....and he, Frederick Donner, ran like the swirl of dust that accompanies
a sandstorm to the bitter, desolate end. Every muscle, every thought,
every cell, every atom in his being was focused on the forward
motion, on the acceleration even now, with the finish line in plain
sight. He listened to the ecstatic cheers of the arena, channeling their
hope, their will into his body, fuelling his limbs, filling his lungs
again and again. His heart was a clockwork pulse, firing the oxygen
through his veins with untiring ease. It was within metres now, that
thin, paper line that represented so much more. Frederick closed his
eyes, and imagined the adulation that would soon become reality.
It was at this point that a small section of the running track inexplicably crumpled away, disintegrating to reveal a small hole. Frederick, lost in closed-eye reverie, did not notice this, neither did he notice the white mole that emerged from the hole just as Fred brought his foot down on it. His momentum snapped off-kilter, Fred collapsed to the ground, a single metre away from the finish. "No!" he moaned as the fifty-three other competitors streaked past his prone form to claim better, faster times. He could hear the mocking laughter of the crowd, the derisive comments of his fellow racers. Not one person stopped to help him up, to make his utter failure even minutely easier to bear. His melancholy was exacerbated further, when he realised he was wearing a duck costume. Struggling to his hands and knees, Fred looked up to see the white mole - the cause of his humiliation - now scampering down the track towards him. It skidded to a halt before Fred, nose twitching frantically.
"You Frederigo D'Honaire?" asked the mole, in a strangely deep and
colloquial accent. The mole smiled. Given that moles didn't usually have much call for smiling, the effect on its face was disturbing at best. "'Fraid not, buddy." stated the mole, making a small movement closer to Fred. "My name's Eranumaris, your name is Frederigo D'Honaire, and you are in a pat load of trouble, so I advise listenin' up. This is a dream, right?" "It.....it is?" inquired a baffled Fred. He looked around, his vision obscured somewhat by the duck's head. It all seemed real; the track, the stands, the jeering of the Swedish, the overwhelming sense of massive disappointment and rejection.
"Oh come on, my son." chided the white mole known as Eranumaris. "You
were winning the race and at the last second something completely out of
context with the situation causes you to come last?" Fred could only stare at the.....stare at Eranumaris in disbelief. Catching his breath at last, Fred turned to the crowd once more. His mother was being french-kissed by his old Physical Education teacher, which was odd because he was supposed to be in prison. And just beyond them was Fred's father. He was being attacked by wasps. And staplers. Sighing, he turned back to Eranumaris. "So.....why are you here?" he asked, taking off the by now incredibly annoying duck's head. "Rule of three, son." replied Eranumaris cryptically. "Someone's trying to keep you dreaming, and there's never been a good motive behind that endeavour. You're on your fourth dream this trip. Not good, not good." Fred asked....
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9/16/2007 1:48:39 PM
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