Our Scrapbook.

Basically, it's just going to be one of those places where you can stick all your random pieces of work that I haven't found a story for yet.

Those Last Few Minutes

This is a piece I drafted out for my English Coursework last year as part of my original writing... I never used it though.


Footsteps on the deserted street. A steady rhythm of pacing. He's alone, and no-one is around to see his normally perfect attire at its worst.

His blond hair was now plastered across his forehead with sweat, a polar opposite to the calculated mess it used to be, gelled into position.

He stopped, leant against the stone cold wall,  and caught his breath. He disturbed nothing; even the insects seemed to have disappeared.

Apart from the twenty-two year old man heaving and coughing in the street, the atmosphere was eerily silent. The inhabitants of nearby suburban houses lay sleeping peacefully; the lights remained switched off.

He clutched at his abdomen, and stumbled a little further up the concrete. Looking at his hand, he saw it had turned a deep crimson, stained from the blood pumping from the wound.

His eyes, a deep, chocolate brown, were now a shallow muddy colour. The sparkle had gone, and he knew he wasn't going to make it.

Still clutching the gaping wound, and gasping for the air that seemed to have escaped him, his knees buckled, so that he crashed to the floor.

He lay on the ground, the tarmac cooling his fevered cheek,  and as he closed his eyes, his entire life flashed before him.

The first day of school, his first kiss, his first girlfriend, whom he loved with all of his heart. He regretted not telling her so. He regretted not trying to patch things up with his parents,and now he laughed to himself almost hysterically at how petty it all seemed in the wake of his iminant death.

Most of all, he wished he hadn't started an arguement with the other man earlier that evening. He blamed himself for being in the situation that had befallen him now.

As he looked upwards at the deep blue sky, he thought of all the things in his life he had done right, and all the things he had done wrong. He thought about what he would change if he could just go back and start from the beginning.

His vision faded out, slowly turning black, which, the man decided, was a very undramatic visual effect of death. A gasp escaped his lips, although he'd tried to laugh again, at the fact he could still be sacastic even now.

Emma had always laughed at his sense of humour.

A wave of peace swept over him as the pain slowly numbed the rest of his aching body, as if the blood were draining away from his veins completely.

The breath the young man tried so desperately to catch never came, and as Matthew Christianson ceased to exist, the living slept on, blissfully unaware of the events unfolding on thier doorstep.

The silence was reinstated, and a pacing rhythm did not disturb it.

The End

167 comments about this work Feed