The Butcher’s Race
“Somebody behind me is gasping wheezily. The branches are beating my calves and face, the stones splattering from under my shoes. I hear the voice of tens of feet. Around me the woods and the darkness. High in the beech branches, the flashing moon.
I stumble – hands forwards, face up. Falling down for a moment, the jump to my feet immediately, for I hear a scurry of feet behind me. How many are they? I don’t know. I dash to escape them. It is too narrow to look back. The light of the headlamp barely diffuses through the dusk.
Faster, faster. You can’t stop now. Ahead still 70 kilometers to run.” Read the rest of this entry »