I did not belong here.  It was not soemthing I felt, it was something I
        knew. Although Milton had been my hometown for the last fifteen years,
        I
could not identify with the people of the small town.  I found them
depressingly stupid, and overly violent.  However, I can not blame the small
children,  , they are not old enough to know there behavour is unacceptable,
and I ignore the names they throw at me as I walk past.
        Still, I cannot shake the sense of not belonging.  Ever since the sixth
grade I have been somewhat of an outcast in this town, the people not being
able to understand me, and not trying.  Sometimes I bhelieve it is above their
heads.
Except for being left-handed and being raised in a Mormon family, I consider
myself to be normal in most respects.  (And the left-handedness isn't really
abnormal, the expression of it has been suppressed for millenia, and only now
are the lefties recovering.)  My stream-of-consciousness thinking pattern lends
itself to blurting things out at odd times, but it's not out of hand.
        And then one day at work (I am a Meat Clerk, which is a solitary n), I
        could have sworn I heard voices calling for me.  I couldn't help but
        wonder if I wag going crazy. After the radio had been fixed, the voice
        was not heard as often, but occasionally I heard my name being called. 
        Fortunately, most of these were coming from my own imagination, and
        were nothing to be afraid of.  It was the voices
that I couldn't distinguish from reality I was worried about.
        Several nights later, dreams started coming, a woman with the same
        voice
and red hair, calling out for my aid.  All of these dreamsa were taking place
in some fierce scene resembling the battle of Lake Triasmine (where the Romans
suffered their first defeat, ever, not only in the Punic Wars.)
        The general level of stress I was under increased,  not because of an
        increased work load, but because the dreams were beinning to bother me.
         When I started having the dreams in the daytime while I was wide
        awake, I gave up hope. I was going insane after all. While walking home
        from work one evening, I met the woman in person.  Luck would have it
        that I was next to a telephone  I could either call a good
psychiatrist, or acquiesce to what I knew the woman's demands would be. 
Somehow their people had gotten the idea that I could help them.
        I called the pyschiatrist, and asked him to arrive at the place
        immediately, with at least one other person to confirm whether or not I
        was dillusional.
I knew I was "playing with a full deck" or I would not have bothered to make
the phone call, but would you believe someone if thwey told a tale like this
to you?
        Much to my pleasure, the woman turned out to be real.  No, I must 
        (Scratch No I must.)  Now I must decide whether to go with the woman,
or check to see if the psychiatrist are sane, or if this isn't some kind of
mass hysteria.  I am not sure, and I don't have time to wait much longer...

        This is an open-ended story , I want to know what you think the hero
did and why.  It will be graded on originality, creativity, and the number of
run-on sentences....  :)
        Well, there are times I wonder whether or not I am going crazy, but
none of it is anywhere near as bad as this story.  Is this a condition endemic
to all writers?

2 responses total.

I know the feeling. Only it worries me in a different way. Every time
I've finally convinced myself that I'm completely insane...some one
tells me I'm normal and boring and all of that...and then I cry, I really
really do.
Insanity is a fine quality in a writer.

  Now, If I could  just wrok on that editing and spelling problem....
        (As well as the tendency to use parantheses and end everything in a
        ...)

Response not possible - You must register and login before posting.

- Backtalk version 1.3.30 - Copyright 1996-2006, Jan Wolter and Steve Weiss