Story I wrote, check it out.

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Hey, I wrote this story about a year ago and it's still my favorite of what I've written. I just did a little more work on it and want to share it now. By the way, I still don't have a name for it. That seems to be the hardest thing to come up with concerning this work. So, a few things to say first: one, since it's my understanding that kids have access to these forums, I am going to supply a MATURE CONTENT WARNING. This story deals with mature themes and has some violence and cursing. Secondly, this story is not so easy to figure out. Thus, I'll give a little hint. You'll notice, I'm sure, that Asher Forndirk is not entirely sane. He sometimes confuses his memories with things that are happening to him currently. In particular, there is one scene in which he experiences, or thinks he experiences, something which is not in fact happening right then and there, but had happened to him in the past. Now, without further ado, here it is!

Where is this? Have I been here before? No, I definitely haven't. So then where is here? How did I get here, and why? I can’t see anything in front of me. Do I hear someone? Or something, perhaps. Somewhere in the distance. But if I can’t see that far, then how am I to know? In fact…why should I care? And I’m going to be here forever, so there’s no hurry…right?

I woke up, and found myself lying in my bedroom—not on the bed, but on the floor about ten feet away. My dresser loomed overhead, beckoning me to withdraw an outfit and dress for another day of work. I wanted to ask the dresser how I got there, but dressers can’t talk.
“That was a strange dream,” I said.

“So it didn’t pique your interest? The sound you heard?” he asked, as he fumbled around with some equipment.

“I guess it didn’t,” I replied. “But I want your two cents, Doc. What was my dream about?”

“You’re asking an optometrist,” he said. “Go talk to a dream analyst or something, if you’re really that curious. Okay, tell me which lens works better for you. A? Or B?”

“Uh-uh,” I said. “A dream analyst? That kind of person sounds like a quack.”

“Ahem!”

“Oh. Uh…I don’t know. They both kind of look the same to me.”

“Yeah, everyone says that. Okay, B? Or C?”

“C, I guess.”

He showed me a few more lenses, and then jotted something down on a piece of paper. “Well, I can tell you one thing about your dream, Forndirk. You couldn’t see anything because you’re near-sighted.”

“That’s interesting, Doc,” I said. “Really great insight.”

“Don’t call me Doc, it’s annoying,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. “Then tell me your real name.”
---

“Asher Forndirk,” said my therapist, rolling my first and last name over her tongue as though tasting them. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

“I saw you yesterday, in the grocery store,” I said, “but I didn’t call out.”

“I was in this office all day yesterday,” she said. “You must have seen someone else.”

“Oh.”

She was lying. I had seen her, I was certain of it.

She asked me if I’d been drinking recently, and I said no, I would never touch another drop. I had been an alcoholic once, but stopped drinking when I nearly killed someone by running him over. I became a better person for it, too. During recovery I had gone in and out of rehabilitation facilities, a long and painful journey that I never wanted to go through again. That was four years ago, and I hadn’t stepped into this office since.

“That’s good to hear. What do you want to talk about today?”

I told her about the dream. She scratched her head and said, “That's what you want to talk about? What about this dream is troubling you?”

I said I didn't know, but I couldn't stop thinking about it.

“All right, I’ll give you my interpretation,” she said. “You’re lonely. In the dream, there’s nothing around you. You hear someone in the distance, which might signify a longing to be with someone else…”

“I don’t feel like that in the dream,” I said. “Like I want to meet the person calling out, that is.”

“Maybe you don’t realize yourself how lonely you are,” she said. “But I think the fact that you came to me is an indicator. A therapist is…among other things, someone that you can talk to, if you can’t talk to anyone else.”

“I just don’t think that’s it,” I said.

“Okay then, Asher,” she said. “Then tell me your interpretation of the dream. Maybe that will help.”

I shrugged and said, “I don't know.”

She said maybe we should come back to that later, and asked if there was anything else I’d like to talk about. I said no, I had to be somewhere soon. “You’ve only been here five minutes,” she said.

“I really have to go, is all,” I said.

“Your choice,” she said. “But I can think of better ways to waste a hundred bucks.”
---

Afterward I went to the grocery store. I wandered around and looked at hygiene products, cheese, and Hallmark cards. I thought I saw my therapist, but when I shouted, it turned out to be someone else.

As I returned to my car, someone yelled my name. I turned around and saw a young man approaching me. I didn’t recognize him.

“It’s been a while, Ash,” he said. “Good to see you. How’ve you been?”

