The Runner
The shortest distance between two points is under construction. - Noelie Altito
She runs. She likes the sound of her heavy breathing and the crunch-crunch of the gravel as she strikes the ground with her shoes. She likes filling up her lungs with the smell of cut grass and dust. She likes the rhythmic swing of her arms and legs pumping their long stride. She runs and runs allowing her own strong muscles to take her to another place faraway. She runs as if someone were chasing her.
She runs past the tidy, well manicured lawns with children playing on them; she hears the noise of their laughing, the sound their ropes hitting the driveways and their jump rope songs. She hears a boy taking shots at the basketball hoop. Thunk thunk thunk.
She runs under the sunny or gray skies, under the subway bridges, and pass the supermarket chains that give way to run-down buildings. She runs pass the small liquor stores where the men loiter and look at her like as if she is some tasty little sweet bun, fresh from the oven, good enough to devour. She narrows her eyes and clenches her hands with their unpolished nails and ragged cuticles, and just runs by their leering. She remains undaunted; they do not deter her.
She runs by business men in suits and men up on telephone poles. She runs past the punks with spiked green hair, the mall-haired blondes in push-up bras, the old coots, and the disheveled homeless grumbling to themselves on park benches.
Her dreams are worn and frazzled and held together only by her desire to keep moving, to just keep running. She believes as long as she gives herself willingly to the run, it would not abandon her. It would pick her up; throw her into the fray, again and again, giving her the strength to meet the all difficult demands that may cross her path. All she has to do is keep running and running.
The End
She runs. She likes the sound of her heavy breathing and the crunch-crunch of the gravel as she strikes the ground with her shoes. She likes filling up her lungs with the smell of cut grass and dust. She likes the rhythmic swing of her arms and legs pumping their long stride. She runs and runs allowing her own strong muscles to take her to another place faraway. She runs as if someone were chasing her.
She runs past the tidy, well manicured lawns with children playing on them; she hears the noise of their laughing, the sound their ropes hitting the driveways and their jump rope songs. She hears a boy taking shots at the basketball hoop. Thunk thunk thunk.
She runs under the sunny or gray skies, under the subway bridges, and pass the supermarket chains that give way to run-down buildings. She runs pass the small liquor stores where the men loiter and look at her like as if she is some tasty little sweet bun, fresh from the oven, good enough to devour. She narrows her eyes and clenches her hands with their unpolished nails and ragged cuticles, and just runs by their leering. She remains undaunted; they do not deter her.
She runs by business men in suits and men up on telephone poles. She runs past the punks with spiked green hair, the mall-haired blondes in push-up bras, the old coots, and the disheveled homeless grumbling to themselves on park benches.
Her dreams are worn and frazzled and held together only by her desire to keep moving, to just keep running. She believes as long as she gives herself willingly to the run, it would not abandon her. It would pick her up; throw her into the fray, again and again, giving her the strength to meet the all difficult demands that may cross her path. All she has to do is keep running and running.
The End
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