The Record

All she could think about was the record. It controlled her thoughts, following her relentlessly through the streets as she ran. Her blond hair pulled up into a tight pony tail bounced as each step jarred against the cold concrete beneath her feet. She kept looking straight ahead. The lyrics to"I will Survive" played smoothly through her head. Her lungs pulled deeply at the air, filling and expelling in little bursts. She pushed forward.


Richard would want the record too. He'd be fighting for it come the day after tomorrow. She saw the glint in his eye, his lazy smile, the dark brown hair with a soft sprinkling of grey, and his muscular body. She shook her head to rid herself of the image and focused on the small flashed of white her socks made as her legs pushed one foot after the other forward. He'd come prepared. He was always prepared. It's what made him so inexhaustible in every aspect of life.


But the record would be hers. It had to be hers. They were her lyrics and her voice. He may have helped produce it and because of him it rocketed into Billboard's top spot, but it was her property. That original recording was hers, wasn't it?


Her feet continued to pound.


*** Daily Writing Practice ***