When I Close My Eyes: original short story


When I close my eyes

I’m a rockstar. With a guitar in both hands. Held like it’s an extension of my own body. I strut and jive across the stage. Shake my shaggy hair and give the microphone a well deserved snog. The crowd cling for my feet, their eyes willing me to recognise them and wink at them. I raise an arm. One, two, one, two, three, four…

When I close my eyes…

I’m an Olympic runner. I’m wearing my country’s colours. I’m running so fast I’m almost flying. People are squealing. Both in the stands and in front of television screens and on TV catch up days afterwards. I kiss my gold medal and give a nod which becomes a national icon. Of peace. And ends civil wars everywhere.

When I close my eyes…

I’m a famous scientist. Giving an interview on BBC news. Talking about how I discovered my amazing discovery that changed the whole world. How I was in my lab, looking at some molecule under my super high-tech microscope when some dirt from my eyebrows fell on the little plate thing. And bam. I discovered it! The ultimate alternative fuel source. Ohh yeahhhh.

When I close my eyes

I’m a ballet dancer. Gliding around the hall. I am weightlessly floating. A single spotlight highlights the warmth of my skin. Crowds upon crowds of people marvel at the beautiful and elegant way I move. My toes twitter across the stage and the crowds gasps and whoops.

When I close my eyes

I’m in an office. Tap tap tapping on a keyboard. I daydream through the window for a moment before feeling overcome with inspiration. And then I manically run around, sending emails, picking up phones, interrupting meetings, giving presentations. Before I know it, I’m the CEO of a massive corporation and my photo is in Trillionaire Weekly.

When I open my eyes

My hands are white from dryness. I can smell the sewers from across the street. My bum in numb from sitting on the cold hard stone. People walk past me. With their guitars. And their running shoes. And their glasses. And their stockings. And their suits. Their eyes slide down at me and back up again in an instance.

When I close my eyes

They see me. All the people that I wanted to be. They see me huddled in a pile of grey clothes. Wishing their lucky stars they aren’t me.

I’d ask for spare change but my throat’s too dry.




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One Wild Night: short story

One wild night, blinded by the moonlight, blinded by their passions, three young men darted across a field. The only way to distinguish the figures was to say the man in the lead wore a brimmed hat and one of the men, the man who ran slightly slower than the other two, looked to be carrying a bundle. He held it close to his chest as he ran.

In the distance, a car followed them. It was driving across the field leaving deep ugly tire tracks trailing after it.

The men ran faster.

Flecks of dirt spurted from the car as it took up speed.

The woman in the car who’d been grinding her teeth previously, smirked a little. She knew something they didn’t. At the end of the field was a great towering fence.

The headlights of the car lit up the fence in question and one of the men swore loudly. He held up his hands to the other two. One of them, the one in the hat, tried to climb the fence. His hands gripped the bars but there was nothing for his feet so he slid down every time he attempted to push himself up.

The other two backed up next to him, having given up and awaited their fate.

The woman stopped the car and got out. Her heeled shoes struggled in the mud as she advanced towards the men.

The bundle one of the men was holding turned out to be a rugby ball. He tightened his grip on it.

The woman glared at the three men and they physically shook in fear.

“I’m sorry mum” one of them whimpered.

“Get in the car you’re late for dinner!”

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