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This is post 5 in @dragosroua's January 30 day writing challenge. Today's post is a short story that I recently wrote.

WRITING MYSELF OUT OF EXISTENCE

I stared at the gun that lay on the desk. It wasn't real, and I knew that. But still it held my gaze. And it wasn't that it was a fake gun. That's not what I mean. It quite literally wasn't real. It did not exist, in the full sense of the word. It was a figment of my imagination. And now it stared back at me. Despite its patent lack of reality. It eyed me off, like a fighter in a cage weighing me up. And knowing how easy a fight it would be. I had to unimagine this thing. And quick.

I had sat down at my computer to write a story. I thought I had an idea. Well actually I did have an idea. It's just that I thought the idea was a good one. Perhaps it was. But I struggled to articulate it sufficiently. I wrote a scene, but felt despair. I rewrote it, and almost cried. How hard can it be?

What was I trying to say? How was I trying to say it? I pictured a scene. It looked different to what I had written. Why the difference? I pictured it again and narrowed in on a character. Zoomed in some more. I saw his gun. Then his gun saw me. That's when things went wrong.

The character I had envisioned was a menacing type of character. Not evil, or a troublemaker, but certainly someone who had need of the weapon. He allowed the gun to lead the way, towards me. I was in the scene. I had not envisioned it this way. I was only trying to make the scene real enough to write it well.

The computer came back into my focus, and allowed me to enter my own space again. Out of the scene. Back from the imagined, into the real. I looked down at my keyboard, and then at the screen. At the blinking cursor. It appeared I had written something. Something about a writer threatened by a weapon that had existed purely within his own writing. I continued to focus on the blinking cursor as it held me in a mesmerised stupor, my gaze expanding out enough to notice the blinking cursor had become real. It had exited the screen and appeared upon my desk, blinking, as if to get and hold my attention. I shook my head in a vain attempt reacquaint myself with my surroundings. The blinking object wasn't the cursor. It was a gun. That gun, on my desk. Staring at me.

I had only wanted to see the unreal enough to describe it and make it real. Had I imagined it into existence? Or was I writing myself out of existence?

"They found the murder weapon," the Detective told me, as I rummaged through my notes. What was his name again? I had made an attempt to write about a detective recently. And now he was standing in my house – in my writing room to be precise – talking to me.

"What murder weapon? Related to what murder?"

"The one you were going to write about, but kept putting off." He mumbled more than spoke. I heard him, but I had to strain. He seemed pissed off. Was he pissed off with me?

"But that's not real. I was only writing about it."

"You made it real. Then you left it unresolved."

"You're not making any sense." I told him. And it was true. What the hell was he even talking about? Wait, what the hell am I even talking about? One of my fictional characters is somehow standing talking to me about a murder that I was going to write about, but never actually happened. Neither in the real world, nor in my own imagined writing world. I hadn't even gotten around to writing that scene. I had only imagined it.

"Nothing makes sense. Deal with it." That wasn't helpful. "But right now I am telling you we've found the murder weapon. Are you going to finish the story, or do I have to continue without you?"

Is my story now writing itself? My characters have come to life, and are telling me how things are. Even items are menacing me. What did happen to that gun? I had momentarily forgotten about the gun. About the blinking menace on my desk. What did the detective just tell me? Something about a murder weapon?

"You were telling me about a murder weapon," I said.

"Yes, I was. We've found it. I thought you would want to know."

"Where did you find it?"

He stared straight at me. I had seen that look before. The look of an imagined item rejecting his perceived status. Okay, the detective was an imagined person. But that look, it had last come from an item. A gun. That gun that menaced me earlier. I looked at him looking at me. Looking at what I held in my hands. Looking at a gun. How long had that been there?

I held the gun firmly in my hands, but I was not in any form of control over it. It was in control of me. My hands moved and held the gun facing directly towards me. Towards my forehead. The detective stood watching me, but never said a word.

Then I heard a loud bang.

How long had I dozed off? I shook my head trying to wake myself and remember my most recent events. What had I been doing? I know I was writing something. Or pondering what to write. I was still seated at my desk.

I stood up and walked out of my writing room, and down the corridor to the bathroom. I leaned over the sink and threw some water over my face. As I looked at myself in the mirror I noticed something peculiar. I had no idea how it got there. A scar on my forehead.

I entered the kitchen and turned the kettle on. Maybe coffee will help me make sense of all of this. I was writing something. I know I had what was a great idea. I'll go back and check my notes. But first coffee. The kettle started to boil. It's whistle screamed at me that it was time. It was ready. I walked over to turn it off but noticed something out of the corner of my eye.

The kettle was becoming more and more high pitched. Frantic even. But I never made it that far. I turned to face what I had seen. The gun was in my kitchen. Staring at me.

The detective. The menacing gun. The scar on my forehead. It all came back to me. The kettle sounded like it was ready to explode. My attention was split. The gun. The kettle. The gun again.

Then I heard a loud bang.

This is post 5 in @dragosroua's January 30 day writing challenge.

Images from unsplash.com and used with permission.

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