Young Writers Society

The start to a story. Please give feedback about the idea and if this is worth continuing.

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Deus yawned, his mouth forming a large mangled ‘o’ and his cobalt blue eyes crumpled up as they watered at the corners – the annoying side effect of that specific action.

The teacher in front of him, wearing a boring grey coat on top of a checker dress shirt paired with disgusting dress pants the colour of blended vomit (with a tad of carrot) droned on about something like time travelling being impossible.

Deus turned to his friends, his dark brown hair which sat around his shoulders swished around with the movement. They were sitting up the back, chatting; also ignoring the dreary words of the teacher. They hadn’t bothered to save him a seat when he had been late to class. Deus rolled his eyes at the teacher and they returned large grins in return.

One of them, the one he considered to be the closest to himself, slid a finger under his throat in quick liquid action and then proceeded to pretend to grasp at his neck, almost soundlessly gasping for breath. Deus grinned and smothered a laugh at his antics. Death was by far preferred than this horrendous lecture. Suddenly his friend gained a stoic look on his face with a pointed stare at something behind Deus.

Turning around slowly and wondering just what horror lay behind him he was greeted by the close and horribly under shaved (and also under washed) face of Mr. Levers. His dark brown, almost evil soulless black eyes bored into Deus’ skull. Deus visibly shrunk away instinctively and Mr. Levers smiled his demonically cruel smile, “So, paying attention are you now, Mr. Reg-isssss?”

Grinning almost apologetically, Deus shrugged his shoulders and raised empty hands, palms upwards, towards him, “I might be, sir. I do not entirely know the correct answer. Are you sure that I’m not paying attention?”

Mr. Lever was at loss for words, his flat dry lips sputtered soundlessly for a second, almost like an ugly fish out of water, before blurting forth, “W-wa-wa . . . o . . . Of course, I’m sure!”

Deus raised an innocent dark brown eyebrow, “Then why bother to ask, sir?”

Leaving Mr. Lever to his drone-like berating, Deus lowered his head onto the table and closed his eyes, ignoring a terribly furious gaze and wondering if the lesson was over soon. He felt no satisfaction in outsmarting an already mentally challenged teacher. Instead, he thought of the dream he had last night and drifted off into a strange half awake half asleep thoughtless trance.

The dream he had last night had been curious to say the least. He had watched the movie AVATAR the night before and had thought he would’ve gone to sleep with good dreams. However, that sentiment appeared to be rather wrong. As the dream occupied his mind he sighed loudly.

Deus’ eyes rolled underneath their lids as the dream returned with amazing force.

“Barrel roll! Do a barrel roll!” spat a man in a mask covering only his mouth, his eyes were visible - black irises that sparkled like diamonds. As he spoke a small bit of spit descended from his mouth arching towards Deus’ face.

Deus cringed away and with his heart beating a mile a minute he obeyed the instruction.

He began barrel rolling through the field of grass completely covered in shattered glass.

The glass splinters pierced his skin, and instead of pain the small, sometimes deep, wounds tingled strangely. The shards stayed lodged in his skin and rather weirdly they helped his roll more than hindered it. As blood flowed to the surface it felt like . . . flying.

He stopped halfway through the field to glance back to the masked man as if he would have an answer to this feeling.

Instead the man smiled and then with the sudden intense malicious grin and, like an assassin who had crept in for a kill and succeeded, Deus began to feel pain again.

It felt like . . . like a million pieces of shards of glass piercing his skin.

And with a sharp scream, which escaped from Deus’ very own mouth, he was wrenched away.

“Are you alright, Mr. Reg-isssss?” Mr. Lever laid a hand on his shoulder.

Deus looked around and realised he was standing up in the middle of class and he was absolutely drenched in sweat. His friends gave him a curious stare.

Deus’ face went red with embarrassment and he fell back into his chair with a loud thud.

All eyes were on him.

This time in answer to Mr. Lever’s question he decided to remain silent and wallow quietly in his awkward spectacle.

The next day was uneventful.

Until the dream came back.

With painful vengeance.

When he awoke he was on the floor clutching at his chest, clawing, as if trying to wrench out his heart. After dragging himself back into his bed, he fell asleep that night and the next day he thanked all the Gods he knew of that he didn’t dream again.

Later on, Deus would come to regret that he never dreamt that again; for in it was a warning, a cautioning whisper of what horrid events were to come.

In fact, later on, Deus would come to almost hate the way he had thanked them.