100-Word Fiction: ‘You Have Three Hours’

They said things had got easier but his head was all over the place and the stifling room didn’t help. He couldn’t think. These memories were forcing their way in and distracting him. Somewhere behind where he was sat, his girlfriend would be chewing on her pen. They would be drinking lots in the evening and he would wear his new t-shirt. Concentrate. Concentrate. Just for the three hours. He looked at the piece of paper in front of him. The vague outlines of words. Question marks. Lots of them. He was hungry. His foot was itchy. He hated exams.

Published by MW Bewick

Writer of poetry and place; editor and journalist. Co-founder of Dunlin Press. Books including Pomes Flixus, The Orphaned Spaces and Scarecrow are available from http://dunlinpress.bigcartel.com

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