Young Writers Society

I just wrote this, just made it up as I went, since that's..what I do.

I wasn't sure what to rate it, but I just went with pg-13, I hope

that's okay. Comments, ideas it's all good I'm willing

to hear it. Thanks for reading. =]

It happened Sunday night, when things couldn't have been more normal. Monday went missing. Traffic bleeding modernism onto the black streets, and lonely children crowding the shadows, watching her run, garbage piled high, the transit buses coughing emissions like no tomorrow, the lights from the inner city mall inching down the hill, giving the world an iridescent, crowded look. Everyone knew Monday could run, and no one had ever doubted that, despite everything. Monday had something about her, something fast, something unreal, something so physically superior they had learned to accept it as a second nature. Even with her flickering eyes watching nothing, her hair pasted in a sad cone to her round face, her lips thin and drawn over her few teeth, her ear with the missing bite, her feet which always tripped her when still could carry her in one sad blur, could pick her up and practically throw her to whatever strange destination her mind sought when she ran; running was a haven, movement, the ability to leave things was the equivalent of a cigarette to Monday Plurm; an addiction, something sought after work, after a hideous wedding, after standing for hours on a sidewalk while other, important people maybe, give you a side glance, a pitiful thought, an inside joke, and sidestep you like the stray life you have become. Everyone knew Monday was going to leave soon, but the problem was - Monday had such a predictable habit of life for most days, but when she was rash, no amount of brilliance could discover where she might go - it was as if perhaps she had a million minds at that moment, so your chances of finding which she might be using were unlikely - in fact, impossible. Secondly, she was not a typically unhappy person. She did not stop soon after being hit, and hide under a bridge or in the food court, or in a music store, but ran and ran and ran, until her shoes wore out and even her extraordinary talent was no match for nature's plea of exhaustion. She had the power of an angry vehicle, and sometimes, when she had first been found and had given her first attempts at running away, they could fill garbage pails full of her worn shoes, for all the effort she possessed. We knew this Sunday was different, because when Monday had first starting running, she always left at midnight - it meant she'd be back, it was perhaps a message. She always brought herself back, for some strange reason, she allowed herself to be caught. Today however, she left after supper. Simply got up and walked out the door, and allowed the world a moment of her flashing, amazing body, whipping the anger with ropes, beating her feet on the sidewalk, and no one tried to catch her. Monty stood on the balcony and watched her dazzling body fly down the street, the commuters temporarily stunned. He didn't call, but his fingers gripped the railings of the patio, and he closed his eyes. I heard his voice, from the kitchen, suppressing his ill surprise, thick with inconvenience. "Some one get the phone, call the cops," he said, loud enough to make me reach for the portable on the counter, making my way up the stairs. "They won't find her unless she wants to be found," I said handing him the phone; he ignored me and dialed. The sound of someones voice on the other end of the line could be heard, and whatever they were saying was annoying Monty; his face tightened. "This kid doesn't have a clue, okay, she's fucking brain dead, all she can do matters nothing, right? She can run, that might save her from the plight of humanity, but it won't save her from herself let alone mother fucking nature.." There was a short pause, and Monty struck down the phone. "Jesus fucking Christ," he said, clamping his words. "You know, Jessica, one of these days I might just give up."