Echo Sprints

I had been running.

I awoke on the highway, sprinting past a drop-top BMW as the driver chatted on their cell phone. Instinctively, I knocked it from her grasp, flipping her off before the curse words had a chance to echo up to the blue sky.

What direction do echoes travel? Upwards I presume.


I was travelling forward, and that’s about all I knew. The previous night I had been working the door at The Firewall. I couldn’t recall anything out of the ordinary happening, but I couldn’t recall anything that happened after locking up the front, but as I gasped for breath I could feel a slight striding pain at the base of the knap of my neck; like someone had pierced it, probably injected me with something. Whatever was it had to have some ephedrine in it because my legs felt like badly worn semi-truck tires ready to blow out. My quads were pulverized, ready to snap; luckily my hamstrings were holding it together, and my dick was harder than a diamond.

Turning the mountain’s corner strained my body but there was nothing within me that suggested I should stop, because if I did I feared my heart would explode. The blood needed to keep rushing, I needed to keep running.