The Man Who Runs
His muscles flex, strips of bulging, sinewy muscles throbbing underneath his loose robes as he stretches. As his bends his arms, twisting and stretching as he has many times before these past many yeas, he recalls the adoring eyes of the public, the joyous roar of the crowd screaming his name. He kicks his foot, a puff of dust coming up around the trampled dirt beneath him. For years, he has run for his King, for his Queen, for the entertainment of millions, but today is different.
The voices, the horrid terrible voices laugh their tinny laughs as he picks up his legs and begins to move, darting between trees, leaping over the soft underbrush, propelling himself deeper and deeper into this forest. He coughs and shakes his head, trying not to think of the slab of hard dirt not far from here where he found his King, laying there beneath the stars with the bar wench he had so often favored.
(And the voices, oh the loud, wretched voices, moan to him RUN!!)
How he had dreaded th