As I've said before, I write stuff.
And a friend of mine (Anna's Blog) asked me recently if I could post one of my stories up here.
So I will.
That said, if I am gracing you (the general public) with my hard work, you (the general public) will not steal my stuff or I (the author) will be pissed and stop posting stories so that you (the general public) will be deprived of my magnificence.
Got that?
Awesome.
I will also say that these stories are almost definitely NOT autobiographical.
This particular story was one that I wrote, almost in its entirety, during Nanowrimo last year.
Dreamer
Chapter 1:
Dreaming…
Except he wasn’t, was he? His previous dreams were terrifying, filled with violence and terror, and he could always smell the sickening coppery tang of blood.
So dreaming wasn’t an option. But, still, there was that sense of disconnection from life, as though it wasn’t real. He struggled for memories, possible explanations to this discrepancy.
Nothing.
His heart hammered in his chest. Just a few times, just enough to bring his thoughts out of himself and the terrifyingly blank void inside his head.
He was standing outside of a door, one with wood paneling. The porch that he was standing on was made of a darker, probably stained wood that blended in well with the night.
His hand was in his coat pocket.
In the pocket, there was a gun.
He could recognize the feel of the cold, cold metal easily, which led him to believe that it was his own.
It had not been fired yet.
The information rose to the surface of his mind slowly, and the word “yet” worried him.
A voice spoke into his ear, and he jumped. “Target is coming to the front door. Over.” It was tinny, and echoed in his ear. He reached up to his ear with the hand that didn’t have the gun.
He couldn’t. He could feel the hand; feel how it rested against his jeans.
But he couldn’t move it.
He tried to move his other hand, to move it away from the gun.
He couldn’t move it.
His heart started to hammer again, and he tried, desperately, to move any limb.
But he remained, standing casually (at ease, his brain supplied) by the door, his left hand in a pocket with a gun inside. His mind gave him an answer – that he was still dreaming – that this was just a more sophisticated, horrible dream than he’d had before.
But in his heart, he knew the truth.
The door opened.
The voice in his ear came to life again. “Now.” And his hand began moving of its own will. He tried to stop its upward motion, tried to stop the easy movement of the gun upwards…
And couldn’t.
Something of his desperation must have been reflected in his eyes, because the small, pretty woman who had opened the door had paused midway through her greeting, confusion showing on her face.
And then she saw the gun.
She started to close the door, but his trigger finger tightened, and the gun went off.
He fell back into his own mind in self-defense of what he had done – what he could not prevent – into dreaming and darkness.
