Creative Writing

Aether: The Writer

Half a fifth into the night – still another half to go, but already getting hazy; drawn further up into the aether where I hope to find my inspiration.  Or at least respite and a good night’s sleep.  Lord knows I need it.

The edges of the blank page begin to fade – bleeding off the screen and cutting through the night like a phantasm, prodding my psyche for the last remnants of creativity.  The haunting image swirls around me with a cold, empty embrace.  I close my eyes, tight, and take a deep breath, regaining my focus.  And there it is again:  a blank page staring back at me.  I don’t even know where to start, but the damned thing’s not going to write itself.  I take another shot.  Still nothing.  One more can’t hurt.

 The soft glow of my monitor falls onto my keyboard in the darkness of my dimly-lit study, beckoning my fingers to type.  Something – anything.  And so, I do.  Vomiting gibberish from my fingers in hopes that something intelligible, or at least salvageable, will show up on the digital paper.  No such luck, but I keep trying; each subsequent sentence a rambling non-sequitur with dwindling potential.  One more drink for inspiration.  One more for good measure.

The words on the page begin to melt together as an unreadable hazy grey; each new word lost in the fog as it spills out of my screen and envelops the world around me until everything goes dark.  Finally.  Finally, I can sleep.  Finally, I can dream, and maybe find my words there.

BAM!

Or not.  I jerk back and sit up straight in my chair – the ramblings of my drunken night of “writing” still in front of me and no less disappointing.  I lock the screen and stand to ready myself for bed, only to be interrupted by another loud crash.  It shakes my whole house, rumbling and vibrating beneath me – it sounds expensive.  And it doesn’t stop.

It sounds like it’s coming from my basement – the muffled sounds of grinding heavy machinery, breaking glass, and heavy winds.  I don’t even know.  I open my basement door – it swings violently, ripping itself from my hands; I’m almost swept off my feet by the force.  I pull my phone from my pocket, readying myself to make an emergency call, as I walk down the stairs.  I freeze when I finally see it – the source of all this noise.

I conclude that my eyes, and all my other senses, must be playing tricks on me as I stand before a violent tear of swirling, red lights and forceful winds ripping through the air of my home.  This isn’t happening, it only thinks it’s happening, I think as I step closer to the strange, unnatural storm that’s tearing apart my basement.  The center of this curiosity obscures the area behind it, but acts as a window into what appears to be a blood red, hellish landscape of pulsing vines and bulbous growths.  My curiosity gets the best of me and I approach the storm, cautious not to get too close – but foolish enough to get too close.

Searching the area around me, I grab the first long-handled object I can find:  a push broom.  I decide, then, that my best course of action is to poke the beast and send the handle of the broom through the opening.  Nothing happens.  Not to me.  Not to the broom.  I pull the broom out and examine it as closely as I can.  There’s no residue, no apparent damage, and it doesn’t give off any heat – or cold – different from that of the air in my basement.

I do another quick scan of my surroundings and grab a hammer – the only loose tool I manage to find that I don’t feel like I’d miss all too much.  I toss it into the opening.  It lands with an uncomfortable squish.  I run around the back of the vortex to find absolutely nothing.  The portal itself appears invisible from the rear, though the power of its wind is readily apparent, and the flashing lights reflect off the surfaces on the other side.  Still holding to the broom, I poke it through where the portal should be and, again, nothing happens.  I let go of it – it falls to the floor and begins sliding across as the winds force it away from me.  I run back to the opening and watch as the broom handle appears, seemingly, out of nowhere.

This can’t be real, I conclude.  I must be still in my study.  Dead asleep and having the wildest liquor-fueled dream my unconscious mind can muster.  Committed to this conclusion, I step forward and reach my hand out toward the portal.  It passes through without issue – there’s no pain, just a brief, light pressure that brushes against my arm at the point of entry.  I pull my arm back – it’s still intact and unharmed.  I step through the portal.

The first step is unsettling as my foot sinks into the soft, moist ground – pulled in down to the shoelaces.  The constant pull of the floor slows my movement as each subsequent step mirrors the first.  Each step leaves a darkened impression in the ground – a depression that slowly rises once the pressure of my body is no longer on it.  The color bleeds back into it as the footprint fades. With each step, the corridor writhes – it breathes with life.  The walls pulse with a hypnotic rhythm beckoning me deeper.  And so, I follow.  I follow until my entry fades from view – until the path ahead to my unknown destination is shorter than the one behind me.  I follow until I stand before another portal opening to a world that’s wildly unfamiliar and immeasurably intriguing.

 The air is heavy and blackened by soot; I pull my shirt up over my nose to serve as a crude filter.  The sky is a gradient of hazy grey and a deep red.  Streaks of bright green lightning cut through the sky and illuminate the landscape, pulsing perpetually.  The luminous branches intersect and grow – blossoming into an electric web of light overhead that never strikes the ground.  There’s no thunder – there’s no noise at all.  It’s a still, dead air that’s haunting yet beautiful.  I snap my fingers and the audio is abruptly terminated – no echo, no resonance.

The landscape before me is equally ominous.  Saplings sprout from rotting remnants of trees, and desolate structures lie in waste of rubble and dirt.  There doesn’t seem to be any life here, but evidence of its past inhabitance decorates the horizon.  The architecture of the ruins is unlike anything I’ve seen before – no corners or creases, no markings.  Every broken structure appears as though it was composed of a single mass.  The surface textures look like a brushed stainless steel with intermittent patches that have a reflective, though translucent, surface that seems to disappear when viewed at an angle.  To the touch, the structures feel more like glass than metal, which seems a fair assessment given the majority of damaged buildings are shattered opposed to bent or warped.  Despite the foreign architecture, the destruction and quiet abandonment is reminiscent of nature’s reclamation of Pripyat.

I have no suppositions that the answers to what happened here could be found here, but that doesn’t hinder my curiosity.  I circle around the building closest to me until I can find a point of entry – a shattered wall with an opening about 10 feet tall and maybe twice as wide.  I step over the metallic shards that pepper the ground and make my way into the building.  As I enter, the walls illuminate with a soft, but bright, blue light that doesn’t strain my eyes despite the contrast of darkness my eyes had acclimated to outdoors.  The light is singular – emanating from everywhere with no apparent single point of origin shining brighter – and follows me from room to room.

As with the exterior, the walls of every room are seamless with no sharp corners.  Most rooms are bare with no furniture or decorations; the exception to this being what I assume to be the kitchen wherein a large island counter sits in the center of the room.  The island houses three deep basins which have no visible source for water or drainage.  I glide my hand around the countertop which seems to summon an interface, the options on which are noted by a series of concentric circles arranged in Venn diagrams.  Out of curiosity, I press one with no certain expectation.

The area to the left of the display illuminates with a bright, rounded rectangle of piercing white light; it should be blinding, but my eyes adjust with no issue or strain.  I stand over the light and reach out to touch it, but stop as soon as I feel the intense heat radiating from it.  I return to the interface and press the button again; the light fades, almost immediately, and the surface is, again, cool to the touch.

