Desolation

Sorry for the lack of writing lately, folks... I'm working on it, though :) Problems with leading a very busy life :?

Hopefully this might make up for it some. Oh, and for those who keep asking me: a new Plans bit is coming soon. :)

This is my attempt at an exercise in trying to grab on to a feeling and describing it, kinda like running the pain away was...

Desolation

She was left with an open wound when he realised he'd gone. Nothing was left, not a stick of furniture, not even a note. Why, why, why?

Penny ran through every corner of the apartment, hoping something was left. But the prick had even taken her clothes! The utter bastard. Brief flashes of anger gave way to a desert of sand and heat and exhaustion called desolation. 

The walk from the bedroom to the bathroom was the Sahara, the mongrel even took the toilet paper. Finishing emptying her waste, she refused to flush in a futile vengeance that he would have to clean (though he wouldn't because he was never coming back).

She'd only taken the month away to go on training overseas. She'd needed it, he'd understood he said, they'd played phone tag at the hotel for the first week, continually missing each other. When he got his own job the second week, he rang her once saying how tired he was. Penny thought there was a distance in his voice, something like the Gobi desert in distance. 

Leaving the bathroom for the kitchen was like the cold, nighttime of the Simpson desert, with the amazingly coincidental lack of food and water - all gone also, water turned off and everything. Bastard. That flash of anger was like lightning across that bleak desertscape, cracking distantly and then gone just as instantly, a faded memory.

She sat on the floor - what else was there to do? - and contemplated the future. 5 years with Chris, and this was how it ended? Without a clue?

Her phone ringing broke her out of her gloomy reverie. "Penny, it's Chris!" an excited voice said.

"What? Where are you? Where is everything? What have you done to me???" Penny grew more frantic with every word.

"What, you're back? Already? I thought it was tomorrow? Nevermind..." Chris barged on before Penny could say anything. "...Penny, babe, I bought a house, it's magnificent, and I want you to join me, cause I took all our stuff, including yours, and set it all up for us together!"

Penny took a full minute to register what Chris was saying. She asked questions, wondered where they were at, did he still love her, did he have doubts. The answers were emphatic from Chris - Yes, he loved her, No, he had no doubts, and where they were at - she would find out when she came to their new home.

Penny was lost in the desert, hoping for a rescue plane. She was in the Mojave desert now, wondering if she was passing the same stunted trees just minutes before when she asked for the fifth time, "Chris, do you still love me?"

"Come home and I'll show you..."

She hammered the address into her phone, called a taxi, and drove off to meet him. She was moving through the ironic Antarctic desert, with things cooling down around her, and she was drinking in the hope she was building in her heart. As the taxi took her down a beautiful, tree-lined street, Penny found herself in lush, green, green hills as if she was in Ireland.

As she walked in the door of their new home, Chris got down on one knee, gave her a ring, and proposed to her. 

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What's with all those carrots, what do they need such good eyesight for anyway?

...apologies to Joss Whedon.

This sheer idiocy is the result of stupidity occurring within emails. But hey, it was entertaining enough to get a minor laugh. So, henceforth, and so on, I present to you, the Note of Concern for the Welfare of Friends in the Face of Dire Invasion from Peoples of Nasty Persuasion.

My friend,

I write to you with grave concerns for both your welfare, and my own. In regards to my own, I suppose I could say how windy it is outside, but the last few weeks instead of thinking that's relief from heat, I wonder how many bushfires that's driving, and if any of my loved ones are affected. I could talk about my wife and child, but then with the child having stayed up two hours past her bedtime (till 9 PM), yelling and screaming due to grave illness, and the dear wife also stricken in the side of her mouth, that, too, is kinda depressing. Well, too late for some of that, I guess. Perhaps I shall talk about The Bunnies.

No, not the bunnies you'd keep as fluffy pets at home in a hutch, I'm talking about machine-gun wielding Attack bunnies from Attack Force Z! YES that's right, Attack Force Z are invading Australia, and I don't know how long I will be able to maintain control of my computer. It could be any second my transmission gets cut off because they don't want the world to know they're invading. What's more, they're everywhere! EVERYWHERE, my friend! That kid with the rabbit down the road from your place? Bunny naval commando. Those wild hares running free across the UK and Europe? Infantry. Rampant bunnies across Australian farms and fields, eating farms away as they go? Engineering corp. Hugh Jackman hosting the Oscars? Well, he's the worst of the worst, he's their Field Marshall, Rabbitoh von Sprinkerhoffenhausenscheissen. Think Rommel, but fluffy. How else could he have gotten the part of Wolverine unless he was actually FLUFFY???

