Ficlets

His feet pound the ground, a race without uniforms or judges, without timers or a track. He has only his opponent and the ever-approaching finish. The cool night air brushes his skin, though it burns his throat as he breathes it in. Sweat drips from skin darkened in shadow. His opponent begins to gain ground, and he knows he must run harder. His muscles strain and scream as he moves faster and faster, sprinting, pushing him past all previously imagined physical limits. Finally, his legs give way, no longer able to withstand the strain. The ground bites into his knees as he falls, body shaking, gasping desperately for air. Pain wracks his entire body, but none of that matters any more. He has won.