Thousands run across the tinted streets of Boise. Toppling buildings and smashing cars with the momentum of each hurried light step. Their tired breathing blows planes out of the sky and sand off the Boise river’s edge. They run, turning every once in a while to make sure the one straggler was still there. The one slowly losing breath as there eyes focus themselves on the old cracked pavement. The mixture of smoke, water vapor and specks of dust flow into the one’s mouth forcing a strange longing taste. As the heat burned into they’re scalp. The streets are incredibly humid and completely unbearable. Even now, I sit and watch in the shadow of a bridge watching as the one sputters and wheeze before stumbling after the others. Unwilling dragging a weeping willow that managed to wrap around the one’s ankle .

My curiosity compels me as I sneak from my hideout and climb the willow tree in a attempt to get a better look at the one. The one, unlike the other thousands is slightly long and gangly. With green moss-like scaly grey skin. As I sketch I wonder how long The ones marble blue eyes look in my direction but quickly turn away as they return they’re tired focus back to the rest of the group running far ahead of them stopping only to make sure the one could catch up.

Why do they run? They run because that's what they’re supposed to do. Ever since their blood-covered ancestors proved themselves to be survivors and ever since people of thousands of monsters bellowed as they forced time forward a tad too fast, they’ve been running. Other than that, they all have their reasons. Some want to make others proud of their accomplishments as they throw...