Writer’s Block Part 3

We’ve kept you waiting for a whole week, but here it is: Victor’s afternoon is about to get even more interesting. Want to see your vision of his fate up in big, bold letters? Just send the next 200 words our way by 12pm next Thursday (24th November) to creative@thebubble.org.uk. No rules, restrictions, terms or conditions apply.

Previous weeks:

Victor loved to people-watch. Today he had chosen his favourite spot, just by the fountain, where he had a good enough view of two sides of the square to be able to see where people were coming from, watch them pass by the little café with the never-changing ‘specials’ board, and follow them until they disappeared down the side street which led to the watchmakers. But today something seemed different. The water seemed a little more unsettled. The not-quite-encrusted chewing gum he usually had to avoid when settling into his observation post had disappeared. And then he saw it: a piano falling, unarguably, to the street. He thought heavily in the moment before the thing landed. This was happening. He was a privileged witness, inheriting every moment from luck. He smiled to himself. The seconds were molasses in the quiet afternoon sun. He considered how majestic the ebony box looked drifting through the air, how no one would ever appreciate this moment as he was appreciating it now and how he ought to be seen doing something to help the woman whom the piano was about to kill…

This week:

His feet rooted helplessly to the floor, he reached out a hand, and for a second his heart stopped. The piano didn’t. It fell and fell, the masses gradually turning to watch its horrific beauty, tumbling obscenely through the air. And then it hit.The dust settled, and Victor was on his feet. As he proceeded toward the wreckage, a shrill scream came from amidst the crowd and dissected the stultified silence. His feet moved quicker than his mind. Choking on the moment, he surveyed the scene; a mesh of splinters, the snapped strings, and the blood stained ivories. She had been lucky, or so it seemed. A broken arm, a leg perhaps. He was no doctor. He knelt and inspected. He delicately lifted her, summoning a forgotten strength, and brought her away. Standing now, he felt her weight. He looked at the crowds, increasingly blurry. There was a faint ringing in his ears, a dizziness. One step. Two steps. On the third, he collapsed…

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