The "Freeola Customer Forum" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only. You cannot post here or create a new thread or review on this forum.
My eyes burn, my limbs ache and bile and phlegm lap against the back wall of my throat like the evening tide. My veiny purple eyelids are pulled down like dead weights over my eyes, but I can’t sleep. If I sleep I could miss the perfect moment. The darkened cell is cold and slumped here on the cold stone floor I begin another of my coughing fits that I blame on the cold and damp.
The moon hangs high in the sky outside of my unglazed window, and casts a dim light over the prison grounds. I see two patrolmen pacing up and down the gardens of the prison. Yes, we have gardens – although we don’t get to go in them. They put gardens full of flowers around maximum-security institutions to make them look less intimidating to passers by, although very few people pass through here, especially in the snow.
I cough again and spit up a glob of mucus onto the floor. The time is soon. I slide the key to my cell door out of my sleeve. It’s been hidden there since the kitchen staff managed to make me a copy of the original. The kitchen staff aren’t part of the prison, they’re just cooks who never managed to get their own restaurants and are as embittered by the regime as I am. They’re on my side, not theirs.
The moon is a bit higher; I estimate it is about eleven. This is the time where the guards take a 15-minute break before they change over for the night shift. This is the time. I slide the key into the cold lock and begin to turn. Click. The time is now. I spit on the hinge of the door to soften the squeaking and I slide it open, and lock the door behind me. They won’t know I’m gone until the morning if all goes to plan.
I tiptoe down the darkened corridor, lit only by a single bulb suspended by a wire. The bulb swings slightly in the draught that flits through the cold building. My thin jacket provides no protection from the wind that chills my bones. I make my way down the stairwell to the ground floor but voices cause me to stop half way down. I press my body against the cold stonewall and hope no to be seen. The voices get louder and louder and two guards appear, engrossed in conversation, they pass the bottom of the stairwell without even glancing up. Now is the time.
The main exit is adjacent to the bottom of the stairwell and I shift closer, silently, to my escape. I tiptoe closer and closer and pray to God the door isn’t alarmed. I push it and brace myself for the worst. No sound except the rush of icy wind blowing in from outside. I survey the surroundings; there are two guards in the vicinity I will have to avoid. But where are they?
I tiptoe across to the edge of a flowerbed and press myself against a wall of frozen geraniums. I hear footsteps. I roll my body as quietly as I can inside the mass of flowers, and lie still. Through a wall of stalks I see heavy grey boots walking across the path and stop at near the door from which I emerged. I left it open. Oh God. Is he going to raise the alarm? No, he is closing the door. The guard is walking around the other side of the flowerbed and into the rest of the large garden.
I roll out of the flowerbed and onto my feet and edge towards the gate. It is ajar. I slip between the high wrought iron gates. I’m outside. I am free! I jog down the winding driveway to the prison but there’s a sound. What is it? A deep droning yelp, it’s the alarm! I make my way, as fast as I can, towards a group of trees to the side of the road and jam my body between the cold trees. Oh no. The snow. Footsteps. They’ll follow my footsteps and find me! The only solution is to keep running and hope they give up. I hear the motor of an engine humming behind me, but it can’t make it though the trees. The bark of Alsatians, going after my scent. Gaining on me. A voice. “Stop!” I carry on. A hail of bullets catches me in the back and I feel myself, pierced and falling down. I don’t feel the cold any more. Face down in the snow my vision somersaults and my breathing becomes frantic. But I’m not scared; I’m not scared at all. I’m a free man.
The moon hangs high in the sky outside of my unglazed window, and casts a dim light over the prison grounds. I see two patrolmen pacing up and down the gardens of the prison. Yes, we have gardens – although we don’t get to go in them. They put gardens full of flowers around maximum-security institutions to make them look less intimidating to passers by, although very few people pass through here, especially in the snow.
I cough again and spit up a glob of mucus onto the floor. The time is soon. I slide the key to my cell door out of my sleeve. It’s been hidden there since the kitchen staff managed to make me a copy of the original. The kitchen staff aren’t part of the prison, they’re just cooks who never managed to get their own restaurants and are as embittered by the regime as I am. They’re on my side, not theirs.
The moon is a bit higher; I estimate it is about eleven. This is the time where the guards take a 15-minute break before they change over for the night shift. This is the time. I slide the key into the cold lock and begin to turn. Click. The time is now. I spit on the hinge of the door to soften the squeaking and I slide it open, and lock the door behind me. They won’t know I’m gone until the morning if all goes to plan.
I tiptoe down the darkened corridor, lit only by a single bulb suspended by a wire. The bulb swings slightly in the draught that flits through the cold building. My thin jacket provides no protection from the wind that chills my bones. I make my way down the stairwell to the ground floor but voices cause me to stop half way down. I press my body against the cold stonewall and hope no to be seen. The voices get louder and louder and two guards appear, engrossed in conversation, they pass the bottom of the stairwell without even glancing up. Now is the time.
