While out for a run…
Today’s flash fiction confronts what it means to run toward and away from something, and how sometimes it’s possible to do both simultaneously. Keep reading, then see today’s Community Notes.
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Running Toward My Work in Progress
While out for a run, I feel the tension oozing from my body as my feet pound the asphalt. One stride, one sneakered thud at a time.
I’m trying to lose track of time, but the rising sun won’t let me, its pale tangerine hue bleeding through the sparse tree lines on either side of me through the still, sticky air.
I am never up in time to see sunrises like this, so its looming existence is almost enough to distract me for a little while. Almost. But I know in my bones, and my aching knees, that it will be at least another decade until I see another one, so I can’t stop myself from making mental notes of its maturing existence as I run. About its glow. Its vague promises. Its portents.
I decided to run before dawn this morning because I needed to clear my head. Plus, at the time, anything felt better than staring at a blank page for another minute. Even this.
But now my thighs are starting to burn, my phone is dead, and I’m at least two or three miles away from my cabin, as I was unable to recognize the two paved driveways I passed. And instead of instrumental yoga music, all I hear now are birds chirping and the erratic cadence of my own choppy breathing accompanying the muffled sound of my feet hitting the ground.
Yet I still keep running, because…
No matter how hard I had tried to get some writing done last night, I couldn’t get what my father had said out of my mind. It kept replaying over and over again, like a chant for the damned.
“I mean, you could always get a real job while you’re writing the book and just write when you get some free time.”
And he had stated it so casually, so flippantly, in between bites of undercooked porcini risotto, giving it more permanence and weight, a lasting echo in my mind.
So, here I am, running away from my current work in progress like its murderous villain was about to jump from my laptop’s screen like the Poltergeist and choke me, instead of focusing on the main character I was still attempting to flesh out, in more ways than one.
But then I trip on a small stone in my path and just like that, out of nowhere, I get an idea I need to write down immediately, the run’s desired effects finally arriving after what seemed like hours. But, of course, I don’t have any way to make it more permanent. My journal is back at the cabin and my phone has become nothing more than a useless weight glued to my thigh.
I make an abrupt about-face, ready to pick up my pace. I have to get back as soon as possible, before the idea vanishes into the sunlight, even if my legs feel like jelly.
Which is also the precise moment I see him marching straight toward me from a few feet away. Clearly on a mission.
He’s wearing bright green sneakers and faded jeans. His black eyes are glazed and red. And he’s so close that I can smell the whiskey seeping from his pores.
I’m only afforded enough time to catch a glimpse of his small, silver pickup before he covers my head with something itchy and grabs my elbow.
[Write what happens next, then share what you come up with in a comment or chat thread.]
Today’s Dialogue
What do you do when you’re experiencing writer’s block?
© This work is not available for artificial intelligence (AI) training. All Rights Reserved by K.E. Creighton; Creighton’s Compositions LLC. The above work is a piece of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Community Notes
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