When I open a book, time stops.

I fish my reading glasses out of my bag, smiling at their familiar weight in my palm and the small crack across the left lens that I've never bothered to fix. I grab whichever book I've determined to finish today, and I pick a spot to settle down to read.

My current favourite place is the steps underneath the monument of King George V in the town centre. It's a curious statue: the century old stone is carved with clear expertise, and yet the King's features are lopsided, his moustache thick and askew, one eye squinted, as if the sculptor had captured him just as something caught uncomfortably in his eyelashes.

There's no epigraph for this statue either. The monument seems to exist for no other purpose than that the town council saw an empty space and felt like the square needed some central conversation piece, no matter how strange or aimless. George V never even visited this town.

Still, I like to sit beneath it, perched on the shallow steps like a child waiting for their parents to finish the shopping. My chosen book falls open on my lap almost automatically, as if now accustomed to the routine, and time, as predicted, stops.

I like to be in public when time stops. That's why I choose the statue, or the park bench, or my front porch. I like to watch the surging hoards of people, the crowds flowing sparsely in one moment, and densely the next, continously changing and swelling like a murmuration of birds.

I like to appreciate just how much they move around before I decide to stop it all. They aren't content with just moving their feet as they scarper from place to place: all the while they are adjusting their hair, or rummaging in their bags, or pushing their voices towards each other, their tongues sinfully twisting round a fresh slice of idle gossip.

All this excites me. There are no exceptions to my power, save the page of my book turning periodically, which is why it's such a thrill to see the magnitude of what I can do in action.

I used to go into public whenever I enacted my power — the novelty of it all took quite a while to wear off. But although I mostly liked to stop time when I was settling in to read, to erase all distractions and allow myself as many hours as I'd like, I couldn't avoid the fact that my skill had many other uses. I can leave work assignments until one minute before the deadline; I can pause a conversation and go and browse the shops if I get bored; I can take whatever I want, do whatever I want.

That kind of freedom changes a person. It makes me lazy, inexplicably so, to the point that on some days I prolong the night time by hours and hours so that I don't have to get out of bed.

So, nowadays, it's a rare occasion that I find the energy to leave my room to read, to still feel that amazement in the supernatural that has become natural to me. But today, I was determined I would.

It's not as busy as I would have liked but that's okay. The effect is still the same as every person halts in their tracks, some mid-blink, some mid-drink, and suddenly George V is no longer a lone statue.

I have grown so accustomed to being the only conscious person on the planet, that I know immediately when I am not.

In the otherwise painfully silent town square, even the quietest whisper of a person breathing is enough to make me straighten up and shake my head furiously. But I can definitely hear it. For the first time since I discovered my ability, I can hear another person moving when no one should be.

At first it's just their lungs that move. I can hear the faint but still very real sound of someone fighting to keep their breathing quiet. When I used to play hide and seek with my brother, and burrow myself in the closet, I can remember how difficult it was to keep my breaths hushed, even as I heaved with adrenaline.

This person is having the same problem it seems, stealing quick sharp breaths inward, and trying to release them without a trace.

I spin around aimlessly, trying to find who could be moving air when nothing was supposed to move. Then there's a scuffle, and I whip round just in time to see a young boy, about twelve years old, righting himself after losing his balance. He tries to be frozen, but now that I can pick him out from the crowd, even the smallest tremor of his hand is like a blaring signal.

We are now both still, as I stare at him dumbfounded, and he stares ahead, trying to ignore where his eye begins to twitch nervously.

"Why isn't he still?" I ask myself breathlessly. Then I remember that there is another awareness in this space and I have to address him.

"Why aren't you still?" The words feel wrong and alien. I wonder if I'm just imagining it, if I'm still just talking to a statue — but then I stumble backwards as the boys eyes flicker to me.

His limbs melt back into motion as he relaxes defeatedly, and the phenomenon is complete.

My eyes follow his shoulders up and down when he shrugs in answer, trying to fathom how they can possible be moving.

"I don't know," He replies sheepishly, "Why aren't you?"

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Nowadays I'm trying to work on my plot skills, as I've never bothered with much of a plot before. So I start with a prompt and try to build a coherent character and setting around it :) This is a great exercise for you guys to try if you're preparing for exams, especially since they give you a word or image as a prompt. Try googling some writing prompts and just have a go! Practise is the only thing that can move you forward.

Anyway, what kind of things do you guys prefer reading from me? I'd love your feedback on these last two pieces that are a bit of a different style for me. Let me know, don't forget to vote, and thanks for reading <3