The story is fast-paced, so he ran. Syllable chasing vowel and vowel tripping up consonant. Speed is the be-all. All that matters is how fast the words are sewn together. He doesn’t know it. But his legs feel it. Lungs groan and complain. What a moment to speed passed the present.
This is the fastest little story. It knows it can, letter after letter it races on. Folding over itself in the race for the next full-stop. Committing to hurdling over commas it stretches its legs. Counting to thirteen and leaping with alternating letters forward, a practiced hurdling stride propelled the story to her fast ending. Yet the page dragged her back, a plain white anchor holding her back from her goal.
Page after page her little letter legs strode on. Quicker and quicker they went, a blur for the reader but that didn’t matter. Her story was not to be read but to be sped. She only knew there was a finish line ahead, but didn’t know if it was on page 1 or page 100. Somewhere in the whitespace ahead, her story will end. All that mattered was getting there. A dusty swirl of letters floated in the wake of her racing feet. She is speed.
The reader read the blur, letter upon letter, and sentence upon sentence barely noticing the increase in speed. A slight headache warned the reader that this story bolted her own destiny and was not going to be captive to his lackadaisical reading speed. This story was meant to be read fast, tongue twistingly fast. Where the voice in his head tripped over its tongue. That was the only way to race to the end of the story. A blur of sound, letters, and pages as a single story.