Below the button that ignited the range is a series of three identically-marked buttons atop digital sliders – not unlike the ones you’d see on a soundboard.  I press one and the corresponding basin begins to fill – the liquid seems to appear from nowhere or oozes from the walls of the basin.  I press the button again and the flow stops.  It’s scentless and clear, appearing to be water.  I submerge my hand without a thought or hesitation.  It gets wet.  The water is warm and, by my brief assessment, indistinguishable from that at home.  I shake my hand dry, as best I can, and pat the rest of the water off on my pantleg.  I drag the sink button down on the slider and watch the water disappear, still unsure of how; it drains faster the farther down the slider is pulled until the basin is completely empty.  I run my hand around the basin – it’s completely dry, no droplets or residue.

I start dragging my hands across the walls as I walk around the room hoping that something else might pop up.  I hit another trigger point, and a six-foot by three-foot rectangular cutout recedes into the wall – light spilling out around the corners – and slides out of view.  Cold air carrying an overwhelmingly strong scent of spoiled produce and rotten meat spills out of the opening, triggering my gag reflex.  I start desperately smacking at the wall trying to find the trigger that closes the door; it feels like an eternity, but I finally find it.

“That’s enough of the kitchen,” I mumble to myself as I stagger back out into the hallway.  After catching my breath, I venture down to the staircase at the end of the hallway and ascend to the building’s upper level.  The second floor has the same cold aesthetic of the first, and is still a far cry from what I would call homey.  The walls are bare, but there’s a short bench outside the first door at the top of the stairs; across from the bench is a small table with an empty plate, specked with dried food residue and topped with a knife and trident.  Alien as this place is, there’s a familiarity with the lifestyle that keeps it from feeling entirely foreign.

The door beside the bench is closed.  As I step in front of it, it attempts to open – sliding to the left before jamming and becoming immobile.  I reach my hands into the crack and try to pry the door open fully.  It puts up a fight, but after adjusting my grip for better leverage, it eventually gives way and grinds open.  Unlike the other rooms in the house, this one doesn’t illuminate when I step into it.  I pull out my phone and turn on the flashlight for a better look.

The air inside the room is stagnant and rancid, though not nearly as strong or repugnant as that inside the refrigerator.  At the back of the room, there’s a body lying on a bed with its back propped up against the wall.  It’s humanoid, but very clearly not human.  It appears to be dead.  Its elongated face is contorted in a horrified scream.  The eye sockets – dried and empty – stare down at the withered remnants of its left arm; the bone is corroded, and its hand is nearly completely detached – hanging loosely by the wrist with a strain of rotting flesh.  Its right hand is curled into a claw and ripping at its chest; the decaying flesh of its neck and chest torn to the bone and hanging from its fingernails.  The scene is horrifying.  I can’t look away and, quite frankly, I’m impressed by my imagination.

I approach the bed and begin to search the area for clues of what transpired here.  The bed is draped with sheets and blankets, the corners of which are undisturbed.  There’s a thick, dark outline of dried fluids around the body, though beneath the creature’s left arm is a hole through the blankets exposing the mattress beneath.  There’s a similar area of corrosion dripping down the wall behind the body starting at the base of its skull.  Its left hand is locked in a death grip and appears to be holding something.  I work my way around to the other side of the bed for a closer look.  The blankets on the left side of the bed are torn and sliced – a variety of clean, scissor-like cuts with pairings of jagged tears shredding through the cloth.  The floor beneath has eroded splotches similar to the bed and wall.

I reach for the hand and attempt to pry it open; the skin that seemed to be keeping it attached crumbles into a small mound of ash.  I force my thumb under the digits of the dismembered hand and pry them open, breaking a couple off at the joints.  Beneath the grip is a claw – or something vaguely claw-like.  It’s fairly sharp, but not curved, and the texture is similar to a crustaceous exoskeleton – maybe more like a crab’s dactylus than a claw.  I search beneath the bed and around the rest of the room for the source of this appendage, but come up empty.

I return to the hall and check the other 2 rooms upstairs.  The first appears to be the washroom.  There’s a single basin against the wall and a small shelf holding what I assume to be hygiene products.  Touching the wall above the sink pulls up a similar interface to that of the kitchen, with a button and slider to operate the water and drain.  Along with the display appears a digital mirror; none of the information on which is discernable to me, but it’s intriguing nonetheless.

Similar to the first room, the door to the last refuses to open, though not even a crack this time.  I run my hands around the door trying to summon a control panel of some kind with no success.  I do the same with the dismembered hand from the first room with similar results.  I push against the door and try to force it to the side with friction from my palms.  It’s not very effective.  I look back to the table in the hallway and grab the knife, repeating the process of trying to slide the door with one hand while attempting to force the knife through a crack between the door and jamb.  With more than a little effort, I’m able to shove the knife in and begin prying – twisting the blade and pushing the handle until I can force my foot and hands into the opening and pry the door fully open.

It’s another bedroom.  I pull out my phone again and take a look around.  It’s as featureless as every other room, save for the bed pushed up near the back.  I walk up to it and catch a shadow with my flashlight – something on the other side peeking up barely above the edge of the mattress.  I shift my focus and the light falls on another body.  It’s propped up against the wall, knees tucked into its chest and wrapping its arms around its legs.  Its hands are locked onto its opposing wrists and its head is buried in its knees.  It’s a child.

There’s an empty plate, an upturned glass, and some empty wrappers strewn around the floor and under the bed.  Lord knows how long it’s been locked in here, but it seems dehydration or starvation is what did this one in.  Not an enviable way to go, though from the other corpse, does look more peaceful.

I reach for one of the wrappers, but immediately stop when I see the body move.  A shift in position; a deep intake of breath.  It’s still alive.  I remain frozen, unsure of what to do next, as it throws its head back against the wall with a deep thud.  Its eyes open with a start as it just stares at me.  Eyes unmistakably filled with fear.  It lowers its head immediately and weakly raises its hands – holding them both up, fingers outstretched and palms outward, above its bowed head.

Still shaken by this recent development and struggling to process this whole scenario, I snatch the cup and run to the bathroom.  I fill the sink with water, scoop as much as I can with the cup, and run back to the bedroom.  The child’s still sitting there, frozen in place with its hands above its head.

I reach out and touch its shoulder.  It immediately slinks away from my hand and starts shaking its hands, lowering its head further.  I hold the cup up to its hands and try to wrap its fingers around it; this catches its attention and it looks up at me.  It lowers its head again and grabs the cup and begins to slowly drink, staring up at me the entire time – its expression, having shifted from fear to confusion.  As it finishes up the water, I see its eyes dart to the open door, they widen with fear and anxiety before fixing back on me.  I look to the door and back to the child – its posture returned to the fetal position with one arm outstretched holding the cup.  I take it, assuming it’s still thirsty, and head back out to the hallway.

