ThoughtsOfAnEnglishMajor

My thoughts on life.

The Morning Run

Today I decided I would post a short story I wrote in the beginning of the semester for my creative writing class. It’s only a page and half in length and the requirements were that two or more characters had to find something. Hope you enjoy!

The Morning Run

As the morning fog was lifting from the tree littered hilltop, the rhythmic beat of footsteps gained momentum as the popular running trail had a brief moment of decline. Between the panting of breaths a Yellow Warbler could be heard as he sung his refreshing song. The hues of purple perpetuating from the lilacs on the forest floor gave warmth to the cold, sometimes unforgiving, ground. The sunlight hitting their foreheads made the beads of sweat glisten and twinkle. The beating hearts soothed their souls; it gave them an escape. It was the perfect day for running.

“Stop,” yelled the lanky girl with thick curly brown haired pulled into a tight ponytail. Her demand was successful as the drumming of sneakers against the dirt came to a sudden halt. Standing only a few yards in front of her was her partner, a boy, whose physique resembled that of a professional athlete. He did his best to hide his longing for oxygen. Sweeping his sweat drenched hair to the side of his face, he blurted mockingly, “You tired already?”

“Not as tired as you are,” she snapped back with a smile.

The boy started in, “Well, aren’t you something special.” His tone oozed sarcasm. “Just because you have an award…”

The boy was interrupted. He glanced at the girl as she let out a gasp that laid a blanket of silence over the woods. The girl was peering into a thistle bush as the boy approached her to investigate.

“Look here,” she grimaced as her hand immerged from the gnarly branches. She was holding a running watch. It was all black with great design and light as to not be bothersome for the longer distances.

Before the boy could mutter a response, still holding the watch, the girl began to cry and those few droplets transformed into a surge. She fell to her knees as the salty tears flowed from her grieving eyes. She was struck with guilt.

In that moment, the boy out of insecurity snatched the watched from her hands. As he examined the watch, he knew why the girl was crying. He had seen a watch like this before. He remembers how its twin sits on the girl’s dresser, memorialized by the picture of her deceased father. Her father taught her the secrets of distance running. Her father wore that watch with its eerie similarities to the one found.

“Give it back! Give it back to me,” she pleaded. “Give me the damn watch!”

As the boy, struck with anguish and helplessness, reached out with watch in hand, he couldn’t help, but begin to grieve with her. The girl whose sadness overwhelmed her now grits her teeth in anger. She seizes the watch and with all of the strength in her feeble arms pitches it into the air. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she does her best to repel the memories, the sorrow, but mostly, to repel the guilt.

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