I spend more time dreaming when I'm awake.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Just a work in progress.I'm 14 so don't expect anything great.

Submitted: July 22, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 22, 2011



I lay on some grass. Don’t ask me why as I do not know myself.  It was cold; so cold my breath was beginning to create cloud of steam in the air. The little common sense I had was telling me to go in but despite this I stayed, laying in the patch I had fell, staring into the grass. It was quiet. A bird flew down and landed on the grass in front of me. It was a beautiful shade of emerald green that twinkled like diamonds in the evening sun.

Suddenly a drop of icy water on my head brought me back to reality. I was sitting on a school bus. Not a surprise really, I often daydreamed on the bus on my way to school. The bus I got was vile. Although it wasn’t raining outside, it always seemed to be raining on the bus. A stream of water ran down the window sill and splashed all down your clothes whenever the bus turned a corner, leaving you soaked through and freezing before the day even started. The bus creaked as it turned a corner, almost tipping on to two wheels. Of course it won’t actually tip over, I hoped, but I find it’s usually best just to try and blank out the bus trips, it saves you a bit of stress. I stuck my iPod in and scrolled down to Owl City and played his newest album. As my favourite song came on I quickly drifted back into a daydream.

I spend more time dreaming while I’m awake. I’m digging. As I dig further down I found a small metal box. I pick up and box and my heart begins to race as I brush off the dirt. It was always my dream as a child to find some buried treasure; an old princess crown maybe, one that would give me powers. That sounded like me. I loved magic as a child. I would spend hours in my room pouring over fairy books or scribbling down stories of beautiful princesses and handsome princes.  At school my friends and I would spend every break skipping excitedly round the playground pretending to be some sort of mythical creature. My fingers slowly slid round the the seal of the box, trying to find an opening. There was writing along the top of the rusty metal casing. It looked like it was written in old English. A date!  “Seventeen sixty four …” I mumbled, squinting at the tiny lettering. I found the opening and pushed it open. It opened surprisingly smoothly despite the fact it was a 250 odd year old pot. Inside laid a small, gold broach with a small polished emerald in the centre. I picked it up and spun it round in my hand. On the back was an inscription, “To my humming bird” it read.  The broach felt cold. Really cold. It was extremely heavy for its size and felt like it was weighing down my hand. Something didn’t feel right and I was overwhelmed with a feeling of dread. I couldn’t hold it anymore! I dropped it and it fell to the floor with loud clink. My fingers tingled as warmth slowly returned. I stared at my palm, stunned, as there was dark bruise where the broach had sat.

I gasped as I suddenly awoke. I had fallen asleep in maths! My cheeks turned a bright shade of scarlet  as I quickly checked to see if anyone had noticed me sleeping. I felt a stabbing pain in my right palm as I rubbed my eyes. I stare dumbfound at my hand, as in the centre of my palm was a small, purple bruise…

I spend the rest of the lesson staring at my hand and tracing the shape of the bruise with my index finger. There must be a logical reason for all this? I must have done it sometime this morning. Yes, that sounds right. Ha, what was I even worried about?

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