About halfway between the bedroom and bathroom, I hear splashing noise coming from around the corner.  I slow my pace, making each step careful and deliberate, being as quiet as I can.  I reach the bathroom door and peer around the corner.  There it is, bathing in the water, the crustacean missing a leg.  It’s facing away from the door and doesn’t notice me, but I can’t take any chances.  I start walking backwards – keeping my eyes on the bathroom door.  I move as cautiously and quietly as I possibly can, listening carefully to the sounds coming from the bathroom.

I make it to the bedroom, but catch the knife with my foot – the metallic noise of the utensil sliding across the floor causes me to freeze in place.  I shift my left ear toward the bathroom and hold my hand up to it hoping to hear better, but fearing what might be coming next.  The splashing stops.  It heard me.  I turn to the child in the bedroom and try to communicate, gesturing frantically as I whisper, “We have to close the door.  How do I close the door?”

Then, I hear it.  I hear a thud and the ticking of its feet scurrying across the floor.  I reach down and grab the knife while the creature’s head spins around to face me.  It has six pitch black, beady eyes – all fixed on me.  It rears back, revealing a snake-like mouth with two large fangs angled forward and horizontal mandibles that slam together as it makes a ghastly howling hiss.  I frantically start smacking my left hand against the wall beside the door, desperately trying to get the damn thing to close as the creature begins to clumsily charge.  Its pointed legs lack traction and causes it to slip with each hurried step.

Desperately trying to get the door to close, I begin shouting to the child for any kind of assistance – looking back hoping for some kind of gesture that might point me in the right direction.  But I get nothing but a blank stare frozen in fear as the child’s jaw drops and it wails uncontrollably.  The creature rears back again as it approaches – maybe a foot and a half away from the door.  Its fangs sling upward, shooting out a stream of green, viscous liquid as I slash down at it with the knife.  I make contact between its mandibles, driving the knife in as deep as I can, and slash back up carving through two if its eyes.  It howls again and scuttles backwards.  I keep slamming my hand beside the door until, finally, it closes.

I breathe a sigh of relief, but it quickly turns to horror as I look down at my arm.  There’s a splash of that green liquid on my forearm, and the flesh beneath it begins to peel away.  It is the most intense pain I have ever felt.  I turn back to the child in horror as I hear its screams become hollow and garbled.  The entire left side of its body being eroded as it claws desperately at its opened throat – fear and agony filling its eyes in its final moments as its desperate cries become no more than a whispered final breath.  The body of the poor thing crumples over as it continues to dissolve.

I look back to my arm in horror of the fate that awaits me as muscle and bone are exposed and my grasp around the knife is weakened.  It falls to the floor when I can’t hold on any more.  The hole in my arm starts stretching toward my hand and elbow.  The pain is paralyzing, but my survival instincts override it when I notice that the blade of the knife, despite having stabbed the creature, is unharmed by its blood.  I’m certain it’ll leave a nasty infection, but it beats dying like this.  I remove my belt and tie it around my bicep, uncertain if it will help at all, but I’ve seen it in enough movies that it makes sense to me.  I grab the knife with my left hand and press the tip of the blade into the crook of my elbow.  I take a deep breath as I straighten my arm to get a better shot at the joint.  With my left hand on the handle to keep the knife in position, I walk up to the wall and gauge the distance I’ll need to make contact.  I pull my right shoulder back and slam forward as hard as I can – the wall smashes against the knife handle and drives the blade deep into my arm.  I barely feel it as the pain of the acidic venom is far more overwhelming, but the shock of the experience is still surreal.  I don’t have time to think about it, however, and I begin to pry and twist the knife, working it between the bones and joints – feeling every scrape and pop as I wrench apart my arm at the elbow until it’s only attached by flesh.  I cut through the tissue keeping my forearm attached and it falls to the floor.  It continues to twitch uncontrollably as the venom eats through it and beings to corrode the floor beneath.

There’s lot of blood, and I’m far from safe.  While I was sawing through my arm, the creature in the hall was desperately trying to break through the door.  Its venom was doing the job quite nicely, in fact, as light from the hallway began to spill through holes in the door.

I’m dizzy and dying, but desperate to avoid such a dreadful death.  I stumble around the room looking for the window – hoping desperately that there actually is one in this room.  My eyesight’s blurry and everything’s getting darker.  The windows blend in so well they almost seem pointless.  I prop my head against the wall at the rear of the room, using it to keep me on my feet, and slowly shuffle along the wall trying to catch a glimpse of the window.  Found it.

I raise the knife and start slamming it against the window.  I’m weak and it doesn’t seem to do anything.  I look at the decaying carcass of the child hoping that’ll give me the adrenaline boost I need to make it through.  I’m not sure if it helps.  I keep swinging the knife at the window.  It finally cracks.  I keep swinging – it shatters.  I hear the howling hiss of the crustaceous beast behind me.  I don’t look back – I don’t care to know how close or far it is from making it through the door.

I try, as best I can, to clear the broken glass from the base of the window opening; I don’t think my body can really handle much more blood loss.  I look through the opening; the ground is maybe 15 feet below me.  There’s nowhere left to go.  I jump.

I feel my right ankle pop as I hit the ground.  I landed poorly.  Thankfully, the pain of my arm and the disorientation from the blood loss dulls the pain of this new injury.  It’s hard to stand.  Harder, even, to walk.  But I do.  I shake my head and try to focus my vision as I shamble toward the portal.  It didn’t feel like I walked this far away from it, but now it seems like an eternity away.  I keep my eyes fixed on the portal and limp along as fast I can, shaking my head every three of four steps trying to jar myself awake.  Can’t sleep.  Can’t stop.  Just a few more feet.

I step inside, forgetting how soft the floor is, and fall flat on my face when I’m caught off guard by my foot sinking into the ground.  I try to catch my fall, forgetting I’m clinging desperately to a knife, and drive it into the soft ground.  I feel the tunnel writhe, and what appears to be blood starts pooling around the knife.  I look back to the opening of the portal; it expands and contracts as I pull the blade out.  I start slashing the walls and floors – watching as the portal’s size fluctuates with every cut.  But it doesn’t close.  The damn thing doesn’t close.  I need it to close.  I need to get home.  I dig the knife into the wall and walk forward, pushing it through and cutting as deep as I can desperately trying to close this hole – hoping that the horrors of this miserable world can’t follow me into my basement.

My arm’s yanked back as the blade in my hand stops cutting.  I nearly fall again, but catch my footing before stumbling to the ground.  I try to pull the knife out, but it seems caught on something.  This would be so much easier with two hands.  I yank back on the knife, successfully freeing it after a couple attempts, and more blood begins to stream out of the wound.  Excessive amounts.  I jam the knife back in and start sawing at whatever it was stuck in; it’s difficult, but the flow of blood increases and starts pooling up around my feet.  I can’t tell if it’s the distance or if the portal is actually shrinking, but it looks notably smaller.  This has to be working.

