Here’s some new microfiction from the following prompt: “You’re walking your dog one day when everything stops. The world goes black. A voice says ‘insert disc 2 to continue.'”
Blackness, utter blackness. No sound. No sensation, whatsoever. I’ve never felt like nothing before, but that’s the only word I can use for it now. I felt nothing, absolutely nothing. How long did it last? For all I know, it was a nanosecond, but it felt like forever.
A geological age passed by, and then I hear a voice. “Insert Disc 2 to continue.” And then I was back.
Here I am again. Still on Sycamore Avenue, the birds are still chirping in the branches overhead. It’s just after one on the eighteenth of October, and the chill breezes hint at the cold weather sure to come.
Kava, our Blue Heeler, is still at my side like nothing is wrong. He tugs his leash in the direction of home. What’s wrong, Dad? his eyes seem to say. Let’s get back to base, I’m jonsing for some kibble.
“Hang on, boy,” I wheeze, suddenly breathless. “Something’s … something’s wrong.” Look up, look down the street. Cars swish by, everything is still exactly as it should be. Nobody else is wondering what just happened. Just me. Grab at my throat, feel my pulse. Am I having a stroke, a heart attack? Nope, heart’s pumping away. No pain, no numbness. Just … blackness, and that voice. What in God’s name does that mean, insert Disc 2 to continue?