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Flashfiction #24: Death

Discussion in 'Reader's Corner' started by shit, Dec 3, 2017.

  1. shit shit is divine

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    let's get morbid this time



    Theme #24: Death


    Rules:
    1. Your work must be within constraints of the theme.
    2. Of course, all themes can be interpreted in any number of ways.
    3. 500 words maximum per entry, or else the entry will be disqualified.
    4. Only post one entry per theme. The highest rated entry will choose the next theme.
    5. You may not rate/review your own work.
    6. Add a rating out of ten at the end of your "review".
    7. Be constructive/honest when criticizing a piece. No mindless flaming.
    8. You do not have to enter a flashfic to rate.
    -----------

    Starting on 04/12 monday, finishing 15/12, friday. crits start 16/12, saturday and finish, 17/12, sunday
     
  2. W AH

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    He hovered the mouse cursor over the page, but didn't click the button to begin typing. He just sat there, blank-faced and entranced by oblivion. He knew what he wanted to write, the story he wished to tell...but he simply could not summon the energy for this simple task. The Depression had him completely in its clutches, its metaphorical tendrils coiled around every limb like some kind of Lovecraftian horror. He did not attempt to writhe or squirm, for he has long been exhausted from struggling against it.

    He was completely resigned to this outcome.

    He used to be passionate about writing once. It was his bulwark; what protected him from the constant onslaught that the forces of life pitted against him. Perhaps it was because he was never verbally well-spoken, that he took to the written word. He never thought about it, but knew that it was through pen and paper and eventually as he matured into a man and witnessed the transition of the modern era into a technological age, the keyboard and screen, that he was best able to express himself. Not just that, but possess great mirth and imagination! His creativity was endless - he was the creator of countless worlds!

    'Every different story, a different universe'.

    That was his credo. No matter how fleeting and transient they were, they existed. Some were almost perfect parallels of our reality, some had departed deeply into the bizarre. But each and everyone belonged to him, for he was their god.

    And that is what he truly believed: he and every other novelist, was a god. Could you argue against it? An author has sole sovereignty over the people and places he creates. What if it was to be the case that we here on planet Earth were ultimately just some minor characters in some cosmic big-shot's tragedy screenplay.

    However, no matter how omnipotent and omniscient he was as overlord of his omniverse, it was still not real.

    The reality is he was a human being. A mortal. Fragile physically and mentally compromised. No matter how often he could check out and escape, he always returned here to this point, enduring emotional entropy.

    Over time his passion for writing devolved into a simple interest. It was no longer something he loved, but something he liked. He invested nothing substantial in it, and it reflected in the reduced quality of his works. Soon every passion of his had reached this state, and there was he loved anymore.

    And just like that, he became disinterested. Wholly. Now, the very oxygen he intakes is choresome. Even pondering the idea of returning to his once beloved craft is a forlorn dream. He sighed and closed his eyes.

    He took his hand off the mouse cursor and opened the drawer on his computer desk, his eyes still on the screen but the blank word processor tab was not the image he was looking at.

    He was checking out. One last time.
     

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