I’m running, and I’m very late.

No more sorrys, I don’t have the breath and I’m not sorry anyway.

MARATHON BY COLE FRANKLIN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 128

It’s 6am and it’s raining and I’m running very late. Another way to say that is that it’s 6am, it’s raining, I’m running, and I’m very late. Either way, I’m running. Either way, I’m late.

I’ve gotten past the half-walk, half-skip, that you do when you’re embarrassed to be running somewhere. I’m at a mach 5, run-for-your-life, all-out sprint.

I’m squeezing past people, the cityscape blurred by motion. “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” as I charge through the crowd. A dozen morning walks interrupted. A dozen scoffs in exchange.

A canopy of concrete and glass blots out what little light gets through the clouds. Puddles explode like landmines as I step.

I hear snippets of people’s lives as I weave in between people’s conversations. Laughter and buzzing and beeping and yelling and honking.

In my right hand is a Ted Baker stripe-trimmed briefcase in brown and black. Inside it is a tan manilla folder. Inside that is the end of the world.