Okay, first…the end of the Nicki Sosebee series is still on track. But here’s another story that’ll be coming out from me soon, and I cannot wait for you to read it. The working title is Diazepam Haze…and here’s the first few paragraphs. Let me know what you think!
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You know how sometimes you’ll wake up slowly, the edges of a dream persisting in the corners of your mind? Not the actual complete dream, but the fuzzy edges, like the wisps of a cloud? It’s a feeling, an emotion, and sometimes that damn dream will hang on well until you’re halfway through a pot of coffee.
That happened to me this morning.
You might be thinking, big deal. Happens to everyone. Sure, it does, but I don’t remember the last time it happened to me.
I literally cannot remember.
And, before I even open my eyes, the dream is gone, merely poking at my consciousness now. It wasn’t a good dream overall, but there was a little girl in it. Shiny dark brown hair cut in the cutest bob, doe-brown eyes, dimples in those chubby little cheeks.
The dream was a fucking nightmare, but that little girl—she was like a beacon shining in the darkness.
As I force my eyes open, though, even her face begins to fade.
But that feeling—that feeling won’t let go. It’s a bag of mixed emotions—warmth for that sweet little girl but something sinister behind it, something I can’t shake.
Getting up will help.
As I sit fully up, I glance around the room. It’s pretty plain. And small. Off-white walls, no artwork. I’m in a twin bed—and there’s nothing else in this room. Not a chair, a desk, nothing. Behind me are some windows and in front of me is a door with a small window. I can tell from here that it has that crisscross wire in it. You know, the kind that stays in place, even if you break the glass?
I pause now, feeling really out of sorts. Groggy. I search my brain, scour it. Why the hell can I remember the function of that wire, but I can’t remember my name?
I can’t even remember yesterday—or the day before. I feel like I should panic but something I do know about myself is that I don’t panic. I’m calm, a port in a storm. Someone told me that once. As I sit in bed, my arms wrapped around my knees that I’ve brought up to my chest, I try again really hard to try to make my brain work the way it’s supposed to, fire up those memory centers. But nothing. About the only thing I can touch—and it’s elusive, mind you—is a shaky memory of fishing with my dad by the banks of a creek. I can see the glint of the sunlight on the trickling water. I can hear the gurgle it makes as it winds down the rocks. I can feel the cool air on my bare arms, my dad’s warm hand on my shoulder. I can feel that slippery trout as I finally give up and let my dad take it off the hook, and I can smell its fishiness. I can feel the palpable relief as my dad tells me it’s not big enough to keep and releases it back into the water.
But that’s it. That’s my whole damn life. One paragraph. And where is this?
So…what’d ya think? Let me know!