I check the area around for some kind of indication of where another one of these weak points might be.  There’s a cluster of three bulbous growths on the ceiling above me.  There’s several of these clusters along the entire corridor – some on the walls, some on the floors, most on the ceiling.  I move to the nearest cluster and stab into it; the tunnel writhes and the portal behind me shrinks again.  I saw into the wall and begin cutting through another one of the veins, contracting the portal even further.  It’s nearly closed.  I shuffle to the next one – the growths are above my head, so I skip straight to sawing through the vein.  Please, just one more.

As I cut through the last vein, the portal closes and the tunnel grows dark.  The remaining bulbs explode with bursts of light and blood.  And then, the hallway begins to fracture and collapse, falling apart at the closed portal and crumbling towards me.  A wave of liquid darkness crashes down around me and I find myself drowning. I can’t breathe and feel the pain of suffocation pressing against my chest.  I try to cry out, but there’s no sound.  I turn around and try to run toward the exit, but I’m immobile and powerless as it fades from view until there’s nothing left.  No light.  No air.

Aether: The Writer is the creative property of Andrew T.S. Bedgood and is protected by US Copyright law.  Any use of this creative work without permission is prohibited.

Announcing Duskland: The Webseries

I’m excited to announce that, in spite of the lack of new Duskland tales, I’ve been working on developing a web series based on and set in the Duskland universe.  While the twisted tales may not be directly related, the stories are thematically inspired by The Twilight Zone and are connected by that inspiration.  The first episode in the series will be an adaptation of The Tale of Another Job with subsequent episodes being entirely new stories crafted specifically for the web series.  Production for Job: A Duskland Tale has already commenced with a planned release early this year.

The web series is being produced by Raw Footage Films in association with Unity Films.

JobPosterBlurWithBannerText

 

The Tale of Another Job (.pdf)

I recently had the pleasure of reading a selection of this short story as a part of a “celebration of the arts” at Bay College.  My Tale of Another Job: A Duskland Tale was included in a collection of visual and literary art that the school publishes annually.  I realize the formatting on this site for my stories isn’t exactly great, so I’m uploading The Tale of Another Job as a .pdf for your convenience.  Feel free to download and share the story, but I will remind you that The Tale of Another Job, Duskland, and all other related materials are my creative properties, so give credit where credit is due.

You can download the .pdf with this link:  The Tale of Another Job

The Tale of Another Job is a modern retelling of the biblical tale of Job with a drastically different outcome.  It’s also a very personal story.  When I wrote it, I paralleled a lot of events from my life with the life of my protagonist, Job–although I made the life of Job grander than my own.  The losses and struggles I’ve endured throughout the past couple years brought to mind the biblical tale of Job:  a man who lost everything and yet still kept his faith in God.  It’s a powerful tale and one that reminded me daily that, “Gee, I guess I don’t have it so bad.”

I began pondering how my story might have turned out if I didn’t have the tale of Job or my faith.  If I were a different man than I am and didn’t have the things I had to pull me up from where I had fallen.  This isn’t to say that I faced all of my struggles with an unwavering resolve and my faith was never shaken, but I like to think that I came out on top and was still, at least to some degree, responsible.

The thoughts about how my story might have turned out compared to how it did stayed on my mind and I eventually decided to write this Tale of Another Job when I had to author a short story for a writing class.  I’m very proud of the outcome.

It’s not an expansive or exciting tale in any way.  It’s plodding and subtle.  But it’s also an intricate tale filled with metaphors and meaning if you take the time to closely examine all the subtle details.  I encourage you to do just that.

After Freefall

Now that I’ve finished Freefall, it’s time to move on to new stories and projects.  I’m brainstorming new ideas for more Duskland Tales but I’m pretty busy, so it will probably be a while before you see anything from that.  I’ve got some older stories that I intend to modify for the sake of Duskland though they weren’t originally intended to be a part of this Twilight Zone-esque experiment.

I’m also working on revising Freefall and planning on posting the entire story as one piece as opposed to the 14 parts it is currently in.  I’m considering adding a brief prologue, I’ve already extended a few scenes to clarify some things, and I need to ensure that my timeline is consistent.  The prologue and extended scenes won’t detract from the ambiguity of the story as a whole, but will rather serve to better develop the character of Tom.  He’s an interesting character and I really enjoyed creating him and his little personality quirks, giving some additional background on the character might be a good thing.

Also, now that it’s done, I’m open for discussion of Freefall.  If there was something that you liked, didn’t like, are curious about, would like some more insight on, and so forth–ask away and I’d be more than happy to have a conversation about it.  I love hearing what readers take away from a piece of writing and Freefall is likely the most ambiguous story I’ve worked on so far; I’m really interested in discussing what your thoughts on the story are.  What do you think is real and imagined?  Is Tom dreaming at the end?  I’d really like to know what you think.

Freefall: Part 14 (The Final Part)

I stood outside her door for a few moments.  There was no answer.  I tried peering through the window on her door, but it was more for decoration than function.  All I could really tell was she had her living room and kitchen lights on.  I assumed she was busy in the kitchen, so I checked the knob—it was unlocked.  I opened the door and let myself in.

“Alice?  I hope you don’t mind I let myself in.”

I walked into the living room.  She was peering up at me as she lay comfortably on the couch with the television remote in her hand.  She sat up and patted the seat beside her.

“I kept it warm for you.”

I set down her plate on the coffee table in front of her.

“Wine?” I asked as I set my dinner in front of the seat she warmed for me.

“Yes, please.”

 

 

Night 4—Friday:

 

I had purchased a fresh bottle of merlot earlier that day and it was resting, unopened, on my counter.  I pulled my corkscrew from the silverware drawer and two glasses from the cupboard.  I opened the bottle and poured two generous glasses of the red.  I felt certain that the bottle would be gone by the end of the night and a taller glass meant more time before a refill trip.

I walked back to the living room; Alice was already working on her steak.  “It’s very good,” she said covering her mouth with her hand so I couldn’t see the small bite she had been chewing.  “Cooked just right.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said handing her the glass of wine.  “I hope you approve of the wine selection.”

“I’ll trust your judgment.”

She pointed to the seat beside her again.  “Make yourself comfortable.  I already put the movie in.”

I picked up the remote and pressed play.  The screen was filled with static for a moment before I could see the image of a woman looking back at me.  Her stare was intense, but comforting.  She reached out a hand to me—beyond the screen in which she stood, her hand came out to me as an offer to guide me.  I rose from my seat and took her hand.

 

 

Day @:  I>R34|V1day:

 

As I grabbed her hand, she pulled herself in close to me, placed her mouth next to my ear, and whispered to me, “You are dreaming.  You can fly.”

I believed her—everything she said.  I was in that place again.  In my dream.  Atop that damned building.  Tonight was the night I would fly.