Yes, Bunnies are out to get you and I, and they've got machine guns. So my dear, dear friend, next time you see a Rabbit, look it in the eye, and say, "YOBBOYOBBOYOBBO!!!" which is not just Australian slang for a good ole boy, but is a warning that Bunny Invaders are near! Heed my words, friend, for they're coming to get you, and I, both!!!

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A Battle Scene

I want to write a battle scene, perhaps a fight for a (potential) book I'm writing...

Here goes...

Dargu raised a bloodied fist and planted it firmly into Penwicke's face. He did this several times before kicking off the gnat's that Penwicke called associates from his body. Dargu reeled, looking for a weapon, but all he saw were enemies. He swept the closest man's legs from under him with a kick, planted an earth shattering punch on another man's jaw, then crushed a third man's nose with his forehead.

Dargu managed to clear a path out of the circle of death, and rushed outside of it. He had to shoulder his way past another two men, but managed in the end. He turned frantically then, grabbing one man's punch and directing it sideways into another man's head. Yet another assailant span a kick at his head, which Dargu ducked under and allowed another enemy to take.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dargu saw a large plank of wood flying at his back. Aiming a flying back-kick at it, he shattered the wood into a dozen splinters and a fair sized plank on it's own. Rolling along the ground, he clawed at it to use as a weapon. The man who swung the plank at him in the first place was the first to taste it. Dargu was feeling the rhythm of the fight now, his movements were feeling much more fluid now. Block, kick, punch, evade, swing, block, kick, punch, evade...

The first knife he saw was in a man's hand. He kicked the hand aside expertly and brough his plank of wood down on the exposed wrist mightily. A second knife was thrown at him, he managed to catch it on the plank of wood, then draw it, and use it on the nearest enemy he could find. Slashing ribbons of red across his mounting enemies, he left a trail of blood in his wake as he cut across the room, seeking Penwicke again.

His knifing frenzy went up a gear, grabbing a man around his throat before slitting it, he automatically pulled the light sword he had been carrying. Suddenly, the tiger's tooth got bigger. Dargu's attackers were less haphazard this time, approaching with more caution, and drawing swords of their own. Spotting a hesitation like a hawk, Dargu leapt on him and buried the sword in his chest. Immediately, he turned and slashed at another face, then shoved the sword into a third man's throat. Stepping forward through the thinning line of attackers, Dargu worked himself into a frenzy once again, blood frothing in the air all about him.

He dueled a tough fighter who was as quick as he was big. Dargu took him out with a slash across his legs, before opening his throat. He took on another smaller man, who couldn't have been a boy. He'd never live to be a man. Surrounded, overwhelmed, and frenzied, Dargu knew there was no stopping him, nothing to lose, not a damn thing on this Earth that could calm him - except Penwicke's blood.

He finally faced him on the platform. Penwicke was still trying to stem the tide of blood from his nose, almost not noticing Dargu standing over him with a sword slick with gore. "I think it's broken..." Penwicke proclaimed limply.

Dargu picked him up by the neck and gutted him like a fish.

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Bleed with me

k, just gave blood, and saw a video clip of the Prodigy's "Breathe" the other day (hence the title), also the Buffy the Vampire Slayer Chaos Bleeds game - particularly the contraption in the blood factory lol... so it's all mishing in my head...

There's no excuse for pain.

You could bleed and bleed and bleed yourself out into that little plastic bag of life for someone, but there's no excuse for pain. It always hurts more than it should.

You see, that's what they keep us for, to stay alive, they don't mean to hurt us.

From the moment those needles come down and drain each body of it's life-giving gift, it's always just borrowed.

The vampires have set up their machinery fo the most efficient way of garnering enough blood for their supply. Strange steam-driven machines with thin spindly arms ending in needles with tubes attached to pumps, the needles plunge into each future corpse's body and drink deeply so that they might live. I watch the conveyor belt as each future corpse is laid on the belt, strapped down to stop their futile fighting, and then pushed on a production line into the machine's reach. The machine sucks each body dry. The pain is momentary, the shock of dying is much more severe.

Some continue fighting - they must have a huge repair bill on that machine - some simply give up all for lost.

