Short Stories of an Insomniac

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…There is no afterlife. When you die there is nothing. There is no supreme being that created all the things we see and feel (“Demmet, I need to kill these ants on my screen, they’re driving me nuts!”). These so-called gods and goddesses are just figments of our ancestors’ imaginations. The lack of knowledge made Humans scared of the unknown (“I’m out, I need another bottle of beer…”). Even Good and Bad are just Abstracts made by humans, the only things real in this wor— “What the… Is anybody there?”, I shouted out as I put my half-empty half-full beer bottle down and grabbed the baseball bat propped beside my work desk. My work room is about 20 feet long and 15 feet wide, There are two windows-a large one at the north end that offered a panoramic view to the ocean, and the other window on the north-west side beside the only door. The room was a dull color gray and there are no pictures or paintings hanging on the walls. A bed with two regular sized pillows, and my work table are the only fixtures inside the room. I always carried a cooler filled with ice-cold beer everytime I come here. I stood up and approached the window while gripping the worn out baseball bat I used in high school. As I neared the window, a loud knock sounded from the door. “KNOCK-KNOCK!” I don’t know why I didn’t answer on the first knock, but for some reason I just waited for more knocks–sort of like a telephone ringing, I don’t answer on the first ring. “Always wait for the second or third ring, and answer immediately.” I don’t know where I heard or read that, but it stuck to me. Anywho, I waited for another set of knocks so I could ask who it was. I’ve been inside this room for five years, waiting for the knock that never came…


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