Trevor woke up once again and he wasn’t outdoors. In fact, he would be staring up at a ceiling, unsure if everything before this was a dream. But that thought shattered when he sat up and saw that he still wore the hospital gown—he was very well in the building he’d just exited earlier.
He checked his watch: half-past three. The sun outside still shone brightly overhead, but evening would soon come, casting darkness on his already foggy mind.
He didn’t even have a plan for what was to come. A tight pain gnawed at his stomach, and Trevor was beginning to realise just how thirsty he was. It didn’t help that the taste of vomit still lingered at the back of his throat.
Photo: Andrew Amistad
Trevor awoke with a lurch, first aware of the tubes in his mouth, nostrils, hands, and who knew where else. Then came the retching, his stomach discharging whatever the hell that brown goo was.
He held the bedside table and the mattress as he vomited, not really sure where he was, or if he’d have to clean up this mess later. Light was scarce in the room, signalling either the start or the end of the day.
What was this place? Did he have too much to drink again? That wouldn’t be a surprise. Yes, that’s gotta be it. A celebration. Bits and pieces of information followed his train of thought.
Photo: Toa Heftiba
Floaters are funny little things. They disappear when you don’t pay attention, but the moment you spot one, you realise just how many there are, drifting quietly in your vision, just waiting to be noticed.
That’s how lovelines look like to me. You can’t really tell until you consciously keep an eye out for them. Don’t bother Googling what lovelines are. It’s just a term I came up with, one that you’re probably curious about right now. I certainly was.
“You’re not losing your mind, it’s being stolen.”
“I’m sorry, what? Who’s this?”
A terrible night out, some shitty-ass drugs, and a weird phone call. At least Giles now had an explanation for the weird flashing images he’d been seeing.
Photo: Aaron Mello
This post was written for a writing prompt titled: “You discover an online, supposedly random “Yes/No” generator. But, after playfully using it for a short while, you find it to be 100% accurate in foretelling the future.”
I’m in my car, waiting for Sara—my Tinder date—to get ready for our night out. A Reddit post shows up on my feed: “This Miracle Crystal Ball app can predict your future!” Yeah, sounds like garbage, but Sara’s not ready, and I have time to kill.
I visit the site, and the only thing on it is an empty field with an ‘Ask’ button. I type: “Will dinner with Sara be fun?”
Today’s writing prompt is the first sentence of this piece. Enjoy!
I’m either going out for ice cream, or to commit a heinous crime. I’ll decide in the car.
Because what do I got to lose? I probably won’t make this month’s rent. The fuckin’ company threw me out, just like that. No severance package, no notice period, nothing.