I looked beyond the woman to the edge of the building—the platform of my triumphant flight.  She began to dissolve as I stared past her and I thought to myself, I am dreaming.  I can fly.  I stepped forward and, with each step, I kept repeating, “I am dreaming.  I can fly.”  I reached the end of the roof and stared forward—not down to the ground below, but forward to the open world that lay before me.  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.  Stretching out my arms, I repeated to myself one last time, I am dreaming.  I can fly.

I opened my eyes and my alarm clock stared back at me.  The time on its face was 7:15am.  The sound emanating from it was louder than usual—it made my head pound.  I quickly turned it off and rolled to my other side.

 

 

Day 7—Monday:

 

My head ached, my mouth was dry, and my stomach was in knots.  There was no doubt in my mind that I had a hangover.  I concluded that I didn’t get much sleep, either, as I was incredibly tired.  I didn’t remember drinking, though—or anything about Sunday night.  I had a date with Alice, but I wouldn’t think we would get plowed.  Maybe a glass of wine with dinner and the movies, but I could taste the remnants of cheap brandy on my breath.

Maybe the date went poorly, I thought.  I didn’t want to think that I screwed it up, but I’ve never been above finding comfort in a bottle when the occasion called for it.  I considered calling her, but ultimately decided it would be best to talk to her in person.  I would see her at work and we’d sort things out there… hopefully.

I rose from my bed, took a muchneeded long, hot shower, scrubbed my teeth for a solid 5 minutes to get the stale taste of bottom shelf brandy out of my mouth, rinsed twice with Listerine, and dressed.  I still felt like hell, but at least I didn’t look like it—I thought, anyway, as I looked into the mirror.  The bags in my eyes were hanging pretty low, but my teeth were clean, my hair parted, and my body clothed.  Better than nothing.

I didn’t doubt that the day ahead would be nothing short of challenging, but I wasn’t bad off enough to call in sick.  I opened the door and stepped into the lobby.  I could see the concierge standing behind his desk looking over at me with a look that said, “How can I help you?” before he even had a chance to utter the same line.

 

 

Day ^:  7-41|day

 

“Sir, are you alright?” he asked me—a genuine concern in his voice.

I could feel my breathing labored and my eyes itched.  “Yes, I’m fine,” I said as I approached the desk.  Each step brought me closer to the man, and with each step I could see the expression on his face changing from that of concern to shock or empathy.  Maybe both.

“I saw you on the news last night.”

“Excuse me?”  I honestly had no idea what he was talking about.

“It was all over the news, what happened last night… I’m sorry, you probably don’t want to talk about this.”

“You’re right, I don’t.”  Mostly because I was entirely incapable of talking about it.  I was oblivious about what happened and had no way of continuing the conversation.

“I apologize.  Is there something I can do for you?”

“I’m not entirely sure.”

“Well, what did you come here for?”

“I—“ I stopped for a moment confused as to why I did go into the hotel.  It was a striking image—one I had seen dozens of times in my dreams.  I stood beneath the green awning of this building every night before I fell.  I was hoping to find answers inside, but I was only met with confusion.  “I’m not sure,” I said before turning around toward the exit.

“Well, thank you for stopping in, and have a pleasant day.”  I could hear in the tone of his voice he was thinking something along the lines of, “Strange fellow.”

I opened the door and stepped inside.  Alice was lying on the couch; her light brown eyes wide open and staring up at me.

 

 

Night 6:  Sunday

 

Unblinking, they stared up at me.  Pale, lifeless, and framed by dried blood and tears.  Her mouth was open and contorted—frozen with an expression crying out in pain.  I could hear her screams in the silence echoing against the walls.  Her clothes were cut and bloodied and the knife that opened the holes in her chest was still plunged deeply in a wound.  She was gone.

Everything I held in my arms fell to the floor as I collapsed in a heap of tears and agony.  “She’s gone!” I cried out with an unrestrained intensity.

Dr. Taggart sat across from me in silence.  I could feel my body quivering as I fought to control the emotion—I couldn’t.  I began to cry violently as I shouted, “She’s gone!  She’s gone!”

 

 

Night 7:  Monday

 

He just sat there with a blank expression on his face as I sobbed uncontrollably in my seat.  The eruption of emotions came from nowhere and he seemed to be as surprised by it as I was.

“It doesn’t make sense!” I cried out.

“What doesn’t make sense?”

“All of it!  Nothing makes sense anymore.  Everything is happening out of order—I’m trapped in this twisted bastardization of reality.”

“Tell me what you mean, Tom.”  His voice was steady and calm—the damned doctor just kept calm despite my intense emotional outburst and it was pissing me off.

“I mean, I don’t even know why I’m here—how I got here—I’m just here!  I find myself jumping around from locations and…” I paused.  Something clicked.  The strange happenings, everything out of order with no reason as to why, my being here in the doctor’s office.  I was dreaming.  It all made sense when I thought of it like that.  Dreams are rarely ever linear and full of nonsensical translations between places.  This was all a dream.

“I am dreaming,” I stated my conclusion aloud.

The doctor was taken aback for a moment at my revelation.  He was wordless.

“I am dreaming and none of this is actually happening—none of this has actually happened.  I just need to wake up.”

“Tom,” he said, his voice bored and monotonous, “I know you’ve been through a lot, but this kind of reaction isn’t going to help you.”

“What kind of reaction?  Claiming that I’m dreaming?  That’s the only logical explanation to all this nonsense.  The real world follows rules, logic, and a linear sequence of events—what I’ve experienced is anything but.  I am dreaming, I just need to wake up.”

“Tom, look at me!” he raised his voice.  I was surprised.  “You are awake—this is all real.”

“No!  No it’s not!  I’m trapped in this hellish nightmare.  I need to wake up!”

I stopped for a moment to think.  Think of a way to wake myself.  Then it came to me, I need to fly.

I stood from my chair and walked toward the door.  Dr. Taggart rose from his as I marched closer to the exit, “Where are you going, Tom?”

“To fly,” I stated as I whipped open the door.

The evening sun was bright as it peeked above the horizon—I could see it just beyond the end of the building.  The towering monument to all my restless nights.

 

 

Day ~:  D|79day

 

I stood still for a moment to pause and admire the view.  It was beautiful despite all the pain it had caused me.

I took a step forward—I told myself, This is it.  I took another step, This is the night I fly.  Another, If I do this, I can wake up.  With an unwavering determination, I pushed myself closer and closer to the edge; telling myself with each inch of ground that if I could take the leap and fly, I could have my life back.  I just wanted some normalcy to return to my chaotic joke of an existence—to escape from this wretched dream in which I found myself trapped.

I stood on the edge of the building and looked forward—forward to where I would fly.  Somewhere beyond this place—this vividly imagined hell.  I stretched out my arms and stated aloud, “I am dreaming.  I can fly.”

 

Freefall is the creative property of Andrew T.S. Bedgood and is protected by US Copyright law.  Any use of this creative work without permission is prohibited.

