The Shadow Runner
Flash Fiction: The sport of running from myself
Running.
Putting one foot in front of the other. Breath in. Breath out. Wipe the sweat out of my eyes. There is nothing but the running. Running in the rain.
As I run, I yearn to be free. I yearn to risk an Icarian flight past the sun, even if my wings of wax melt. I suppose that’s why I’m running. But where can I go? What can I do?
I pause at a traffic light, running in place to stay warm, backing away from the curb to avoid the splash from the tires of the motorists zooming by, oblivious to my presence.
The walk sign turns green, I pause, expecting the red light runner and, after letting him pass, I run across the busy street and continue on my way. I look up at the sky, hoping for a break in the clouds, perhaps just one hopeful ray of light, but I see only dark gray storm clouds approaching threateningly from all horizons. It’s getting darker, if that’s possible. The streetlights flicker to life. I shrug. It matters not, I’m soaked with rainwater and sweat anyway. My body is filthy but my soul feels cleansed.
Finally, I see The Arcade across the street. I’m not sure why I am here, this is the place I’m running from, yet somehow, my feet have brought me back here.
Fuck it, I think. I’ll go talk to The Boss. Maybe he’ll listen this time.
I wait in the line behind people dressed appropriately for The Arcade; respectable people in suits and dresses. They move a little further away from me and I can’t blame them, I’m wet, covered in sweat, and have been running for hours.
When I finally get to the front of the line, Gino, a towering slab of muscle and meanness gives me a disdainful look and adjusts his fedora.
“Whaddayouwant?” he demands.
“I wanna see The Boss,” I counter.
“He’s playing The Game right now,” Gino replies, sticking a toothpick in the corner of his mouth.
“So, can I talk to him?” I ask.
Gino shrugs, “I guess, dunno if he’ll listen, like I said, he’s playing The Game. He don’t like to be pulled out of The Game. Why don’t you go in and ask him yourself?”
He holds his hand out toward the door, inviting me inside with an evil grin on his face.
Suddenly, I am chilled to my very core and I shiver a shiver that has nothing to do with being out in the rain.
“Whatsthumatter?” Gino cackles.
“Nothing. I’ll talk to him later,” I reply, turning, adjusting my poncho over my head, preparing to head back out into the rain. Preparing to continue running.
“Suit yourself,” Gino laughs, and turns to the next person in line.
I run back out into the rain, frustrated, not sure what to do with the huge amount of energy built up inside of me, but I’ll figure something out. I’ll get The Boss's attention sometime, somehow, and I’ll make him pay attention to me.
I’ll make him set me free, someday.
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“Clint, this is absolutely stunning!! Riveting!! I loved every word!! Keep writing!!!” — Donna Pierce-Clark
No AI Zone: Everything written in this post (and all my posts) is written 100% by me, Clint “Clintavo” Watson, a flesh and blood human seeking to grow my soul and come home my truest self; for that is the essence of creativity. I do not use AI to assist me with writing — that would deny me the very growth of my world through writing that I seek.
I only rarely use AI images with my (non-AI) writing. On the rare occasions I do use an AI image (usually fiction), I also feature at least one artwork by a human artist with image credits and links to their work or, if I can’t find a suitable image, I donate a free month of website service to one of our artist customers at my SaaS company, FASO Artist Websites.
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This is great, so much detail, and yet so much mystery. Haunting, surreal, gripping. Great work Clint.
I love the last sentence. And I love stormy stories that seem to end on the head of a pin like this one. I also like the equal balance of the very physical with the metaphoric escape and existential toil. The introduction of the 'Boss' makes me think this is going into a neo-noir direction?
As for the Icarus reference, the myth is traditionally about hubris and flying too high; i wonder if Daedelus' example would have been better? In the story, the narrator’s struggle seems less about overambition and more about powerlessness and longing to be liberated. It's more Sisyphus than Icarus; eternal effort rather than reckless ascent. Though flying recklessly fits the running more than rolling up a heavy rock.