Through the Heather
(Fiction)
Amaro ran for exactly 15 seconds at a time.
He would start running at dusk. A few feet. Then stop. Then a few more feet. Then stop.
Every day for a year. You could see his long, sloping shadow stutter through the reeds. His arms would pump; his face would flush. Then nothing. Then another explosion! - limbs akimbo, an engine made flesh. Then a halt. Explode! Relax. Go! Stop.
It was his destiny.
"You's stoopid cra-azy, dawg" muttered the path...
Amaro ran for the joy of running.One day, the forest path rose and carried Amaro to a tall, far hill. It was a curious path and it rustled a question.
Why do you run?
I dunno, said Amaro. I guess - I generate wind. I pump blood. From nothing, something is made: a velocity. I am the arrow *and* the bow. A minor miracle. Or a great one, maybe - it's not important. Now, every day, I celebrate the possibility of motion.
"You's stoopid cra-azy, dawg" muttered the path as it whistled a low song and ferried Amaro back to their forest. When they returned, it was dusk. Amaro smiled, tensed - ready to run.
As he exploded into motion, the path rumbled another question: Why do you stop?
Amaro stopped.
To think.