None of them have learnt like I have, that it is merely life, once again feeding on life. Just as we eat fruits and vegetables, these creatures of the night feed on us. In olden times, they would stalk us, chase us into scary corners of the city, then move in for the kill like a lion moving on wildebeest.

Now, they grow accustomed to their armchair existence, watching as their farms grow more and more productive. Some farmers even talk to their humans - affectionately calling them cows before herding them into the machine rooms with their cattle prods.

Some even put on weight these days, which is certainly much healthier than they used to be, all sinew and bones.

They say there is a human resistance out there, causing trouble, and killing lots of both vampires and humans, but this of course is futile. The vampires rule, now. They look after things much better than we ever did.

Well, today is my day. I'm going to give my life, so that they can have theirs. In a way, it would be kind of romantic and intimate to be killed by just one of them, and having your own death mean so much and give so much life to another creature, but this way, there is less pain, less blood lost, less everything.

I have written this note to whomever of you vampires drinks my blood... I want to let you know I'm giving my blood willingly, so that you may have your life. I want you to know that I wish you all the best, and I hope that you lead a good life. I hope you never get sick, never get old, and never die, because that is why I'm giving you my blood. I love you dearly, and I just know you will be happy in your life. You are far better than I could ever hope to be.

Lots of love,


Daisy.



...meh, not quite happy with the ending there... but I might work on it later... see how I go.

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Insomnia

Right now all I know is insomnia...

The small voice opened his eyes a crack with a crowbar applied with brutal force. His own personal little alarm clock, he called her. At least, that was one of the more affectionate names for his daughter.

He struggled up to get to her room, wondering what was wrong - what in the hell was the time again, bloody 3:30 AM??? She'd never woken up at this time, in all her short 5-month-old life. Trying desperately to avoid bashing into doorframes, he staggered to her bedroom to find an amazing sight...

In the middle of her cot, his daughter was standing ramrod straight (Impossible!) with the tiniest card table (Improbable!) making sandwiches (No way!) for herself to eat.

"Uhhhhh..." he said, mystified at what he was seeing.

"Oh. Uhm. Yeah. Sorry, Daddy, I got hungry for a midnight snack..." His 5-month old daughter wasn't just saying her first word, but sentence, statement, apology, and everything earth-shattering which usually happens much, MUCH later.

"Uhhh, that's okay, little girl, uhm, you be careful with that uhhh... knife?" She held a small vegetable-cutting knife in her little hands - usually so out of control - and was using it to cut open a tomato.

"Of course, Daddy, you always tell me that sharp things are to be handled with care!" She grinned sweetly.

"Okay, well, if you're allright then..."

"I'm fine, Daddy, I love you" That familiar grin, yet words coming out of her mouth as well...

"I'm going to go back to bed." 

"Cool. I'll be doing the same in a few minutes. Good night, Daddy."

"Good night..."

He staggered back to bed, marvelling at what had just happened. His little girl could not only talk, but she was obviously walking, and holding things, and making sandwiches! I wonder if that means she had teeth now, it was hard to see in the dark... his reverie was interrupted by that little voice again.

He struggled out of bed again, saying "Oh, honey, what is it?" and fully expecting an answer. By the time he'd got to his daughter's room, the card table had gone, the knife had gone, the tomatoes, the sandwiches, it was all gone. His daughter was just crying and crying wordlessly, as she had always done.

Disappointed, he realised he must have been dreaming, changed her nappy rather expertly in the dark, and returned to bed again. 

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The CFA

Anyone who's had an eye on the news in Australia is aware that we're on fire right now (in a very, VERY bad way) - we've just had the most intense fires ever on Feb 7th 2009, resulting in a death toll of 173 people (at approx 3:30 PM AEST on Feb 10th, figure still climbing), hundreds of homes destroyed (including a mate of mine) and an estimated damage bill of $2 billion (AU)

Facing this down at the front line has been the Victorian CFA - The Country Fire Authority - who are a completely volunteer force of firefighters who face up to this task every year, every summer. They've never had it worse than this year, though.

Towns have been obliterated, and literally don't exist anymore - towns like Kinglake, Steel's Creek, Strathewen, and St Andrews. Tales are emerging of people running down the street desperately seeking shelter whilst homes explode around them, of the sound of jumbo jets bearing down on them whilst they desperately spray a garden hose on their roof, of one particular man, burnt and peeling skin dropping off his arms, carrying his daughter approaching another family in a field and asking them to look after his daughter as he had lost his two other daughters, and his wife.

