I have always wanted to write Sci-Fi or Horror but never took the plunge. As I am in a state of flux at the moment I decided now was the time to give it a go. I am coming to the end of editing my current novel which will hopefully be published by the end of this year. A decision has to be made. Do I write another novel in the same genre, which is what I plan to do, or shall I test the water and see what happens. So here I ask any reader of my work below to please let me know what you think. This is the opening scene from a proposed short story. Please don't pat me on the head - I need good honest criticism. Thank you.
NIGHTMARE
Nightmares are dark scary visions of unbelievable torment
that invade the comfort of our minds, stirring up collections of best forgotten
guilty secrets and embarrassing incidents; all moulded into a terrifying
montage of threatening distorted figures pushing us further and further into a
black void and the inevitable free-fall into a deep chasm.
My
bad dreams are unusual. The rest of humanity normally has nightmares during
sleep. Mine are daymares and haunt me while I am awake; a kaleidoscope of past
and present snapshots from every dark corner of my life that on bad days cause
moments of blind panic. I first experienced this unusual condition as a
teenager and have since learned to work through the movie in my mind that seems
real and three dimensional around me, fading it enough to concentrate on what
is happening in the actual world around me; two combined experiences – one
physical and the other psychic.
At
the age of forty I have become accustomed to dealing with this phenomenon by
accepting it for what it is when it appears; a bad dream, and am no longer
frightened. As a young man I hid from those around me, often shaking with
fright, unable to talk or perform my everyday duties at work or at home until
the voices and apparitions that overlapped my everyday surroundings faded away.
In fact, I have become so blasé to this way of life that I sometimes talk to
the figures that invade my mind – in private of course. That was until a few
weeks before my forty-first birthday.
Imagine
my horror when I experienced something so terrifying; a new daymare experience
that shocked me into shutting myself in my room for almost a week. It had such
an effect on me that I became too weak to move no further than from bed to
bathroom. Sleep evaded me and a fever took hold of my body so badly I thought I
was going to die. In fact, if it had not been for my good friend, Roger Bagley,
I probably would have.
On
the day he called on me, I was standing by my bed, shivering, as a dark mist
enveloped the room for the thousandth time. I screwed my eyes shut and opened
my mouth wide in a breathless silent scream, longing for this terrible ordeal
that had continually plagued me for days to stop.
As
the mist cleared an entourage of black cloaked demonic figures manifested
themselves, slowly drifting toward me until they surrounded me. With deliberate
slow movement, the tallest figure came closer and closer until its eyes shone
with menace from within the shroud that covered it. So frightening was it that
the hairs raised up on the back of my neck. A hand appeared above me and moved
until long bony fingers rested on top of my head.
Although
I felt nothing, I could not move. The figures began moving around me, gathering
speed until they were a blur. Then the pain hit me; a terrible pain that racked
every part of me until the blur faded. I lay exhausted on the bed knowing the
awful dream would return in minutes. No matter how many times this evil scene
played out, I felt the same dread and pain each time.
Fortunately,
it was during this lull of my torture that Bagley chose to knock on my door and
shout through the letter box to enquire after my health.
