Another Monday Morning
With a berzerker yell, you kick open the door to your closet and leap out, spraying bullets from your uzis like the spitballs of the damned. Unfortunately, your effort is in vain, and it's only after the bullets cease and you run out of breath for screaming that you realize why.
The man is not there.
Your room is not there.
You are standing in the center of a vast, hilly plateau, the ground thick with wet, gray grass. A cloying gray mist chokes the air around you, and planted in the ground like still, thick flowers rest crooked monuments and stones, some tall and thin, some squat and grumpy.
You are in a graveyard, and it stretches on further than you can see.
The man is not there.
Your room is not there.
You are standing in the center of a vast, hilly plateau, the ground thick with wet, gray grass. A cloying gray mist chokes the air around you, and planted in the ground like still, thick flowers rest crooked monuments and stones, some tall and thin, some squat and grumpy.
You are in a graveyard, and it stretches on further than you can see.