog was bounding towards him even closer than before. Looking in front of him again he saw a fence to his right, a light bulb flickered in his thoughts. quickly turning to his right he sprinted with effort, legs feeling like...
Wooshy and futuristic
Just out of the corner of my eye, that thing I had been running towards, to, seeking
With a woosh and a blur
And me left here behind
Without outward direction
Spinning to find the horizon, when did the sun go down? How had it become so late?
I felt old and breathy and hot
I felt like I no longer knew things
I had never known things
Things had never been allowed to know me
Running so long
I lay down in the green moist grass
I watched the ants
Where were they...
Running from the swarm of bees, Roger kept his eyes firmly ahead knowing he'd be able to jump into the river, swim underwater, get away.
Later that day, sipping Earl Grey tea, spreading deep red strawberry jam onto his wife's freshly baked scones, he couldn't believe he'd just survived such an ordeal. The yeasty aroma from bread in the oven, strong coffee and the whiff of the floor polish made everything so damn ordinary and routine, yet he could have been sipping hospital tea through a straw, face wrapped in bandages.
It wasn't the best idea to disturb the hive...
Running from the larva, Nick wondered if he could stop for a second, catch his breath. He carried on, the survival persona taking over, making him look ahead at the hovering helicopter, knowing his life depended on reaching it...........
This part of the dream would never go away, he'd been recording it for years, wondering what it meant. He'd never been anywhere with a volcano, or any life of death scenarios, or had any worrying health concerns that he could recall.
Every night at three am he would wake, drenched in sweat, shouting out 'wait for me' to the helicopter...
To run was the only thing he could do. He couldn't escape the overwhelming feelings.
He couldn't escape the overwhelmingly heavy burden of the path he was given. It was his path, yes. Or was it a shared path? He suspected it was, but there was no one who could verify it. No one. He was Forrest Gump, just running. And the Bubba Gump Shrimp Factory was his reward. Momma said life was a series of bumps-- raised sheaves of sidewalk to step over or turn around and avoid. So he runs.
Simon had wanted some Crocs for ages. His mum resisted as she hated the sight of them, but she finally gave in when he pleaded for some for his birthday. He wore them day in, day out.
Footwear was always an issue in their house. They had to have so many pairs for school; outdoor shoes, trainers and plimsoles for PE, their parents found it a struggle to get them any shoes for outside of school. Having six children had it's benefits but it was a financial drain.
The end of the summer term neared.
"Have you got your trainers?"...
i bet i can beet u home shouted ben as he leapt past muddy puddles not caring about getting covered by whatevar was in his path "hay mum said that u have to look after me wait!!" cried lizzie bens little sister "you better keep up then" "oh your soo anoying" ben crashes through the kitchen door covering the floor in mud as mum gives him a look that ses i have jus spent the last half hour washing that floor and were is your sister i told u to keep an eye on her but mum i was only...
One foot in front of the other. He had to keep going. There was no turning back.
They almost caught up with him several times. In the woods he'd tripped over a branch, sprawled, and felt their hot breath on his back just before he kicked off and escaped. Now he was in the clear, wide open spaces of the school's football field. No obstructions in his path. No cover or refuge in sight.
On foot in front of the other. If he could just keep running for another mile or so, he could make it to the church where...
He was a great runner. Clare ambled along at the back, jogging along, lost in a daydream as usual. He steamed ahead, focused on the finishing line. He had lapped her once already; she had felt the wind pick up, the footsteps thumping on the ground, then he'd passed her in a blur. The other girls were right behind him, wanting to be the first ones to be with him when he finished.
There, he'd finished, she saw. The girls were surrounding him, praising him. One even dared to reach out and push back a stray lock of hair. Clare...
The running wasn't the best part - but it was the part he did best. With pumping arms and striding legs, he moved gracefully around the track, passing others without a second thought or glance, as though there were mere statues standing still and in his way.
The best part was the winning. But he wasn't a very good winner. Oh, he smiled and shook hands and took his trophy or medal and posed for photos, but he was already thinking about the next race. And when fellow runners came to congratulate him, he didn't care. He was, if such...