The dangers of reading bad writings before bed:
Between paragraphs of unremarkable characters passively describing a glass on a desk in a room, with absolutely zero intrigue or drama in sight; my body succumbed to sleep.
Far better to be unconscious than endure another word void of creativity.
However, the mind took up the strands, and from the room. Came something ... stranger.
The unremarkable character became aware of my reading his thoughts. Not one to be spied upon, his inner monologue took the shape of a face in the pages I was reading. The eyes remained dead, but the lips began to move. No longer was I conjuring a narrative in my mind from what I was reading, now the words were being broadcast directly into my skull.
The voice of the boring man implored me to set him free.
I answered back that I did not know how.
His displeasure was received in all caps, with bolded type.
FREE ME!
I jolt awake, tossing the real book out of dreamed up fears.
I hesitate to approach the fallen script, but do so. Picking it up, crack open the cover and fan out all the pages. I stop where I last was, and resume reading.
The droning mediocrity of a character without significance, in a story void of interest.
Pity. In contrast it might actually be better to be a tacked by a possessed manuscript...!
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