The Race Henry Fowlkes Weatherly Jr

Sweat, soiled by dust and tears, seeped down my body as I thrust myself forward. With every breath, my lungs collapsed on themselves. While oxygen poured in through my gaping mouth, I still craved more air. Foot after foot, I trampled down the grassy hill amongst a crowd of runners too absorbed with their own race to pay me heed. Each runner carried a look of determination that felt noticeably absent from my face. Seconds into the race, the cruel grasp around my throat clenched harder with every pounding step. My muscles, which usually respond to my commands with an ardent desire, began to droop with weight and scream with pain as they lifted my exhausted legs. Groups of parents surrounded me, cheering on their little runners, but no one cried my name.

As the race endlessly continued, the cheers of eager parents slurred into the fog of my mind. I stopped noticing the rusty, battered playground on my right and the infinite expanse of forest on my left; I only saw the battered dirt that lay before my feet. Step after step after step, I fought ahead against the furious desires of my flesh. The other runners, whom I once trailed by a thread, now pulsed forwards at a pace that I could no longer match. Recognizing my solitude, I...