I'm sat on the number 12A bus. The golden hour sheem streams clean into my eyes. The ball of magma split into the pit of my stomach bubbles up my oesophagus and yurns to erupt out my throat.
I'm sat on the number 12A bus.

The golden hour sheem streams clean into my eyes. 

The ball of magma split into the pit of my stomach bubbles up my oesophagus and yurns to erupt out my throat.

 #1stattempt stories
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tomfreeman
tomfreeman Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   5 months ago
Creatively debut to the spectrum. Hope it didnt make you feel like each letter stole a time life that couldn't be refunded.

I'm sat on the number 12A bus. The golden hour sheem streams clean into my eyes. The ball of magma split into the pit of my stomach bubbles up my oesophagus and yurns to erupt out my throat.

The heat is unbearable.

Itchy itchy me, the air trapped and acidic caught beneath my Penfield windbreaker. The fresh air is my saviour.

These uneasy steps crept battling my nausea along this plastic corridor I hear the many 'thanks' and scratching scattles of disguarded ticket confetti  kicked echos while i stumble back to normality. Ah solid ground.

I look to rest on the nearest hard surface for solstice and find sanctuary on the cold grey slabs of a HSBCs shoulder. I then begin to ponder...

How is it motion to be so destructive when rotatin around on a rock through space circling this burning gaseous orb placed gallatically centred

At 16 miles a minute - a quarter mile a second and its this extra modest velocity from a pensioner filled, blue faux leathered wheeled cacoon That can contort my insides four mini sicks short of tasting the bottom of my breakfast.

I feel lighter and my skin is more colour than it is whiter, I look to take the leap off this now lukewarm but still grey home of mine. I straighten my spine. Deep breath. At least I'm off the number 12a bus.

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