The Story of a Boy in the Corridor

The long dark corridors, spread to infinity. Seemed like no matter how far he walked he wouldn’t reach the destination. There was no end. The corridor extended a couple of feet forwards, shifting it’s shape, it’s size in every footstep he took. He ran, the corridor ran with him, he stopped, the corridor stopped with him. Until he gave up, he saw no light, not a single drop of the shining sun he woke up to. Or maybe that was his delusion? The slick, echoing corridor held secrets of past, secrets he could far beyond recognise. He’ll stop, ‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’ he’d utter every time he realises the fact, he hasn’t been running anywhere. He was not going anywhere.

Running a hand through his hair, he’d look at the corridor. It felt like a rollercoaster ride, all topsy turvy, and some people who ate too much, vomiting. Intensively. Sometimes he’d see figures with red blood oozing out of their skin continuously. Sometimes he just closed his eyes, seeing giant sized zombies making their way towards him fast and simultaneously. Sometimes he wondered when the sun will bestow upon him, greeting him like a proud son of Jesus. Then he’d look back and just sigh. Three times in a row he’d have challenging competitions with the god of wind. Sigh. Wind. Sigh. Wind, and it went on for hours. It was a rather nerve wrecking procedure to witness the challenge often because neither the wind nor he decided to budge. What else could he do? Nothing if I could have a say. He looked helpless, I sat there helpless and the corridor sat there helpless. Everyone was helpless, even the gods above. But that bloody wind was a good damn challenge. I call it the ‘wind of challenge’, it comes but never goes, but when it decides to go, it leaves one thing behind. A long lasting silence.

This is another perspective I've written my short story from, with the broader overview of the suggested theme I had chosen. Should I change this to Third Person? or is First-person fine?

F.E.A.R. fear. Four letters, with very big lesson. Sometimes when you think something wrong is happening to you. You are in fact making that situation up, I do that a lot. That feeling you get when a bad dream controls you. A dream that consists of all your major phobias towards the world. The dream that keeps you awake amongst the nights. A dream, that makes you wonder into the wilderness of your thoughts. The strangling feeling, the feeling that the hells devil will bestow over you and poke its evil red horns through your pumping heart. I hate fears, I hate the idea of it, but without it I wouldn’t be who I am. Without that you wouldn’t be who you are. Sadly, god has not left anyone fearless, including himself, space and time.

My dream. I woke up sweating, or unless I was awake amidst of my nightmare-ish wonderland. I don’t know what to call it, I just, sighs, don’t. I was awake. In the bus. Going stop-by-stop and then the harbour bridge comes by, my heart slows down, or goes faster? I can’t hear it, I struggle to hear what pace my heart goes in. so, I do the only thing I can. Look in the front, at a bunch of other hairs, sitting peacefully as I squirm for comfort. I was battling with my inner consciousness. Battling with the imagination the bus might fall off the bridge at such a height, but I refrained myself. “I can do this, I can go through this nerve wrecking time of my everyday life. I should be used to it.” I chant in my already worked up head. Then I gazed forward looking at the still peaceful hairs or at least that’s what I thought. Until my imagination swarmed further into the deep ends and turned the hairs into a gigantic bunch of mini spiders, coming towards me. I shuffle in an unnerving manner. I should be used to it, the bridge, the imagination, the life as a bus rider. But looking at me at the current stage, I can presumably agree to the fact I am not. Only, I still let my fears take the best of me.

Short story I'm working on, this is the Third-Person perspective.

She sat there tapping her feet against the floor as her music blasted against her ears. She closed her eyes for a second, until a long-deserted bridge captured her imagination. A man. Maybe a woman. It wasn’t clear. Stood at the end, extending their hand. Just then a large beep managed to open her eyes. It was her music. Maybe. It seemed like that at first. She realised a little boy looking at her curiously from the seat ahead. He smiled guiltily.

“Can I have it back?”

“Um-“

“My ball,”

“Oh, um?”

“Mummy she’s not giving me my ball!” he yelled at a blonde woman next to him, rummaging through her hand bag, perhaps looking for something. He was ignored.

Claire looked around confused, a ball? She was hit by a ball? But it was a beep, sure it was a beep. Her eyes searched eagerly, wanting to avoid any possible human clash. She looked under her bags. Opened them up. In her water bottle, she paused eying it, why would the ball be in her water bottle? She looked crazily and then her eyes laid on the floor, there it was a red ball. She picked it up. Not before glaring at it in confusion, she passed it on to the boy. 

Sun

I saw the light engulf the room

the room that looked anew.

Filled with lantern lights,

and scented candles.

The light shone high above the sky,

but the rays directed themselves through the screen

The screen that allowed the light in.

I stared at the light,

well that is what I wished upon,

But I ended up taking glances every now-and-then.

Then I realised the light blared the heat

I was sweating,

Need of water.

I complained about the heat,

O' mighty light

O'holy light

hold your grudges against us

And show a little shade.

Two minutes later,

I stand in front of the light,

It disappeared

No sooner, droplets of water spilt from high above,

yet again I yelled at the light

"This is not what I asked for!" 

So, no sooner, everything turned gray,

and flakes of white snow dropped continuously.

I huffed at the light.

Stubbornly, I wrapped the screen with black plastic,

blocking the light away,

I called the light then, and told him,

"I will never forgive him."

The light came back, in fury

I refused to look at it.

It shone until

the lasts of the plants
until

the lasts of the water
until

the lasts of the life

And I looked out.
sighing,

O'Mighty light

O'Holy light

Have mercy on us.

Come back to your normal state

fill us with your joy not your anger.

give us water and a new life.

O'Mighty light,

please forgive me

please forgive us

please be: 

our sun to every mornings

our heat on every winter

and our joy for every holiday.

O'Mighty Sun.

Poem by: Riddhi Patel

(Rid's Blog)