Issue date: June 4, 2000

STUDENT FICTION CONTEST
Great stories by teen writers
Winner:
"Reminiscent of Orange Juice After Chocolate," by Jenny Leong
Runners-up:
"Dancing" by Margaret Maloney
"Perfect" by Corin Heymann
"Strawberry Tears" by Meghan Teresa Barr
"The Runner" by Derek T. Muller
 -- About the author
"Wog Is Me" by Mary Rebecca Wilkinson Seltzer

The Runner
By Derek T. Muller

A soft lick of damp air met Tommy's face as he opened the front door. He leaned back and pulled it back to its original position. The sun had not quite yet dropped below the line of elms dotting the horizon, and Tommy squinted in its direction. He breathed in the fresh scent of heavy dew beginning to make its way to Earth. He leaned down to his left, then his right, straightened up and leaped off the porch.

The first few steps were always tough, as though he was breaking in a new pair of shoes every time he ran. But here it was, Sunday night, trash night, running night. He noticed the broken hose, green and leaking, lying at the curb. He smiled and pressed on.

School didn't begin for another month, and Tommy was going to enjoy every minute of fresh air available. The air was mostly fresh, expect for those two white bulky bags wafting their eggshells and orange peels and burnt toast into a smell that drifted lazily across the sidewalk. The mist in the air settled the odor, but Tommy still had enough motivation to push a little harder.

He watched the chair with a broken leg tumble into the street as he pressed on. He smiled at the huge refrigerator box standing at attention. His eyes locked on the broken toilet lying on its side. The scenery made each step a little more enjoyable.

He heard the whir of electric power lines overhead as he continued his pilgrimage to the end of the street. The humming subsided as he pushed on, step after step, breathing just as he should. The gentle mist relaxed his nerves. He knew who would be waiting for him.

He looked at the broken soccer net mangled beyond repair as he approached the halfway point of his voyage. The butterflies had arrived. Right on schedule, his stomach became a lair for acid, churning into a nervous mess that hung in the middle of his body. He wanted to stop, but knew he had to press on.

The sun had dipped low enough in the sky for the street lamps to kick on. With a click and some hesitation, the streets began to fill with golden circles that Tommy would enter, then exit, then enter with some regularity. The pretty halos around his feet would be his only angels as he reached that dreaded telephone pole.

Tommy reached out his right hand and propelled himself around the pole. There he is, he thought. Somewhere in the shadows, Tommy knew, the man was there. His hands pulled in the wooden splinters jamming his palm and beginning the bleeding as he completed his turn and began to run home. But the man was following.

Tommy began to breathe a little harder. But with each breath, the man approached with a little more speed. Tommy closed his eyes for a moment in pain, but the man seized the opportunity to hasten his step.

Then came the jab, the knife, the twist. A sharp pain stinging the left part of his body. Tommy grabbed at his side, stumbled a moment, then straightened up and hurled himself forward.

Think, Tommy, think, he thought. Soccer net. Last year. Winning goal, shoot-out. Upper-left corner. The pain subsided for a moment.

Tommy then shook himself into the present. He was suddenly aware of his pain. He winced as the blisters on his feet throbbed up his left leg, now his right leg. Shake it off, man, he thought.

Electricity. Bent paper clip. Fourth-hour biology. Power socket. Study partner.

The man slowed his pace.

Bathroom. First dance. Ashley. Rejection. Stomach. Sick.

The knife wound all but disappeared.

Moving. Boxes. Gigantic fort. Three windows. No girls allowed.

The man was not running.

Musical chairs. Big winner. Then nap time.

Tommy felt no pain.

Beanbag chairs. Big one for Julie. Little one for me.

The door was there.

Help this woman. Her water just broke. Here comes a boy.

Tommy heaved himself upon the porch and stared with terror down the street.

The street was empty. No one was there.

Tommy rubbed the cramp in his side, shook the worst of the sweat off his hair, and quietly opened the door.

The mist whispered softly as Tommy closed the door.

Go to the top

Derek Muller Detroit News reader Muller, 18, a senior at Shrine High School in Royal Oak, Mich., plans to study law and business at Hillsdale College in Michigan this fall.
Sponsoring teacher: Marylee Petty.
Story: "The Runner."