I didn’t respond, of course. How do you respond when a stranger asks that kind of question? He scratched his head and looked up at the sun. “Hot day today, huh? The heat makes your mind wander, so you don’t even know people are talking to you.”

My mind wasn’t wandering. I just wanted him to leave. Was he going to offer me candy if I got in a van? No, I was too old for that. Besides that, it’s hot every day and my mind never wanders. I’ve gotta make him go away, I thought.

“Yo, Earth to Ash,” he said, waving his hand in front of my face. I told him to cut it out, because I could hear him loud and clear. He’d just asked me how I was doing, I said, and then commented on the weather.

“Uh-huh, and then you missed the part where I asked you about your job,” he said. “I’ll ask you again. Where are you working?”

“Peterson’s Arts and Crafts,” I said.

“I thought that place went out of business,” he said, cocking his eyebrows slightly. “There’s a ‘For sale’ sign in the window. I even heard this rumor that the owner had to shut down because of a scandal, but I don’t know if that’s true or not.”

“Rumors are rumors,” I said. “We just moved locations. It’s 1900 West Elizabeth now. Er…stop by sometime. Right now I’ve gotta go, but, see you then!”

“Sure. Really nice to see you, Ash.”

I got in my car and drove away. Sometimes you meet those kinds of people, I thought. What struck me as odd, though, is that “those kinds of people” don’t usually know your name. Maybe he was a government agent, I speculated. No, that’s too weird. I’ll just forget about him. Yeah, that’s the best thing to do…right?

“Huh?” I said aloud, as something suddenly struck me. I pulled over to the side of the road and looked at my face in the mirror. Why had that word come into my head? In my dream, too; that word, “right”, phrased in the form of a question. I was asking for confirmation, but…from whom?
---

If I had to explain it, I would say it was like being in a very dense fog—denser, probably, than you can imagine. Previously, I had only stood in place until I heard a voice in the distance, then woke up. This time, I tested the usefulness of my legs. They worked. I soon discovered that I could navigate this strange world in all 360 directions, but that only gave rise to more questions: How far could I go? And did I really want to go anywhere? Staying right there was good enough for me. After all, I had all the time in the world to go exploring.

Yet there I was making assumptions again. This is a dream, isn’t it? Of course I don’t have all the time in the world. I’d better ask…wait, it’s like that again. Who am I asking? Who else is here? It doesn’t matter. I’ll just ask. They have to respond when I address them directly this time. Before I only asked for confirmation in my head. Just like this: “Right?” Yes, of course that’s right. That’s what I did.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Um, I have a question. How far can I go here? And when will I leave?”

I waited for a response, but none came. I sighed, agitated. “I know you’re here,” I said. “That kind of word doesn’t just pop into your head. If you ask for confirmation, it means someone’s there. Can’t you just answer my question?”

Again, nothing. Ten seconds passed. Then twenty. I was walking as I counted them, one for every step I took. Where I was going, I didn’t know. Perhaps I was just pacing back and forth, impatiently, as I waited for an answer.

After some time, I heard a voice in the distance. Was that my answer? It was too low, too quiet. I couldn’t make it out. “Louder!” I shouted. For a moment, there was silence. Then it came again: “Help!”

“What do you want help with?” I called back.

There was no response, save for dead silence. Then I woke up.

I was lying on the ground in front of a door. The door looked familiar, but when I turned around, I saw stairs leading up. That was odd, because my house had only one floor. Where was I? I wanted to ask the door, but doors don’t talk. Instead, I opened it. And then, to my surprise, I found myself lying in my bedroom with my dresser looming over me.

I guess that door was a part of the dream, too. But if I had never seen it, why did it look familiar? I looked at my clock and saw that it was only ten, so I hadn't slept for very long. I was thirsty, so I headed to the kitchen for a glass of water.

There was a man lying on my kitchen floor. At first it appeared he was dead, but he looked up as I approached. He was clutching his stomach with one hand, as he reached out toward me with the other. “Got any cigs?” he asked, yearningly.

“I don’t smoke,” I replied. “Why are you—”

He started convulsing and hacking up blood. His hands flailed in front of his face, giving me a view of his abdomen. There was a gaping wound there. I stared at it for a second, thinking it was ketchup, until it hit me that it wasn’t. “Ah!” I cried out. “What happened to you?”

“I’ve been shot,” he said. “So I came here.”

“Ah,” I said. “It makes as much sense as going anywhere else, I guess.”

He laughed hysterically. “Man, you’re nuts! Come here for a moment.”

