The Final Sprint...

Hi, there.

Another post from long ago in my archives in Google Drive. Sometime in 2015, Ms. Kyla approached me one day to ask if I can come up with an imaginative recount so that she could use it as an exemplar. I wrote this in a few hours and had it checked by Mehi (really great friend of mine). It wasn't in my character to end the recount the way it ended, but it was really nice to do something different once in a while.

Some teachers requested some access to the document, and I kindly did so.

Anyway, here's the piece...

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As I walk calmly to the rough and hard track, I see that none of the other rival runners were giving a glare to one another. They were walking statues, their faces were static. No expression. I’m confused. The crowd were focused on us as a lion was focused on its prey, they’re cheering on random names I had no such idea of. We were on the track. The atmosphere was becoming more pressuring, people I don’t know, yelled my name out from the crowd. I get into my starting position. I sensed the feeling of the oncoming betrayal from my rivals, left and right.


Boom! The gun blew out a deep yet shrieking sound, signalling the start of the what would be the torturing race. I began to run steady on my running. I make an effort to try and focus straight ahead, but it’s no good. I’m stuck in the continuing force that is the other female rivals, women who I am trying to beat, raced ahead of me. In my mind, I began to doubt myself.


My breathing wasn’t becoming any more rapid than it was moments ago. I attempted to think away and relax, so I can get more speed, but the sound of people cheering and yelling, I don’t know which is louder, enters my ears and refuses to exit. The ground is being battered by the feet racing forward as faster than the speed of light. I paced myself, controlled my breathing, and moved past some of the rivals I was afraid would beat me.


The finish line’s almost there. I want to pass out but I just can’t. My body can’t agree with what my heart says. Sweat dribbled down my forehead. My body started to ache. I sprinted harder as every metre came by, I was closer to the finish line than I thought, I couldn’t believe that it would almost be over. The torture would be over. I could finally rest.


But I realised...a female rival came blasting by. I try passing her, but it’s no good. My victory was a shambles. I lost all hope in coming first in the race. My expression of victory on my face is erased faster than whiteboard writing on a whiteboard. The female rival takes first place, I come second.


I think people will make fun of me of being beaten in the last second, but my coach could doubt it...

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