The Resolution

The motivational phrase featured in this story - ‘Don’t listen. Don’t look. Just run’ - is real! I found it on the internet when researching this short story

Yesterday, New Year’s Eve, Emily had brought home a prize. Eschewing a plain diary – her original intention – her eyes were drawn to a beautiful, soft, pink journal. The leather was most probably fake, but she didn’t care. It was embossed and tinged with gold, a luxurious and aspirational symbol of her determination to get fit once and for all. She loved it the moment she saw it. That night she scoured the internet for an inspirational quote to mirror her resolution, imagining the entry that would appear underneath on the first blank page. It would tell a tale of exhilaration, the high of purposeful strides from her home to the waterfront and back. She’d already downloaded an app, practised squeezing herself into an array of brightly coloured lycra outfits and bought the most expensive running shoes in the shop. At ten past ten that night, a poster featuring a lithe runner and a motivational phrase, had captured her attention. With her tongue between her teeth, she carefully copied the citation on the first pristine page of her journal.

It read, ‘Don’t listen. Don’t look. Just run.’

At eight o’clock the next morning, words other than ‘runner’s high’ and ‘fleet of foot’ pervaded her mind. They included, ‘compensation’ and ‘false advertising’, except she had no idea who had produced the beguiling poster with the idiotic phrase. Had she, in fact, been more inspired by the image than the message? Because not listening and not looking, when combined with running was, when you really thought about it, destined for disaster. The truth of her folly made her cheeks burn.

The carefully curated playlist that had pounded in her ears, timed perfectly with the beat of every feather-light step, had lasted for approximately two minutes and forty-three seconds. She knew this because the app had frozen at the moment of impact. A lack of attention, she conceded, had resulted in humiliation. There had been several cues – the red, reversing lights glowing brightly on a dark morning, steam from a hot exhaust, not to mention the loud beeping sound that had been legislated as a safety precaution for just such circumstances. She had been oblivious to them all until the very last moment. Fortunately there was no actual contact between her and the very large removal van that backed out of a neighbour’s driveway, but the last-minute swerve, tumble and full body plant on the footpath had caused shock and sprains to one ankle and both wrists. The shame of standing to find the squashed remains of a newly released dog poo on her brand-new vest was the last, but possibly the worst of the mortifications. The van driver had fussed more than she had really wanted him to, and she couldn’t help noticing his caution around the putrid, brown stain as he’d helped her home.

Hot tears coursed down her cheeks. Her wrists and ankle throbbed. She ripped out the first page and slammed the journal shut. How much, she mused, would she get for her sneakers on Gumtree?

THE END

Copyright © Diane Clarke 2020