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Pulsing through my ears, my mind, my thoughts. Just.. a.. little.. further.
I stumbled on, face clammy with clinging beads of sweat, stinging my eyes. The wild fringe fell forwards across my line of sight again and again. Obscuring it. But it was still there, that white oblong of hope.. over there. So far.
Clutching for support from the sparse trees I instead found scorn, gargoyles with gnarled, twisted faces laughing down at me. The branches swung and sliced through the air with an almost visible sharpness, slicing my flesh time and time again like some relentless assault.
The great grey mass of dull concrete stretching out before me twisted and congealed sickeningly before my eyes; a plain of dusty, remorseless sand, buzzards circling overhead.. a flow of lava crinkling the hairs on my face and burning the soles of my shoes. Yet, I knew, I knew, I knew that this was a cool and crisp winter day. Or did I? What did I know anymore.
In that ever-reaching stretch of time the noise buzzed through my head, forcing the sides of my head outwards to almost breaking point. It wouldn't stop, on and on and on the dull metal ring sounded. It was like standing on the top layer of an hour-glass, watching the particles fall away beneath you, leaving nothing but a gaping hole in the floor. Crossing that same stretch of ground I crossed every day was like going over the top, through fields of mortar holes, blood and well-trampled mud.
The snakes painted across numbers on the ground slithered and writhed. A venomous cobra, rearing its hood and hissing, the rattlesnake shaking its tail. Louder. Louder. Their tongues flickered in and out as they reared back to strike. Fangs beared, eyes nothing but slits. But then, eyes tight shut, the noise took over. No final strike. No death, yet there were clouds. Maybe this was Heaven. No, the white oblong was still there, only closer, mud-splattered windows, flaking paint. All visible. Not far to go.
I bounced over the clouds, care-free, relishing the chance to float on the clouds. This must be what an angel or a bird feels like, above the clouds, let loose to roam the skies. Free. Then the terrible noise returned and the air itself hummed. A great metal shell roared into vision behind the white oblong, engines whirring, pulling me towards it. Stop. Enough. What my eyes were seeing was not there. It couldn't be. I was on the ground.
I ran forward eyes shut, a few more steps. Opening them again after what seemed like an age the grey, dull concrete had returned, only this time the horizon seemed to sway less. The reverberations were fading, dying. Only a matter of steps to go before that great white oblong opened its doors to me, with the prospect of a phone. Of security. The ringing, now no more than a murmur, whispered its plea for me to reach my sanctuary. And so as I closed my hands around that cool metal I pushed with my draining strength and collapsed through the door onto the stained, coarse carpet.
Memories of the white van behind the hut, in amongst the trees. Memories of the exchange and the consumption of that innocent little white cyclinder. Had that really caused all this? I closed my eyes and let the sleep embrace my weary limbs.
I stumbled on, face clammy with clinging beads of sweat, stinging my eyes. The wild fringe fell forwards across my line of sight again and again. Obscuring it. But it was still there, that white oblong of hope.. over there. So far.
Clutching for support from the sparse trees I instead found scorn, gargoyles with gnarled, twisted faces laughing down at me. The branches swung and sliced through the air with an almost visible sharpness, slicing my flesh time and time again like some relentless assault.
The great grey mass of dull concrete stretching out before me twisted and congealed sickeningly before my eyes; a plain of dusty, remorseless sand, buzzards circling overhead.. a flow of lava crinkling the hairs on my face and burning the soles of my shoes. Yet, I knew, I knew, I knew that this was a cool and crisp winter day. Or did I? What did I know anymore.
In that ever-reaching stretch of time the noise buzzed through my head, forcing the sides of my head outwards to almost breaking point. It wouldn't stop, on and on and on the dull metal ring sounded. It was like standing on the top layer of an hour-glass, watching the particles fall away beneath you, leaving nothing but a gaping hole in the floor. Crossing that same stretch of ground I crossed every day was like going over the top, through fields of mortar holes, blood and well-trampled mud.