The main exit is adjacent to the bottom of the stairwell and I shift closer, silently, to my escape. I tiptoe closer and closer and pray to God the door isn’t alarmed. I push it and brace myself for the worst. No sound except the rush of icy wind blowing in from outside. I survey the surroundings; there are two guards in the vicinity I will have to avoid. But where are they?
I tiptoe across to the edge of a flowerbed and press myself against a wall of frozen geraniums. I hear footsteps. I roll my body as quietly as I can inside the mass of flowers, and lie still. Through a wall of stalks I see heavy grey boots walking across the path and stop at near the door from which I emerged. I left it open. Oh God. Is he going to raise the alarm? No, he is closing the door. The guard is walking around the other side of the flowerbed and into the rest of the large garden.
I roll out of the flowerbed and onto my feet and edge towards the gate. It is ajar. I slip between the high wrought iron gates. I’m outside. I am free! I jog down the winding driveway to the prison but there’s a sound. What is it? A deep droning yelp, it’s the alarm! I make my way, as fast as I can, towards a group of trees to the side of the road and jam my body between the cold trees. Oh no. The snow. Footsteps. They’ll follow my footsteps and find me! The only solution is to keep running and hope they give up. I hear the motor of an engine humming behind me, but it can’t make it though the trees. The bark of Alsatians, going after my scent. Gaining on me. A voice. “Stop!” I carry on. A hail of bullets catches me in the back and I feel myself, pierced and falling down. I don’t feel the cold any more. Face down in the snow my vision somersaults and my breathing becomes frantic. But I’m not scared; I’m not scared at all. I’m a free man.
Paradox: wrote:
> Heh, Don't be silly pb
>
> *ties JK Rowling back up*
Be serious now, we said 'author'
> Heh, Don't be silly pb
>
> *ties JK Rowling back up*
Be serious now, we said 'author'
Heh, Don't be silly pb
*ties JK Rowling back up*
*ties JK Rowling back up*
Another great story. Are you sure you haven't kidnapped an author and forced them to write stories for you ;-)
Cheers Black Glove, and everyone else who read it.
That was excellent. One of the best little snapshots I've read for a while on here.
Ineedsleep wrote:
> Damn I cannot finish reading this due to a couple of words which
> always make me want to upchuck
Geraniums?
> is it any good?
Well I think so :-|
> Damn I cannot finish reading this due to a couple of words which
> always make me want to upchuck
Geraniums?
> is it any good?
Well I think so :-|
Damn I cannot finish reading this due to a couple of words which always make me want to upchuck - is it any good?
Yes, it is. Deeply.
*cough* *splutter* *dead*
*cough* *splutter* *dead*
I could hear "The Great Escape" music playing in the background as I read it. Descriptive work which I like. I'm guessing that sore throat is affecting your writing Kyle!
My eyes burn, my limbs ache and bile and phlegm lap against the back wall of my throat like the evening tide. My veiny purple eyelids are pulled down like dead weights over my eyes, but I can’t sleep. If I sleep I could miss the perfect moment. The darkened cell is cold and slumped here on the cold stone floor I begin another of my coughing fits that I blame on the cold and damp.
The moon hangs high in the sky outside of my unglazed window, and casts a dim light over the prison grounds. I see two patrolmen pacing up and down the gardens of the prison. Yes, we have gardens – although we don’t get to go in them. They put gardens full of flowers around maximum-security institutions to make them look less intimidating to passers by, although very few people pass through here, especially in the snow.
I cough again and spit up a glob of mucus onto the floor. The time is soon. I slide the key to my cell door out of my sleeve. It’s been hidden there since the kitchen staff managed to make me a copy of the original. The kitchen staff aren’t part of the prison, they’re just cooks who never managed to get their own restaurants and are as embittered by the regime as I am. They’re on my side, not theirs.
The moon is a bit higher; I estimate it is about eleven. This is the time where the guards take a 15-minute break before they change over for the night shift. This is the time. I slide the key into the cold lock and begin to turn. Click. The time is now. I spit on the hinge of the door to soften the squeaking and I slide it open, and lock the door behind me. They won’t know I’m gone until the morning if all goes to plan.
I tiptoe down the darkened corridor, lit only by a single bulb suspended by a wire. The bulb swings slightly in the draught that flits through the cold building. My thin jacket provides no protection from the wind that chills my bones. I make my way down the stairwell to the ground floor but voices cause me to stop half way down. I press my body against the cold stonewall and hope no to be seen. The voices get louder and louder and two guards appear, engrossed in conversation, they pass the bottom of the stairwell without even glancing up. Now is the time.
