Virtualism

Virtualism

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WpMetadataNoticeNaposledy publikováno stř, lis 15, 2023
Started a challenge where I would have to write a story from the short paragraph, The suns rays shone harshly down on my balcony, enveloping the dark room with a pale golden light. I woke up and quickly checked the time. 7:10. I jolted upright, quickly got changed and dashed down the stairs towards the basement. I bolted towards my car, just to have forgot my keys. As I begrudgingly made my way up the stairs, I tripped on a step and knocked my shin against the concrete. I probably won't finish this like everything else, so enjoy if you are reading and ty!!
Všechna práva vyhrazena
#923
trapped
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Připoj se k největší komunitě vypravěčůZískej personalizovaná doporučení příběhů, ukládej si oblíbené do své knihovny a komentováním i hlasováním buduj komunitu.
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COMPLETED Roselyn is heading for her first-ever interview for one of the world's top enterprises. Being late, she steps into an almost-empty elevator and is attracted to the handsome man in a gray suit that compliments his electric blue eyes. She, of course, doesn't start any conversation between them. They are strangers after all, and she is not tempted to flirt with some random guy despite her interest. However, everything changes when the elevator gets stuck on the 70th floor... - - - 𝑇ℎ𝑢𝑚𝑝. 𝑇ℎ𝑢𝑚𝑝. 𝑇ℎ𝑢𝑚𝑝. As I'm aware of my surroundings now, the banging only adds to my trepidation. My tense jaw muscles tick as I grate my molars. 𝐶𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑘. 𝐶𝑙𝑢𝑛𝑘. That is the sound of metal breaking. I am sure of it. But what's outside? The maintenance crew? The firefighters? My lungs start constricting again. Stop. I have to stop overthinking. It's going to be fine. 𝑀𝑢𝑛𝑐ℎ. 𝑆𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑝. 𝐺𝑟𝑜𝑎𝑛. Light comes through the tiny puncture. First a beam, then a shaft, finally a gap. Fingers situate themselves onto the elevator floor. Blood-red cover the tips. Why will there be red paint on fingers? A long-lost dreadfulness pours into every pore of my body as a grim augury preoccupies my distressed mind. I unconsciously scoot to the back of the elevator, pressing my body close to Mr. Uburg's as I cling onto his robust arm. Hands grip onto the elevator door and use bare strength to rip the metal further apart. Then, a blood-plastered face comes into view. His bloodshot eyes bore into me with hunger. Patches of flesh on his forehead and cheek are torn. His nose is gone, replaced by a seeping wound. His teeth are crimson, a piece of fiber in between the gap of his incisors. What frightens me most is the emotion in his eyes. The craving for flesh and blood. The desire to fulfill his hunger. I do the only reasonable thing. I scream.

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