John Simmons was a mailman by day, park walker by night. Easiest job during the day, easiest hobby at night. And he wouldn't have life any other way. No, sir or madam. No, sir or madam, he wouldn't.

It was a hot night, a humid night, one where the humidity hung in the air like whip scorpions on strings, and one where the park lamps glowed brighter than the spark from an empty lighter.

John didn't not like the heat. But he didn't like the humidity. It wasn't not humid enough, for lack of a better phrasing. Made him feel terrible. He was going to have to cut this walk short. A shame.

But, he was tired. Bed was calling.

He took a fork in the path, and it took him past a homeless man, and he "took" a nap on a bench. Contrary to popular belief, homeless folks don't use newspapers as blankets. They use their contentment.

The walkway ran beside an embankment beside the woods beside his shortcut to the place he resided in. It was dark, but not dark enough to hide. Unless you didn't exist. Which John wasn't afraid of. Not not existing. Of the robbers that didn't exist. Of which there were none.

Robbers.

They're not that scary.

John's walking buddy didn't think they were

wait

John turned his head toward the embankment and toward the babbling brook and toward the edge of the woods and toward

That wasn't there before.

Right?

It

was a creature

what is that thing?

which dragged its lower lip across the ground, and slithered as it crawled and died as it accomplished and cried as it lived, and its skin was the color of a deceased ՃҩרɘѨᴟԂ.

When John noticed it, he screamed, which caused it to notice him. When it looked at him, its head was six feet from its arms, and then it screamed. So loud that John couldn't hear it. It screamed to loud that the homeless man "didn't" wake from his nap.

John ran.

He ran.

He ran so fast.

Faster. Faster.

He ran fast as a horse beating a dead needle.

But he only got faster.

Fast.

Fast as an ant carrying the corpse of a dream.

Fast as an amoeba escaping from an atom of a grain of salt.

Fast as a sloth dreaming about God and all of God's children.

Fast as a hummingbird running across the trench of play.

So fast that the world was spinning round and round and round and round and round and round and round and round and round and

He did it.

He really did it.

He defied all that's possible—he ran till he couldn't see or hear or feel or think anything.

Finally. He was out of danger.

Now John could go to bed. He had to be up early. He had work in the morning.

He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

Goodnight, John. Sleep tight.

See you in the morning.