- Date: 17th January 2021
- Lucidity: 5 / 10
- Vividity: 7 / 10
- Realism: 9 / 10
In the middle of nowhere, a house stood out in the night.
A warm orange glow could be seen from miles, warmth enveloped those within. Inside a group of friends lay in their beds, wide awake yet half dreaming telling each other stories of far away places close to our hearts.
It was my turn.
But before I tell, I must explain the days or even weeks leading up to this moment. You see, I had this book that was with me all the time. A book of short stories with beautiful illustrations of the characters of which they tell. Flicking through the book, there were dozens of characters and their stories told, but many more of whom had empty stages.
And so it was that night when I read these stories out aloud, that we all realised, it was the stories of ourselves. The characters were them and the stories were real.
How this was so I did not know. What I did know was that when I wrote these stories, it wasn’t just me. There was another hand. As if I was entranced while doing so and the story wrote itself. Sometimes it feels this way when you’re doing something you love and feel so natural in and it all just comes out. It was like that when I wrote these stories.
So the group wanted to know Shane’s story and although I refused at first to write, it came to me in a dream and I had one to tell. As everyone stared at me from their beds, eager to hear the story, I knew it was one that I could not tell for it was evil, it was death at one’s door.
The group, convinced that if once told the future could be altered, was more eager than ever to hear. And so I told the story knowing that it was false hope, that once death was at your door it could not be stopped and if anything, it would be worse.
Shane would die that night, the story foretold. He would fall asleep no matter how hard he tried. He would wander away, leaving the warmth of the orange glow and into the cold dark abyss of the night. And in this darkness, he would be struck by an oncoming car and there was nothing he could do.