Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Agoraphobia by CharlieandEm (reading cloud ebooks txt) 📖
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coward.
“I have this thing,”
“Like a disease?” he jumped into in, shocked.
“No, well sometimes you could say it is,” I chuckled pathetically but he was quiet. He looked down at me expectantly, holding my arms to make me fell surer of myself but ultimately making me feel more cowardice that I retained. “It’s just a little thing; sometimes it’s worse than other times. It’s like a fear,”
“Like a phobia?” he suggested.
“Yes,” I laughed because it was stupid that I kept stopping myself from saying it. “This is difficult.” I smiled at him; he simply wore a poorly concealed look of concern back. I wondered if he was genuinely worried about me, or whether this would affect his experimental apprenticeship, or perhaps whether I had suddenly become too much to handle. I did not let myself shy away from the fact that he made the effort because I was worth it to him. The exact area of value was unknown to me, but logic tells that excess complication loses to care-free simplicity that he could easily have. “Oh, uh, actually I’ll tell you another time,” he looked at me disappointedly. Suddenly I felt slightly hopeful, because his disappointment meant that he wanted to stay or that he wanted to hear what I had had to say. “I was interested about your clothes though.” I supplied awkwardly.
“I met with my parents for lunch,” he said. Then, with no prompting, an expression of determination wove into his face. “Listen to me; I want to know about his phobia. I guessed something was up; you don’t like going out. You prefer me to be at your house, and I know that you like m place; so it’s not that. You don’t like to open up to people, because you don’t need them. I don’t like to open up to people because I don’t need to. We’re both sacrificing our comfort here.” He pleaded with me. “You’re crying.” He started, but leaned in to wipe them with his finger. I had felt the prick of tears but I had not realised that my eyes had taken it seriously.
“It was a moving speech.” I tried. He laughed this time, but let go of my arms.
“Tell me, please,” he whispered, “If you’re being silly enough to think it; you won’t scare me away.”
“It’s no fun competing with an expert,” I admitted to his deduction. I braved up and swallowed hard enough to send the lump in my throat to the pit of my stomach. “I have Agoraphobia, but –” I discontinued the clicking of the cogs in his mind that tried to piece this information into our interaction. “Only dark, open spaces. On bad nights I can’t look out of windows or open the door, or go to the bathroom without a torch, without having a panic attack. On good days I can’t walk further than the streetlight lamps or the moonlight shines. It got worse when I started high school, I like to think that it’s getting better.” I held my finger between his face and mine, “Fingers crossed.”
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“I have this thing,”
“Like a disease?” he jumped into in, shocked.
“No, well sometimes you could say it is,” I chuckled pathetically but he was quiet. He looked down at me expectantly, holding my arms to make me fell surer of myself but ultimately making me feel more cowardice that I retained. “It’s just a little thing; sometimes it’s worse than other times. It’s like a fear,”
“Like a phobia?” he suggested.
“Yes,” I laughed because it was stupid that I kept stopping myself from saying it. “This is difficult.” I smiled at him; he simply wore a poorly concealed look of concern back. I wondered if he was genuinely worried about me, or whether this would affect his experimental apprenticeship, or perhaps whether I had suddenly become too much to handle. I did not let myself shy away from the fact that he made the effort because I was worth it to him. The exact area of value was unknown to me, but logic tells that excess complication loses to care-free simplicity that he could easily have. “Oh, uh, actually I’ll tell you another time,” he looked at me disappointedly. Suddenly I felt slightly hopeful, because his disappointment meant that he wanted to stay or that he wanted to hear what I had had to say. “I was interested about your clothes though.” I supplied awkwardly.
“I met with my parents for lunch,” he said. Then, with no prompting, an expression of determination wove into his face. “Listen to me; I want to know about his phobia. I guessed something was up; you don’t like going out. You prefer me to be at your house, and I know that you like m place; so it’s not that. You don’t like to open up to people, because you don’t need them. I don’t like to open up to people because I don’t need to. We’re both sacrificing our comfort here.” He pleaded with me. “You’re crying.” He started, but leaned in to wipe them with his finger. I had felt the prick of tears but I had not realised that my eyes had taken it seriously.
“It was a moving speech.” I tried. He laughed this time, but let go of my arms.
“Tell me, please,” he whispered, “If you’re being silly enough to think it; you won’t scare me away.”
“It’s no fun competing with an expert,” I admitted to his deduction. I braved up and swallowed hard enough to send the lump in my throat to the pit of my stomach. “I have Agoraphobia, but –” I discontinued the clicking of the cogs in his mind that tried to piece this information into our interaction. “Only dark, open spaces. On bad nights I can’t look out of windows or open the door, or go to the bathroom without a torch, without having a panic attack. On good days I can’t walk further than the streetlight lamps or the moonlight shines. It got worse when I started high school, I like to think that it’s getting better.” I held my finger between his face and mine, “Fingers crossed.”
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Publication Date: 03-31-2011
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