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About This Author
 Kiya is a young woman with many interests. She's got a degree in Computer Science and Registered Nursing.
She's an avid reader and considers Stephen King one of her favorite authors.
She's also been known to pen one or two stories here and there, and as a proud moderator of Writing.Com, she invites you to check out her portfolio (and even better, to sign up today!).
Published Works:
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Daily Flash Fiction Entries #433208 added June 13, 2006 at 2:28pm
Restrictions: None
Larry's Race
Written for the: "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge" 
Prompt: Write a story in which someone is running.
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He shook out his arms and arched his neck. Jumped up and down. One. Two. Three times. For good luck. He sucked in huge gulps of air and let them out in a whoosh, cracking knuckles, flexing muscles. All in preparation for the greatest race of his life.
He eyed the stands, listening to the steady chant of his name.
“Larry! Larry! Larry!”
Oh, sweet music. It was a sea of red, white and blue in this Olympic stadium. He was the star in the 100 meter dash. The most anticipated race. He had breezed through the heats and this final race was just going to be the icing on the cake.
“On your marks!”
He got into position. Canada and Great Britain on either side of him. They were good runners, but no one could beat him. Not this time around. He hadn’t trained like a maniac for four years to lose to a bunch of wannabes. He thought of the countless hours spent training back home. The way he had stared into his old coach’s eyes and promised to bring back the gold.
“This is for you, coach.”
The gunshot was heard and they were off!
Powerful legs and arms began to piston like automatons. Up. Down. Up. Down. The wind rushed past his ears. No, he was faster than the wind. His heartbeat danced wildly in his chest as he pushed himself to the limit, wanting to be faster than ever before. To beat the clock. To beat his own record. He would make it. He could see the finishing line. Finally! Yes! It was…!
“VICTORY!” he bellowed in triumph.
“Moooom!” Six-year old Clara yelled, as she watched her father raise his arms from his position on the treadmill. “Dad’s doing that weird thing again!”
Word Count: 300
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