I walked closer to him. He told me to turn around, and pointed to something down the hallway. “See that?” he asked. I said no, because I’m near-sighted. He laughed again, and started coughing. “Hey,” I said. “Careful.”

“Yeah,” he gasped. “So those over there…are flowers.”

“That’s nice. When did I get flowers in my house?”

“Just f*****g listen,” he said. “I had a wife. I never once bought her flowers. She left me, because I never once bought her flowers.”

“I don’t think someone would leave you over just that,” I said.

“Exactly,” he said. “Because I’m far-sighted, I can’t grasp the full reason. Because, you see, I see things best that are far away. But I fail to see what’s closest to me. That’s why I was left. But someone like you…you’re different. You’re near-sighted. You can’t be distracted by aspirations that are out of your reach. The people closest to you…everyone you care about…that’s what you see and focus on. Do you have a wife?”

“My wife left me, too,” I said. “I used to be an alcoholic.”

“That’s a real shame,” he said. “Even someone like you…doesn’t give a s**t about anyone else. I guess that’s why…”

“Why what?”

“You were driving drunk,” he said. “And you hit someone. He was paralyzed from the waist down, and lost his job. His boss said he wanted capable workers, not cripples. It wasn't the last time he heard those words; they echoed everywhere he went to get hired. With no other choice, he was degraded to selling drugs on the street. No doubt you have some sense of how that business is. It’s dirty. It’s dangerous. One day just like any other, a deal went bad and he got shot.”

“That’s a sad story,” I said.

“Yeah,” he replied, sounding pissed off. “And you know what? If that guy in the car had just stopped, climbed out, and apologized, that character in my story could have died happy. But instead he has to know that there are s**theads in the world who will drive off in that situation, just to save their ass from getting a DUI. But you got one anyway, didn’t you?”

He spat in my face. “So you know what’s gonna make me happy?” he asked.

“I couldn’t hope to guess,” I said.

“I’m gonna put this bluntly, man,” he replied. “You f****d up my life, and now it’s time that I return the favor. And I don’t mean by just dying on your kitchen floor.”

“Oh,” I said. “You’re the man I hit in my car. I’m terribly sorry. I stopped drinking because of how much I regretted that I did that.”

“I feel so much better hearing that!” he roared. “Just great! But I’m terribly sorry, too. I already called my friends. Somewhere, sometime this week, you’ll be walking along. Doing your routine. You’ll hear a gunshot, maybe two, and think, “Has someone been shot?” Maybe you’ll panic; maybe not. It seems like something you’d hear in the news, but it’s happening to you. Still, I haven’t even told you the best part: you’re the victim! You’re the one who's been shot! It’s a great ending, isn’t it?”

“You’re going to kill me?” I said, flabbergasted.

“You catch on quick,” he snickered.

“I don’t want to die,” I objected.

In response, he launched into a fit of laughter. By the time the last chuckle squeezed through his closing lips, he was already dead.
“Wait,” I said. “I didn’t get to ask you your name.”
---

I must have fallen asleep right there, because I returned to my lately reoccurring dream.

“Welcome back,” someone said. I looked all around me, but there was no one there.

“You,” I said. “Why didn’t you respond when I talked to you before? Where is this, and who are you?”

“Only you can answer those questions,” he replied.

“Are you God?”

“I am if you want me to be.”

“You either are or you aren’t,” I said.

“Wrong,” he replied. “Why do you call your optometrist your optometrist? What about your therapist?”

“Because those are their professions,” I said.

“Wrong again. You call them that because that’s what they are to you. You may have a friend who’s a dentist, but he might not be your dentist. Hence, would you ever call him a dentist? What about the friends of your therapist? We place titles of that nature on people, based on how we perceive them. Yet, all of it is relative. In simpler terms: if I perform, for you, the functions that you expect of someone you call “God”, then I am God to you. If I do not, then you should not call me God.”

“I’m scared, God,” I said.

“Scared? Of what?”

“Someone wants to have me killed.”

“Why does that scare you?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Because I don’t want to die!”

“That’s only relative to your perspective. Someone else may be afraid to die, too, yet you only care about yourself. Doesn’t that make you a narcissist?”

“I’m not selfish! That’s only human!”

“If you’re not selfish, then why don’t you help the person crying out?”

He fell silent for a moment so I could listen. “Help!” came a call from the distance, like before. I started to walk in that direction, then stopped. “But I don’t know where he is. I can’t find him if I don’t even know that much,” I said.

“This place only exists in your mind,” said God. “So tell me again that you’re not a narcissist.”
---

“Asher! I’m surprised to see you,” she said. “Why are you here? It’s late. I was just about to leave my office and go home.”

