Veg's short stories and assorted stuff

Fan-fiction, short stories, screenplays, poems -- anything text-based really belongs here.

Re: Veg's short stories and assorted stuff

Postby Vegedus » Mon Oct 21, 2013 12:14 pm

Already Always

I wish I'd lived an extraordinary life.

But I didn’t. I had a better job than most, probably. A big, spacious cubicle, occasionally interesting work assignments. Occasionally. But that was all that was to it, my life. Nine hour work days, free time consisting of watching trashy tv or browsing the internet. Roaming through facebook for hours, staring at the people living more vivid lives than me. People I’d rarely meet, people that were hardly my ‘friends’. Never met the vaunted “one”, never made a family. Never did write my book or my screenplay, always putting it off. I had time, right? I thought, everyone thinks, and I didn't. Now my only legacy is some graphics in some annoying commercials. I stole people’s time for money, that was my impact on the world. And now I’m dead.

I wish I’d died an extraordinary death.

But of course not. One has the best odds of dying an average way, that’s like the definition of “average”. A simple slow death wouldn’t have been too bad either. Even if it had been painful and frightening, it would have lent some meaning to the proceedings. Some outro to my life. Instead, I slipped on a ladder and it was over, 33 years in. Just like that. Don’t remember more than that, but must have landed on my head, because it was over quickly. So many people die during daily activities, wouldn’t have been more dignified to slip in the shower. All those people are in my situation now, I guess. Have to pity them.

I wish I’d gone to heaven.

Or hell even. Something, anything. But it turns out the afterlife is a big joke. I never believed in it, so I was pleasantly surprised it existed. Shouldn’t have. A voice greeted me, the only sensation there. No touch, no smell, no sight. It introduced itself as death, not as scary sounding as one would think. Told me the soul, the mind, never dies, but it doesn’t go anywhere. It just is. Then it left, going to greet the next one. I envy his job. He has something to do.

I am alone. There is nothing.

I guess I could write my book at last, recite it to myself, though lacking for a voice. Base it on my unremarkable, unmemorable memories. But what if they fade? Can a non-existent brain forget? What then? What do I have to offer eternity?

Will make apocalypse themed fiction for food
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