This is it.

Samuel blinked repeatedly. He couldn’t see anything. This is what it’s like to be dead. I have no idea where I am or how I got here. The last thing I remember is . . .

I was sitting at a desk. Not mine, but—

He searched the dark with his hands, pushed against what felt like the ground. Blood collected behind his eyes when he sat upright, a pressurized weight expanding inside his skull. He clamped his palms to the sides of his head.

“Oh, god, I’m having an aneurysm and I-I don’t even know . . .” The pounding in his head continued, a low, guttural rumble like a train crossing a suspension bridge. The sound left his head; it surrounded him, increasing in pitch until it wasn’t a rumble at all but a hum—like a colony of bees.

“Samuel Waylan.” The hum intensified. He searched for something to puncture the darkness—a splinter of light or a twitch in the shadows. “My name is Samuel Waylan,” he shouted. “My name . . .” The fillings in his mouth began to vibrate. He felt dizzy–were he able to see, the world would have been spinning.

He slumped to the ground, to his side, and was done.



>>Drive-In Tales, 2015

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