"Too Real"

 Writing books is always supposed to be a simple thing. You sit before your computer with an idea and you brainstorm. The ideas conjure and flow into your mind as you carry the story through. You'd pinpoint the sections you want to add more details to. You might scrap some scenes that don't fit with the flow of the story, and you carry on.

Sometimes stories go through various rewrites. But sometimes, in that very rare instance, there's that one story that enters your mind and you feel the need to write the story, uncorrected, until it's very end.

This is what was happening to me. The story itself came from nothing. I simply sat before my computer and let my fingers type and my mind do the rest. Normally this is the process I undertake when I sit down to write. I don't have a plan, I just let the words flow free and eventually create a story out of it. It's like a road you've never traveled before. You know the twists and turns. You know the careful speeds to take it. You know the right parts to be cautious and where you can be more casual. You don't know where the road will take you. You just know that you're excited for the end.

But it's never really about the end. It's about the journey. And the journey for today was one I didn't expect. You see, normally the stories I write have several plot holes and wording that simply makes little sense for the narrative, but this one was different. It was like all parts of my brain were working in rhythm to create a cohesive and well-crafted story. One that needed no rewrite. It was simply perfect the way it stood.

I didn't put much thought behind the words I was writing. I simply had the vision in my head of the story and I knew I needed to tell it exactly as I had it playing out in my head. I couldn't afford to miss a single detail, as it would throw the entire story off. I had to carefully craft each sentence. But the words were subconscious. The images were vivid. The way I was writing was almost like I was possessed.

Before too long, I glanced down at the time. Nearly two hours had passed since I had started writing. My stomach was growling and my throat was dry. I made a grab for my tea that sat next to my keyboard. To my surprise, the other hand was still typing away effortlessly. I tried to stop it by first relaxing it, but it wouldn't stop. I grabbed it by its wrist and tried to pull it away from the keyboard but the typing hand was far stronger. I tried to get up, to walk away from my computer, but it wouldn't let me. I was stuck.

Then, without wanting to, my other hand darted to the keyboard and began typing as furiously as it had before. I plopped back down in my seat and tried to get comfortable. I began to envision the story I was trying to tell once more. I could see it as clearly as a movie being played before me. No, that wasn't right. It felt more like I was living in it. I could feel the cold breeze. I could hear, and even smell the dead leaves being crushed under my feet as I walked. I no longer felt like I was at my computer. I was outside.

Nothing made sense to me at this point. How did everything feel so real? I shut my eyes and tried to feel my fingers typing away at the keyboard, to feel the room I was in with the air conditioner running and the fan roaring. But I couldn't. There was nothing. In fact, shutting my eyes, all I could feel was being outside. The scene I was painting in the story I was writing. It was all too real for me.

I started to run. I could feel myself becoming breathless. My legs aching. My shoes clacking against the sidewalk. Running past the rows of houses, I could hear their AC units running from outside. I could see the sun attempting to blind me before ducking behind the trees. I could feel the wind. I could see the white clouds swirling in the sky. That's when I slowed my jog down to a simple slow walking speed. I tried catching my breath. But I couldn't focus on that, not now. Instead, my mind wandered to something horrifying. As I continued to see the clouds swirling and the wind now picking up speed, I had a lingering question in my mind. What was the story I was writing?

Was the story a scary one? Was something bad about to happen? Could I die within this story?

That last question sent a shiver down my spine.

Just then, the sky grew darker as more clouds invaded the sky. I could feel the wind picking up, threatening to knock me down. I saw the sky flicker, followed by the crack of thunder. A storm was coming. I had to get home.

I turned around and sprinted toward my house, dodging people who were going for a casual walk down the street. As I passed them, I could see looks of confusion on their faces. A storm was coming, I thought. Couldn't they see it?

Finally, I made it home. Or at least where my home should have been. Instead, now it was an empty lot. A simple patch of grass between both of my neighbor's houses. My heart was pounding against my chest. Where was I supposed to go now?

The wind was now roaring, threatening to knock down trees and blow cars off the road. Looking up at the sky in the direction of the wind, I saw a large grey cloud. A funnel cloud. A tornado was here, right in front of me.

I turned and pounded on one of my neighbor's doors. There was no answer. I could hear nothing over the roaring winds now.

I crouched down on their doorstep and shut my eyes tightly, bracing for impact.