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Shut (Short Story)

/*After reading a bit of On Writing by Stephen King, I finally decided to work on my prose.*/

Joan turned off the lights and slipped under the sheets. The neighbours music was soft and cool. Just as the night. Just as she liked it.

None of the roommates were in that day - gone on a two-day trip, or some other excuse to get away from her. Joan was not bothered. She couldn't have been more pleased. With the last sweet thoughts of a fun day of reading Lovecraft and King, she slipped into a dark and dreamless sleep.

Dreamless, but for one little haunting detail. She knew she was dreaming about something. She kind of felt it in her, about her. it was all over her now. Lost in a world of perfect loneliness, an extreme of what she loved about being alone. Nothing to disturb and distract.

This was perfect. Too perfect. But still she felt the dream carry on in its emptiness. It was pleasantly queer, that kind. You never really get the point. It's like being dead; what she thought of the dead. You feel nothing, see nothing, know nothing but that you actually know nothing. Just you and no perception.

She slept on heedless.

Joan's mind raced through fields of black that she could feel under her feet and in her hair. Felt through her body and out the other way. It was a kind of empty coldness, without life or being. She got tired of running. Tired of sleeping, actually. Her breath was still and measured, deep, slow and recuperating.

Then she woke like seven trumpets had gone off behind her pillow. Several thoughts screamed through her mind as she reached for her phone. It should be morning. She woke up at six every time. But it was still dark, darker than she remembered.

Possibly a moonless night, but that was odd for the night. And the corridor lights too were out. It could be a black out, but when she reached to check the time, she first noticed she wasn't lying down. Neither was she standing. Or sitting. She was just there.

The slight panic that had been lying restless in her dream screamed to life in her mind. She called out, but heard her mind speak. Not her voice. Not a thing. She moved forward, but only felt herself "proceed", if that's the best way to put it.

In that moment, she had lost all sense of spatial perception. She couldn't tell left from right, or hand from foot. All she knew was she was there, and there was nothing.

That moment stretched endlessly.


A well written piece that sings, where the end is a question, then all the bits in between were a grand read.
Is there a beautiful poem here someplace, dreamtime is a sacred place that sometimes captures the soul, Yours Ian.T

There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

This is my new quest to perfect my prose and storytelling. I've seen your poem, and will give it a reply and thorough reading soon.

I have another story up. You can take a look at it. :)

No verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job. - TS Eliot

author comment

I sometimes love to play with the words that someone puts out as this one is, I have put it into a poetic form, and sent it to you as a PM, you have asked for it to go on the stream, but as it is your words I will add as a comment to this Blog, thank you for the story, Yours Ian.T..

I have played with the Blog yet still feel it needs a lot of work to make it more real, so I have gathered the bones of the piece and spread it out as a vessel for the stream, but before it ever goes there it needs you to write it..
Here is what I did with your Blog writing don't forget this is in a rough state:-


The lights dimmed, dissolving into the velvet night
Soft sheets gathered her form into their open arms
Music from afar touched her mind in gentle waves
Holding her in a love of just being alone

Friends had left earlier for their own needs
Two days of peaceful dreams touching her ways
An excuse they made, but they exposed her smile
Two lazy days of reading as dreamtime captured her

Puzzling moments that seem to hold nothing
A comforting nothing that washed over her
Feelings hovered about her, gently sweeping through,
Seemingly lost in a world of perfect loneliness

This was perfection. too perfect in its being
A natural extreme that she loved about being alone
Nothing to disturb and distract, though pleasantly queer
She felt the dream carry on in its tranquil emptiness.

Feelings like to that of being dead, drifting forever.
Feeling nothing, a cloak of herself, that defied structure
Just a form, no perception, sleeping on heedlessly.
Racing away as the dreams took to their journey

Fields of black that she could feel under her running feet
Clinging to her hair, felt throughout her body’s form
A kind of empty coldness, without life or being
She tired of running, tired of the sleep state

Breathing in slow undulating waves that touched the shore
It was still and measured, deep, slow and recuperating.
Trumpet sounds cascaded into her dreams jolting a response
Many thoughts pressed her, as she reached for the phone

Why is the morning not here, it should be outside my window
Six in the morning a natural time to leave dreams behind
But it was still dark, darker than she remembered.
Possibly a moonless night, but that was odd for the night ?

There were no lights black had invaded like a blackout
Reaching for her timepiece, it seemed to be out of reach.
A strange feeling held her form not known before
Not standing or sitting, how could this be, just being?

Slight panic touched her way as if to question reality
Restless dreams screamed life into her mind
She called out yet there was only her mind shouting
Her body moved though it felt as if it flowed

The panic died away as spatial perception disappeared
No left hand, foot, or right of any feelings that should be,
Yet a quiet awareness of herself just being there.
This moment became a reality and stretched to eternity.

I love playing with the words and it is one of my bad things, to recreate the situation in a different form,

There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

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