Freefall: Part 13

Day 4—Friday:

I opened the email Alice sent me; it had seven attachments and a brief message that read, “Hope these work for you, Tom.  Looking forward to tonight J.”  I read the message a few times over—it was a short letter that never said anything new, but each subsequent reading made my smile grow a little.  I downloaded the attachments and loaded them into my program’s library.

I spent the little time I had before the meeting getting the sound effects working with the game’s actions.  I wasn’t going for perfection, just something that was presentable.  I was getting close to that point when Matt appeared above my monitor.

“We’re ready for you, Tom.”

I looked up at him, he was holding his phone’s display toward me.  It had a clock face on it that was telling me it was time to get to the conference room to show off what I had been working on.  I nodded in acknowledgement; Matt turned toward the conference room as I saved my progress and unplugged my phone.  I followed behind into the conference room.

When I walked through the door, the sun shone brightly in my eyes.  It was brighter than I expected, and I had to squint to see anything… but something caught my attention—out of the corner of my eye, I saw a green awning.

Day &—7H314$7day:

When I saw it, I opened my eyes and focused on them.  It hung over the entrance of a tall hotel building—it was the same green awning I saw every night in my dreams.  I knew I had to be dreaming.  It was odd, then, that I was standing outside my office instead of under that green awning.

Maybe, I thought, this dream is different.

I had no idea where I was—how I got there.  Everything in my life had been an unintelligible string of events playing out of sequence.  So, not only did I not know where I was, but I was clueless as to when I was.  It’s entirely possible that I had already taken the leap—flown—I just hadn’t experienced it yet.

If I had flown but am still in the same dream, maybe I need to find out why exactly I’m climbing to the top of the building.  Maybe when I climb the building so I can fly, I’m climbing it for the wrong reason.

I needed to know why I stood on top of that damned building.  Every other night, my dream began with me standing beneath the green awning of the hotel just three blocks north of my office.  Based on that, I felt that the hotel would be the best place to begin my search.

I made my way to the hotel building and shortly found myself standing beneath that green awning.  I took a deep breath as I reached for the handle of the door and opened it.

Alice stood on the other side.  She was wearing a black and red dress—it looked fancy and far more formal than anything I owned.  I felt underdressed in my khakis and three-button polo.

Night 4—Friday:

“You’re awfully dressed up,” I said.  She seemed surprised at my comment.

“Some guys might say, ‘You look nice,’ or, you know… a compliment of some kind.”

“Oh, well, you do—you look great!  I just wasn’t expecting you to be dressed so… nicely.”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to dress nicely either,” she gave me the once-over, “which I’m glad I had low expectations… otherwise, I’d have been disappointed.”  She smiled as she made her way past me and into the house.  “I brought a movie to go with dinner,” she handed it to me and began peeking around—acclimating herself to my home.

“Would you like the tour?”

“Maybe later.  I’m getting hungry, what’s on the menu?”

“I was planning on some steak, if that’s alright with you.”

“Sounds great.  I’ll have mine medium-well.”

“Oh, uh… okay.  What do you want for a side?  I have potatoes, some mixed veggies, or rice.”

“Potatoes would be fantastic.”

“Okay.  Just make yourself at home,” I pointed toward my couch in the living room.  “I’ve got cable—remote should be on the coffee table.  Dinner shouldn’t take too long, the potatoes are instant.”

“Fancy,” she said, shooting me a smile as she sat down and reached for the remote.

“Nothing but the best,” I replied as I made my back into the kitchen.  I kept my potatoes in the pantry beside my stove.  I opened it.  There was nothing in there.  Nothing I felt like I could wear, anyway—cheap white button shirts and a vast array of unspectacular three-button tees.

Day 5—Saturday:

She was so beautiful when she came over Friday and I felt like I had to dress a little better when I went over to her place on Sunday.  I had to buy a new shirt and maybe some black slacks.

I never really had a sense for fashion—I had always been just a t-shirt and blue jeans kind of guy—so I didn’t really know what would look nice when I was out shopping.  I didn’t feel like making a whole day out of finding a shirt and some pants, either, so I just asked for help at the first store I went to.  I approached the woman who was stocking the rack with new pants.

“Hi,” I said as awkwardly blunt as humanly possible.

She looked up from the stack of clothes in front of her and, with a store policy grin on her lips, returned my greeting, “Hello, how can I help you today?”

“Well, I’m not terribly well-versed in fashion, but I’ve got a date tomorrow and I wouldn’t mind having something nice to wear.  So, if you could just help me get something along those lines, I’d really appreciate it.”

“How nice are we talking?”

“Not like suit and tie or anything, but button down shirt and some nice slacks.  Something along those lines, I think.”

I guess I never realized how difficult clothes shopping could be.  It took seven different fittings and probably three dozen shirts over the course of nearly an hour before I settled on something that I didn’t find obnoxiously over-colored or tacky in some way.  I couldn’t help feeling that the clerk’s fashion sense was as bad as mine after the third time I undressed in the fitting room.  I began to question how she ever got employed at a clothing store.  In the end, it didn’t really matter—I got my outfit and I could tell by the expression on her face when I checked out that she was as sick of me as I was of her and her awful clothing suggestions.

I wasn’t entirely satisfied with the clothes, but they were inarguably nicer than anything I owned, so that was a plus.  I left the store and walked back to my car.  I sat in the driver’s seat and checked my watch.  It was about half-past six and I told Alice I would be at her house at seven.  That would give me plenty of time to pick up a movie and some flowers before I arrived.

Night 6—Sunday:

I stopped in at the brick and mortar video place a mile from my house first.  Alice and I never really talked about movies, so I wasn’t entirely sure what she liked or didn’t like, but I figured comedy was always a good choice.   I grabbed two older releases; they were two for a dollar for a night and I figured it’d be nice to have an option in case she didn’t like one of the films.

After I got the movies, I walked to the grocery store near the video place for the flowers.  It wasn’t an elaborate bouquet, but I knew she would appreciate the gesture.  With flowers in hand, I had everything I needed, so I took off for Alice’s.

I parked on the street in front of her house.  I could see her kitchen and living room lights were on.  I figured she was in the kitchen working on the meal.  I grabbed the flowers and movies from the passenger seat, walked to her door, and rang the bell.

To be continued…

Freefall is the creative property of Andrew T.S. Bedgood and is protected by US Copyright law.  Any use of this creative work without permission is prohibited.

Freefall: Part 12

Day 7—Monday:

Matt followed slowly behind me.  Terrance was standing at the coffee pot.  He could see me coming into the kitchen out of the corner of his eye and he froze.  He stopped pouring his coffee and set the pot down.  He turned toward me—his eyebrows raised and a concerned look was painted across his face.

I was confused.  Had something happened to me?  Was I bleeding?  I looked down at my outfit; it was slightly wrinkled and unimpressive, but there was no blood—no reason for concern.  I reached up and touched my face; I could feel some stubble on my cheeks and oils on my forehead.  But no blood.  No swelling.  No pain.  I was confused.

