The following is an excerpt from a story I'm writing. It's not really possible to give background into this without ruining the parts before and after it, so all I can say is that it's a kind of 'flashback' scene, much different from the rest of the story. Enjoy!
Note the style of writing in this excerpt is different from my usual style; and no, the whole story is not written in this style.
--
He was running. From who; he didn't know. But what he did know was that he was running. From someone. Fast.
He tried to slow down and take stock of the situation. But he couldn't. In fact, he was picking up speed. He knew he didn't like this. He knew something was wrong. But he didn't know what.
He tripped and fell forward. And kept falling. He didn't like where this was going.
He thought he was dreaming. He wasn't.
He thought he was dead. He wasn't.
Then he decided that he was drunk. Really, really drunk. In fact, he wished he was drunk. That would mean this was not real. Probably.
Still falling, he looked down. Or at least where he thought was down.
Engulfed by the darkness around him, he thought he could see some kind of light ahead of him. He knew it was a light. And once again, he thought he was dead. He asked himself what he was doing when he began to run. Where he was, and who else was with him. He couldn't for the life of him remember. He closed his eyes and wished it all away. Wished he was dreaming.
He opened them again. Swore aloud at himself and then realized that he had stopped falling, and was somehow running again. Still that light in front of him. Getting brighter. And louder. He wondered how it could be getting louder. Then it hit him. Or, at least, it was about to. A train, he realized, perhaps a bit too late. It was heading right for him. He was heading right for it, still running, and still unable to stop. He was going to get hit. Bracing for impact, he thought it was all over.
Note the style of writing in this excerpt is different from my usual style; and no, the whole story is not written in this style.
--
He was running. From who; he didn't know. But what he did know was that he was running. From someone. Fast.
He tried to slow down and take stock of the situation. But he couldn't. In fact, he was picking up speed. He knew he didn't like this. He knew something was wrong. But he didn't know what.
He tripped and fell forward. And kept falling. He didn't like where this was going.
He thought he was dreaming. He wasn't.
He thought he was dead. He wasn't.
Then he decided that he was drunk. Really, really drunk. In fact, he wished he was drunk. That would mean this was not real. Probably.
Still falling, he looked down. Or at least where he thought was down.
Engulfed by the darkness around him, he thought he could see some kind of light ahead of him. He knew it was a light. And once again, he thought he was dead. He asked himself what he was doing when he began to run. Where he was, and who else was with him. He couldn't for the life of him remember. He closed his eyes and wished it all away. Wished he was dreaming.
He opened them again. Swore aloud at himself and then realized that he had stopped falling, and was somehow running again. Still that light in front of him. Getting brighter. And louder. He wondered how it could be getting louder. Then it hit him. Or, at least, it was about to. A train, he realized, perhaps a bit too late. It was heading right for him. He was heading right for it, still running, and still unable to stop. He was going to get hit. Bracing for impact, he thought it was all over.
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