Runner

A bead of sweat gathers and drips from the tip of his nose. Heaven knows he's tired. His cheeks are heavy... chest is pounding from a heart in need of escape. Indeed, he's been known to wear it on his sleeve, He can't be any other way, believe me, he's tried... Even with the lungs of a wolf keen on blowing down houses, countless breaths between heavy lips prove insufficient to satisfy his oxygen deprived body. Oddly, even though his legs are wobbly, he still manages to make it to his feet. Exhausted and beat, he retreats to a more suitable atmosphere. Here... Sitting on the pier, he lays back and stares at the stars. Not far, a marred boat scarred by barnacles from the post it's tied too close too dances with the waves. The sound paves the way to footsteps approaching. He hears a voice proposing a question: "Son? What are you running from?"...

-S. Thompson