As I wrote, I became bewitched. As I hit the keys so everything changed around me as what should have been just my contemplations, became solid.
I had been conjuring up waves rolling onto a sandy beach and suddenly the said waves were crashing over me with full sound effects and I was soaked to the skin, but my computer and keyboard remained untouched.
I’m not a panicky type of person. I handled the situation in a relatively calm manner considering that current situation. I screamed and made myself scarce stopping at the bottom of my garden where the fairies live. You think I’m kidding. Waves in my writing room, the fairies must be here?
Calling upon an inner resolution that I was sure didn’t exist a moment before, I advanced toward the window of my creative den. I needed to establish the degree of destruction that I would have to convince my insurance company came out of thin air, or at least, the pondering of a temporarily unstable mind.
You can imagine my disbelief at witnessing the waves still rolling in but not washing away my little creative pod of keyboard and computer set-up. They existed in an ‘impossible’ tableau that I swear beckoned me. Naturally, I was going mad. Indeed, had gone mad, for I went back into that room and sat down on an invisible chair and hit the keys to say the waves were suspended and the noise gone and everything to be dry; and it was. I then broke down and howled my eyes out. Well, not literally, but it felt like it.
Upon semi-recovering I looked for the culprit of my dis-ease which could be a disease. My first glance was at the computer, a fine-looking compact variety just purchased the day before. Nothing else had changed. Experimentally I wrote that the room was as it usually was, with a little change in the colour of the curtains. Viola, it, and they appeared, albeit, if only temporary. With calmness abounding about me, I went to a mirror to examine myself for the madness that must be visible upon my face, when my next shock arrived. There was no image of moi! I say this flippantly, but actually, I was terrified and ran again to the ‘fairies habitat.’ I would have run further, but I doubted I could have gone through the double-layered brickwork wall. Now I was convinced I was dead and sorta just acting out in my refusal to accede to it. I cried again and waited for the fairies to dry my tears. Of course, they didn’t come, silly; well not then.
I felt myself all over and pronounced myself as here. I was as solid as a meat-body should be, but then doubted my own gropings. Maybe a ghost feels solid to itself? Am I a ghost then? I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to suppress my screams again in case I wasn’t one and a multitude of phones would be ringing 999 about a possible murder happening. Of course, which would be followed by a session of hard explaining to the Fuzz that would be required of me.
Eventually, a kind of mad euphoria overtook me and I was sure I was dead but also very very inebriated. In other words, pissed out of my brain. I couldn’t remember the actual session of consumption, but that’s not at all unusual. The dead part was. After all, I was still standing, that is if I could believe that, I might be having a dream.
“That’s it, that’s it. I’m dreaming.” I grabbed a sharp stick and plunged it into my hand. To say the pain was intense would be an understatement. If this is a dream then it’s unlike any I’ve had before. I bandaged my hand, just to be on the safe side, in case I wasn’t a ghost.
I ventured back into my house and found everything normal. That is, normal outside of my writing room. The mirror reflected back this visage that I come to quite like, well, most of the time. I dared to open the door to the ROOM and glance in. Everything was at I had last left it, still with the bright yellow curtains. I had to go in. Of course, I had to go in. I couldn’t just close the door and suffer palpitations every time I went near it in the future. No, bravery was needed, preferably sober bravery. I went in and I bravely went to the MIRROR. There I was, not there again. I pulled funny faces at it, but my countenance was absent. The rest of the room reflected faithfully, but not I.
In a moment of realisation, I went to the keyboard and typed in that my image would be reflected back to me, and it was. Oh, the elation. I laughed and actually danced around the room.
“What room,” I asked myself. “Am I dancing around an imaginary room?” I panicked again, but only for a moment. I knew I had to establish if I was alive or dead, and that’s just for starters.
I walked down to the corner store and was greeted in a customary manner. This assured me to continue to walk down the aisles and put a few things in the trolley to take home. All was well and good. My card worked. I walked home and left my supplies on the table. I had to look into the room. It was as I last left it. What to do now?
I decided to try sleep. No matter that it was late afternoon, I felt sure sleep would come, and it did. I slept through until morning and apparently had a dreamless night.
I felt a little blase. The room figured prominently in my thoughts but I was determined that whatever may await me, it would be after coffee. I made a very strong brew, after which I advanced toward my, I didn’t know what to call it.
I brazenly entered the room and glanced at the STILL yellow curtains. With my heart in my mouth, I typed in blue curtains and they appeared and were as real as real life. I didn’t move from my seating position but typed in a chair to make me feel more comfortable rather than be just suspended. I was becoming more at home with whatever this was.
I still haven’t decided if I am a ghost with benefits, because I typed in that two beautiful women would look after my human or ghostly needs. They are particularly uncomplaining as I typed them in that way. I’ve expanded the room to an enormous size that would occupy two football fields with all ‘mod cons.’ I never have cause to leave my ‘ROOM’ now. Why would I? I typed in a complete Olympic Games and at one time had politicians ruling ‘our’ country using sensible sane policies. My own athleticism is not just confined to the bedroom, just yesterday, I covered the 100 metres in 7.5 seconds.
I may be a ghost, but it doesn’t feel like it. My girls and I get just as sweaty as any normal oversexed randy guys and gals can get.
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Very imaginative! The pace was good, hurried but in a good way that made you read fast along with the main character's discoveries. At the end I was asking myself is he trapped in his room or in his mind?
Interesting take on the prompt!