Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

a TV place of sorts.

Fade in to a quiet hissing. Past looming dark walls, stretching forever. Blue zaps, sparks arcing coolly through the space between the black limits of vertical emptiness. Sight is hazy, foggy, dimensional appraisal untrustworthy, and between glowing shifts of the gloaming atmosphere quiet, sibilant voices shiver. They brush like silk, slip away like minnows. Shadows of lives, zombies of culture, just there. It is a vacuum here, or there. Or something. Thought comes hard, aimless and catchless. Everything is present, and nonexistent. CRACK, and blue becomes malevolent chartreuse, red overtones. Cold becomes white-hot. One thready voice picks it's trailing fibers from the insubstantitious flowing mass. It grows stronger, collecting, condensing into a cloud of pure medial energy. With wrenching suddenness it is pulled away into the depths of a great crackling mass of other electrical pulsations, swallowed by them, but drowning out their whispers, taking from them, engulfing, overpowering all with it's words. Pictures flood from nowhere, and everywhere, to the magnetic Great Voice. Cohesiveness arrives. In seconds, a world is transformed. In seconds, a world is created.

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