The snakes painted across numbers on the ground slithered and writhed. A venomous cobra, rearing its hood and hissing, the rattlesnake shaking its tail. Louder. Louder. Their tongues flickered in and out as they reared back to strike. Fangs beared, eyes nothing but slits. But then, eyes tight shut, the noise took over. No final strike. No death, yet there were clouds. Maybe this was Heaven. No, the white oblong was still there, only closer, mud-splattered windows, flaking paint. All visible. Not far to go.
I bounced over the clouds, care-free, relishing the chance to float on the clouds. This must be what an angel or a bird feels like, above the clouds, let loose to roam the skies. Free. Then the terrible noise returned and the air itself hummed. A great metal shell roared into vision behind the white oblong, engines whirring, pulling me towards it. Stop. Enough. What my eyes were seeing was not there. It couldn't be. I was on the ground.
I ran forward eyes shut, a few more steps. Opening them again after what seemed like an age the grey, dull concrete had returned, only this time the horizon seemed to sway less. The reverberations were fading, dying. Only a matter of steps to go before that great white oblong opened its doors to me, with the prospect of a phone. Of security. The ringing, now no more than a murmur, whispered its plea for me to reach my sanctuary. And so as I closed my hands around that cool metal I pushed with my draining strength and collapsed through the door onto the stained, coarse carpet.
Memories of the white van behind the hut, in amongst the trees. Memories of the exchange and the consumption of that innocent little white cyclinder. Had that really caused all this? I closed my eyes and let the sleep embrace my weary limbs.
Pulsing through my ears, my mind, my thoughts. Just.. a.. little.. further.
I stumbled on, face clammy with clinging beads of sweat, stinging my eyes. The wild fringe fell forwards across my line of sight again and again. Obscuring it. But it was still there, that white oblong of hope.. over there. So far.
Clutching for support from the sparse trees I instead found scorn, gargoyles with gnarled, twisted faces laughing down at me. The branches swung and sliced through the air with an almost visible sharpness, slicing my flesh time and time again like some relentless assault.
The great grey mass of dull concrete stretching out before me twisted and congealed sickeningly before my eyes; a plain of dusty, remorseless sand, buzzards circling overhead.. a flow of lava crinkling the hairs on my face and burning the soles of my shoes. Yet, I knew, I knew, I knew that this was a cool and crisp winter day. Or did I? What did I know anymore.
In that ever-reaching stretch of time the noise buzzed through my head, forcing the sides of my head outwards to almost breaking point. It wouldn't stop, on and on and on the dull metal ring sounded. It was like standing on the top layer of an hour-glass, watching the particles fall away beneath you, leaving nothing but a gaping hole in the floor. Crossing that same stretch of ground I crossed every day was like going over the top, through fields of mortar holes, blood and well-trampled mud.
The snakes painted across numbers on the ground slithered and writhed. A venomous cobra, rearing its hood and hissing, the rattlesnake shaking its tail. Louder. Louder. Their tongues flickered in and out as they reared back to strike. Fangs beared, eyes nothing but slits. But then, eyes tight shut, the noise took over. No final strike. No death, yet there were clouds. Maybe this was Heaven. No, the white oblong was still there, only closer, mud-splattered windows, flaking paint. All visible. Not far to go.
I bounced over the clouds, care-free, relishing the chance to float on the clouds. This must be what an angel or a bird feels like, above the clouds, let loose to roam the skies. Free. Then the terrible noise returned and the air itself hummed. A great metal shell roared into vision behind the white oblong, engines whirring, pulling me towards it. Stop. Enough. What my eyes were seeing was not there. It couldn't be. I was on the ground.
I ran forward eyes shut, a few more steps. Opening them again after what seemed like an age the grey, dull concrete had returned, only this time the horizon seemed to sway less. The reverberations were fading, dying. Only a matter of steps to go before that great white oblong opened its doors to me, with the prospect of a phone. Of security. The ringing, now no more than a murmur, whispered its plea for me to reach my sanctuary. And so as I closed my hands around that cool metal I pushed with my draining strength and collapsed through the door onto the stained, coarse carpet.