Who was she? I knew her from somewhere; then again, maybe I didn’t. A lot of people look alike. For that matter, where was I? I had been walking on the street, looking for something. The grocery store? No, of course not. I wasn’t going to the grocery store on Friday night. It made more sense that I was looking for something fun to do, a nightclub maybe. Was this a nightclub? And the woman in front of me, a prostitute?

I leaned over close to her. “How much do you charge?” I asked. She recoiled, looking disgusted. “You’ve been drinking,” she said.

“Duuuh,” I replied. “How much?”

“I guess I don’t have any choice but to drive you home,” she said. I stumbled, and fell face-first into her breasts. “Ooh,” I said. She pushed me off gently and took my hand. “I’m going to forgive you for that,” she sighed. She started escorting me down the hallway. Yes, I thought. She’s taking me there. We’ll do it there, yes, we have to.

“Why are you drinking again, Asher?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter, that doesn’t matter if you, me, we’re gonna f**k, does it? Don’t ask what doesn’t mean anything.” The hallway was spinning around me wildly. She put her hands firmly on my shoulders and wrenched me to face her.

“I want a clear response,” she demanded. “Why are you drinking again? A month ago, you almost killed someone.”

What’s she saying? Why so sternly? A ho can’t talk like this to her pimp, can she? That’s right, she’s my ho. I should be slapping her if she talks like this, shouldn’t I? But…I’m shaking…why?

“Answer me, Asher.”

What is up with this? I…dammit! I don’t know what to do!

I fell onto my knees and put my head in my hands. “I’m…I’m scared,” I mumbled. “I’m scared!”

“Scared? What are you afraid of?” she asked.

“s**t! I don’t know! I’m just scared, I don’t remember of what, but I’ve never been so scared in my life!”

“It’s okay, Asher. That’s what I’m here for.”

“f**k you! You don’t understand! There’s something…God dammit! Why can’t I remember what I’m afraid of?”

“Calm down! I’ll do whatever I can for…”

I heard one gunshot, followed by another. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the prostitute topple to the ground. I looked down, and saw that I had also been hit. Then I looked up, and saw the shooter. He said something, and I read his lips: “Retribution.”

I blacked out when my head hit the floor.
---

I woke up drenched in sweat. The second dream was based on a real event. It recaptured every moment flawlessly, almost like I was living it again. As if it wasn’t bad enough the first time. I was lucky to have survived the gunshot wound—my therapist, too (She was the "prostitute" I was with.). We were both lucky.

My doorbell rang, and it occurred to me that the sound had woken me up. Whoever was standing outside could be getting impatient by now; any longer and they might leave, assuming I wasn’t home. I hurried to answer it.

“Hey, Ash,” said the man on my front porch. He was the one I met the previous day, in the grocery store parking lot. “Heh, you look like you’ve been punched in the face. Are you drunk? It’s me, Ryan.”

“What?”

“I said…”

“I know,” I said. “It’s just that…never mind.”

It was just that lately, I’d been meeting a lot of people without learning their names. The name of my optometrist still eluded me, and somehow, whether my memory failed me or I never knew it in the first place, I couldn’t bring to mind the name of my therapist. There was also the man still on my kitchen floor, who died before he had the chance to tell me.

“Funny thing, Ash,” he said. “I stopped by here earlier to catch you at work, since you told me that Peterson’s moved to this address. This address, however, is your house, so I know you lied to me. You don’t need to be afraid to tell me that you don’t have a job, man. You think I’m gonna look down on you for it? I've been there, you know that. That aside, I wanted to stop by and see if you’re available to relax, have a few drinks.”

“I don’t drink anymore,” I said. “That, and I don’t know you.”

He looked taken aback. “Are you tripping? I know it’s been like, a year since we’ve seen each other, but your memory can’t be that bad. And the Asher Forndirk I used to know would never refuse a beer.”

He showed me that he was carrying a twelve pack of Budweiser. “Come on, buddy,” he said. “We don’t want to let this go to waste, do we?”

I hesitated, my hand on the doorknob.

“What’s the harm of giving in to temptations?” someone asked.

“God?”

“If you want me to be.”

“Well, it could lead to a lot of problems…”

“You’re going to die soon anyway. Why does it matter?”

“You sound like a bad influence. I’m not sure I should listen to you.”

“That’s impossible,” said God, “because I’m only telling you what you’re thinking.”

I shut my mouth, because he was right.

