Run

Run is a short story written by Daniel for Stories Across Borders as an example of what an action scene can look like outside of combat or survival situations. It explores the feeling of getting lost in the movement and letting the world fall away as you focus on your objective.

Stillness.

Nothing moved but the faint, cool breeze on my skin. Even the cheering of the crowd had fallen silent in anticipation of the starting pistol. There were eight of us, all lined up and ready. All of us even more eager than the crowd to hear the cracking sound of the race beginning.

Time is a funny thing. It flows on, marching to a steady rhythm, but we experience it differently. To the people outside the stadium on their way to work, things felt normal. To the people in the stands watching excitedly, the wait felt that little bit longer. They had a taste of the tension. But for the eight of us on the track, time was slow. It had practically come to a halt. We waited like predators ready to pounce, our muscles coiled tightly like springs. We all itched to move. None of us did. None of us wanted to be the one to false start. We held our breath.

Crack.

There was barely a delay between the pistol and all of us shooting forwards. We were bullets made of flesh and bone. Missiles. We launched off blocks and streaked down the track towards the finish line.

I pumped my arms. Even as my feet thundered over the track, my heart hammered in my chest, pounding adrenaline through my veins. 

Over twenty metres, I let the air steadily leave my lungs. Then I breathed in sharply and powered forward. It was mechanical, like clockwork. A behaviour programmed into me by hours of training. I was a machine with one function: run.

Slowly exhale. Quickly inhale. Push forward. Run. Faster. Faster. 

I was aware of the other sprinters on either side of me, keeping pace. I didn’t dare look. Looking was losing. I kept my eyes laser focused ahead of me. I thrust aside the competitors in my peripheral. There was only myself and the finish line.

The finish line was everything. It was the gold medal. It was pride. It was a future in the Olympic team. It was mine.

I kept running.

At the end of the hundred metre track, my future awaited me. Which future it was depended only on how quickly I got there.

I left the halfway point in the dust. I was nearly there. I could feel it.

I willed my body to move faster. Through my running shoes my feet slammed into the ground, propelling me forward. Each step was an impact. Energy pushing into the ground and shooting me away and onwards: A near-silent explosion between sole and track.

30 metres.

I strained. My muscles burned beneath my skin.

20 metres.

Fire was in my veins. I pushed myself harder still.

10 metres.

5 metres.

1 metre.

It was over. As suddenly as it had begun. I let my momentum slowly fade away, continuing at a jog for another several feet before finally coming to a stop. My chest heaved, my body craving oxygen after the intense sprint I had just put it through. 

The burning in my limbs slowly cooled, but my anxiety started to peak. I heard the sounds of other runners coming to a halt behind me. I heard the ragged breaths of the ones who had crossed alongside me. I heard the furious cheering of the crowd, shouting names and numbers.

I had yet to hear the one thing that mattered. I needed to hear that I’d won. I yearned for it. I could tell it had been a close race. It might even have been a photo finish.

It wasn’t until I finally heard the confirmation over the PA system and the subsequent reaction from the crowd that I could relax. I’d done it. I won.

I felt a wave of euphoria wash over me like a tidal wave. Victory was a special kind of high. I had been tired, and soon I would be exhausted. But, at that moment, I was energised. I just wanted to do the run all over again.