Running
by Sarah Bailyn

ran. I ran past all the houses in the neighbourhood, past the post office and the hardware store, past the gas station at the edge of town. I picked up speed on the open road. My arms and legs pumped in rhythm as the fields and small towns flashed by one after the other. I ran and ran, overtaking cars and trains. I waved to the occupants, who stared at me. Eventually the towns and fields gave way to rocky, desolate scrub. I had to watch my step so as not to trip.

I reached the border and crossed it without looking back. I kept running as the country grew poorer. I ran through villages with dirt roads and houses that were more like huts. Vegetable patches sprouted pale orange squash and thin beanstalks tied to sticks. I avoided the big cities and soon came to the mountains.

Slowing down on the uphill slopes I climbed to the thin cold air at the top. I chased the goats on the way back down the other side to see them scatter. On the plain that lay on the far side of the mountains I could run even faster. The plain turned to forest, where I had to dodge huge and ancient pine trees.

Suddenly the forest ended and I crossed a narrow strip of sand. I had reached the sea. I wet my feet.

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Sarah Bailyn is a transplanted Yank currently living in London. She's been writing for a couple of years and this is her first publication.

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