Imagine a lineup of 8 billion runners, all of identical stature and clothing, with no discerning features at all but just a natural number from 1 to 8000000000 on their sports uniforms. All of them are in high spirits, aiming to compete at the very top. On this track, everyone is equal. No tricks, no traps, this is everything everyone of them ever wanted. Running is their life.
An electronic signal heralds the beginning of the race. Everyone runs in a straight file, protected from mutual interference by smooth, clean concrete bollards. The race is set at high noon of March 21 and the track runs along the equator, such that the sun is casting exactly perpendicular shadows from a perfectly blue sky; the air is fresh and of excessively neutral taste, Copland’s ecstatic Fanfare for the Common Man plays from a tape, and everyone enjoys the new, pristine, pedantically flat track.
The one-kilometre mark passes in a flash, those for 2, 3, and 4 kilometres are also quickly within reach. Upon the fifteenth kilometre, some of the runners begin to wonder: How long is this track? We can’t see the end just yet. Maybe it ends on the beach! The kilometres pass. The bollards seem to finish off in the distance, but the end must still be hidden behind the curvature of the earth, and the race goes on. At 20 km, pressing matters begin to take over their minds. The first of them choose to empty their drinking bottle to relieve themselves in it. By the way, they think, where do I get a new one? I mean there has be a booth somewhere, right? But the race goes on. At 30 km, some of the runners begin feeling proud of how smart they are, realising this must be a marathon and rationing their water for the final stretch. The first runner collapses, but no one sees him because of the bollards. The race goes on. At 42 km, the length of a marathon, many runners have broken down and silence lies over the track. Those who hear the silence but cannot see its cause now know that something is wrong. They scream for help, but no one comes because everyone is participating in the event. The race goes on. Way beyond in the distance, at the 600 km mark, the last participant collapses. He, too, is dead. The race goes on.
Only one person reaches the finish line. His name is Elon Musk.
This just shows how much work those incredible billionaires have to put in in order to get where they are now.
Did you write this? Is it short enough to be flash fiction? Either way, it’s great. 10/10 for creativity and style.
Yes, I wrote it myself, I am glad you liked it! It is under 1000 words by a rough upper bound estimate, so officially it is flash fiction.
I hope I succeeded in expressing my philosophical view that capitalism cannot be turned into a morally just system by merely equalising the starting conditions and then starting the same incessant and aimless social competition all over again. Its main ethical failure is not the inequity of its current instance, but its inherent brutality and callousness.
Although I made some jokes in the other comments below, that allegory came across. It’s impressive how much imagery you create in so few words.
There are 41,712,000 feet from pole to pole. Each lane would be 0.005 feet wide.
Okay there are some logistical issues, but the metaphor is quite apt. The billionaires are really near the poles and keep celebrating with every lap, wondering why those near the equator are so slow.
