About - I like to write, but nobody really knows it. I also love to type and to make speeches (which nobody knows either). I sat in advisory one day at school and just started writing. My friend Katelyn took my notebook and read it, she said it was really good. I'm just wondering what you think. I just wrote a couple paragraphs; I plan to add on when I feel I have the time.
NYC, Modern Day
The speedometer began to climb from zero to a hundred. If he wanted to, he knew he could make that little glowing bar rocket to the end of its course. He has before, but with that came a huge risk; last time he attempted it, he almost blew his engine at the cost of his car. Luckily, he coasted across the make shift finish line, winning the prize.
But that was then.
And this is now.
He tried to focus on the narrow, uncurving and unforgiving streets in front of him. There was a lot of traffic tonight which made the race tough but all worth while. The light white glow of the buildings on his left and right flew past him in a vague blur. The streets were slick and shiny from a light but steady rain earlier that day. He tried not to think about what would happen if his tires were to lose traction and he were to go skidding into a taxi, or a bus. That would not be a good way to end to day. Or his life.
He had gained on his opponent and passed him quite a few blocks ago; he had raced as if there was a tsunami chasing him, and if he slowed down, it would consume him along with the streets. He wasn't racing a tsunami, but just a stock 1997 Toyota Supra. Simple enough.
He flew by his opponent like a bad out of hell. It had been a few minutes since then, he decided to sneak a quick look in his rear view mirror.
He couldn't see the pale blew headlights anywhere; he soon became lost within his own arrogance and the thought of the prize. How nice it would feel against his palm to clutch the enormous stack of hundred dollar bills. He could think of nothing but it. But for now, his palm braced nothing but the clutch of his car.
His head came back down from the clouds. He glanced down at his car's control center; he was going way faster than he needed to. He looked back up in front of his car and instinctively stomped down on the brake pedal, but he knew it wouldn't do much good. He knew what was about to happen would effect his life and the rest of his career.
The sudden sound of harsh twisting and grinding metal against the tarmac and other metal filled the entire block. Spectators and pedestrians covered their ears and looked towards the source.
All the windows in both cars were instantly shattered as the car slammed into the rear end of the taxi. The poor, helpless racer was showered with razor sharp shards of glass, piercing his skin like needles. He rocketed out of his seat through the place where his windshield used to be, right into the back of the taxi in front of him. It seemed to be over for a second and silence overcame the block.
Bursting through the silence came the deep, monotonous sound of a horn coming from a city bus. It seemed an eternity, as the drivers of both vehicles laid there, barely conscious. The bus had made impact, and a hard one at that. The front end had been aligned with the tires. More glass came over the men as they laid there hopelessly.
The bus hopped the taxi and moved it half way down the block. The bus rode on top of the taxi as if it were a sled, leaving a shower of sparks behind.
It all eventually came to a stop.
The man's last feeling was pure terror, as he thought to himself guiltily, "Why... did I run..."
Two Years Later
Sullivan Valley Hospital
The faint beeping sound began. It slowly grew louder. The man couldn't tell where it was coming from; there was complete, perpetual blackness. He could see nothing, hear nothing, except the beeping sound. It cut through the still silence like a knife. It never stopped, going on for as long as the cold, dark blackness did. He noticed the beats of his heart kept in tune with the high pitched noise. Both pulsing at the same rate. Simultaneously.
He began to wonder where he was, or even if he was dead or alive. He filed through his mind to attempt to remember something that could tip him off to his present setting.
His memory recalled nothing.
The man slowly began to move around. The surface he laid upon felt cold and hollow. He felt around for a hint as to what it could be, but for a second time, his brain hadn't a clue.
He slowly tried to open his eyes. His eyelids became looser and loose; he began to see a bright light. The further he opened them, the brighter it got, and the closer it felt. It became brighter and brighter until he could stand it no more; it was blinding him. It made his surroundings seem surreal.
Someone was coming towards him. He could hear it. He could feel it.
"Are you awake, Mr. Romney? Do you know where you are?"
He tried to yell for help, but all that could come out was a long series of inaudible mumbles.[/b]
Poll