Irksome

Don't you hate it when you have the urge to write about something, but nothing interesting to write about? I know I do.




Approaching the bridge, my quarry was nearly within my grasp. It was a rise I had crested hundreds of times before, a crossing I had made in all weather, at all times of the day. I pressed forward with confidence, sure in the fact that if I could reach down to the depths of my determination, past the burn in my lungs, focused, the chase would be over as quickly as it began. At the top of the bridge, I stretched my legs as much as they would stretch, gravity pulling me closer to my goal with every bounding step.

Then, suddenly, my concentration was broken. My feet were behind me, not below me. I turned to protect my head and face; the right side of my body took all of the force of my charge. Then my legs were above me, then again behind me. A bite in my shoulder, an ache in my hip told me not to get up quickly. I listened. Even then, the blood left my head, and I stood, hands on hips, in a painful, dizzy daze.