It wasn’t Friday. It was only Thursday.
Twenty-four hours still remained. How was I going to survive?
My clock seemed to be moving ever more slowly. Outside my window, all activity had slowed to a weird stop-frame motion. Even the birdsong resembled the diminishing sounds of one of those old fashioned phonographs on which my Grandfather endlessly played his crackly operatic songs.
The ‘clicks’ on the keys of my keyboard were like drums pounding in my head.
‘Thump, thump, thump’.
It was intolerable. I was trapped here, wishing, longing for Friday, when I could publish my Friday Flash Fiction 100.
Twenty-four hours still remained. How was I going to survive?
My clock seemed to be moving ever more slowly. Outside my window, all activity had slowed to a weird stop-frame motion. Even the birdsong resembled the diminishing sounds of one of those old fashioned phonographs on which my Grandfather endlessly played his crackly operatic songs.
The ‘clicks’ on the keys of my keyboard were like drums pounding in my head.
‘Thump, thump, thump’.
It was intolerable. I was trapped here, wishing, longing for Friday, when I could publish my Friday Flash Fiction 100.
