Friday, February 15, 2008

100m from redemption

by larryniven


The starter's pistol 50 meters ago, echoing. Breathe, run.

Flashbulbs snap, the audience's pre-applause filling the world, drowning out the men behind me – or ahead? Breathe, run.

No way to tell. No time to breathe. Run.

50 meters later, only one possibility negates the hateful white-tipped cane: did I win?

Did I win?

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