Wayward Hallucinations

I’ve always been a reader. Most of my childhood was spent with my nose buried deep in a book. I read anytime I could get my grubby little fingers on a book. I read during car rides, plane rides, at friends houses and on vacations. It was so bad my parents would ground me from reading. Which, as you can imagine, was pure torture for my childhood self.

Now that I’m older, I’m proud to say that my obsession hasn’t changed a bit. In fact, it’s spawned a new passion of mine: creative writing.

Yep, this blog is going to consist of my own short stories. With the plan that the weekly short stories I’ll post here will tell a larger story, a series of sorts. But, if things don’t go according to plan – which they never do – and I post a stand-alone piece, don’t worry; the blog will get back to the planned programming shortly.

So, here’s a little piece to start off with:

The day was completely unremarkable. It was a summer Saturday in the middle of July. The noon sun was slipping into my room through nearly closed blinds. I was fast asleep, dead to the world as usual. Life continued being normal, and I continued sleeping. The sun was rising higher and higher into the sky, its light getting closer and closer to my eyes, until eventually, they beamed right onto my face and I woke, blinking hastily.

Sitting up slowly, I shook my head, trying to clear the cobwebs that infested it. The sheets from my bed slithered down onto the beaten-up wooden floor, pooling near my feet. I shook my head again, still groggy; it didn’t help. Finally, after minutes of rubbing my eyes and stifling the yawns that kept bubbling up, I stood. My feet were cold against the scratched wood, despite the hot sunlight that was drifting in. I lumbered over to my bathroom sink and turned on the rusted spouts, trying to splash cold water on my face. The water was cupped in my hands, pouring out through the slits in my fingers. When I cocked my head and listened, I strained to hear the normal, unremarkable, sounds of my morning. I tried, and failed, to hear the loud, metallic clangs of pots and pans as my mom threw together some breakfast and my dad’s loud, obnoxious laughter that had embarrassed me numerous times. But, there was nothing.