LOCKMEAL
an excerpt

There is a little twinkle in your eye at night. Some would tell you it is a reflection of the stars or the moon or the street light. In reality, it is another reality. Into that reality in your eye (No, not your eye. Your eye, yes, you.) is where I have been sent. There are many places, but the two we shall focus on are one in the same. It is a place called ‘Earth’. Now, on this Earth there are two major realities in and of themselves; there are many minor realities, but no one cares about the plight of the plum mumpkins. One major reality is what a person may call normal, no magic, a failing government system, and a population of folks who all share 99.5% of their DNA. All across the face of Earth, the same people can be seen in differing situations. Very uninteresting. There is, however, one girl that seems to differ from the rest of the world. She lives in a small suburbian neighborhood with her elderly grandmother. Every Saturday morning she enjoys sleeping in. On one particular Saturday morning she began to toss and turn, as if there was some unknown disturbance, some sound waking her from her peaceful slumber. Suddenly, she sat bolt upright, eyes closed, yet slowly, groggily opening. She looked about with her hazy morning vision, searching for some shadow interrupting her sleep.
“Who’s there?”
She called into the birth of day, waiting for a response.
“I can hear you.”
She could not see, but she knew she could hear a voice clearly narrating her every move, and nearly her every thought.
“That’s right. You. I can hear you. Now show yourself.”
A voice snickered in the room of the girl. Surely she was losing her mind.
“Are you insulting my sanity? You wake me up early on my Saturday, then you ignore my questions, and now you laugh and mock me?”
She threw the covers off the bed, dressed in a pair of gym shorts and a camisole, and began to leap about the room grasping at nothing.
“Shut up!”
The voice snickered again, quickly notifying the girl that a narrator is merely an omniscient voice audible to some and certainly not visible.
“What?”
The girl stopped her groping and stood in the middle of the room, riddled with books about myths and fairy tales. She stood dumfounded---
“Did you just call me dumb?”
--- dumbfounded as to why she would have a narrator. Was her style of life finally getting to her? Was she at last lost in the depths of insanity? She pondered for a moment, though the rambling, yet deep and sultry (She laughed, assumedly for no reason.) voice made it difficult to piece words together in a comprehensible manner.