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What happens when I'm given a keyboard and literally any spare time at all to write.

Contains my own personal opinions, not those of the sites I represent unless stated otherwise. Literally no rights reserved, except for the fiction category, which you can share provided my name stays on it as author. Unless you totally rewrite something inspired by my work, which would be downright awesome and I'd be wonderfully happy about that.
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Short, III

Posted 10-25-2019 at 06:57 PM by Xyon

Time passed, though, not a lot of it. What felt like years to Jameson was, he reasoned eventually, probably only a matter of minutes as he leaned against the wall in the half light, trying to remember what had happened to him, trying to shut out the pain in his ankle.


He backtracked in his thoughts to that morning. Woken up as usual, got coffee, as usual, so far, so ordinary. The stars had been strange, he recalled, the coffee had tasted funny, too. More bitter than usual, which was difficult, given how Jameson usually took his coffee. But he'd shrugged it off, and checked the scopes, as usual.


Discomfort made him shift slightly, sluggishly at first, and then white hot pain from his ankle forced his muscles to tense. Air forced itself out of his lungs, flirted with his vocal cords, and circumnavigated his teeth, all before his brain had anything to say about the matter, and he cried out in unsuppressable agony before he could stop himself. Mouth clamped shut, he risked opening his eyes to see what his misery had brought him this time.


The room, unsurprisingly, looked no different than it had done before, though it was now the right way up. Jameson could still feel the intense heat from the pit gnawing at his skin, reminding him of his ever present mortality. Ribs screamed in protest as he struggled his way up the wall, to what passed for an upright stance, albeit with pressure only on his good ankle. Ignoring the pain, as best he could, he shrugged his way along the lip of the pit, scuffing the wall towards the door, until he almost fell through it in exhaustion to the room beyond. Sweat poured from him - partly from the effort, partly from the heat, and, panting, spent, he tried to focus on what lay beyond the door.


What lay beyond, in defiance of any narrative drama, was a featureless corridor. It stretched away before him, and in contrast to the pit room, was aggressively lit with a bleaching white light. More confident, Jameson risked applying a touch of weight to his bad ankle, which rewarded him with searing, but manageable pain.


At the far end of the corridor was a simple steel-looking door, set flush into the bleach-white walls. Jameson could see no way to operate it - there was no handle or controls visible, not even any hinges. He threw himself at it, not sure really what to hope for, and bounced solidly off it, the sound of the impact echoing all the way back down the corridor to the room with the pit in. Anguished both by the pain of his condition and the despair of his situation, he sank to the floor leaning on the door and sobbed wholeheartedly, no longer able to stifle his noises, no longer concerned who or what might hear.


Several long minutes passed before he could begin to regain control. As he did so, he became aware that the oppressively bright light level was dimming, rapidly draining away until the corridor was almost in pitch darkness. Jameson's eyes struggled to adjust, as he blinked furiously, looking around frantically for any sign of life.


The door silently slid open, and Jameson fell bodily backwards into the doorway, unable to catch himself.
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  1. Old Comment
    PhantomCruiser's Avatar
    The government employee part of me wants to be glib and says "well at least he has room to stand up now, and he's not hanging upside down". Always look for win-win right?
    Normal(ish) me says "Good work, keep it up".
    Posted 11-13-2019 at 07:01 AM by PhantomCruiser PhantomCruiser is offline
 

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