Melinda Duval (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
writer_mel) wrote2013-02-19 06:39 pm
writer_mel) wrote2013-02-19 06:39 pm
Live today, die tomorrow
Mel sat down at her computer, the glimmer of an idea floating in her mind and began to write.
The man ran. And ran. He ran down crowded streets and through filthy alleys. He never once looked behind him. What was behind him didn't matter. It would catch him or not, regardless of whether he saw it. He couldn't hear it, either, but he could feel the hot breath. In moments of irony, the thing cooled his sweat whenever it came close enough.
He knew his destination. He knew the quickest route to it and that the way he ran wasn't anywhere near that. In his drive to get away from the thing, he rabbited when he should have taken the well marked roads. At times he knew he was going in the completely wrong direction but all that mattered was that he keep going.
A series of wrong turns brought him so close to his destination he could taste it. He even glimpsed it one day, but he had to run the other way. For days after he wept as he ran. If only the thing would give up. If only he could show it that he could out run it. He was trying so hard.
Sometimes he ran with others. They paced each other, proving that running was the way to go. If someone else could stay out of reach of the thing, so could he. He could do it. Some of them only ran with him for a day or two, others for much longer, but in the end they all had to make different turns.
And then one day he saw a runner stop. He'd known the man, not well, but they'd run together a few times. He was a good runner—strong and sure of himself. The thing got him, though, despite his strength. Despite his firm believe that running was the way to survive. The other runner stopped cold in his tracks. He looked around wildly like there was something circling him, something no one else could see. In an instant he was in pieces, bloody and tattered, lying on the street.
The man didn't stop running to watch the clean up or listen to the stories told about him. There was nothing new. You ran. You ran to stay away from it. You ran until you found your place or you stopped in the street and got torn apart. For weeks after the man ran with renewed speed. He'd been right. You couldn't stop.
And then another turn took him in sight of his destination. He could see his place and he faltered. He didn't stop, but he slowed, and when he slowed he heard the words said over the fallen runner. "Leaves behind a wife and son." "Enjoyed sports and being outdoors." "Lost his way." "Will be missed."
The man turned toward his destination even though the thing's fetid breath chilled him. It got harder to run and he finally looked back although he couldn't see much. Something was in the way. Finally he couldn't stand it anymore and he stopped. He turned the same way the other runner had and looked around wildly, trying to see the thing. He put his fists up and screamed at it.
When another voice sounded in his ear, the voice of one he loved, of one from his destination, he fought harder. He connected with the thing even though he felt his own life's blood seeping out of him. He fought ineptly at first, not sure what he was doing, but as the fight went on more blows landed. In the end, he stood victorious but exhausted over the thing. Beside him stood his sister. It was her voice he'd heard as he fought.
Together they looked down at the thing and he was shocked to see how small it was. Cylindrical, clear, and surprisingly delicate, the broken syringe had the power to frighten him, but he would never run again. Instead he would stand and fight.
She closed the file with a sigh. As always, the first drafts felt rough and unsubtle. Still, she thought there was something there, something she could work with.
701
The man ran. And ran. He ran down crowded streets and through filthy alleys. He never once looked behind him. What was behind him didn't matter. It would catch him or not, regardless of whether he saw it. He couldn't hear it, either, but he could feel the hot breath. In moments of irony, the thing cooled his sweat whenever it came close enough.
He knew his destination. He knew the quickest route to it and that the way he ran wasn't anywhere near that. In his drive to get away from the thing, he rabbited when he should have taken the well marked roads. At times he knew he was going in the completely wrong direction but all that mattered was that he keep going.
A series of wrong turns brought him so close to his destination he could taste it. He even glimpsed it one day, but he had to run the other way. For days after he wept as he ran. If only the thing would give up. If only he could show it that he could out run it. He was trying so hard.
Sometimes he ran with others. They paced each other, proving that running was the way to go. If someone else could stay out of reach of the thing, so could he. He could do it. Some of them only ran with him for a day or two, others for much longer, but in the end they all had to make different turns.
And then one day he saw a runner stop. He'd known the man, not well, but they'd run together a few times. He was a good runner—strong and sure of himself. The thing got him, though, despite his strength. Despite his firm believe that running was the way to survive. The other runner stopped cold in his tracks. He looked around wildly like there was something circling him, something no one else could see. In an instant he was in pieces, bloody and tattered, lying on the street.
The man didn't stop running to watch the clean up or listen to the stories told about him. There was nothing new. You ran. You ran to stay away from it. You ran until you found your place or you stopped in the street and got torn apart. For weeks after the man ran with renewed speed. He'd been right. You couldn't stop.
And then another turn took him in sight of his destination. He could see his place and he faltered. He didn't stop, but he slowed, and when he slowed he heard the words said over the fallen runner. "Leaves behind a wife and son." "Enjoyed sports and being outdoors." "Lost his way." "Will be missed."
The man turned toward his destination even though the thing's fetid breath chilled him. It got harder to run and he finally looked back although he couldn't see much. Something was in the way. Finally he couldn't stand it anymore and he stopped. He turned the same way the other runner had and looked around wildly, trying to see the thing. He put his fists up and screamed at it.
When another voice sounded in his ear, the voice of one he loved, of one from his destination, he fought harder. He connected with the thing even though he felt his own life's blood seeping out of him. He fought ineptly at first, not sure what he was doing, but as the fight went on more blows landed. In the end, he stood victorious but exhausted over the thing. Beside him stood his sister. It was her voice he'd heard as he fought.
Together they looked down at the thing and he was shocked to see how small it was. Cylindrical, clear, and surprisingly delicate, the broken syringe had the power to frighten him, but he would never run again. Instead he would stand and fight.
She closed the file with a sigh. As always, the first drafts felt rough and unsubtle. Still, she thought there was something there, something she could work with.