“Ahem!” said Ryan, drawing my attention back to him. “You’re talking to nothing, man. Definitely tripping. If you wanna be tripping harder, though, I’ve got some bomb-ass shrooms.”

I took my hand off the doorknob.

“Sounds like fun,” I said. “Come inside.”

“Glad you came around,” he said. He stepped in over the doormat, and I shut the door behind him.

Half an hour later we were sitting on the living room couch, high and drunk. “Ha,” I chuckled. “Bratwurst. Now that’s something.”

“I know, right?” he said. “Oh man, look at that pig over there. Probably come to talk trash. f*****g pig.”

“Hypocrite,” said the pig. “I may roll in mud, but I don’t partake in substances that temporarily damage one’s sensory perception.”

“Told you,” said Ryan. “This is great, Ash. Just like the old times. Got any good stories to tell?”

I told him about the time that I got shot at my therapist’s office. I don’t know why that story came to mind, but it did.

“Heavy s**t, man,” said Ryan. “I’ve got a story, too.”

He told me about the time we met. It was on a beach somewhere, and after talking for a while, we went to a bar. “You told me that was the first time you ever touched a beer. For the first time, you sure got drunk off your ass,” said Ryan. “You almost had me fooled at the door when you told me you gave up drinking, but I knew better.”

It was funny, because I didn’t remember any of it. Not the beach, or the bar, or the man who’d gone there with me—none of it. Why? Was it really possible to forget everything you knew about a single person, and no one else? Of course not. This was a lie, a fabrication; it had to be.

“Do you think people can dream when they’re dead?” I asked. I don’t know why the question came to mind, but then again, I was drunk and tripping on shrooms. Ryan burst out laughing. “Now you’re saying some really weird s**t! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this high, man. Have some more, I need the entertainment.”

“Hey, I’m serious, I think,” I said. “I think I’m going to die soon. Don’t remember why, though.”

He burst out laughing again, and then said he was going to the restroom. While he was gone, I saw the body on the kitchen floor. It ignited a spark in my memory; I remembered why I was going to die. Then I thought about Ryan, and started piecing things together. Of course he was feeding me BS. I never knew him in the past. As for him, he didn't know me, either; he was just an acquaintance of the man I hit in my car.

The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. He was seducing me with drugs and alcohol to put me off guard, and then he would kill me.

“Disgusting pig,” said the pig. “He didn’t even flush the toilet.”

s**t, I thought. He was coming out. “I’ll make something to eat in the kitchen,” he said. I took several deep breaths. “What do I do, God?” I asked.

“Only you can answer that question,” said God.

“This isn’t time for that. Give me some advice.”

“How certain are you that he’s going to kill you?”

“I’m fairly certain,” I said. “But what if I’m wrong? I shouldn’t attack him.”

“What if you’re right?”

“I must be right. I have to kill him first.”

“You became surprisingly resolute after I questioned you.”

“That’s because…well, you’re God.”

“Okay,” he said. “I think I understand. That’s why you’re killing him.”

“No, I’m killing him because otherwise, he’s going to kill me first.”

“Now you’re contradicting yourself.”

“Nothing you say makes any sense, God.”

“Nothing makes sense. How do you expect me to?”

I looked into the kitchen. Ryan turned to face me, and he was holding a knife. “I cut myself,” he said. “Where are the bandages?”
“Third drawer down beside the dishwasher,” I replied. He bent over, and I crept up behind him. I picked up a vase off the counter and raised it over my head. “They’re not in here,” he said, puzzled. I brought the vase down as he raised his head, and they met somewhere in the middle with a deafening crash. He stumbled and fell onto the floor.

“s**t! s**t!” he screamed, scurrying backwards on his hands and knees to get away. I followed after him. “What’s wrong with you, man? You…ah!”

He rolled out of the way as I brought the vase down for a second blow. He thrust the knife into my thigh. I cried out in pain, and steadied myself on the counter. Ryan scrambled to his feet and bolted for the door, but I hurled the vase at him. It struck him directly in the back of his head, and he fell. Afterward I stared at him for a moment. “Why did you try to run?” I asked, breathing heavily. “Weren’t you trying to kill me? So why, then?”

He wasn’t trying to kill me after all. To the contrary, I remembered everything. Seeing his body made me remember—the beach, the bar, all of it. “Get up,” I pleaded, desperately. “Get up! God!”

“Yes?”

“He wasn’t trying to kill me, you f**k! Why did you encourage me?”

“He was trying to kill you,” said God. “You made it that way yourself. Didn’t I explain it to you before you attacked him?”