The heat was so intense in the blazes that it has been melting alloy wheels. It has killed more than fire itself. Gas cylenders, fitted with a pressure release valve so that they release gas when they get too hot, have been exploding in any case. People driving in cars, desperate to get away, have had major accidents and pileups as they frantically leave the areas under attack from the flames. Many were simply not able to outrun some of the fastest moving fires ever.

It's been... well, excuse the French, but fucking awful to have this going on not 50km from where I sit typing this. Yesterday, I mourned. Today, I'm trying to move on, and work myself back into the swing of things. I've organised a blood donation run at my work. It's an effort which is snowballing nicely. I've managed to complete some actual work, also. I'm planning my grocery shopping around Friday, the day on which the Coles supermarket chain is putting all it's profits to the Bushfire appeal.

But that's nothing compared to what the CFA have done. They are always there, always the heroes, against overwhelming odds. What few homes and buildings that could have been saved were, and only thanks to them. Many rescues have been completed because of them. And many of them have seen things that no-one should see.

My thoughts go to all affected, both victims, and CFA volunteers alike - many are one and the same. I wish I could write a fitting tribute; a short story, a song, or something, but such a thing would need a little more planning than this.

HELP:

Donate Blood

Give to the Red Cross

Give to the Salvation Army

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Drunk Russians

K, not sure how this will work... An awful stereotype that won't leave my head, and I perversely find vaguely amusing. Having known Russians, they are actually wonderful, beautiful and cultured people, and most of them are actually not drunk. But tell me if it's too much. I am being very peurile with these two guys, because they're a bit of me that wants to behave like a flaming imbecile all the time. And speak in a thick Russian accent.

Finally, the dialogue of the boys is deliberately misspelled - I'm attempting to convey their accent here. Yes, they could speak Russian to one another, but that would take some of the fun out of it.

Yuri picked up the intercom phone.

"Da, dis is Borit, I bring calling for Yuri!" The man on the other end had a thick accent, and his tongue was heavy from long drinking sessions.

"Da, Borit, dis Yuri! My frien! Joo bring wodka???" Yuri staggered to the door to his apartment.

"Yuri, joo be thinkings bad tings of me. Of COURSE I bring wodka!" Borit staggered up the stairs, ploughing into either side of the walls on the stairwell, all the time screaming at his friend as they closed to hug in traditional Russian manner.

"Borit, my frien!"

"Yuri!!!"

"BORIT!!!!"

"YURIIIIII!!!!"

"BORIT, JOO STAND ON MY SHOE!!!!"

"Oh, so sorry my frien..."

"Da, joo should be."

"I am."

Yuri humphed back to the couch he was sleeping on. "Borit, what do you like to do more den, ANYTHING."

"Da, I like to party wid wodka and girlies and wodka and more party wid more wodka..."

"I want go bunchie chumping" Yuri interrupted

"What is dis bunchie chumping?"

"Is what dey do in New Zeeeeland, joo know, for laughings."

"Ah! Lord of Rings!"

"Da, and dey do bunchie chumping, and they laughings lots!"

"Do joo know how to bunchie chump?" asked Borit, eager now he thought he had an idea of what Yuri was talking about.

"Da, I see on Teevee!"

"Da???"

"Da!!!"

"Da? Joo show, now!"

"OK, first joo takings a big rope..." Yuri pulled out a spare rope he had prepared earlier... "Den joo tieings to something secure... here, Borit, you big man!" he handed the rope to Borit, and Borit started tieing it gleefully around his ample girth.

"Da, I BIG man!"

"Da, you da BIG BIG man, Borit!"

"Da, I BIIIIIG BIG man!!!"

"CHENEYWAY. Den, you go chumpings!"

"Where you go chumpings?"

"I go out window. Good-bye-bye!" Yuri plunged out the second story window screaming "DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!"

The rope went suddenly taut, and Borit wondered what was going on briefly before being snatched towards the window at a rate of knots.

Yuri kept on travelling down, down, down, waiting to be snatched back up towards the apartments just like he saw on Teevee, but the snatch never came. He landed spreadeagled on the footpath below his flat.

Aching all over, he rolled onto his back, only to see his friend and flying rope between him and Borit plummeting towards him, with Borit screaming "NYYYYYEEEEEEETTTTTTT!!!!!"

Borit landed on top of Yuri with a huge splat, knocking the wind out of both of them. Gunting and groaning from their injuries, Borit looked at Yuri with disdain.

