The Runner

An old story I wrote for a non-writing class.

She had been running for as long as she could remember. The endless stretch of highway had become her home. Where she was running, she was entirely uncertain. From where was just as great a mystery. But day after day and year after year she heard the sound of her footsteps hitting the pavement one after another.

Of course she would stop, now and again, but never for long. Folks would ask her where she was running. She’d smile and say she had to be on her way.
She focused on the road. The dotted yellow lines in front of her. The sound of her feet steadily meeting the pavement. She ran through the mountains, standing in glory. Through the plains, wide as the sky. Through the forest, where squirrels chased each other, up and up and round and round to the tops of the trees. Through all of these she ran, yet saw nothing but the road.
Occasionally, her thoughts would wander and she would wonder if there might be more than feet meeting road. But those thoughts frightened her and she didn’t know what to do with them. So, instead, she’d focus on her steps, counting them as she went.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five….

On a day like any other, she had stopped in a small town, sat on a park bench, ate some lunch. A frail, wrinkled man sat next to her and said not a word. As she glanced over at him, their eyes met. She felt suddenly as if wrapped in the warmest of blankets, cuddled up near the warmth of a fire. Uncomfortable this made her, she quickly averted her eyes. Anxious yet dying to look once again, she decided it best to be on her way. As she rose, he quickly, yet with the softest of grip, grabbed her hand. 

“Sometimes you’ll find where you’re running to is exactly where you’re running from.” Politely she smiled, wriggled her hand from his grasp, and started down the road. Fighting the urge to look behind, she did her best to focus hard on the road beneath.

What could he mean?
She tried shoving the man’s words from her head.
She counted her steps.
One.
Two.
Who was this man?
Three.
Four.

What did he know anyway?
“Keep your eyes on the road,” she told herself. "He was just a crazy old man. Nothing more."

Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.

That was more like it.
She settled back into the rhythm of the road. This was what she knew. This is what she would continue to do.

“Excuse me.”

The sound of another’s voice startled her so, she nearly tripped over her own feet. But she kept running. She looked to her left, and saw a young man, running, step for step, right beside her.

“Follow me.” He said and he grabbed her hand. She suddenly found herself running faster than she had ever run before. Yet, as she ran, hand in hand with this stranger, she saw for the first time, the mountains standing in glory. The plains, wide as the sky. The forest, where squirrels chased each other up and up and round and round to the tops of the trees. And when she thought she could run no longer, she and the stranger burst through a scarlet door; an entrance to a house, beautiful in a way she'd never known. She found herself in the most elegant of corridors, with a shimmering staircase wrapping round on either side.
“We’re here! We’ve made it!” called the stranger.

There appeared at the top of the stairs, a man. Younger in appearance and with the smoothest of skin, but with the same unmistakable eyes of the man on the park bench. He made his way down the stairs, embraced her, kissed her head and said,

“Child, welcome home.”

Author's Note

Unfinished.

Reviews

[Fontane Wong]

A really sweet and exciting unfinished story. I hope to keep reading on it. She kept running and running, and get home at last. In the real situation, home is really a sweet thing for everyone. Home, sweet home! I hope you can keep writing on it, I'm really looking foward to the next chapter of this story.