The Race

Once she started the race, she found out that it’s impossible to stop. She keeps running, but her enemies are overtaking her.

The fault lies in the way she runs. She’s running away instead of running towards the finish line, so naturally her enemies pursue her like a hunter pursues his game, and she becomes the sport.

She has gone blind from weeping, and the dirt stirred up by her heels cling to her skirt like the fangs of a snake. People search her body for bread, but she has nothing left to offer them. All she has is one child; a child that only the winner of the race would want.

The sword is her child, and she holds it against her chest to comfort its distressed cries. She runs with it in her arms, unsure of how far she still has to go or where she’ll end up. If she’s lucky, she would run straight into the mouths of her mockers and be swallowed whole instead of being pulled down by her enemies. If she’s really lucky, she would run fast enough to step through the air and into the sky, and the soles of her feet would eventually find the footholds that would take her home.


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