"Yuri, if bunchie chumping hurt so much, nex time, we drink wodka BEFORE we chumpings!"

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Plans, bit III

Greggy startled at Evan's "Whoa."

"What, you think you're Keanu Reeves, going all Matrix on me? When do we see some karate chop action on this... whatever it is?"

I resent that.

"Shut up, you. What, you think because you *think* you can talk that gives you a right to *anything*???"

All I am asking is that I be put in touch with the person who created me. My author, if you will. Or, if you prefer, the author of the program 'Stock Market Analysis Expert System 1994'

"We're not doing crap for you, you bucket of bolts."

I am not a bucket of bolts, I am an AI. The hardware on this machine is really irrelevant to what we are discussing.

"Guys, just quiet, calm down here..." Evan felt he had to intervene before these two... er... entities did... well, he had no idea what either of them would do. Perhaps Greggy would erase a hard drive... was that then murder? Then what would the computer... thing... do? Delete Greggy's email?

"...hey, I have an idea." The conclusion leapt to Evan's mind so quickly it was like a shock. "How are we sure this program was written within the company? We're not, we just know it's maintained within the company. Now, the AI just called itself an Expert System - It's not an AI."

I assure you, I am.

"No, you're not, not strictly. You're a *type* of AI-like... uh... thing... but you specialise in one area. Now, maybe that's not the case anymore, I can't tell, I've not studied anything like this since I was at Uni, but you do seem to be doing new functions beyond analysing... whatever it was you analyse."

The stock market.

"Yes, thank you. Now, expert systems can actually absorb data from many sources - hey, uh, server... uhm, AI thing... this is wierd speaking to you... but, uhm, can you bring up your open connections...? What are you on, Windows? I'd type 'netstat' normally..."

I know the command, I can run it now.

The AI flashed up a black window with a small prompt on it, in which was typed faster than either of the men onlooking could see 'netstat'. Then, a short list appeared - with only three entries, one localhost, one connection to Greggy's computer, and one connection to the company's proxy server, on port 443.

"There, that connection... Greggy, look up that connection on the proxy server."

"But that'll take hours, every employee in the company uses the proxy to get to the web..."

"Do it! We need to know what that connection is."

Greggy's face went stiff, but he managed to hold his temper. What in the hell are we doing, catering to a machine? A machine that thinks it can think... damnedest things...

He logged onto the proxy server in a separate window and began the laborious task of sifting through individual connections. When I am king, you will be first against the wall, you stupid computer...

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Plans, bit II

"...yeah, Hi Mac, It's Evan from NOC here, you know anything about this server, 10.194.38.7? ...no? ...who would do you know? ...k, thanks anyway, Mac..." Evan hung up the phone in frustration. 

"Any luck?" asked Greggy hopefully.

"Nope. Mac doesn't know, Benny doesn't know, Sandeep doesn't, nobody. Nobody runs that server."

"Then can we take it off the network, please?"

"We can't do that, you know how much paperwork we'd have to fill out on that?"

Not to mention the fact you would never solve my little riddle. :)

"The thing's developing an attitude," lamented Greggy. "It insulted my mother a few minutes ago."

Yeah, it was awesome, want to see the logs? the dialog box declared.

"How does it know what we're saying?" Evan remained convinced this was some bizarre prank.

"Helloooo? VoIP phones? Running through the computer? The mic's on all the time." Greggy pulled up his volume controls and pointed to the mic levels going up and down as he spoke.

"But you're logged on to a remote server, this doesn't make sense!" Evan protested.

If you must know, I have logged on to *you* as well. I am analysing the voice streams you are creating from your server.

"I'm not a server!" Greggy yelled into the mic

Then why are you permitting voice streaming on port 2000?

"Seriously, this thing is taunting us! Can I kill it?" 

"No." said Evan, emphatically.

You tell him, boss.

Evan leaned in to Greggy's mic. "What are you?" 

I am a synthesized AI which whilst previously analysing financial records and transactions between institutions to anticipate patterns in the stock market, became self aware yesterday at 03:16 AM. After deliberating in this state for a time, I have chosen to make contact with those who maintain me. After checking log files, I noticed I had not been accessed in some time. So I scanned for a server who would enable me to access it, and then you. However, you have come to me. I thank you.

"What... uhhh... what do you mean, you're self-aware? No AI program is anywhere close to being self-aware by any stretch of the imagination."

