White Noise

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Cold and blue, the house has a coat waiting for him.

It was a cold winter morning. A fresh sheet of snow covered the desolate landscape. The only thing among the clusters of trees beside snow and the ground was a house. One might have a difficult time describing the structure as a home, however. 
The building bore a light blue paint job and looked like it had seen better days. This day though seemed unusually tranquil. 

There’s a creaking of the door. 
A man steps out. 

And he’s probably wondering, “where the hell am I?” 
Because that’s exactly what he said, “Where the hell am I?” 

The man decides to look over his body, noticing several scars, cuts, and bruises. You’d think that someone in such a strange situation would be a little more concerned that they had no idea where they were or how they got there. Instead of having an acute panic attack and searching for the nearest flare gun, the man only lifted a winter coat off the back of the building’s door and walked around the perimeter. When he was finished admiring each side of the rather small house, he finally looked up. 

And there it was. 
A small private jet
Torn in several pieces, strewn about the landscape. 

The man was more puzzled than anything, he could’ve sworn the jet was his own, though he failed to find any memories of ever being inside the thing. Naturally, curiosity got the best of him, and he found himself staring into the corridor of the aircraft. It all seemed normal to him, not even considering why it felt so normal. 

Though, the man did question one thing.
“How long has it been here?”

One might have expected to find the usual papers, broken glass, and air masks scattered across the jet. It was quite the contrary. There was a single item. Besides that single item, the jet was completely empty. No scattered papers, no air masks hanging from the ceiling, no broken glass. Just a notebook. One perfectly maintained notebook, sitting on the floor. For a moment, the man simply stared at it. Thinking what the notebook might contain. Partly out of fear, partly out of some kind of instinct, the man simply turned around to head back to the blue house. 

The house seemed like anyone could ever need. There's a bookshelf of unread books, a fridge of snacks, and a cozy chair by a fire. The man sat and wondered whether or not the strange position he was in was truly a bad one. Who could need any more than the warm, blue, house? 
Just as his eyes closed, something fell off the bookshelf. The sound of the book made the man’s body jump in response. Upon closer inspection of the fallen book, it appeared to be the same notebook from the crashed jet. This time, however, the man gradually removed the elastic band holding the cover in place. The blaze of light from the pages of the book nearly blinded him. 
He was looking directly at the sun. Soon, more colors filled his gaze. Blues, yellows, and a brightly colored circle. The floorboards beneath his feet vanished, replaced by white. Nothing but white and the bright circle above him. The man tried to look around him to see where his cozy chair and fire had gone. And he ran. 

He ran without knowing what exactly he was running from. He ran until the bones in his legs felt as if they had been ground into dust and his heart was pumping blood with the force of a bullet train. Then it occurred to him, he didn’t know what he was running from, so he pondered, “am I running towards something?” 
As the thought was created in his mind, so too, was the ground created. Grain by grain, a desert appeared before him. Each grain exploding into piles, then blankets of sand. The sand covered all of the white beneath the man’s feet until he began to sink into it. With his feet sinking gently into the sand, his entire body began to warm. He found that the sky too was now changing. 
It looked as if a painter had spilled a cup of water into his palette. The colors in the sky were being filled out by watered-down varieties of light blues and yellows. Next came the sounds, sounds that felt like someone had played back recordings of, “beach sounds” and, “rushing water” from online videos. While all this was happening, the man simply stood in awe of what was happening around him, though, the thought that he might be on some kind of psychedelic drug sat in the back of his mind. Then shadows appeared, accompanied by their owners. One woman stood out in particular. She sat on a towel under an umbrella reading a book, occasionally glancing out at the water. The man approached the spot in which the woman sat. Just as he reached out to touch the woman’s shoulder, something blocked his hand. Just to be sure he wasn’t hallucinating, he raised his other hand and felt the invisible blockade. Upon noticing the invisible window blocking his way, he noticed something else. His feet. The man’s feet were stuck in the sand as if a pair of hands were latched onto him, dragging him down into the sand. For the first time since he was awake, the man felt a real sense of panic. His heart, for a second time, was pumping blood at the speed of a bullet train. His heart felt as though it were detaching, making its way up through his esophagus. Despite his constant grasps at heaps of sand, the invisible hands succeeded in pulling him to the ground. Before the light of the previous scene could fade away, he was already sitting back in his cozy blue house in the same cozy chair. 

The door of the blue house slammed against the exterior. The man walked around the perimeter again, making sure to observe every detail. Then, he returned to the crashed jet. Just as before, the chaotic crash site had maintained perfect order within its bounds. The notebook sat on the floor. Out of pure curiosity, the main picked up the book and unwrapped the elastic band keeping it shut. The moment the book was opened, the pages let out a blaze that forced the man to shut his eyes. When he re-opened them, he was sitting down. Unlike the other notebook, this one had already painted the scene. The air smelled faintly of honey, and the sky was a mix of pinks, oranges, and reds. Out in front of him was a platform, upon the platform there's a man and a woman, each dressed in their finest clothes. On each side of the man there sat several chairs, however, only one chair was filled. His own. The sound of footsteps became present from behind the man, he turned to see a young boy walking down the aisle with a small pillow in his hands. The boy walked up to the platform and presented the man with the ring, only to take it and slip it onto the woman’s hand. When they kiss, the man knew he ought to be happy to witness such a happy event, though, all he could find in himself is anger and rage. Some confusion about his conflicting emotions is present too. It all seems to be a strange paradox, the man thinks. 
The strange scene began to weigh down on its spectator. The man received the weight like a bucket full of sleeping pills, letting his eyes close like sliding doors. Though, when he inevitably re-opened his eyes, everything was white. However, it wasn’t the same white space the previous notebook had sent him to. 

Another realization:
He was cold.

For the man had lost the winter coat he had pulled off the back of the hook inside the house. In fact, the house had disappeared in its entirety. All that was left was snow. Soft, white, snow. The scene was the same as when he first awoke. After seeing the notebooks, something was asking him to shut his eyes once more. The man wondered if that’s was sleep was supposed to be. There was something so natural and peaceful laying down in the snow and shutting his eyes. 


The hospital bed was warming his entire body. The vacant room was utterly quiet aside from the man’s own breathing. Someone stepped through the door. 
“Oh…Mr…” the man glanced at the clipboard in his hands. 
“Ah, yes, Mr. Panion, you were in a plane crash about a week ago, someone is here to see you.” 
A woman stepped through the door. The same woman from the beach. He racked his brain for her name.
“Melanie” she just smiled and said, 
“I love you.”

Submitted: December 31, 2017

© Copyright 2021 C.w. Hawke. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:



Strange and almost surreal in places. I like the way you presented it, and unveiled what had happened at the end. A well-written story that makes for a satisfying read.

Thu, January 4th, 2018 7:14pm

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