Stop doing this. Stop. You are the only one to know that. Stop. Please stop!
Why am I the only one? The one who has to know the secret! But I don’t know till now, is it really a secret or not, and also, I still have no idea how to be sure of the truth.
There is a gathering of people who are sitting near me, doing nothing, just looking. Crying, some of them shouting ‘you, you, you’.
It seems to me like a dream, but it is not s dream. I am in real life, and I have to face my fate. I am the only one who has to be patient and listen to those people, what do they want from me?
Dark, dark everywhere, but no silence, no riddance, and no horizons for escape.
I thought it was back far away, far away in my childhood time when all that had happened to me, but I am not sure. I have no evidence to justify, has this happened to me or not.
I was so tired, that I couldn’t sleep well, the overthinking made me like a robot, with no specific direction to go or words to say.
My father was in his room reading. I think so. He loves books, all his life is surrounded by papers, books, and stories. Sometimes I imagine myself as one of the stories he had thought about one day. But that doesn’t mean he is a writer; he is only a reader and has the imagination to have very good stories. Unfortunately, never did before.
In my opinion, I think he has the desire to write something about his life, maybe about me.
I wake up from bed at midnight, still not sleeping, tired, exhausted with no feeling, and dark still everywhere.
I have to look through the small window in my room. I have to see some people walking, shouting, and there was a boy who should know everything. Is that me?
I tried to get rid of the scene in front of me, I thought it might be from my feeling so bad last night.
I have to end my relationship with one of my best friends, as I had been thinking before it was clear to me when I had to see the full hidden picture. He is an enemy of mine and wants to destroy my life.
Still, people shouting outside, in the dark, and suddenly the dark becomes darker, no light, and suddenly there is nothing, but music coming from somewhere! I don’t know!
I shut the window because for me, now, it is very hard to know what is going in front of me, maybe inside my brain. Was that all was an imagination?
But how can I know that? Noting to show, to tell, or to say to me, stop.
About the Creator
Emad Blake
Emad Blake is a Sudanese writer with various published books, mainly novels, he works as a journalist based in London.
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Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins6 days ago in Fiction
YOU vs THE MUMMY - Could You Defeat and Survive the Undead Egyptian High Priest
So, you are standing in front of a ruined city of the Egyptians, its walls are red and beauty is profound. However, the mysterious sarcophagus and a book seem to be the only things standing in your way to the adventure of a lifetime, then you stumble upon these pieces beauty is profound. In contempt against all warnings you find ways to unveil them, thereafter, nobody would know what would come out of that events, except yourself. This was exactly the same case of countless adventures we read about in stories like that of the mummy where the finding of ancient artifacts directly restores the dead back to life and the reappearance of the horrible experiences.
By Amine Oubihabout 15 hours ago in Fiction
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