Corey, Running



It was raining. Good, steady rain. The kind of rain that the ground soaks up, keeps moist for days. The kind of rain that the plants love, they bounce and frolic from the heavy drops falling on them.

Corey was running. In this rain? In this rain. He's on a streak. 17 days in a row. Doesn't want to break it now.

Corey is not a great runner. When Corey thinks of himself, runner doesn't show up on the primary list. Father. Husband. Senior Accountant. Brother. Son. Coffee Snob. Maybe another ten or twenty items down the list, would be Runner.

But whatever Corey thought aside, he was out there, in this rain, running. That makes him a runner. Maybe only for the duration of this run. But still.

His leg hurts. More than normal. Thinks he tweaked a nerve or tendon or muscle, something, in the leg. Anatomy is not Corey's strong suit. Tibia, Fibia? Tibula? Fibula? Corey had no clue which was which. Like asking him to name some of the latest generation Pokemon.

Corey is moving slowly. Slower than normal. Which, let's be fair, is already a bit on the slow side. Eleven minute miles on a good day. He's moving closer to fourteen now. Crawling up the hill in front of him, a motionless wave of asphalt.

A man about Corey's age wearing a navy blue tank top, short-shorts, high tube socks, and Chuck Taylor's runs next to Corey.

"Hey, Cor'," the man says.

"Hey, uh hey," Corey responds. "Do we know each other?"

"Yeah, it's me, Duncan," the runner responds, slowing down to match Corey's speed.

"Duncan?" Corey wheezes out between hard breaths.

"Yeah, squirt. Duncan Chalmers!" the man says, smiling.

"Duncan, Chalmers." Corey slows down to a walk, then to a stop. He's looking at the man in disbelief. "That's the same name as my grandfather," Corey says, watching the man run further ahead up the street.

Duncan turns around to look at Corey, still running forward. "Yeah, it's me squirt! I miss ya, see you around the block!" Duncan, much faster than Corey, is already near the top of the hill.

Corey begins to jog forward, sputters out a sound vaguely like "wait" and picks up his pace. He's sprinting. Or, what his body feels like is sprinting now. Really closer to nine minute miles.

Duncan crests the hill, stops at the top, looks at Corey, smiles, and then keeps running, the hill eclipsing his figure as he makes his way down.

As Corey finally reaches the top of the hill, his breath ragged and his tibia-fibia bone hurting badly, well, you already know. Duncan was gone, of course he was.


Please consider making a contribution to my Patreon if you enjoy these weird stories and are able to support them financially. No Happy Nonsense is 100% ad free and your donation helps keep it that way.

No Happy Nonsense

Subscribe for weird, surreal and uneasy fiction every week.

Read more from No Happy Nonsense
oh hey ian

Ray clicked the button inside his garage, the motor hanging from the ceiling turned on, whined. The metal door slowly climbed up the track and opened. "Rain comin'," Ray said to himself as he shuffled a few steps in his driveway. "It's good, we need the rain," he said to no one. A chubby man in a blue t-shirt, khaki cargo-shorts, and white shoes walked down the street. He looked over and saw Ray. "Hey, Ray," the man said, stopping his stride. "Oh hey, Tom," Ray said. "Feels like rain's...

tall brush

Paul pulled hard once, abruptly. The lawnmower didn't start. He pulled it again, not as hard, not as abrupt. Nothing. He pulled that shit twice in a row, and then a third pull failed halfway through. He let go of the small handle, walked away to take a few breaths. "Come on you fuckin'," he said to the lawnmower, his hands on his hips as he walked small circles in the yard. He primed that shit five, six, seven, lost count times. Pew pew pew pew pew pew. He pulled the cord as hard as he could,...

the west sector floods

"Did you turn on the West Sector floods?" Daniel remained squatted, but stopped connecting the wires he was working on momentarily. His eyes widened as the realization that he hadn't turned on the flood lights—hadn't heard that loud "KACHOONG" noise when you flip over that comically oversized switch—hadn't turned on the West Sector flood lights as he was wrapping everything up down at that part of camp. This, obviously, was a very bad thing. Certain death awaited Daniel, undoubtedly. This...