being chased - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
My feet slip outwards on the wet autumn leaves as I round the corner, the cold evening air shocking my throat and lungs as I inhale deeper, faster. With each footfall a jarring pain shoots ankle to knee, ankle to knee. Perhaps jumping that wall onto stairs wasn't so smart. My heart beats frantically, all or nothing. Fail and my whole body will pay the price, run and the damage is limited mostly to my shins and knees. I know this estate better than they do, those pigs are just pretty boys in uniform, shipped in from the nicer end of town. If they want me they'll have to employ someone from The Warren, but they won't, they don't trust us. They're weighed down with guns, batons and electrical stun devices, all of them useless unless they get a clear shot, which they won't. I can hear them panting with the effort from three hundred yards behind, that's how freakin' noisy they are. Conditioning from a tread-mill with a stop-watch will never beat real-life training on the streets.
Darwin is running toward me, I know it's him by his silhouette and by the way he makes no sound at all. He's quieter than me, when did the student become the master? I indulge in a rare grin, but it fades faster than a tie-dye shirt. There is a gang behind him. Now I'm paler than the snow and without thinking my dagger is in my hand. I'm up on my toes, ready to strike. He sees me now and instead of passing me like he would even a year ago he spins around, his pose a carbon copy of my own. The chase is over. Now we wait to see if they'll take on the two of us on or flee.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
His breath came in small spurts, hot and nervous. At his sides, tanned fingers curled into sweaty fists, swinging forward as if it would make him faster. Behind him, he could hear the baying howls of the dogs and jeering laughter of his enemies. Mud smeared his sweaty face as sweat dripped from his matted hair.
"Please God, let me live." he cried aloud, throwing himself forward with even greater abandon. His lungs and heart were pumping, but the air didn't seem to be enough as he sprinted forward, panic trembling in his exhausted limbs.
Being chased was nothing like the movies. The stars look heroic, sexy and in command of the situation. Reality was far removed from that pretty version of running to save you skin. I'd had no time to put on shoes or even grab my jacket from the lockers. I'd been winding up my night shift at the station and as usual I could sleep for most it. It's like that for firefighters sometimes, other times you're running into an inferno. But then a gang of punks turned up, all high on something, wanting to take out the engine for a joy ride. One thing lead to another and now they're after me with a machete. My souls crash into the asphalt a few times before I transition to the balls of my feet. My face is flushed red and my expression is just pure panic. My job keeps me fit but still my heart pounds, sending blood to my muscles. Just when I think I outran them, I hear the engine of a firetruck and then the sirens. They're coming for me. I vault a fence to my right and bang on the back door...
These heels are no good to me now. As I kick them off my heart beats faster and the adrenaline demands I run, right now, no delay. But unless I get them off I can't, I wish to God they were sensible but they're three inches high. Then the cold, wet near-winter mud kisses my souls and I punch away into the darkness, haring for the yellow light of the street ahead. My feet slip and I almost tumble over, more time I cannot afford. Then I hear the cat-calls, they are out of their car now and running down this narrow path. I pray for a dog walker to come by, they often do in the daytime. There are three pursuers; huge, fast, hyped up, likely on drugs. Before I know I've made a decision to scream my voice rents the air and the desperation in it scares me. I sound like someone if a movie, someone with a bit-part who spends more time splattered with fake blood than acting. I keep facing the light, every step closer is vital, then I feel a hand grasp at my dress, this time he fails to grip...
It's daylight, bright, like a day for the beach but he's coming. He's coming and I can't stop him, I can't. I sent him the money, all of it, and extra, still he hunts me down these alleyways calling my name as if he were my friend - but in his hands is a knife and he means to twist it in my guts when he gets close. I have been running in a scattered way, run and hide, rinse repeat. Now my heart beats like it means to explode and my mind is a scattered mess. I not cool under pressure, I'm no army general, I fix radio's for a living for God's sake. Then before I know it I'm out in the open, running down the street like the devil himself is in pursuit. Only it's worse, my chaser is flesh and blood and means to send me straight to hell just the same. One day late, that's all I was, one day and no apology was enough. He's rage, maliciousness and he takes twisted delight in my fear. I should have listened to mama and never taken his dirty money. He made it seem like a gift when it was truly enslavement, now he plans to hold me up as an example, to strike fear into the others but I won't be his to butcher. I'll be alive when he's six feet under and throwing daisies on his grave. I'll run until there's no skin left on my feet, then I'll crawl...
The ledge was as wide as a single foot and with all the grip of black ice. It went right around the building, some sort of architect's decoration, smooth dark granite against the dyed beige concrete walls. Most certainly it was never designed to be walked on, never to take even the weight of a child, and Evan was no child. The tallest of his high-school class he graced six feet and had been lovingly called a “husky” boy by his mother. He took a look down. The people on the sidewalk were as big as the little soldiers he used to keep in a biscuit tin. He glanced around the room, his eyes searching for somewhere, anywhere that might hide him. James Bond would have some clever wheeze, hang from the ceiling or in the canopy of a four poster bed. No such luck. Even if had the equipment a life spent eating pizza and playing video games hadn't equipped him for this. He looked down again. One wrong move and he wasn't going to get the chance to "play again". No second lives.
I keep running but I know my time is up. Out of the corner of my eye I see something sharp and long coming towards me. I try to jump out of the way but it's too late. I scream giving away my position but the pain is unbearable. I collapse to the ground. As I lay there I see an image of my family. That was five years ago. I was only seven years old. My little brother and father were still there. My vision clouds, the world and my family fade away.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead, exhausted. My long legs broke from beneath me and collapsed onto the nearest beach. It had not be long before I could smell him - the stench of his cheap cologne, and cigarettes. My heart started racing and I knew I had to keep going. Branches constantly attacked me, leaves crunched under my feet and big, brown logs seemed to appear out of nowhere as if to try and stop me. But I could still smell him. I had to stop before my lungs gave out on me. My bleached blonde hair was matted with a crimson liquid, my arms and legs all bruised and cut and my clothes looked like rags, dirty and tattered. I looked like a leaking pipe but I had to keep running.