PhroMetal Collective: Writer

Hey! Hope you’re having a great weekend! I sure am! Partly because I’m not teaching junior high school students how to use transitive and intransitive verbs, but also because I got another guest submission! Today’s story is a flash fiction piece by Dane Prokofiev, who’s written for such sites as NoCleanSinging (sound familiar??), Oculus Infernus, and Angry Metal Guy. (He uses different pseudonyms on those sites, though.) You can find more of his writing here: http://www.popmatters.com/pm/archive/contributor/814.

Also, if you have something to submit, send me some email!

 

Writer

The writer awoke with a start. Lines, he could see lines.

He tried to lift his head up with his neck muscles, but it was impossible. Something was encasing his head down to the shoulders. He turned to lie flat on his stomach, before pushing himself off the cold marble floor. Great, the first push-up he had done in twenty years.

Removing the mysterious object from his head, the writer looked at it and rolled his eyes: it was the wastepaper bin. His memories from the night before were non-existent, and he could remember what he ate for dinner about as accurately as the time when he first took a shit. He looked around the room, searching for whatever he was working on before he dozed off. His eyes came to rest on the toppled chair. Shifting his gaze upwards, he found what he was looking for: a laptop that had been left switched on throughout the night. It seemed to be leering at him in contempt, silently laughing at his poor self-discipline with every blink of the text cursor.

He still craved for sleep, but he wouldn’t give in to a damned computer. Adjusting the fallen chair back into its proper position, he plopped down on it and raised both hands to the keyboard once more, poised tensely like a concert pianist right before the execution of a Beethoven piece. Right, where was he?

He scanned through the short story he had been working on, and found where he left off. Hang on, something was strange. Every word of his short story thus far seemed to give him goosebumps. The most unreal bout of déjà vu he had ever experienced occurred, and it chilled him down to the bones. He was shivering, and he couldn’t believe it. It was summer, what’s with this eerie sensation of being monitored by forces from beyond?

He stared at the last sentence he had typed before being knocked out… and froze in terror. The hell? It said exactly what he had just thought.

His fingers suddenly started dancing on the keyboard in a bizarre manner, tapping out a peculiar rhythmic pattern while resembling spasming spider legs. As the words made themselves and continued the short story, the writer could only stare in hapless bewilderment. This was beyond dreamlike; it was a reality warp. The strange sensation of being watched by something from beyond this plane only grew stronger with every word, and he could feel the end coming. He just knew it; the climax was long over. It was over the moment he tried to continue the short story.

Suddenly, his fingers came to a halt. He regained control of his fingers. The imminent silence that followed was disturbing, and for some queer reason, he continued to type out his narrative.

The story had to end. He had to trash it from within by steering the eerie narrative towards a reality-obeying conclusion based on the merit of his descriptions alone.

The writer saved the draft of the short story, and closed the document. Moving the mouse cursor over the cursed virtual document, he clicked, dragged and dropped it into the Recycle Bin.

Immediately, his head started spinning. It was a hangover… no, it was worse than that. Besides, when had he started drinking? His surroundings started bending and distorting in physically impossible ways, and he felt a supernatural force lift him and the world around him upwards. Upwards to where? He didn’t know, it simply felt like upwards. Then, he fell downwards. Downwards to somewhere. Somewhere he knew would be incomprehensible as hell to his five senses. Hell? He laughed, perhaps that was where he was going.

Something was rushing towards his “falling” self and the reality it had lived in up until mere moments ago. Strange, he thought. It looked just like the inside of his wastepaper bin.

Hope you have a great rest of the weekend!

About PhroMetal

I write dystopian sci-fi.
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5 Responses to PhroMetal Collective: Writer

  1. Pingback: Brain Scan (PDF) » Phro Metal

  2. Curt Seubert says:

    Nice. Thank you for sharing this piece of humanity. Good read.

  3. Pingback: Just catching up… » Phro Metal

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