“Tom,” Matt said behind me.  I turned to face him.

“Tom,” Dr. Taggart began, “I’m glad to see you.”  He stood to shake my hand.  A gesture uncharacteristic of the doctor.  “I didn’t think you’d show up today.  Do you want to talk about what happened?”

Night 7—Monday:

I sat in the chair opposite the Dr.’s side of his desk.  I was at a loss.  I had no idea what he was talking about.  I made something up.  “I don’t really feel comfortable talking about it right now.”  I paused and looked to the floor to sell my distress.

There was a long moment of silence as I stared at the floor thinking of what I could say next.  Dr. Taggart interrupted my thoughts, “I understand.”

I looked back up at the doctor and nodded in acceptance of his understanding.  There was a long pause as he stared at me in silence.

“Is the CD still working for you?  Are you still sleeping well?”

“At least seven hours a night.”

“Good!  And the dream?”

“Still the same dream.”

“Have you tried to fly?”

“I haven’t been able to.  Last couple times I dreamed, I woke up before I could get to the top of the building.”

“Huh,” the doctor said as he scribbled something down before looking back up at me.  “That’s quite peculiar.  Have you figured out why you’re going to the top of the building yet?”

“Last time I dreamed, I was climbing to the top of the building so I could fly.  That was all I could think about.  Each step, I kept repeating to myself that I was going to do it—that I was going to fly.”

“But you didn’t make it to the top?”

“No.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re climbing the building for the wrong reasons,” he said almost questioning his own analysis.

“What about what you were talking about in our last session—how your thoughts are all jumbled.”

“What about it?”

“Are you still experiencing that?”

“A little in the morning when I wake up, but everything is pretty cleared up now,” I lied.

“I’m glad to hear that, Tom,” he said with a subtle insincerity—like he didn’t believe me.  He wrote something else down in his notepad and looked back up at me with a look that suggested he was waiting for me to say something.  I had nothing else to say.

I let out a deep sigh in that uncomfortable silence as I fidgeted in my seat.  He just kept staring at me.  That damned condescending stare.  I couldn’t take it anymore, his looking down at me.  I turned away from the doctor to get his face and that glare out of my mind.

“Are you sure you should be here today, Tom?” Matt asked.

I was confused.  I felt fine and yet everybody was treating me so strangely.  “I’m sure.  I’d much rather be here than sitting around at home all day,” I stated before turning back toward the coffee pot and pouring myself a cup.

Day 7—Monday:

I walked back to my desk with my coffee in hand.  I could feel the stares behind me.  Matt and Terrance stood in the kitchen entryway and just watched as I situated myself at my desk.  I tried my best to ignore them—keeping my head down and just going about my daily tasks.

I booted up my computer, logged in, and opened my prototype project that had recently been green-lit.  From over my monitor, I could see Alice approaching my desk.

“Hey, Tom,” she said.

“G’morning, Alice.”

“I got some more of that sound stuff you wanted done and sent it your way.  Don’t know how much time you’ll have to really get it working before the meeting, but just thought you’d like to know.”

“Great!” I said as I opened up my email to download the attachments she sent me.  I looked down at the clock in the corner of my screen; it was a little after nine and the meeting was set up for 10:30 that day.

To be continued…

Freefall is the creative property of Andrew T.S. Bedgood and is protected by US Copyright law.  Any use of this creative work without permission is prohibited.

Freefall: Part 11

I sent the email and went back to work on my game.  It was running on my phone and I took to the controls to see what needed tweaking.  It was a mess.  I spent some time earlier that day working on getting the character navigation working, but that was hardly a monumental achievement.  I could move my stand-in sprite back and forth, make it jump, and the physics engine was also working properly—slowing down movement in areas, causing it to slide on certain surfaces, changes in gravity affected the height and duration of jumps and so forth—but there was still a lot of work to do.  Triggers weren’t working, so progression toward the end of the level was rendered impossible.  That was something that needed fixing.

I sighed as I sat back in my chair and stared up at the ceiling—hoping, maybe, that an epiphany would be up there.  Nothing but ceiling tiles, unfortunately.  I closed my eyes for a moment to think.

She had a hand on my chest and a glass of wine in the other.  I opened my eyes and looked at her; she looked up at me with those beautiful light brown eyes.

Night 4—Friday:

A movie was playing in the background on the television and two empty plates stacked on top of each other were resting on my coffee table.  Alice sat beside me—her legs propped up on the couch, head on my shoulder, right arm wrapped around my left and holding a glass of wine.  She was warm.  I could feel her heart beating on my arm as she lay there at my side.  It was comforting.  She looked back at the television; I watched her for a few moments longer.

In my own right hand, I held a glass of wine—merlot.  It was one of my favorite reds and my preferred wine for a steak dinner.  I took a sip.

Alice’s wine exchanged hands as she sat up to take a sip of her own.  When she lowered the glass from her lips, she placed the wine back in her right hand, shifted her body even closer to mine, and rested her head on my shoulder.  It couldn’t have been comfortable, my bony shoulder against her cheek like that, but she didn’t seem to care; she was content—happy even, judging by the expression on her face.  She placed her left hand on my chest again.  Each time my chest elevated with each inhale, she closed her eyes.

Still resting on my arm, I could feel her heart beating.  Each breath kept her eyes closed a second longer—each breath had her heart beating faster.  She rubbed her cheek into my shoulder, I could hear her breathing heavier.  I relaxed my neck from holding my head in its upright position and pressed my cheek against hers.  Her rhythmically sensual heavy breathing continued.  I turned toward her and set my wine down on the table.  I reached for hers as I wrapped my other arm around her.  When I set her glass down on the table, we held each other locked in a passionate, hormone-driven embrace and stared at each other for what seemed like hours before we kissed.

She was soft, warm.  Her lips were as comforting as they were arousing.  It had been years since I had been with a woman, but kissing Alice may as well have been my first.  I was flooded with a thousand sensations of physical and emotional desires.  She was beautiful, and she was with me.  She was smart, and she was with me.  She was funny, and she was with me.  All of the morning coffee conversations we’ve had at work and the playful office banters… she exemplified everything I could possibly want in a woman.  She was the model of perfection and she actually wanted to be there with me.  This is a woman I could love, I thought.

I pulled back.  She sat there frozen in my arms.  Her eyes were closed and her lips were slightly parted—beckoning me to return.  But something felt wrong.  I didn’t know how I got there on the couch with her.  It was a wonderful experience, but something was missing.  She opened her eyes and stared at me.

There was a long pause as I stumbled over thoughts trying to find words to say.  I lacked eloquence, so what came out was rather blunt and direct, “I like you, Alice.  A lot.”

She smiled at my crude sentiment, “I like you too, Tom.”

She must have seen something written on my face because after sitting there holding each other in silence for several minutes longer, she just closed the embrace, rested her head on my shoulder, and stated, “A lot.”

