The Dream

I write like
Stephen King

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Oh my! Haha. I wish. When I got this result, I literally laughed out loud. I've always wanted to be like him but I don't really consider my writing to be like his. At least, not at the moment. *wink*

Anyway, here is the short story I had analyzed: (click read more to see it)



               “. . .hahahaha.” That was the sound I woke up to. The background laughter of an unseen studio audience when a character on one of those shows says or does something that is supposed to be funny, or enough to be laughed at, at least. But the laughter sounded distant, nearly muted. As if I was listening to it from inside some glass dome. But then the dialogue that followed sounded better and a few seconds later, I heard laughter again. Clearer now, more vivid. I felt sweat plaster loose tendrils of hair on my face, and my heart felt as though it would explode from my chest. I could not quite understand why, though. If I had had a nightmare, I could not remember it anymore. Amidst this wondering, I noticed something else, there was a suffocating odor present in the room. It smelled rotten and it filled my nostrils. I dry-heaved and struggled to breathe. My eyes started to water and I fanned the air. I noticed there were two other scents. I recognized them at once, although I can’t really understand why. The smell of cigarette smoke and the breath of one heavily intoxicated with alcohol was present and it seemed to mask the other scent, which I found odd in both a confusing and terrifying sort of way. Because I have neither smoked nor gotten drunk in my entire life. I opened my eyes slowly, and at first, could see nothing but the hazy image of a square thing that gave off light. I shut my eyes again, then opened them once more. This time, an image of my living room television set came into view. Fuzzy at first, but as I started to slip out of my grogginess, I saw it more clearly. I did not bother to recognize what show was on, though. The flickering light from the TV set was the only illumination for my entire living room. The light cast dancing shadows on the walls. My imagination was working up again. I had to divert my attention. I pushed off the green blanket placed up to my chin, and sat up. I looked around. I was alone. Of course I was. But somehow, in the back of my mind, I was expecting someone to be there. A shiver ran down my spine. I shrugged it off and tried to remember what day it was. The mixed perfume of cigarettes, beer and something else was fainter now, nearly gone. I sighed with relief. The coffee table that stood in between me and my television was littered with scrunched up tissue, a half-open box of pizza, a tub of ice cream and 3 soda cans. I tried to recall the events from last night but my memory seemed messed up. I glanced at the digital watch I wore on my wrist. I squinted my eyes and read the time. 3: 25 AM.

               Suddenly, a raging migraine started to gnaw at the back of my head. I groaned. I had gotten quite used to them since I have been experiencing them on and off for the past few months. I reached for my bottle of pills and popped one into my mouth. A few minutes later, the throbbing subsided a bit but it was still there. I nudged the pizza box open and saw three slices left, one of them half-eaten. The remote lay limp on the floor next to my favourite black stilettos that looked as if they have been hastily kicked off. I picked up the remote and clicked off the telly. And there I was in darkness. For a moment, everything seemed serene and quiet, almost desirable. I stood up, stretched my arms and sighed. I picked up the pizza box and the empty tub of ice cream. Slowly, I trudged my way along to the kitchen, barefoot. I passed the hall mirror on the way and stopped. I looked at myself, or rather, I looked at what I had become. The image that looked back at me was merely a skeleton of who I used to be. My eyes were sunken and bloodshot, dark circles have seemingly found a new home under them. The long-sleeved shirt that I wore hung loosely around me, revealing my left shoulder. I looked away, and felt a tear escape my eye, but I clumsily wiped it off with my sleeve and continued to the kitchen.

               I dumped everything in the trash and slumped down into one of the chairs. My feet felt cold and the kitchen tiles tickled me. For a moment I just sat there and contemplated whether I should go back for the tissue and the soda cans or if I should head on upstairs to bed. I decided that I should probably handle the leftover mess in my living room in the morning. I walked, or rather, wobbled like one who is in a drug-induced stupor upstairs. I dragged my feet as I went, creating a muffled scraping sound on the carpet. I scratched my head and feebly tried to smoothen out my tangled locks as I pushed the door to my bedroom open. I clumsily climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin.

               Then my migraine started up again. Annoyed, I fumbled around on my bedside table for my pills. “Where are they?!” I half-muttered in the dark. Then I realized I had left them downstairs. Extremely frustrated and plagued with a migraine increasing in intensity by the second, I kicked off the covers and proceeded downstairs. Halfway down, I heard the sound of laughter. Puzzled, I hurried downstairs and saw my television on. Its eerie light dimly lit up half of my living room. Thoughts ran through the back of my mind. I could have sworn I turned the TV off, and for a moment I forgot the pain brought upon by my migraine. Unnerved, I crept closer and looked around for the remote. It was set on the coffee table right next to my pills and the box of pizza I had thrown out earlier. Only now, there was only one slice left and it looked as if it had been put down mid-bite. Furthermore, instead of three soda cans, there were now four. Fear gripped my heart and I felt frozen in place. I staggered back, hoping to look for something to arm myself with, when I suddenly felt someone or something breathe on my neck. The sudden whiff was heavy with the smell of alcohol and black with cigarette smoke and decaying meat. I was just about to scream when a hand clamped over my mouth.

               “. . .hahaha.” I suddenly woke up to the distant sound of the background laughter of a studio audience. I was sweating profusely, and my heart was thumping wildly in my chest. I do not remember why, though. Suddenly, my nose picked up the smell of a distinct mixture of scents. Beer, cigarettes, and something else. A whirlwind of emotions hit me. Confusion and fear as to why those scents were present in my home, and why was there this unmistakeable feeling of déjà vu?




-END-

So there you have it. That was one of my short stories thought up and written one late night a couple of months ago. I know it needs some work and I'd like to tweak it up a bit. Not right now, though. Perhaps sometime soon.

Keep scribbling,