An Untitled Short Story

Reads: 83  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short walk into the mind of a normal person with a few strange turns at the forks of madness and genius.

Submitted: June 04, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 04, 2013



…The following chunk of text is an experiment in style, narration and utter madness. Tread carefully, for what you are about to read may just make perfect sense…



So, let’s say you have a rainy night ahead of you, no plans because all your friends never call you for a night out, and a gun to your head. Of course, in this hypothetical situation you would be the one holding the gun to your head, and the gun would be your hand. Why would you hold your hand to your head like that? You wouldn’t, because it’s silly. But just for a moment, let’s pretend you did have a gun. And by gun I mean a keyboard, which would of course be connected to a computer, which would in turn be connected to the ever-expanding, non-tangible yet touching thing known as – the internet. Why are you doing that? Don’t know, it’s a silly place, the internet. So let’s get off it and grab the gun. And by the gun I mean our pen and paper, and let’s start writing.

Scratch that. You don’t need a pen and paper. It’s the 21st century, you have a keyboard. So grab your keyboard, and start writing. Why write? Because you’re a little bit crazy and it makes you feel a little bit better about yourself and the fact that in the very definite future you will very definitely die. It’s a sad fact, but once you get over it, you can really start living! And if you’re worrying about being called crazy – don’t be. You’re probably not. Because we all know that when you call yourself crazy you really mean unique, because each of us is so desperate to be recognized and differentiated from the mass, that we would go to illogical assumptions and conclusions just to feel special. And it’s wrong, really. You can’t call yourself crazy if you like reading and writing and playing games instead of rubbing your skin next to some stranger to the beat of a synthetically produced sound.

Why? Because that, my friend, would be an insult to all the hard-working people who have conversations with a plethora of characters inside their minds, think the aliens are among us, chop the heads off of other people and grew up without giving away their overactive imagination. It’s mockery, really. Now that we’ve gotten over your personal fear of being the same as everyone else and your minor personality crisis, we stop talking to ourselves, and the story starts.


Imagine your gun can shoot anyone and anything. Just by pressing the trigger, and by that I mean the keys to your keyboard, everything you wrote was happening in real life. Of course, you’re not God so you merely describe your brother behind you getting coffee and pouring a glass of milk while singing an unfathomably bad rendition of some hip song that you don’t know the lyrics to. He stirs the mug. It’s morning now, so it’s no wonder he’s getting his morning fix. Imagine that, with your eyes glued to the screen, the night passed and you’re now in dire need of sleep, but can’t do it because school is waiting. But such is life, and you cannot go against the current, only alongside it.

Though, perhaps if you had a ship, or rather, a small canoe, you could go above it, sail it and navigate with ease. A canoe made of words and ideas. Yes, that sounds about right. So let’s get on the canoe and sail across the rivers of life without fear! And with the power of words and ideas we can do whatever we like, so long as we… Tick tick tick. The clock ticks off, and you wonder where in the hell you left your car keys. Well, you’d know, except for the fact that you don’t have a car, and all you could think about is ramming a rusty nail in…

Well, we don’t want to go there, now do we? After all, we’re not crazy, we established that three hundred and thirty five words ago. Everyone is normal and mundane in this story, as you will see. Ah yes, it is a story, else why would it be in the fiction category? It’s silly to think of it as fact. Even if you did, no one would believe you anyway. For example, let’s take our main character –his name is Daniel, Daniel Wordsmith - yes. Why not? We start our story on a cold rainy night. Well, it’s not exactly rainy; it’s just that Daniel likes rain so he plays a pre-recorded soundtrack of rain. One he made himself. It’s not perfect, of course. You can still hear the chatter of people passing by and smell the smoke. Or not, but you could definitively hear it.


“I should do it. I don’t have any other choice.” Daniel here has a gun to his head. A revolver, too. With a jet black frame and a wooden handle. To top it off, on the side of that handle, it has the words “Pull to enter” etched in. And as our main character tries to muster up the courage in the flickering light, before his eyes a low-end laptop sits open. There is some writing in it, though far too shitty for him to admit it is his.

“If I do it, the book will finish itself.” He babbles nonsense. It’s absurd, isn’t it? Regardless of its contents, a book cannot finish itself if its author is dead. The flickers stop, for a moment. Daniel feels the tension lift from his skin in an exhale of air from his lungs. He relaxes, or tenses. He’s not sure anymore.

“It’s stupid. Maybe I don’t have to…” A twitch in his hand pulls the trigger. Daniel’s brain shoots out of his skull like a can of beans. Look at it go. It splatters across the badly painted wall. Some of it ends on the poster of his favorite porn-star. Some of it ends on his broken window. Some of it even paints up his laptop, just barely covering the last paragraph of his story. Bad trigger management, Daniel…


© Copyright 2018 The Kolosos. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: