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Fiction Piece: A distinctive vibration comes from his pocket, he knows this vibration too well and at quarter to three, it can only mean one thing

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Nothingness; absolute nothing? No tunnel, no bright lights. Just nothing? Outside Quarter to three? Fifteen minutes left. A distinctive vibration comes from his pocket, he knows this vibration too well and at quarter to three, it can only mean one thing? He instantly terminates his work and cautiously raises the rugged Nokia onto his lap and glances at the message: ?TIME?. Ten to three. Trying to concentrate on the lesson. The gloomy corners of the room appear to be darkening and expanding with every breath he takes. The voice of the teacher becoming a monotonous blur as time increases its pace. Five to three. Pulse rising. Sweat slipping down his brow. Now detached from the lesson completely. And the room; swelling and dimming, faster and faster as he attempts to retain his composure. Sixty seconds. The students are stuffing their bags with their books in a desperate rush to escape. Trembling; he arranges his work in an orderly pile, places them in his rucksack and stands. ...read more.


The chase continues, his heart racing as he tears down the terraced street. He glances behind him to meet only two of his pursuers. With no time to question where the remaining teenager was, he makes a left turn into the road, narrowly avoiding an oncoming bus. He slows his pace and jogs through a string of alleyways and enters a nearby residential estate. The gang nowhere to be seen? He collapses on the pavement and catches his breath, the symptoms of nausea and pain rushing back as adrenaline wears off. He observes his uniform; a new tear on his collar from where he had been choked and a bloodstain on his already scuffed trousers. It was nearly four, the bright orange sun setting on a crisp December evening. He prepared for the hour-long walk home and rose. Now walking back through the endless expanse of residential streets and terraced houses, staring down at the concrete pavement. The occasional flickering of street lamps startled him as he maintained a fast pace: one, two, three, four he counted as he walked: one, two, three- CRASH. ...read more.


A strange euphoria now- the sort you feel when you complete a long project? Home. Or at least I think it is? Four windows, a green door but a well-kept lawn? Its how it used to be when I was young. Now I see it? My family and me- well a toddler version of me, and mum? She?s happy, smiling; doesn?t have a bottle of vodka attached to her. And now dad, with mum, sat watching me: happy too. Shouting as loud as I can- they can?t hear me. Am I real? -Walking over to them- admiring the handsome chap that dad was. Tapping on mum?s shoulder, she doesn?t notice. And nothingness. Inside, at the doorway; mum arguing with dad and toddler me on the staircase crying. I can?t hear what they are saying but I?m only feet from them. It?s as if I?m in a transparent bubble- all sound drowned out. Dad?s had it; he?s storming upstairs and returning with a packed suitcase. I?m still on the stairs- hysterics. He kisses my head and walks toward the door- for the older version of me. I?m blocking the door, screaming at him, he can?t hear me and just passes through. And nothingness? 914 words ...read more.

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