In Plain Sight: A Collection of Surreal Horror Stories

9. Forgotten

Jane was a failure. A terrible writer. It didn't matter if she had followers.

None of them read her stories. She knew this.

It was true.

Reality. Objective reality.

Jane was a failure. A terrible writer. It'd been weeks since she had posted a story.

She had bashed her head on the wall. She'd prayed for inspiration. Countless nights were spent sitting in front of her laptop, staring at a blank page.

Nothing worked.

Jane was a failure. A terrible writer. She had failed her followers, whoever read her stupid stories.

And they were stupid. They didn't make any sense.

A woman having a fever, then bursting into flames?! What rubbish.

Jane wanted to cry. Tears streamed down her face, and everything turned muddled. Why couldn't she think? Where were the ideas?

She didn't deserve them. Her followers were unearned. She didn't do anything. All she did was type a few words, copy and paste them, and hit 'post'. Nothing more.

Other authors—real authors—used a typewriter. They could write thousands of words. A day. They published novels.

Not flash fiction. Especially not horror flash fiction.

Jane would be forgotten. She didn't want to be forgotten. She tried her best, but it wasn't enough.

She had no new ideas. She couldn't think. All she could do was stare at her laptop, at the blank page.

The blank page taunted her. It teased her. It warned her of the inevitable.

"They'll forget you."

"They'll move on."

"They'll find someone better."

"A real writer."

Jane's skin turned pale. Paler. Translucent. She could suddenly see her desk through her arm.

She didn't scream. What was the point? Nobody would've heard her. Nobody could hear her.

Not anymore.

Jane sobbed. The blank page snickered. An ugly sound.

"Failure."

Her body went numb.

"Terrible writer."

Everything melted away.

"Disappointment."

Jane was never a writer.

Jane was never a failure.

There never was a Jane.