It was getting dark, so he decided to end his stroll and go home. He moved even faster, his hands deep in his pockets. Aunt Adela didn’t like him being late for dinner. Suddenly the air around him grew denser and he felt someone’s presence. Qwerty turned on his heel, but saw nothing – only dark houses, straight, even road… He took several steps forward, but paused again. Something was wrong.
He immediately shut his mind so nobody would be able to read his thoughts. He learnt that while practising telepathy. Now it was a reflex. He was being watched, he knew, and his legs refused to carry him forward.
Qwerty forced himself to take a step, but then somebody's hand closed on the back of his neck. He sent a fist in that direction, but it struck an empty space. He spun, with some difficulty, but he seemed to be alone and the grip on his neck did not loosen – on the contrary, it was more painful, almost squeezing tears out of his eyes.
Terrified, he saw his own legs moving regardless of his will, leading him right into a dark alley without a single lit streetlamp. He reached one of the houses and, like in a movie, he watched his hand opening a gate. Then he entered into a stranger's garden.
Trying to fight it – all in vain – he circled the property, with the invisible fingers clutching him with more strength, pushing him like he was a puppet. Around the corner he saw them: several dark silhouettes, with hoods pulled onto their heads. Whatever was holding him, it threw him to the ground; he fell like a sack of potatoes, his nose burying into the ground, next to a pair of feet… Feet that hovered two inches above the ground.
Qwerty looked up and noticed a figure bending slightly towards him. He couldn’t see it, but was sure a wicked smile was on the person’s face.
‘Young Qwerty Seymore,’ said the man in a hoarse voice. ‘We finally meet. We have some catching up to do, boy.’
To find out more, check out Qwerty's site: HERE
He immediately shut his mind so nobody would be able to read his thoughts. He learnt that while practising telepathy. Now it was a reflex. He was being watched, he knew, and his legs refused to carry him forward.
Qwerty forced himself to take a step, but then somebody's hand closed on the back of his neck. He sent a fist in that direction, but it struck an empty space. He spun, with some difficulty, but he seemed to be alone and the grip on his neck did not loosen – on the contrary, it was more painful, almost squeezing tears out of his eyes.
Terrified, he saw his own legs moving regardless of his will, leading him right into a dark alley without a single lit streetlamp. He reached one of the houses and, like in a movie, he watched his hand opening a gate. Then he entered into a stranger's garden.
Trying to fight it – all in vain – he circled the property, with the invisible fingers clutching him with more strength, pushing him like he was a puppet. Around the corner he saw them: several dark silhouettes, with hoods pulled onto their heads. Whatever was holding him, it threw him to the ground; he fell like a sack of potatoes, his nose burying into the ground, next to a pair of feet… Feet that hovered two inches above the ground.
Qwerty looked up and noticed a figure bending slightly towards him. He couldn’t see it, but was sure a wicked smile was on the person’s face.
‘Young Qwerty Seymore,’ said the man in a hoarse voice. ‘We finally meet. We have some catching up to do, boy.’
"Qwerty: The History" is now available here:
Kindle (free for Kindle Unlimited)
Your writing has an endearing energy about it. Good Luck.
ReplyDeleteThank you very much. I'm going to need it... :)
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