My good friend burst into my room this morning, panting and heaving. “It’s happened. It’s finally happened.”
I laid my book back down on my bedside table. “Good to see you too, sunshine,” I said, taking my glasses off and peering at him. “What is it that we seem to have run out of? Milk, eggs, bread, jam, —or perhaps it’s tea.”
“No no, we’ve run out of good ideas,” he said. “Now we’re gonna— we’re gonna die.”
I lept from the bed and made my way over to him. “Get ahold of yourself man,” I said, slapping, back-handing, and slapping again. “We just need a brainstorm session.”
“Did you seriously just slap me?”
“Quick,” I said, “to the basement.”
“Why are we here, and what the hell is that,” he asked, pointing at a skeleton in the corner.
“That’s Greg, don’t worry about it,” I said as if explaining to him that the sky was blue. “Now, hold this, and for Christ’s sakes don’t drop it. Greg did and—well, you get the idea.”
There was a door off to the side of the basement leading nowhere obvious. My friend’s face held a bewildered expression just as his hands held a small vial with a chain through it. “What’s in there,” he asked, half wondering and half terrified.
“Well, we need a brainstorming session, correct,” I asked.
“Yeah, but–,” he stammered, but I had already grabbed his arm.
“And away we go,” I yelled, flinging the door open. It revealed shouts of sparks and a dark swirling vortex. My friend gasped but it was too late.
We swirled through countless memories, seeing beautiful flashes of light and charred black memories. This place was a category one thousand filled with an ebb and flow of good and bad images, swirling and flashing by at a hundred miles a minute.
“Crush–the–vial,” I shouted, as we were pulled through the air.
“What,” he screamed.
“Crush the damn vial; don’t be like Greg,” I yelled back.
Everything seemed to calm for a moment and I heard his voice quite plainly, “don’t tell me how to live my life.” He jerked his sleeve away from my grasp and crushed the vial while simultaneously giving me the finger and a smirk.
Before I knew it, we were back in the basement, and to my surprise, he wasn’t dead. But he was facedown on the floor, moaning.
He spoke while his face remained still, “So, that’s your idea of brainstorming? Not bad. You might warn someone the next time you pull them into a vortex, though. I do believe I’ve soiled myself,” he said, his voice shaking.
“Don’t be a drama queen. We just stepped into my brain. Now, with all of those memories fresh in our minds, we can properly brainstorm new ideas,” I said.
“That was literally a brainstorm itself, man. I’ve had enough for one day. I’m going to watch television. We’ll start fresh tomorrow morning.”
“Fine,” I said.
“Where am I,” a voice rasped.
My friend gave a horrified yipping sound. It appeared that the refresher had brought Greg back.
I eyed my friend, then Greg, not moving my head; I gave a jovial smile, “Welcome home, my friend. I told you the storming session would work,” I said, patting him on the back and walking him up the stairs with the attitude of someone who saw everything go according to plan.
“–but who am I, and where the hell are we,” he asked.
“That’s just the question to ask isn’t it,” I said frantically. “Who the hell are we, and where the hell am I?” I slammed the door in his face, leaving him with a confused expression.
“So, you had a friend before me.” My friend was on the couch watching television.
“Yeah,” I said with an accepting sigh. “Long story short, I was gifted the vortex by a necromancer and only realized after Greg was gone that the vial was needed.”
“What was that stuff anyway. It smells like prune juice and ass,” he said, sniffing his fingers.
“It’s my brain matter. It’s the only way to get someone else out of the storm according to the necromancer.”
“Awww c’mon, man,” he said, running to the bathroom in disgust.
I peered at the TV and saw a fat man cooking cakes and pastries. “Such a clique,” I said.
My friend came and sat back down on the couch. “So, what other mystical trinkets have you scattered about this place.
“Never enough,” I said.
“Well, we could always write a story about that,” he offered.
“Ahhh, we could, couldn’t we?”
“Yupp didn’t even need the swirly vortex of doom, either,” he said.
“Okay, let’s see what you come up with when I come complaining to you,” I said in a proving voice.
“What, you think you’re the only one who knows a necromancer,” he asked.
“What,” he asked, pretending he didn’t hear anything.