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10-15-2019, 12:04 AM
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DMS—Diddled My Stick
Join Date: May 2018
Posts: 1,104
Rep Power: 0   |
The Racer
The Racer
(The legs move faster and faster. As spikes puncture the grass and dirt. The finish line is in their sights. Push now. You can take rest after. They pump their arms and grit their teeth. Some turning white. Some turning pink. They all will sit, some earn their seat. They all will to finish.) The racer trailed. 800 left. He balls his fists and digs with steps. He’s feeling pain, he’s feeling cold. But still he strives to get a gold. He ketches up and is in third. The pressures up, but he’s unnerved. The other leans to finish strong. The runner beams to get in front. He rises more, he’s second now. He knows just what to get and how. (Time seems to slow, there’s 20 left. The runner sprints, with blazing steps. He feels a yank, his lace was caught. He showed his strength, is it for naught? In his peripheral he sees The other man with equal speed. Indeed, he’s slowed, he pleas with God.) The racer tripped, The race was lost.
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