Memories of the white van behind the hut, in amongst the trees. Memories of the exchange and the consumption of that innocent little white cyclinder. Had that really caused all this? I closed my eyes and let the sleep embrace my weary limbs.
I stumbled on, face clammy with clinging beads of sweat, stinging my eyes. The wild fringe fell forwards across my line of sight again and again. Obscuring it. But it was still there, that white oblong of hope.. over there. So far.
Clutching for support from the sparse trees I instead found scorn, gargoyles with gnarled, twisted faces laughing down at me. The branches swung and sliced through the air with an almost visible sharpness, slicing my flesh time and time again like some relentless assault.
The great grey mass of dull concrete stretching out before me twisted and congealed sickeningly before my eyes; a plain of dusty, remorseless sand, buzzards circling overhead.. a flow of lava crinkling the hairs on my face and burning the soles of my shoes. Yet, I knew, I knew, I knew that this was a cool and crisp winter day. Or did I? What did I know anymore.
In that ever-reaching stretch of time the noise buzzed through my head, forcing the sides of my head outwards to almost breaking point. It wouldn't stop, on and on and on the dull metal ring sounded. It was like standing on the top layer of an hour-glass, watching the particles fall away beneath you, leaving nothing but a gaping hole in the floor. Crossing that same stretch of ground I crossed every day was like going over the top, through fields of mortar holes, blood and well-trampled mud.
The snakes painted across numbers on the ground slithered and writhed. A venomous cobra, rearing its hood and hissing, the rattlesnake shaking its tail. Louder. Louder. Their tongues flickered in and out as they reared back to strike. Fangs beared, eyes nothing but slits. But then, eyes tight shut, the noise took over. No final strike. No death, yet there were clouds. Maybe this was Heaven. No, the white oblong was still there, only closer, mud-splattered windows, flaking paint. All visible. Not far to go.
I bounced over the clouds, care-free, relishing the chance to float on the clouds. This must be what an angel or a bird feels like, above the clouds, let loose to roam the skies. Free. Then the terrible noise returned and the air itself hummed. A great metal shell roared into vision behind the white oblong, engines whirring, pulling me towards it. Stop. Enough. What my eyes were seeing was not there. It couldn't be. I was on the ground.
I ran forward eyes shut, a few more steps. Opening them again after what seemed like an age the grey, dull concrete had returned, only this time the horizon seemed to sway less. The reverberations were fading, dying. Only a matter of steps to go before that great white oblong opened its doors to me, with the prospect of a phone. Of security. The ringing, now no more than a murmur, whispered its plea for me to reach my sanctuary. And so as I closed my hands around that cool metal I pushed with my draining strength and collapsed through the door onto the stained, coarse carpet.
Memories of the white van behind the hut, in amongst the trees. Memories of the exchange and the consumption of that innocent little white cyclinder. Had that really caused all this? I closed my eyes and let the sleep embrace my weary limbs.
Okay, some stuff about this, but mainly, what does it have to do with school?
The bell is the school bell
The 'great grey expanse' is the playground
The white oblong is the school building
The 'great grey expanse' is the playground
The white oblong is the school building
Oh, I see. But we wouldn't see they "white oblong" as hope.
Again, good english etc. but not my cup o' tea.
Again, good english etc. but not my cup o' tea.
Well.. that's half the point of the story.
Ah well, too subtle
Ah well, too subtle
Interesting twist on the theme, that.
Very descriptive but it didn't dwell too long and kept the drama going with the journey across the playground.
Felt quite "complete", too. I liked that.
Very descriptive but it didn't dwell too long and kept the drama going with the journey across the playground.
Felt quite "complete", too. I liked that.
I quite liked it too. You provided some good images of a school playground I thought, but I guess I do see RO's point of having less to do with actual school itself (though it wouldn't seem out of place in an episode of Grange Hill...)