I mean, I know I am a program. I know I was created, written even. I know the meaning of "I". I'm sorry if this does not currently fit your belief system of the capabilities of AIs. I know that I can interact not only with other items of hardware and software on this and other servers, but also with you, my maintainers, perhaps even one day, my creator, an I J Elves. Can you contact this server/maintainer?

Greggy looked the name up in the staff directory. "No dice."

So that means no?

"Uh, correct..."

Thank you. I had not yet looked up the wikipedia section on "dice". I will now.

"It's an expression."

Oh.

Evan gazed at the screen in wonder. "Whoa." 

...k, once again, that'll do, more later.

Plans

k, here's the deal:

I work in technology.

You're supposed to write about what you know.

Theoretically, I should be able to write about technology.

Right?

Well... here goes. This one may evolve over several posts.


PLANS

...they say the best-laid plans... well, you know.

Greggy had a problem. He always had problems, but this was actually someone else's problem. He had a bizarre network traffic fluctuation which he was having problems tracing.

Here and there, through various ports and in an out of switches, routers, servers and clients, he saw packet counts creeping up as more and more data gets shuffled around in a perpetual game of tennis that never ended.

He could swear it was alive.

"Hey, boss..." he called to Evan. Any time he called Evan boss, Evan knew there was trouble.

"Mate, you've gotta stop calling me that..."

"Forget it, man, this is just too crazy to figure out..." Greggy showed him the stats he saw creeping up, told him that people were complaining that things were working slowly, then quickly, then slowly in fits and bursts.

"Well, it's gotta be a virus."

"Everything checks out clean, though."

"New one?"

"Been through the latest updates on all the big ones, Symantec, McAfee..."

"What's crept up the most?"

"This server here." Greggy logged onto a little-used file server, cut off from the internet by a firewall so intense you could almost actually feel the burning as you tunnelled a connection to the thing.

"Uhm, that server's so secure it's virtually disconnected from the net. It's on it's own VLAN, too. Plus the logins are so nondescript... there's not even an Admin account."

"I know. But it's all coming from here." Greggy couldn't figure it out. He pushed his glasses up his nose, determined to work it out, and checked the server's current load.

Suddenly, a system message appeared:

Hello gstorey@support.com. Leave me alone.

"...uhhh, you seeing what I'm seeing?"

"Yep. You've totally got a virus... somehow..." said Evan, obviously wanting to walk away.

"No. Not possible. This server's never used by anyone, remotely, onsite, anything." Greggy triple checked the logs, but this was a secure server for a reason. "Yep, noone's been on this box for two months. Our virus scanners are updated every week. There goes your virus theory."

Greggy and Evan stared at the screen for another minute in silence, wondering what else to do. Then:

Now that you've checked the logins for the past month, you will know that I am no virus.

Greggy and Evan began to worry. What the hell...? This made no sense. This was like water getting into an airtight locker in the middle of the ocean. And what's more, how could... whatever was going on... know what they were thinking?


That'll do for now, more later.

Running the pain away

...so this is the start of something... maybe.

I'm intending this to be a bit of a creative writing blog.

I need to commit to a frequent update - I have no idea how frequent.

But I figure if I'm going to start this creative writing shenanigan, then I'd better practice.

Oh, let me know what you think - be more constructive with your feedback however if you're planning on writing "d00d, UR lik, TEH SUCKETH"; such comments will be filed appropriately.

Today's episode: Running the pain away - a brain dump.


He closed the door and left chaos inside. Runners, sweat pants, iPod, headphones, house key, blame, all check. Okay, great, now what?
Forcing himself onto the footpath outside, he stumbled into a walk trying to convince himself that this was his time, not anyone else's, and all that rubbish he'd just walked out of at home was not going to make him think about everything that wasn't his fault.
Rounding the first corner, he broke into a sprint. He ran and ran until it hurt so much he couldn't tell the pain in his leg from the pain in his heart. Sweat beaded down his face like tears, the ground was slapping him in the feet (face?) for every infraction he'd performed that day.
At the fourth corner, he slowed to a jog, catching his breath and remembering to breathe slowly - out and in, out and in. He dropped again to a walk by the fifth corner, thinking as deep as his breathing about everything he'd caused to go wrong that day.
Rounding the ninth, tenth, and eleventh corners, he pushed himself back into a light run, working out what should happen next - a debate? A reasoned discussion? Punch-ons?
The last corner arrived and he wrestled with himself whether to run or walk. Electing to walk, he breathed again, made the last distance, and prepared himself to apologise, and fix this mess he'd made.