“You were speaking in riddles!”

“So were you. Also, don’t call me God anymore. I’m no longer fitting of that status from your perspective.”

“You sure as f**k aren’t! Get out of my head!”

“That’s impossible.”

I wasn’t going to prolong the argument. I had a wound to attend to. Clutching it, I started limping towards the sofa. On the way there, I tripped over the body in the kitchen, stumbled forward three steps, swiveled, and lost my footing. I went down. Instead of hitting the kitchen floor, however, I hit stairs: one after another, each accompanied by a thud, some by the sound of cracking bones. When I hit the bottom, I blacked out. And dreamed.

In my dream, I was in an ambulance.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” someone said. My vision was blurred, so I couldn’t see him clearly. “That bullet barely missed your heart. But I think you’re going to be okay.”

So this was taking place after I was shot. I had never remembered this part before now, but I knew that it had definitely happened. I knew because I felt powerless to influence the outcome of the dream, which meant the outcome was already predetermined.

“That’s the good news,” the man said. “Bad news is, the woman you were with died instantly. I hear the guy with the gun didn’t say anything, just shot himself in the head as soon as the police showed up. What a f*****g mess.”

“I don’t need to hear that BS, Doc,” I said.

“What am I, your optometrist? Call me Bill,” he said.

“Okay, but you don’t need to give me that BS. Just tell me the truth.”

“And what truth is that?”

“That I’m going to die. You tell me, ‘I’m going to be all right’, but I know that’s a lie. I was shot, for Christ’s sake. I’m going to die.”

“Okay,” he said. “You’re right.”

“So tell me a joke,” I said.

“I’m not very good with jokes, but I’ll give it a go,” said Bill. “How about this? Two guys walk into a bar…”

“I get it,” I chuckled.

“I barely even started telling it,” he objected.

“No, I get it,” I replied. “I’m…the punchline…”

I woke up at the bottom of the stairs. I thought, what the Hell was that? Is that really how it happened? But I'm still alive. My therapist, too. I don't get it at all.

I looked behind me, and saw the door from my previous dream. Upstairs, I heard voices.

“This is real sad,” someone said. “I hate dealing with stuff like this. This guy’s family’s gonna be so upset.”

So they were talking about Ryan. Or the other man; no doubt he had people who cared about him, too.

“No suspicion of foul play,” said the first voice again. “He doesn’t have any wounds. No signs that anybody’s been in the house tonight but him. Guess he just overdosed.”

“It’s just awful,” said the first again.

That was impossible. Of course there were wounds on Ryan’s body. And what about me, and the man in the kitchen? They hadn’t noticed us yet? “Hey!” I shouted, not too quietly. But neither of them seemed to hear me.

“It seems your dream is almost over,” said God. I ignored him, and stood up. Where does this door lead? I wondered. When I opened it before, I woke up; but I was awake now. God might have said that I was dreaming, but I can tell the difference between what’s a dream and what’s not. I always can.

I stepped forward and opened the door.

Immediately, I was enveloped in complete, suffocating darkness. I couldn’t see any part of my body; nor, more distressingly, could I move. Hard as I tried, I was frozen in place.

I started panicking. “God!” I shouted.

“Oh, so now you want me,” he groaned.

“What’s going on? How do I get out of here? I’m awake…I know I’m awake, so what the Hell is this?”

“Only you can say for certain if you're awake. Only you can say for certain where this is.”

“Get me out of here! I’m scared, dammit!”

“Don’t be,” said God. "Do you understand who was crying for help now? In that other place?"

“No, but will you stay here with me?”

“Of course. I’ll stay here forever. So long as the words I say are not erased, they will signify my presence. That is how I exist; if you can understand at least that much, I can exist within you, too. Even here.”

That made me feel slightly more relieved. If God was here, at least I wouldn’t be alone. When I thought of it like that, I started to calm down. I would get out of here soon. I had to.

I lay still for a while, and then got in the mood to talk.

“God,” I said. There was no response. I waited for several seconds, and said his name again. Again, there was no response. “God?”

I waited a while, but he said nothing.

“God!” I screamed, starting to become frantic again.

There was no answer. A long time passed, and there was no answer.

Nothing but dead silence.

</STORY>

So whacha think?

Honestly, I disliked it. It was just too weird, random, and tragic for my taste. Sorry.

It is all of those things, I will not deny, and certainly not up to everyone's tastes. Thanks for commenting. I noticed you posted a novel excerpt on here, so I'll read it and return the favor.