The main exit is adjacent to the bottom of the stairwell and I shift closer, silently, to my escape. I tiptoe closer and closer and pray to God the door isn’t alarmed. I push it and brace myself for the worst. No sound except the rush of icy wind blowing in from outside. I survey the surroundings; there are two guards in the vicinity I will have to avoid. But where are they?
I tiptoe across to the edge of a flowerbed and press myself against a wall of frozen geraniums. I hear footsteps. I roll my body as quietly as I can inside the mass of flowers, and lie still. Through a wall of stalks I see heavy grey boots walking across the path and stop at near the door from which I emerged. I left it open. Oh God. Is he going to raise the alarm? No, he is closing the door. The guard is walking around the other side of the flowerbed and into the rest of the large garden.
I roll out of the flowerbed and onto my feet and edge towards the gate. It is ajar. I slip between the high wrought iron gates. I’m outside. I am free! I jog down the winding driveway to the prison but there’s a sound. What is it? A deep droning yelp, it’s the alarm! I make my way, as fast as I can, towards a group of trees to the side of the road and jam my body between the cold trees. Oh no. The snow. Footsteps. They’ll follow my footsteps and find me! The only solution is to keep running and hope they give up. I hear the motor of an engine humming behind me, but it can’t make it though the trees. The bark of Alsatians, going after my scent. Gaining on me. A voice. “Stop!” I carry on. A hail of bullets catches me in the back and I feel myself, pierced and falling down. I don’t feel the cold any more. Face down in the snow my vision somersaults and my breathing becomes frantic. But I’m not scared; I’m not scared at all. I’m a free man.
The moon hangs high in the sky outside of my unglazed window, and casts a dim light over the prison grounds. I see two patrolmen pacing up and down the gardens of the prison. Yes, we have gardens – although we don’t get to go in them. They put gardens full of flowers around maximum-security institutions to make them look less intimidating to passers by, although very few people pass through here, especially in the snow.
I cough again and spit up a glob of mucus onto the floor. The time is soon. I slide the key to my cell door out of my sleeve. It’s been hidden there since the kitchen staff managed to make me a copy of the original. The kitchen staff aren’t part of the prison, they’re just cooks who never managed to get their own restaurants and are as embittered by the regime as I am. They’re on my side, not theirs.
The moon is a bit higher; I estimate it is about eleven. This is the time where the guards take a 15-minute break before they change over for the night shift. This is the time. I slide the key into the cold lock and begin to turn. Click. The time is now. I spit on the hinge of the door to soften the squeaking and I slide it open, and lock the door behind me. They won’t know I’m gone until the morning if all goes to plan.
I tiptoe down the darkened corridor, lit only by a single bulb suspended by a wire. The bulb swings slightly in the draught that flits through the cold building. My thin jacket provides no protection from the wind that chills my bones. I make my way down the stairwell to the ground floor but voices cause me to stop half way down. I press my body against the cold stonewall and hope no to be seen. The voices get louder and louder and two guards appear, engrossed in conversation, they pass the bottom of the stairwell without even glancing up. Now is the time.
The main exit is adjacent to the bottom of the stairwell and I shift closer, silently, to my escape. I tiptoe closer and closer and pray to God the door isn’t alarmed. I push it and brace myself for the worst. No sound except the rush of icy wind blowing in from outside. I survey the surroundings; there are two guards in the vicinity I will have to avoid. But where are they?
I tiptoe across to the edge of a flowerbed and press myself against a wall of frozen geraniums. I hear footsteps. I roll my body as quietly as I can inside the mass of flowers, and lie still. Through a wall of stalks I see heavy grey boots walking across the path and stop at near the door from which I emerged. I left it open. Oh God. Is he going to raise the alarm? No, he is closing the door. The guard is walking around the other side of the flowerbed and into the rest of the large garden.
I roll out of the flowerbed and onto my feet and edge towards the gate. It is ajar. I slip between the high wrought iron gates. I’m outside. I am free! I jog down the winding driveway to the prison but there’s a sound. What is it? A deep droning yelp, it’s the alarm! I make my way, as fast as I can, towards a group of trees to the side of the road and jam my body between the cold trees. Oh no. The snow. Footsteps. They’ll follow my footsteps and find me! The only solution is to keep running and hope they give up. I hear the motor of an engine humming behind me, but it can’t make it though the trees. The bark of Alsatians, going after my scent. Gaining on me. A voice. “Stop!” I carry on. A hail of bullets catches me in the back and I feel myself, pierced and falling down. I don’t feel the cold any more. Face down in the snow my vision somersaults and my breathing becomes frantic. But I’m not scared; I’m not scared at all. I’m a free man.