She held me tightly, rubbing my back as I rested my cheek atop her head.  “I’m glad you came over.”

“I’m glad you fed me,” she joked.

We turned back to the television; the movie was still playing in the background and neither of us knew what was really going on with the plot.  I grabbed our glasses of wine from the table and handed Alice hers.  I sat back on the couch; Alice grabbed my arm and slung it around her shoulders.  I looked over at her, but she kept her gaze straight forward—I could see a smirk forming in the corner of her mouth.

When the movie finished, we sat there in silence as the credits rolled.  I didn’t want her to go, and she didn’t want to leave.  Not a word was spoken as the credits scrolled up the screen.  When the film had reached its ultimate end, she sighed as she sat up, pushing herself off me, and set her glass on the table.

“I should really get going,” she said as she looked back at me.

I looked up at the clock, it read “12:17.”

“It is pretty late,” I said.  “Let me walk you to your car.”

We stood up and walked to the door.  As I opened the door of my house for her, she reached for my hand.  I motioned with my head toward the exit, “After you.”

She led me to her car, which was parked on the street in front of my house.  I opened her car door and turned to her.  “I had a great time tonight,” I said as I held her door open.  “We should make a habit of this whole getting together thing.”

“We should.”  She paused, “You know… I have some plans this Sunday that I’d love to get out of.  You should come over!  I’ll return the favor and cook for you.”

“I’d like that.”

“So it’s a date, then?”

“Absolutely.”

We hugged one last time and kissed each other goodbye.  She sat down in the driver’s seat and I closed the door for her.  As she started the car, she shot me another smile.  The car roared to life and she drove off.

When she was out of sight, I approached my door and opened it.  Matt was standing on the other side and he looked pale and shocked to see me.  I gave him a nod and made my way to the kitchen—I desperately needed my morning coffee.

To be continued…

Freefall is the creative property of Andrew T.S. Bedgood and is protected by US Copyright law.  Any use of this creative work without permission is prohibited.

Freefall: Part 10

It was bright and warm this time.  No rain.  No storm.  The sun was on its way down and the streets were packed.  Pedestrians absent-mindedly walked onward to their destinations and the traffic hummed, buzzed, and honked beside me.  Rush hour, I concluded.

The tower, my destination, stood about five blocks south from the hotel with the green awning.  I walked with a determined pace.  Each step shouted my resolve.  I kept my eyes fixed on that damned building—I wouldn’t let it leave my sight for fear it might move to keep me from conquering it.  Tonight, I would climb to the top.  Tonight, I would know why I stood atop the tall building.  I would stand there with purpose.  I would climb to the top so that I could fly.

The people on the sidewalks served as obstacles impeding my progress.  They all marched along, side by side with seemingly little more purpose than to make my forward motion difficult.  They talked to each other about nonsensical things; random strings of thought that these figments of my fractured mind deemed interesting.  The ones not in groups marched with their heads down either buried in a magazine or their phones.  Reading manufactured articles or sending imaginary emails to convince me that this world in which I found myself was real.

I knew it wasn’t, but I dared not convince myself that I was dreaming—I was afraid I would awaken.  If I awoke, how could I conquer that building?  My great challenge—the thing that’s been keeping me awake for all these nights.  No, I fought against the determined hordes and progressed toward my destination.

After what must have been twenty minutes of walking around those mindless pedestrians and stopping for traffic, I arrived at the door to the building.  I felt a small sense of victory in finally arriving, but I knew I still had the climb to the top.  I reached out for the door and opened it.

I stepped into the office and the door closed behind me.  Terrance was walking into the kitchen, I decided to follow him.

He walked straight for the coffee pot and picked it up.  There was maybe enough coffee left for a full cup.  He set the pot down and looked back at me.  “Looks like there’s only enough for one of us.  Pretty sure the cupboards are empty, too.  Want it?”

“Yeah, but I don’t need it,” I chuckled.  “Go ahead, I’ll get some coffee with my lunch or something.”

 

Day 3—Thursday:

He shrugged in a way that said, “Don’t mind if I do,” and poured himself the last of the coffee.  He opened three packets of sugar and dumped them in; to finish, he added a healthy dose of creamer and stirred.  I watched as the last of the caffeine in the office was diluted and consumed in front of me.  I could have stopped it, too.

Shame, I thought as I turned and walked toward my workstation.

As I began to walk away, he turned back toward me and said, “Hey, Tom!”

I stopped and turned to face him.  “Yeah?”

“I sent you some new assets last night, like you asked.  They’re nothing special, but it beats reusing assets, I’m sure.”

“Good, I’ll go check them out now.”

He nodded at me as I turned away and walked to my desk.  I sat down, woke up my computer, and opened Outlook.  Terrance’s message was at the top of my inbox:

From:        Terrance Freis
Subject:   Re:  Assets
To:              Tom Larsson
CC:             Matt Butler

Hey, Tom, here’s the stuff you asked for.  You didn’t really give me much time, so they’re pretty crude—and, no, I didn’t make animation cycles.  It’s just for a prototype, though, so I’m sure they’ll be fine.  If you need anything else, let me know.

Terrance Freis

I downloaded the attachments.  He didn’t lie; they’re pretty basic.  They’ll work, though.  I moved the sprites and backgrounds to my project folder and opened up the code for my prototype.  I stared blankly at it for a few minutes—maybe wishing I had a cup of coffee to kick start my brain and help me think.

After letting out a heavy sigh, I began working on my project.  Fine tuning character navigation, tweaking the physics, replacing assets—it was all very tedious work, but seeing it come together was gratifying.  Each error became a new puzzle to solve—some incredibly easy to fix, but frustratingly difficult to find.  Despite the frustrations, each success gave me the motivation I needed to continue working; something I desperately needed since caffeine wasn’t readily available.

I hadn’t replaced all the old Mudd-Runn assets in my prototype, but I had reached a point where I wanted to see how it ran.  I plugged in my phone and deployed the program.  The game came to life and a crude collage of images filled the screen—leftover assets from Mudd-Runn I had repurposed for my prototype.  While those reused assets worked for me as I plugged away at my prototype, they certainly wouldn’t be acceptable to show off my idea for the meeting on Friday.  I opened Outlook and typed up a message for Terrance.

 

Day 2—Wednesday:

From:        Tom Larsson
Subject:   Assets
To:              Terrance Freis

Terrance, I’m working on a prototype for a new game and Matt’s setting up a meeting for Friday.  Right now I’m reusing assets from mudd runn, but I’d really like something a little more appropriate for what I’m working on.  It’s just a basic demo, so it doesn’t need to be anything too fancy, just a character sprite, some props, a background, foreground stuff with maybe three different environments (lava, water, ice, maybe?), platforms, etc.  This should keep you busy for a while.  Maybe stop by my cube sometime today so we can talk more about it?

Thanks,
Tom Larsson

To be continued…

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