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SpeechThe sounds of the chattering students died out as the teachers gained their attention. The assembly had begun. A large bellied, bearish looking bearded man introduced himself as Mr Warren. He would be running todays proceedings. Backstage there were 15 others in the running for prefect, and I couldn’t hear much of what was being said, but that didn’t matter. We all felt the nerves. Most had their speeches at hand, many crumpled and worn from constant fidgeting or relentless rehearsals. Mine was no exception.
The large square white brick room was enough for all 16 of us, plus the props, stage gear and musical equipment that lined the walls. The air was thick and cold with our swirling emotions. It made time slow to a crawl, and the room seem cramped and hard to breathe despite its size, but the most obvious effect was the silence. Other than the occasional shuffle of feet or crinkle of paper, along with the odd cough or sniffle, the room was completely silent. Each and every
WaitingCountless cars pass and you continue to wait. The metallic bench you sit on has become warm from your time there and the smell of the petrol fumes has long since become unnoticeable, the sound of the highway drains out as you begin to daze, reflecting on the day that passed. You know it’s your fault you have to wait; you took too long and missed the bus. Now you have a solid hour to wait. All the busses on this route go your way, so any of them will do. Your thoughts are broken by a loud horn, a large truck rumbles past and the smell of petrol fumes returns to your attention. You crinkle your nose in discomfort. You’re frustrated, but only have yourself to blame.
Your book springs to mind, you open your bag, eager for something to pass the time. Nothing. You remember a moment from that morning; you thought about taking your book with you, but didn’t think you would need it. You curse under your breath and close your bag. You let out a long sigh and sit back. The back
She RanShe ran.
Not that she minded, she was good at it, she had to be. Guards, angry shopkeepers, or even her own Mother, she was always running from someone.
With a tiny loaf of bread clutched tightly in her hand, she ran. The crowded cobblestone roads made running difficult, at least for someone unexperienced. She had done this all her life, and never once was she caught. She liked to say it’s all skill and experience. But her small, agile body gave her an advantage that she took for granted. And her dark green hooded cloak left her face only just unrecognisable. She’d become a sort of icon, called the Flee. Known as a legend or a tyrant, depending on who you asked. For most, it’s the latter.
“Thief! It’s the Flee! Stop her!” The noise of the crowds was cut by the cry and guards all round snapped from their daze and blasted into action at the chance to catch the infamous ‘Flee’.
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More