Visual Writing Prompt 1

Being in a coma was the best thing that happened to me, and the most heartbreaking. Some scientists believe the subconscious world that long term coma patients, the few that make it back whole, describe is just a deeper dream-state designed to help the body heal. For me, it was my heaven.

When that bus failed to stop and knocked my car off the bridge, it felt like my life had started. The last thing I remembered from my old life was the gasping shock of icy water filling my lungs. Then I woke up, in my new world. At first I didn't realise what had happened. Everything was mostly the same - I still had my crumbly little flat and worked the same low-paying job. It still rained, I felt hunger and pain; life continued. What was different was the people. I didn't know these people. My friends and family were absent, though it took a while for me to notice. Almost like when you see a glimpse of something behind you in a mirror - something feels off but you can't quite put your finger on it. Maybe it was my mind's way of coping with what had happened.

In this average world of strangers, I met Dylan. He came into my shop one day and I was struck dumb with a shyness I hadn't felt in years. The schoolgirl in me, long assumed dead, flourished. Months passed and we were impossibly happy. But even his love, which was always real, could not mask the cracks that were appearing in my world. Memories from my old life would haunt my daydreams and I would have nightmares about a cold lake. Eventually, I realised what had happened, that this wasn't my world, and as much as I loved Dylan I knew my time was limited.

I don't remember if we properly said goodbye. One afternoon I felt thick with drowsiness and settled on a nap in the sun. When I woke up I was in a hospital room, the smell of antiseptic stinging my nose.

I don't know if I'll ever see Dylan again. Even though it has been two years since I returned to reality, my heart holds on to the theory that the others in my sleeping world were coma patients too, and that if I search for long enough I will find him, one day.

magazine clippings, bane of my life.

Every Monday I spend several hours saving PDF scans of newspaper and magazine articles that mention authors we publish. These are sent to me via email by Media Monitors and it takes a long time because each page takes a while to load and then I have to figure out which book/author is mentioned (sometimes it's a proper feature, other times a review, or even just a one-word mention in a larger article), find its folder and rename each file. I start to get hand cramps from it and so space the task out over a day or two.

I've also recently discovered that every week I am supposed to sift through newspaper clippings given to me by the receptionist, taken from the major newspapers as well as flick through the multitude of magazines (mostly gossip) and cut out any references and give them to the relevant publicist. Any that don't have a publicist I get to file.

Both of these jobs are mundane but not particularly painful. What is painful, however, is the fact that in essence I am repeating the same task. The whole point of Media Monitors is so companies don't have to spend ages cutting articles out of newspapers. I just don't understand why they get me to do both. Redundant much?

In other news, I am craving strawberries and cream.

Thou shall not consume more than 1500 calories

The publicity and marketing girls are so woefully petite and stereotypically feminine. Each has their own personality; likes, dislikes, favourite sayings, etc. But they are also all finely attuned to the happenings of every celebrity, have that instinctual flair for fashion that I call casual chic (how on earth can high waisted jeans and cowboy top look so damn stylish?!?!) and are all naturally skinny.

I was craving something hot and tasty so went to McDonalds and bought a Quarter Pounder meal. When I brought it back to the office, one of the marketing girls said 'I can smell fried food and carbs!' Instant guilt trip.

I can forsee one of two things happening: I am either completely turned off eating by being surrounded by waifs and become rakishly thin also; or I get so self-conscious about my body image that I end up in a binge-eating death spiral that ends with me unable to fit in the elevators.

Note to self: Anything but salads must be consumed in privacy.