Start your story with: “They were sent from the gates…”
Approx 950 words
And the Winner is….
(A True Story)
©2004 by W. E.
Lopez
They were sent from the gates as though gladiators
into combat, but not even the blood fest of Emperor Trajan featured such a vast
armada of troops. The largest spectacle
held in ancient
As if a hundred thousand runnings of the New York
Marathon were held as a single event, they burst from the gates shoulder to
shoulder, fighting for position in the lead, following the blind imperative to
survive at all costs as they raced toward oblivion for most, victory for one or
two.
The marathon runners pushed, shoved, and jostled each
other as they coursed through the streets, the arteries and veins of their
nation. Runners fell and were trampled,
their death scarcely noticed. Or they
took a wrong turn, only to meet a vain-glorious death for their stupidity. Nature does not reward failure, only the
strongest and most aggressive could win; only the fittest would have a chance
at surviving.
The dead and dying began to fall by the way, creating
obstacles to those behind with their very bodies. In their weakness, they fell and condemned to
death millions behind them simply because their accumulated corpses blocked the
way. There is no court of appeal in the
struggle of life. There are no rules of
sportsman like conduct. There are only
winners, and millions of also-rans.
The lead runner could not help himself as he fought
for the prize. You could give him a
name. You could call him George, or Sam,
or Bob or Bill. You could call him
Susan, or Trish, or Donna or Christine. He
or she would not stop to answer you, for there was but one goal; win the race
and live. You could give them all names,
perhaps. You might even count them. If you had the computer-like ability to count
1,000 of them each minute of every hour of every day, you would still be
counting seven months from now. By that
time, only the winner would remain to answer his name.
Still he ran and gave no thought to the hundreds of
millions lying behind him, for he had but one task, one goal, he had to
survive. There were no medals of gold,
silver, or bronze. There was only life
or death.
There was no city, no state, and no regional or
national championship. There was only
life or death.
There were no lucrative sponsor endorsements with
multi-million dollar bonuses. There were
no movie contracts, no book deals; there was only life or death.
There were no ribbons or T-shirts and honorable
mentions to make the runners feel good
having run the race. There was only the
winner, and the hundreds of millions dead.
There were no second chances, no rematches, and no
instant-replays. The lead runner had one
opportunity and only one. If he muffed
it, someone else would seize the prize and he would die with no one to mark the
flicker of his existence.
Blindly he ran in the darkness without the faintest
glimmer to guide him. He ran on
instinct, for there were no sights or sounds, no road signs or course
markers. There were no cheering crowds shoving
Gatorade into his outstretched hand as he ran.
There were no photographers or TV news crews to mark the progress of his
passing, for he struggled alone, invisible among the millions. He could easily have given up and lost, with
no one to boo him, no one mark the end of his struggle by turning their thumb
down. He could have died and it would
have mattered to no one but himself.
When his body protested at the pain and stress, he
could have paused to regain his breath, and he could have died. He could have given his senses a break from
the impossible task of maintaining maximum alertness and maximum cunning, and
he could have died. At times, the
struggle may have seemed beyond endurance, but the alternative was death, and
so he drove on, and on, until the prize was before him.
But it was like a solid wall, blocking him from the
ultimate goal, preventing him the thrill of victory. Tired as he was, he assaulted the wall,
battering it with all his body and feeling, unmindful of the terrible pain it must
be causing him. Others reached the wall
and threw themselves into the assault, but only the first would win. When the first had breached the wall and
claimed the prize, the wall would grow thicker, harder, and would finally be
impenetrable.
He pounded and battered using his head when he had
to, and finally he broke through the wall which immediately closed behind him,
sealing the fate of the millions who had not fought as hard and who had
succumbed to weakness. The others would
be lost to eternity while the most vicious and aggressive of the hundreds of
millions would live. That is the imperative
of nature. The singers, the painters, the
poets, those who live by gentleness and a desire to please others cannot live
without the cooperation and forbearance of the strong.
And he had trampled over all of them. With only aggressiveness and iron will to
drive him on, the tiny sperm had bested all adversaries and fertilized the egg.