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Student submission

20th Annual Paint Race with Solo Runner

Performing Live — You Won’t Want to Miss This!

By: Alyssa Witbeck

 

“Run faster.”

Blistered toes scream at the rawness

inside my running shoes. “Keep sprinting.”  

I gasp, choking on the callous words, desperately

trying to outrun the venomous,

flooding voice in my head. A woman yanks

on the leash of her irate

canine as I pass them on the asphalt.

My tongue smacks my lips, tasting

salt and paint.  “Why are you slowing

down?  You know you’re worthless,

right? Pitiful.” I accelerate.  

 

Spectators, each of them

clutching a can of paint.  

They slink across the university campus,

fingers wrapped around paintbrushes.

Backs poised in attack

position, fiery predatory eyes.  

Ready, always ready.  

A can opens and green paint replaces

the air, specks floating like a slow motion movie,

verdantly biting my neck.  

 

I hear artificial clapping, yet

more paint flings. “Faster.”

Azure footprints smudge

the laminate grocery store aisles.

I screech past ice cream, cereal,

and carts filled with produce.

Colors attack.

 

My once hazel eyes now

indigo, cheeks stained ochre.  

Strangers shoot plastic smiles at me as I pass.

Maybe if I sprint forever they won’t try to

change me with pigment.  

“Coward. You don’t deserve

to rest. You shouldn’t exist.”

That voice sprays paint too.  

I inhale it, while dizziness twists

its way through my mind.  But

I don’t stop running.  

 

Eight seasons change and I

never slow down.  Crusty paint

works me raw, flaking off and polluting

the air like pollen in allergy season;

new paint layers oil on my skin.  

 

Will this ever be enough?  More paint.

“If you stop, everyone will know

you’re weak. You will always be

broken,” the voice stirs.  

Wait.  My cracking lips barely

form around the word.  

 

For what?

I round the corner of the bases

alongside the little league player.

He turns, and his teeth spits lavender.

I feel the sticky paint in my

socks; it’s purple today.  Yesterday it was

charcoal gray.  

 

I don’t want to run anymore.

I don’t want their colors tinting my body.

 

My crispy,

rainbow hair cracks.

 

I gingerly dip my toe

in clear lake water.  My running shoes are

exposed on a rock, the worn out soles still laced

with paint.  My toe ripples clouds

of orange, pink, and sage.  I close my eyes.

  

Deep water wombs me, colors racing

out of the ends of my hair, toxins leaking

from my heart. I swallow, completely

blanketed in water. I can

finally breathe.

 

Alyssa Witbeck is a Junior studying English with an emphasis in creative writing and a minor in family and human development.