Friday Flash Fiction
It feels red. Angry. The colour of warning signs. The colour of blood. But the red turns orange as it flows upwards and around with every step, every lift of leg as the rhythm sets in, as feet pound the ground which is grey, hard metallic on and on, keeping time, maintaining pace with the roar from the crowds and their clapping and their shouts which are the colour of fire, the colour of warmth and the blood rushing through as feet continue to lift and go and go and run and go towards the distance, in the future, where a finish line blazes gold but that is more than hour away.
When she gets there, when the ache and the cold and red of the pain she has put herself through have subsided, the gold tingles through everyone, a glittering breeze. Something achieved. Another goal set. More to come.